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Rule #89: Guilt is No Aphrodisiac

This blog is about passing on lessons to my kids—practical rules that can help them make better choices. One lesson I’ve seen them wrestle with is how to end relationships.

Through my example, I’ve tried to instill honor and responsibility. I’ve taught my kids to fight for their families, to stay when times are hard, and to value the high road. One of my proudest moments was when my son, Collin, said at Thanksgiving that he was thankful for having a stepfather who was “the most honorable man he knew.” That meant the world to me. But it also made me wonder if I’d unintentionally placed too heavy a moral burden on them.

Because the truth is, breaking up is messy. It hurts. Sometimes the “moral high road” is blocked with the fallen trees of failed expectations and old promises.

There’s a line in Jerry Maguire that sums it up well:

“My need to make the best of things, and your need to be what, ‘responsible’… if one of us doesn’t say something now, we might lose ten years being polite about it.”

I worry I may have taught my kids to be too polite in relationships. Staying out of guilt or fear of being the “bad guy” is not the same as staying out of love. In fact, guilt can be dangerous. It can chain you to abusive or unhealthy partners. It can convince you that sacrificing your own well-being is somehow “noble.” But guilt is not noble—it’s corrosive. And it is no aphrodisiac.

The honorable path isn’t always to stay. Sometimes it takes more courage to walk away than to keep fighting. Honor is not just protecting others; it’s living truthfully. It’s being brave enough to say:

• “This isn’t working for me.”

• “I don’t love you.”

• “We want different things.”

That’s not cowardice—that’s clarity. That’s responsibility to yourself and to the other person.

The stakes grow higher in marriage and with children. But in early relationships—before vows, before commitments—it’s important to recognize that leaving quickly, cleanly, and honestly is often the healthiest thing you can do.

Honor is complex. It’s not about being seen as the nice guy. It’s about telling the truth with kindness, and living fully in that truth.

So remember: guilt will never build love, and it will never sustain intimacy. Speak honestly, kindly, and directly—and the rest will take care of itself.

Love, Dad

Rule #2016: Take a Mulligan

Life will hand you situations where every option feels lousy. Sometimes it’s relationships, sometimes jobs, sometimes politics. You look at the choices in front of you and think: Really? This is the best we can do?

It’s in those moments you need to know about the Mulligan.

In golf, a Mulligan is a do-over—you pick up the ball you just sliced into the swamp, forget it happened, and take another swing. It’s not about cheating. It’s about recognizing that sometimes the choices on the table are so bad, the only smart move is to start fresh.

We should use that same wisdom in life. Don’t stay stuck with bad options just because they’re the ones right in front of you. Call a Mulligan. Reset. Insist on better.

Because whether it’s who you date, what job you take, or who you vote for—there’s always the chance to say:
“They can do better. I deserve better.”

And then step up and take that second swing.

Love, Dad

Rule #111: The Motorcycle Rule

I live by a simple rule when it comes to asking questions in life: I never ask a question if “no” isn’t an acceptable answer.

If I really want to buy a motorcycle, and I know I’m going to do it regardless of what Bobbi says, then I don’t bother asking. Why pretend it’s her decision when I’ve already made mine? That’s not a conversation—that’s an argument waiting to happen.

Now, this rule sounds harsh, but I don’t use it often. Maybe once every couple of months. Most of the time, I absolutely ask for Bobbi’s opinion, advice, or permission—because that’s what marriage is. You can’t share a life with someone and without consistently checking in. But when I do ask, it’s because I’m truly ready to accept her answer, even if it’s no. If I’m not willing to hear that, then it’s unfair to insult her by pretending she has a choice.

Too many people use questions as cover. We ask permission so we can dodge responsibility for our own decisions. We say, “Well, I asked,” as if that absolves us of owning what we wanted in the first place. That’s not partnership—that’s cowardice. And if we’re honest, a lot of men spend their marriages looking weak and indecisive because they’re constantly asking questions where they can’t stomach a no.

