The Myth of Getting It Right, Part I: The Witness and the Potatoes

A simple kitchen moment cracked open a wound I didn’t even know I was still carrying.

“That’s not how I asked you to do it,” she said.

My heart dropped into my stomach. I felt sweat begin to gather in the creases of my hands. My throat tightened. My nervous system started scrambling to find the nearest exit.

All because I had cut potatoes the wrong way.

This is the story of how the simplest act -slicing vegetables- cracked open one of the deepest wounds I’ve carried for most of my life. And how being witnessed, truly seen, became the beginning of something new.

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It was 2010, and I’d chased a woman halfway around the world. (I’ve written about that journey and the lessons that accompanied it in another piece.)

Celibacy, Heartbreak, and a Dreadlocked Pixie: A Journey Back to God

In short, we were working together at a marijuana trim scene in the mountains of Northern California. Long days, sticky fingers, good music, and lots of internal processing. At some point, the object of my desire offered to make us lunch. Eager to be near her -yes, I was still a romantic wreck, even though she was unavailable- I jumped up to help.

In the kitchen, I confessed that I thought she was wise, someone I could learn from. She looked at me, kindly but directly.

“Brother,” she said, “I’m just trying to work my life out. I don’t have anything to offer you.”

I nodded, awkwardly, and she handed me a bag of potatoes.

“For now,” she smiled, “you can help by cutting these. Here’s how I’d like you to do it.”

I listened. I tried. I wanted so badly to get it right.

But when I said I was done, she looked over and said,

“That’s not how I asked you to cut them.”

Suddenly, I wanted to disappear. I told her I’d try again. But even after my second attempt, she gave me the same feedback.

I felt panic rising. The kind that lives in the body. Not a thought. A survival strategy.

“What were you thinking about while you were cutting the potatoes?” she asked, softly.

I looked up. Eyes burning.

“Not getting it wrong.”

And just like that, I cracked open.

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I excused myself and stumbled outside, into the cool mountain air. I found a quiet spot in the garden among the trees… and sat in the dirt.

And cried.

Deep, hot, messy sobs.

Not because of the potatoes.

But because I finally saw it.

For the first time in my adult life, I saw the invisible pressure I’d been carrying since I was a boy: the terror of getting it wrong.

I saw the father I’d learned it from - brilliant, capable, and often emotionally volatile. I saw the way his voice changed when I didn’t meet his standard. The way my stomach clenched at the sound of his footsteps. I remembered the unspoken rules: don’t make noise in the morning, don’t cry unless you’re bleeding, don’t make mistakes.

I saw how I had adapted.

I had become a perfectionist, not for pride, but for safety. I had made “not messing up” my only compass.

And in doing so, I had shut down a part of myself that longed to be messy, curious, free.

Back in the forests of Northern California, I wiped my face and returned to the kitchen, and the woman waiting there. I told her what had come up.

She smiled.

“Guess I did have something to teach you after all.”

And she did.

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What This Has to Do With Men, Relationships, and Real Connection

Now, more than a decade later, I coach men who carry this same wound. High-performing, externally successful men. Men who are exhausted from being the strong one, the capable one, the one who never fails.

Men who, like me, learned early on that love was conditional.

That if you got it wrong, you might lose the thing you need most: connection.

The problem is, that belief never leaves. It just burrows deeper.

Into your work. Your romantic relationships. Your sex life. Your parenting.

Until one day, your partner says, “You’re never really present with me.”

And you don’t know what to say. Because you’ve spent your whole life focused on not getting it wrong.

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But here’s what I’ve learned since that moment with the potatoes:

Connection doesn’t come from getting it right.

It comes from getting real.

From being willing to be seen in your imperfection, your tenderness, your honesty.

That’s where intimacy begins. That’s where freedom lives.

And it’s available to you, if you’re ready.

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Next: The toast I was never allowed to give.

Thus ends Part I of this tale.

In Part II, I’ll take you back to the dinner table where this story really began.