The Llama, the Ladder, and the Lesson

Years ago, when I was still working in construction, I wasn’t giving much thought to the future. At that stage of my life, I was simply trying to find myself. Planning who I wanted to be tomorrow—or ten years from now—wasn’t something I did often. But a single day on a farm changed everything for me.

Samson the Camel

We were on a project building barns for a farmer. He wasn’t your typical farmer—alongside ponies and llamas, he even owned a camel named Samson.

Samson was unforgettable. He roamed freely around the property and had a habit of brushing against the trucks, knocking mirrors clean off. During lunch breaks, he would wander up, rest his massive head on our shoulders, and linger with a kind gentleness you wouldn’t expect from such a powerful animal.

That was Samson: huge, loving, unforgettable.

The Aggressive Llama

But there was another animal I’ll never forget for very different reasons.

The farmer had a male llama who had been calm for years. Then, one day, he brought in another llama. From that moment, the male became aggressive. The farmer warned us: “Stay clear of him—he’s not the same as before.”

And he wasn’t kidding.

Every time I turned my back to fetch a tool, that llama would come charging full force, teeth bared. More than once I found myself sprinting to safety, heart pounding, wondering how close I had come to being bitten.

The Ladder Incident

One afternoon, Virgil—one of the men I worked with—was up on the roof of the barn securing tin panels. I was carrying a shovel back from the truck when it happened:

The llama charged.

I barely had time to react. I flung the shovel aside and sprinted for the ladder. The only safe place I could think of was up. I scrambled as fast as I could, made it onto the roof just in time, and heard the crash as the llama smashed into the ladder, knocking it to the ground.

There I was, stuck on the roof with Virgil, both of us breathing hard, staring at each other in disbelief.

I finally muttered, “If there’s one thing I’ll never own in this life, it’s a llama.”

Virgil, without missing a beat, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Yeah, Jonathan—that and a brick house.”

At first, I laughed. But in that strange, dangerous, absurd moment, something clicked inside me.

A Shift in Perspective

I was only nineteen. Yet standing on that roof, with adrenaline still coursing through me, I realized: if I wanted more out of life, if I wanted to provide for my future children, if I wanted to build something lasting, construction alone wasn’t going to get me there.

That moment shifted my perspective forever.

I began to look at others—people who had built the life I wanted for myself—and ask: what do they have that I don’t? Sometimes it was money. Sometimes it was connections. But more often than not, it wasn’t intelligence. They weren’t smarter than me—they had just learned things I hadn’t learned yet. They had taken steps I hadn’t taken.

I realized that success wasn’t about waiting for someone to hand me an opportunity. It was about doing the work, grinding through the failures, and deciding to keep moving forward.

The Lesson of Presence

That shift in thinking carried into every part of my life—including how I approached being a father.

Parenting is harder than building a business. A business can fail, and you can try again. But raising children—being present, protecting them, showing them love—there are no do-overs. They’re always watching, always absorbing, always learning.

It’s easy to get lost in tomorrow. Easy to obsess about who you’ll be in ten years. Easy to let the stress of work and the weight of providing distract you from what matters most: being present today.

For me, that means simple rituals with my kids. At night, we grab stuffed animals and make up silly voices and stories. The purple panda becomes a jaded samurai. The fox turns into a sly adventurer. My children laugh, listen, and engage—and in those moments, nothing else matters.

Those small rituals remind me: the future is important, but today is fleeting.

Greatness, Failure, and Creation

Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be great versus just good enough. Anyone can follow a recipe. But true greatness comes when you take what you’ve learned, add your own touch, and make it yours.

The same goes for parenting, business, or art. You will fail—repeatedly. But failure is not the enemy. Failure is proof you dared to step beyond the recipe. It’s the teacher that sharpens you into someone who can create something new, something lasting.

And isn’t that what we want for our children? To give them not just safety, but inspiration. To show them that greatness comes from persistence, resilience, and daring to try again.