And before you think this is just a man problem—ladies, you’ve got your tricks too. Let’s talk dinner. I’ll ask Bobbi, “Where do you want to go?” She’ll say, “I don’t care, you pick.” Which is, of course, the biggest lie in marriage. What she really means is: I absolutely do care, but I want you to read my mind and guess the exact restaurant I’m craving tonight. If you guess wrong, you will pay. With interest.

This isn’t a question—it’s a hostage negotiation with appetizers. I’ll start throwing out places like I’m defusing a bomb. “Olive Garden?” Nope. “Mexican?” Closer, but no. “Italian?” Getting colder. By the time I stumble into the right answer, I’ve sweated more than if I’d actually been in a hostage crisis.

Over the years, I’ve learned which restaurants are my “get out of jail free” cards. For me, it’s The Cheesecake Factory. I could commit just about any misdemeanor of marriage, but if I suggest two hours of the larges menu in the world, suddenly I’m rehabilitated. Apparently, cheesecake fixes everything. Women are evil. Men are pigs. Marriage works because both are true.

So the art of asking questions comes down to this: only ask when you’re prepared to really listen to the answer. Ask to learn, not to dodge. Ask to understand, not to shift blame.

As I’ve gotten older, I find myself asking fewer but better questions. Maybe that’s what my dad meant in his later years when he’d say, “I’m set in my ways.” He wasn’t being stubborn—he was just done pretending he needed permission for the things he already knew he was going to do.

And don’t worry, Bobbi—I haven’t ordered another motorcycle or gotten that tattoo. Yet. But if I ever do, I’ll make it easy on both of us: I’ll buy the bike, and then take you straight to The Cheesecake Factory. By dessert, you won’t even care I rode it there.

Love, Dad

Rule #133: Tell No One – keeping a secret

Everyone has secrets. Some are big—like a past mistake you’d rather leave buried. Some are small—like covering the gray in your hair. Whatever the case, if you don’t want something known, the safest way to protect it is simple: tell no one.

That’s Rule #1. If you keep your mouth shut, your secret is safe. Not your spouse, not your best friend, not your priest. A secret is only a secret if it never leaves you.

Rule #2: If you can’t live with Rule #1, tell just one person. But understand: the moment you do, you’ve already failed. People don’t always mean to betray secrets, but they’re not wired to keep them either. Everyone has that “one trusted friend” of their own. And before long, your private truth becomes gossip. ( unless you kill that person)

Personally, I tell my secrets to my dog Nittany. She’s trustworthy and can’t be bribed with peanut butter or table scraps. My other dog Piper, on the other hand, is a gossipy little traitor who’d sell me out for an old milk bone. Even dogs can’t fully be trusted.

Rule #3: There is no Rule #3. Once more than one person knows, it’s no longer a secret—assume the whole world will find out. And never, ever write it down. Don’t record it, don’t text it, and absolutely don’t email it. Email is the digital equivalent of a billboard in Times Square. If you want to keep something private, keep it off the internet and out of writing altogether.

Now, if despite these rules your secret gets exposed, you only have two real choices:

1. Deny. If you were disciplined and told no one, there’s nothing to confirm the story. Your truth is as good as anyone else’s, so deny it until people lose interest.

2. “So what.” Admit it and shrug. Everyone has regrets, everyone has guilt. Pretend it’s meaningless and move on. It won’t erase the consequences, but it might blunt the sting.

The one thing you cannot do is blame it on someone else. Passing the buck only makes you look weaker and more dishonest.

So take it from your flawed Dad, some things are best unsaid, unwritten, and unknown. The surest way to keep a secret is to keep it to yourself.

Love, Dad

It’s a Girl!

This isn’t a rule, it’s more of a declaration. I attended my first “gender reveal” with my son Andrew and his wife Ashleigh, and sometime late this summer the world will welcome my first grandchild. We now know with certainty—she will be a she.

“She” is a powerful word in our families. While many families have remarkable women, the Hill family has a long history of fiercely independent, strong-willed women. Women who don’t take crap from anyone, who call life exactly as they see it, and who meet every challenge head-on.

