Part 1: The Line From My Brother About the Future

Some of the most powerful advice about the future doesn’t come from books or podcasts. It comes in moments when you’re falling apart, sitting across from someone who knows your mess and still shows up anyway.

For me, that someone was my brother.

He’s ten years older, brutally honest but never cruel. The kind of person who won’t sugarcoat things, but somehow still makes you feel safe. We’ve drifted a bit over the years, mostly my fault. But the moment everything crumbled, he was there. No judgement. No lecture. Just presence.

We were sitting in his house. I was offloading. He was listening.

Then he said something that landed like a knockout punch:

“The past you can do nothing about. The present is only a millisecond. The future is the only thing you can do something about.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like he’d lived it.

And I guess he has.

That one line stuck. Not because it sounded deep, but because it felt true.

And in that moment, head spinning, heart sinking, it became a foothold. A way forward.

Because if the future is the only thing I can touch…

Then maybe it’s time to stop clinging to what’s already gone.

Part 2: The Past – Heavy, Unchangeable, and Loud in the Quiet

I’ve done things I can’t undo.

Not in some movie-scene meltdown but in slow, quiet ways. The kind that sneaks up over time. Small compromises that added up to something big. Something I couldn’t control anymore.

It wasn’t a single decision that broke things. It was a pattern. A version of me I kept feeding. The provider. The achiever. The guy who thought he could fix anything, hide everything, and still come out clean.

I can’t.

The past is loud now, especially in the quiet. It lives in side glances, awkward pauses, messages I don’t return, and places I avoid because someone there might know.

And yet, it’s untouchable. Locked in. Already done.

I wrote about this once in Start With Five, where I said gratitude didn’t erase the pain, it just gave me somewhere to stand. This is a continuation of that: realising that no matter how hard I stare backward, the past doesn’t blink.

There’s a quote I stumbled on the other day, by therapist Lori Gottlieb:

“Insight is the booby prize of therapy. You still have to do something with it.”

Knowing isn’t enough anymore.

Now, I have to be different.

Part 3: The Present – A Millisecond That Demands Attention

That middle part, “the present is only a millisecond”, really messed with me.

At first, it felt dismissive. What’s the point of presence if it vanishes before you even feel it?

But then it clicked.

The present isn’t something you cling to. It’s something you notice. You pass through it. You breathe in, breathe out, and it’s already behind you. But if you pay attention, even for that second, it can change what you choose next.

That’s the shift I needed.

I used to think being present meant fixing things in real time. Jumping into every conversation, over-explaining, apologizing on loop, trying to prove I was different now.

But that wasn’t presence. That was panic.

Now, I try to catch those micro-moments instead. Sitting on the couch with my daughter’s head resting against my shoulder. Laughing at something silly my son says while brushing his teeth. Hearing a quiet “thank you” after washing the dishes.

These seconds don’t fix the past. They don’t guarantee anything about the future.

But they remind me that I’m here.

And for the first time in a long time, being here feels like something worth protecting.

Part 4: The Future – The Only Thing I Can Touch

This is where everything shifted.

Once I stopped gripping the past and stopped chasing the present like a moving target, I saw it clearly. The future is the only thing I can touch.

And that’s where the work is now.

I’ve started saying “yes” to the right things. Not out of guilt, but out of choice. Yes to family time, yes to hard conversations, yes to uncomfortable honesty even when it makes me squirm.

Especially when it makes me squirm.

I’m not trying to win anyone back with grand gestures. I’m not sprinting for a finish line that doesn’t exist. I’m doing dishes. I’m showing up for school runs. I’m answering texts slower but truer. I’m putting my phone down more and listening better, even when my ego’s screaming to interrupt.

That’s what change looks like now: unglamorous, repetitive, private effort.

"The future doesn’t care how sorry you are. It cares what you do next."

That’s what I tell myself every morning.

Sometimes I still get it wrong. I still flinch. Still doubt. Still rewind.

But I don’t live there anymore.

I’m facing forward now and even if it’s slow, I’m moving.

Part 5: Becoming the Man I Should’ve Been

If you asked me a year ago who I was becoming, I would’ve given you a rehearsed answer. Something polished. Impressive. Safe.

Now? I’m not trying to impress anyone.

I’m just trying to become someone I’d actually respect.

That means slowing down. Being more deliberate. Doing small things well, not to be praised, but because they matter. Saying what I mean, and more importantly, meaning what I say.

At home, it’s simple things. Listening instead of defending. Playing Lego with clay instead of scrolling. Apologizing without a speech. Getting up and doing what needs to be done, even when no one notices.

There’s no applause for this version of me. No stage. No LinkedIn headline.

But there’s peace in it. And strangely, joy.

I used to think I had to earn my family’s love through provision and performance. Now, I want them to feel safe just because I’m steady. Present. Real.

That’s the man I want to be remembered as, even if I became him late.

Part 6: The Storm, the Tent, and My Brother’s Laugh

We’ve had some wild moments, my brother and I. But there’s one I always come back to.

We were camping. A proper South African weekend potjie on the fire, the smell of woodsmoke in our clothes, stars peeking through the trees.

Then the storm hit.

Not just rain, wind that could lift a bakkie, lightning that lit up the tent like a horror movie, and me, still in school, soaked and scrambling to hold the damn thing down before we took off like a discount hot-air balloon.

Where was my brother?

Inside the tent. Dry. Calm. Eating. Laughing.

At the time, I was furious. But now? It’s one of my favourite memories.

Because that moment sums him up: even when chaos hits, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t panic. He just steadies himself, trusts the ground, and makes sure you’re not alone in it.

That storm didn’t teach me how to camp better.

It taught me that presence isn’t about fixing everything, it’s about staying when things fall apart.

That’s what I’m trying to be now. Someone who stays, even in the storm.

Part 7: A Message to the Man I’m Still Becoming

If I could speak to my future self, the man I hope to be. I wouldn’t start with advice.

I’d start with a reminder.

You’ve felt the cost of dishonesty. You’ve seen what happens when you try to outrun truth. You’ve lived the wreckage, not as a bystander, but as the cause.

So don’t forget it. Don’t romanticize the past just because it’s behind you.

You’ve also changed. Slowly. Honestly. Imperfectly.

You’ve started showing up, not to be clapped for, but because it’s right. You’ve started rebuilding trust one unremarkable, consistent action at a time.

Keep going.

Keep being the man who packs lunchboxes, who does the dishes without being asked, who listens without jumping in, who apologizes without needing forgiveness to feel valid.

Because the man you used to be? He needed to prove something.

The man you are becoming?

He just wants to be someone his kids are proud of.

“Time doesn’t rewind. But it does offer direction and right now, that direction is forward.”

So walk it.
Even if it’s slow.
Even if it’s quiet.

The past is gone.
The present slips through your fingers.

But the future?

That part is still yours.