The Bigger Picture

That day on the roof taught me more than how to outrun a llama. It planted the seed of a truth that has guided me ever since:

Life is chaotic. Life is challenging. But within the chaos lies the chance to create something extraordinary—for ourselves, for our children, and for generations beyond.

And if we’re brave enough to step into the unknown, to keep moving forward even after failure, then one day we’ll look back and say with pride:

“We built this. We created something worth remembering.”

The Weight of Parenting

Being a parent isn’t just about providing food, shelter, or clothing. Anyone can check off those boxes. Parenting is about shaping little humans into the kind of people who will one day carry the torch into the future.

That’s why it’s hard. That’s why it feels heavier than running a business or managing a team. Because while money comes and goes, the way we show up for our children becomes part of who they are forever.

I often remind myself: my children don’t just hear my words—they watch my life. Every small choice I make, they notice. If I’m distracted, they feel it. If I’m present, they feel that too. And when they grow, the reflection they carry into the world will be, in part, the reflection of me.

The Challenge of Presence

But being present isn’t easy. Life constantly pulls us toward the future—toward building security, wealth, opportunities. I often find myself ten years ahead in my mind, asking: Who will I be then? What will I have created for my children by that point?

And while that vision drives me, it also risks stealing today.

Presence requires sacrifice. Every moment spent with my children is a moment I’ve chosen not to chase an email, a sale, or another task. The world rarely rewards stillness. Yet presence is the gift my children crave the most.

That’s why we invented small rituals—like bedtime stories with stuffed animals. In those silly voices and improvised adventures, I get to anchor myself in the moment, reminding myself: this matters more than anything else.

Stress and the Thrill of Creation

For a time, I believed that success meant removing stress. I thought: if I could build a larger team, delegate more responsibilities, and ease my burdens, life would feel lighter.

But the truth surprised me. When the stress lifted, I felt restless. I missed the urgency, the thrill of creating under pressure, the challenge that demanded my best.

I came to understand: stress itself isn’t the enemy. The right kind of stress—the kind that pushes us to grow—can be fuel. The danger is letting it consume us so fully that we forget why we’re pushing in the first place.

So now, I seek balance. Enough stress to stay sharp. Enough presence to stay grounded.

The Pursuit of Greatness

All of this—parenting, building, creating—boils down to one simple question: Do I want to be good, or do I want to be great?

Being good is safe. It means following the recipe, doing what others have done before, and producing results that are “good enough.”

But greatness? Greatness requires failure. It demands that you step outside the comfort of proven paths, risk embarrassment, and sometimes fall flat on your face. Greatness is forged in trial, error, and persistence.

I think about this in terms of baking. Anyone can follow a Martha Stewart recipe and bake a flawless cookie. But greatness belongs to the person who experiments, who fails repeatedly, who eventually creates something new—something that is unmistakably theirs.

The same applies to raising children, building businesses, or shaping lives. Good is following what’s already been done. Greatness is daring to ask: What can I add? How can I make this mine?

Embracing Failure as a Teacher

Failure, then, isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s proof that we tried something bold. Every misstep is simply another way not to do it—a necessary part of discovering the way forward.

That perspective has changed how I approach everything: from parenting, to leadership, to writing. Even in our children’s stories, failure is baked into the narrative. Because no one remembers the hero who had all the answers from the beginning. The memorable stories are the ones where the hero stumbles, struggles, and grows stronger in the process.

Life is the same way. Challenges, setbacks, mistakes—they don’t diminish us. They shape us.

Building for Tomorrow, Living for Today

At the end of the day, I live with a tension: always planning ten years into the future, while fighting to stay present today.

It’s not an easy balance. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I get it right. But I’ve come to accept that life itself is this balance—tranquility and chaos side by side, the constant pull between what’s urgent and what’s important.

What matters most is that we don’t lose sight of the people who depend on us, who watch us, who will carry our influence long after we’re gone.

For me, that’s my children. For you, it might be yours, or the people you mentor, teach, or inspire.

They’re always watching. And they’ll remember not only what we built, but how present we were while building it.