These women can be difficult. They’re opinionated, demanding, and set high expectations for themselves and everyone around them. They can wear you out, taking every ounce of patience you have. And yes, there will be moments you’ll want to throw up your hands and walk away.

But Andrew, don’t.

Because in that long line of challenging women—your mother, wife, stepmother, grandmother, aunts, and sisters—you’ll also find loyalty beyond measure. These are women who will stand by you whether you’re in a financial crisis or a bar fight. They know how to swing a pool cue, and they’ll always have your back.

These are women who don’t need you to solve everything—they’ll grab a shovel and help you dig, then hand you the alibi. (Bobbi knows where all the bodies are buried.)

Most of all, these are women who love with their souls, not just their hearts. I know because my daughters have given me that kind of love—the certainty that I am loved completely. It is one of the great gifts of my life.

Andrew, your daughter will need you. She will need you to teach her never to settle, never to be defined by her gender or by anyone else’s expectations. She’ll tell you she can handle anything, but she’ll still need your reassurance, your hug, your steady presence to remind her that everything will be okay.

You will cry when she falls and cheer when she rises. You will be called to be strong and confident, tender and tough. It won’t always be easy, but the rewards will surpass anything you can imagine. Watching your daughter grow into a confident (and yes, sometimes difficult) young woman will be the defining privilege of your life.

She will bring you to your knees—and lift your soul to heaven.

So enjoy it, Andrew. Every smile, every tear, every heartbreak and every triumph. Being a father to one of these women is a blessing beyond all others. It will be the ride of your life. Hang on tight, and savor it all.

Love, Dad

Rule #91: Enjoy the Meal

I just left a wonderful Italian restaurant after a long, lingering dinner with friends. The place was called Italian Cucina in New Hope—no printed menu, just course after course presented to us. The owner, Joe, sat with us and told the story of how past failures and even a heart attack led him to create this unique experience of food and friendship.

It struck me: it took me almost 57 years to truly relax and enjoy a meal. To sit long enough to hear an owner’s story, to know his name, and to savor each moment instead of rushing off to the next thing.

For most of my life, I treated food the same way I treated everything else—fast. Food was fuel, nothing more. I was always in a hurry to get somewhere else. In my 20s, I graduated college in three years, doubled up on courses, and plowed through grad school at Drexel and St. Joe’s. I got my CPCU in two years when most take four. I wasn’t enjoying the learning; I was consuming it, barely tasting the experience.

By 26 I had my first house, by 29 my third—each one bigger and better, but I barely remember living in them. Life was a race, with mile markers I checked off at full speed. From the outside it probably looked like I was winning, but in reality, I wasn’t enjoying any of it.

I made my first million in my early 30s—around the time my third child, Stephen, was born. To get there, I worked two or three jobs at a time: nights at a tennis club, setting up new Toys R Us stores, traveling constantly. I was moving fast, but I didn’t know where it was leading. In fact, the faster I went, the more lost I became.

Thank God for my kids. You slowed me down. Around the dinner table, you forced me into the moment, made me realize that relationships mattered more than accomplishments. That’s why I treasure family meals so much today—they saved me from the “drive-through window” version of life.

My regrets at 56 mostly come from missed opportunities to build deeper relationships. I brushed off offers of friendship because I couldn’t see them for what they were. With people like Mike, God has graciously given me second chances, and this time I try to listen and connect. My business partner Greg has invited me to his lake house for years—I’ve yet to go. That needs to change. (Greg, warm up the pizza oven—Bobbi and I are coming this summer.)

Looking back, I realize I chased accomplishments because they made me feel validated. But the validation never lasted. I didn’t even attend my MBA or CPCU graduations—I just picked up the certificates and ran. No matter how many businesses I started or raises I got, it was never enough, because I wasn’t tasting life as it came.

God, in His wisdom, gave me Bobbi. She’s not one to sit quietly in a corner—she pushes me to slow down, to chew my food, to savor people and experiences. Without her and you kids, I might never have found happiness.

And then came Abby. Being born with Asperger’s has given her a unique lens on the world, and through it, I’ve learned to see differently too. She reminds me that sometimes a meal isn’t about eating—it’s about the sauce, the story, the moment. Every morning I drive her to school, and in those short trips, she teaches me how to be happy.

