The Practice of Building Home

On Optionality, Manhood, and the Quiet Courage of Staying

I’ve been “home” for the past two months. It’s always a joy to spend time with my family; to reconnect, share, grow, and simply check in. I know not everyone has this, but I’ve noticed something: the quality of time I spend with my parents in a single visit is more than many people get in years. I feel deeply blessed for that.

It wasn’t always this way. When I was younger, less travelled, less mature, I wanted nothing more than to escape their eyes. Now the current has reversed. I seek them out. They’ve told me they love having me home, but I know if I stayed too long, I’d eventually feel oppressed—not by them, but by the quiet weight of my own inner world.

At first, I returned with vigor. I dove into their rhythms with enthusiasm. But after a month, my energy dulled. Now, two months in, I feel myself slipping into routine: wake, write, trade stocks until noon, tinker with the house, walk outside, share meals, watch a series, go to bed. Comforting, yes. But autopilot. And autopilot makes me restless, anxious, a little depressed. It feels like I’m losing what has defined much of my adult life: movement, risk, adventure.

Maybe this isn’t new. As a baby, I always wanted “two dinners”—first my own, then my parents’, begging “more, more.” That hunger for more has followed me through life. But the older I get, the more I realize what I’ve been hungriest for is an internal feeling of home.

Watching my parents, I see now that home is not just a house; it’s an act. A verb, not a noun. It’s built through small, unglamorous choices: the coffee setup the night before, the afternoon exercise, the meal together at the end of the day, the promise kept when breaking it would be easier. They showed me what it takes: work, love, communication, sacrifice, and commitment. Home, I’m learning, is the accumulation of a thousand tiny acts of staying.

When I dream about creating home in Argentina, it’s not about geography or architecture. It’s about living up to that inheritance; putting in the work to build something stable, not just for myself but for those around me.

The last time I lived in Argentina, I was stuck there. The pandemic closed borders, froze the world, and left me with no choice but to stay. Oddly enough, that enforced stillness gave me one of the most stable, nourishing periods of my life. I built routines, rooted into friendships, belonged to a place. For the first time, I felt what it was to build a home.

Before, I would have left when things got hard. The pandemic forced me to stay, and I learned that home isn’t just comfort; it’s the container that holds you when you’re not comfortable. Without the option to escape, I finally understood what it means to be somewhere fully.

Now, back with my parents, I feel that same pulse. They worked hard to create a home for us; I stumbled into one in Argentina, now I realize my task is to create it intentionally.

Recently I read something about optionality; the freedom to choose that comes with privilege. That’s been true for me. My whole life I’ve carried the sense that I could do anything, go anywhere, and if it got hard, I could move on. It’s a gift, but it’s also a trap. Optionality can keep you skimming the surface of life, never committing deeply enough to create something lasting. When you know you can always leave, you never fully arrive.

The freedom my parents’ stability gave me has made it harder for me to create my own. Their home was so secure that I thought adventure was the highest value. I thought keeping my options open was wisdom. But I’m starting to see that home and adventure aren’t opposites. Home is what makes sustained adventure possible. Without it, you’re not adventuring; you’re drifting.

To grow, I need to sacrifice optionality. To commit to something specific and accept that commitment kills other possibilities. That’s frightening. But I believe it’s the only way to build stability, confidence, and the inner home I’ve been longing for. Home isn’t infinite choice. It’s choosing and staying.

Part of what I’m learning is that manhood has less to do with bravado and more to do with consistency. To wake up and keep showing up for the people and projects you’ve committed to, even when it’s not exciting. My father modeled this. His life was built on steady work; day after day, year after year, creating stability for our family. As a younger man I didn’t understand his aversion to risk. I wanted to leap, to run, to try everything. Now I see that his consistency gave me the privilege of optionality in the first place.

I don’t believe I’m alone in this sentiment of optionality. In the United States especially, I think many of us carry freedoms we barely recognize. As a traveler, I’ve seen the contrast in my face again and again. I’ve met young people who wished for something different, but couldn’t achieve it because of their socioeconomic position. Many Americans, by comparison, live with immense optionality strictly because of our nation’s place on the world stage.

That optionality didn’t appear out of nowhere. It was handed to us by our forefathers/ mothers’ will, by their sacrifices, commitments, and dreams. It was not always a pretty picture then, and it certainly isn’t now, but one thing remains true: we have some of the greatest optionality of any nation on this planet. The question is, how many of us truly exercise it? How many of us see its value, and then make the choice to channel it into something that will outlast us; to create optionality for those who come after?

I’m grateful for that freedom. But now I see the value in returning to consistency. The very thing I once resisted is what I now seek. To commit, to stay, to build, and to keep showing up. Consistency is manhood. The quiet courage to stand firm when escape would be easier.

In my last article, I wrote about Charlie Kirk. I realize now that “debate” isn’t what I was after. What I value is respectful discourse; the willingness to listen and consider, to see many angles without clinging too tightly to one. But I also see now that one-sidedness has its place. At times, it isn’t stubbornness; it’s the necessary consistency that holds reality steady. Home requires fixed points: values you won’t compromise, boundaries you won’t cross, commitments you won’t break. Fluidity has its place too, but home needs something even more solid at its core.

So I find myself at a crossroads. Grateful for the optionality I’ve enjoyed, but aware it’s time to choose, to sacrifice, to root myself in something firm. To trade a measure of freedom for the deeper gift of stability.

I’m heading back to Argentina. To El Bolsón; a place I love, with friends waiting, a climate I enjoy, and a life that costs less and tastes richer. I’ll help a friend rehab her property into an Airbnb/ retreat, and build a business fabricating saunas to place in wild, beautiful places. I want to spend money on ideas, not distractions. To build with my hands, to cultivate a garden, to deepen my Spanish, to create the conditions for love, friendship, and belonging to spark

.

This time, I’m not going to sample or keep my options open. I’m going to build. To commit. To create something that will remain when enthusiasm fades and doubt creeps in. To practice the unglamorous work of staying.

It makes me nervous. I fear failure: financial stress, loneliness, starting over. I also fear success; that I’ll have to keep it alive, keep pushing, keep working harder than ever. It would be easier to stay here, to trade stocks, enjoy my parents’ company, and glide on comfort. But that isn’t “my” home. There’s value in personal effort, risk, sacrifice, and imagination. My parents showed me that. The pandemic taught me that. Now it’s my turn to try.

Finally, I want to thank you for being here and for reading my work. When I committed to writing, I made a quiet promise; not just to reflect for myself, but to share with others. Many of you have supported me, even paid me, to give glimpses into my life. That trust matters. It’s another form of home: a community of readers who witness my journey. Writing itself has become a practice of home-building. Every week, I sit down and stay with my thoughts long enough to shape them into something coherent. I don’t abandon the piece when I’m unsure. I work through the doubt and the messy middle. And in doing so, I practice the very consistency I’m writing about.

This next chapter isn’t just about creating home for myself; it’s about building a life worth sharing with you. Proof that it’s possible to commit, to sacrifice optionality, and to find something richer on the other side. Not certainty. Not easy comfort. But the deep stability that comes from finally, fully, arriving somewhere and doing the work to stay.