As a restaurant review, Italian Cucina gets five stars. But as a consumer of life, I’d only give myself three. I’ve rushed through too many meals without tasting them. My hope for you, my children, is that you accomplish great things—slay dragons, build, achieve—but also take the time to celebrate your victories with the people who believe in you. Share long meals, tell stories, open wine, laugh.

I recommend the scallops. And don’t forget—it’s BYOB.

Love, Dad

Rule #92: Forget the Selfie

We all have a bucket list—the things we want to experience before our time runs out. Mine includes drinking at Oktoberfest in Germany, riding the Orient Express, and taking a cooking class at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Those are moments I want to savor fully. I doubt I’ll take a single selfie. I’d rather be tasting the stein of beer, noticing the Kellnerin balancing four liters at once, and soaking in the moment. I want memories, not Facebook posts.

When Pope Francis visited Philadelphia, I was amazed to see people turn their backs to him just to snap a selfie. They weren’t experiencing the moment—they were curating it for Instagram. For most of them, that was a once-in-a-lifetime encounter, and yet the memory was outsourced to their iPhone screen.

Don’t get me wrong—when Rachel goes to prom, I’ll be there with the other Archbishop Wood parents taking the required 100 photos. But even then, I’ll remind myself to experience the night with her, to feel her excitement as she moves toward graduation. The picture is fine—but the presence matters more.

Somewhere along the line, our culture—helped by the Kardashians—decided that everything is a photo-op. The obsession with proving we were there has made us forget what it means to be there. (And while I think naming that poor child “North” was the family’s worst cultural crime, that’s a rule for another day.)

Lately, I’ve realized I’ve been guilty of this myself. Tomorrow, when I watch Abby’s rugby match, the phone stays in the car. I want to actually feel the game, not document it.

My father understood this long before Instagram. He traveled to more than 100 countries and came back with incredible stories. No photos, just memories retold with more color and emotion each time. Yes, the stories grew larger than life—but they were his, and the emotions were real. When he described riding a camel in Egypt, my mental picture was far more vivid than any photo could have been.

So I’m challenging myself to live less distracted, less selfie-focused. I believe my experiences—and my relationships—will grow deeper for it. And while the world may see fewer of my Facebook posts, I suspect it won’t mind.

That said, don’t worry—there will be photos of Rachel’s prom, Stephen’s graduation, and of course my grandchild. Just fewer. Enough to remember, but not so many that I forget to live.

Love, Dad

Rule# 81: Take the stage

I just watched my youngest daughter, Abigail, in her first middle school production of Beauty and the Beast — and she was fantastic.

No, she wasn’t “Beauty,” nor one of the major speaking roles. But she was the best damn villager in the kingdom. She showed up for every practice, worked hard on her part, and poured herself into contributing to a wonderful show. It mattered to her, and it mattered to us.

As you know, I’m not a fan of “participation trophies.” Just showing up is the minimum expectation in life — not something to celebrate. But stepping onto a stage, even in a small role, is not “just showing up.” It’s taking a risk. It’s starting out. And the best things in life often come when we’re willing to show courage.

I’ve heard that public speaking is the most common fear. For a 13-year-old girl to step out in front of a crowd and overcome that fear is no small thing. It is an act of courage.

Shakespeare said it well in As You Like It:

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances…”

The disappointments in life don’t come from a poor performance or even from failure on the stage. The real regret, the kind that keeps you awake at 2 a.m., comes from never taking the stage at all. The only true failure is in missing the chance to play your part.

Abby’s Asperger’s has taught me more about life than I could have ever imagined. Without the usual social fear of rejection, she charges into new situations with hope and confidence. She takes the stage of her life with a certainty of purpose that many of us spend a lifetime searching for. Autism, for all its challenges, also carries hidden gifts — clarity, honesty, and perspective. Abby sees the world as a stage, and she is always ready for the next act.

My hope for all my children is this: see the world as a grand stage. Step into every act. Take every chance. Because the exits come all too soon — and the limelight, when you find it, is worth savoring.

Love, Dad

Rule #73: Winning is a Deodorant

I recently read about the firing of Eagles’ coach Chip Kelly, and I kept seeing the same phrase pop up from sportswriters: “winning is a deodorant.”

It stuck with me.

Because if Chip had just one more win, he’d likely still be running that team. Winning would have covered up the stink of all his bad decisions—at least for another year. That’s the truth about sports: winning doesn’t just matter, it forgives. When the wins are coming, nobody cares how ugly it looks. When they stop, the smell becomes unbearable.

Now, I’m not saying every end justifies every means. But in football, winning is the purpose, not just the goal. That’s why we love it. That’s why Americans love it. We’re a culture that craves winning.

Look at politics. The reason Donald Trump gained traction back then was simple: people were tired of losing. They weren’t dissecting every insane comment; they just wanted someone who promised to “win” again. Losing stinks—and people will hold their nose and back anyone who can cover up the smell.

The same holds in business. I get frustrated by people who are satisfied with “almost winning.” They work hard, make good efforts, and put together solid proposals… but they don’t finish. They run 26 miles but stop short of the last 385 yards. A good effort makes you a strong runner, but only finishing makes you a marathoner. Winning matters more.

That message rubs people the wrong way, especially parents who want a softer world for their kids. But the truth is: effort without results doesn’t carry value. You don’t get promoted for “trying hard most days.” You don’t get rewarded for “not doing any harm.” You win by delivering results—getting the sale, fixing the problem, finishing the job.

This is why I worry about our society’s obsession with polishing participation. Making McDonald’s jobs pay $15 an hour doesn’t make them wins—it just makes them shinier participation trophies. What does count as winning is using that job as a stepping stone—working hard, moving up, and building a better future. That’s deodorant. That’s how you earn the sweet smell of success.

Winning is hard, but that’s what makes it matter. It’s addictive, too. Once you’ve tasted it, everything else stinks by comparison. Just ask a Phillies fan who remembers 1980.

And today? The Eagles stink especially bad.

Love, Dad

Rule #88: Santa is Real

As Christmas approaches, I remind my kids of a long-standing Hill household rule: once you stop believing in Santa, he stops visiting you. This rule has worked wonders in keeping my teenagers from spoiling the magic for any younger cousins or impressionable toddlers.

But this year, I may be the last true believer under our roof. Even Abby, at 13, seems to be quietly slipping into the camp of skeptics. Still, I stand firm in my belief—and my rule—that Santa exists.

Yes, I’ve heard all the counterarguments: that he’d be hundreds of years old, that reindeer don’t fly, that delivering to the entire world in one night is impossible. And yet, I hold on—because I think there are three very good reasons not to give up.

First, life is hard, and true happiness is rare. If I meet someone who is joyful, generous, and harms no one, I don’t interrogate them—I encourage them. If a fat old man in red showed up at my door with a gift, I wouldn’t question how he got there. I’d just smile and take it. By all accounts, Santa is that kind of person.

Second, the older I get, the less certain I am about what’s true and what isn’t. In my 20s, I was convinced a person loses 40% of body heat through their head—turns out it’s closer to 10%. I was also convinced Aerosmith was the greatest band ever, and well… I’ve softened on that too. If I can be wrong about those things, maybe I can be wrong about Santa. Certainty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Finally, our world desperately needs people with grateful hearts—people who give more than they take. I think of Pope Francis, whose visit to the U.S. moved millions. He’s beloved because his message is simple: give, care for the poor, be kind. I’ve never met him in person, only on television—and yet I believe in him. If I can believe in a man like that, why not Santa, whose very mission is generosity?

We live in a cynical world full of negative people doing harm. I choose instead to believe in the most positive, kind, and generous figure we’ve ever imagined. I hope Santa lives on for a thousand more years, spreading joy and hope.

And, as tradition dictates, when I hand out the gifts this Christmas, each of my children will be expected to reaffirm their belief. Because in our house, the rule holds true: no Santa, no gifts.

Love, Dad