My mother-in-law comes around for dinner a lot.
I think it’s for the company, but deep down, I suspect it’s for the entertainment.

She sits at the end of the table like she’s watching a live sitcom called The Johnsons: A Tragedy in Three Courses.​
Wine glass in hand, quiet smile, eyes darting from child to child as the chaos unfolds.

There’s a pot boiling over on the stove.
The cat is on the bench.
Elise is giving me the look — the one that says, “You said you’d be home early.”​
The kids are arguing about who gets the blue plate.
I’m trying to set the table and pretend I’m not also checking my emails under it.

And then, my mother-in-law chuckles.
Not at anyone in particular — just at the whole scene.
Like she’s seen it all before. Because she has.

That’s when it hit me: this is what everyone means when they talk about “balance.”

It’s not yoga retreats or work-free weekends.
It’s keeping the rice from burning while convincing a eight-year-old that carrots aren’t “spicy.”
It’s trying to hold a conversation with your partner while one child screams about broccoli and the other asks deep philosophical questions like “Do worms have parents?”

For years, I thought balance was something you achieved.
Like a trophy for people who have their shit together.

Turns out, it’s not an achievement. It’s a motion.
You don’t “have” balance; you do balance. Like juggling chainsaws while blindfolded.

And most of the time, you’re doing it badly.

I used to think the Stoics were all about calm and order — a kind of emotional stillness.
But Marcus Aurelius was running an empire while half of Rome was on fire. Sometimes literally.

Balance, to the Stoics, wasn’t about stillness.
It was about staying upright when the ground moved.
It was about not letting the noise outside turn into noise inside.

Epictetus would’ve fit right in at our dinner table.
He’d probably sit next to my mother-in-law, smile at the chaos, and quietly whisper:

“You can’t control the noise. Only your reaction to it.”

Easy for him to say — he didn’t have to clean spaghetti off the ceiling.

Work–life balance is sold like a product.
There’s this mythical version of it on Instagram — people meditating on beaches between board meetings, perfect lighting, no fingerprints on the fridge.

Real balance is eating half your dinner standing up because the kids took your seat.
It’s scheduling “self-care” and then cancelling it because someone forgot their homework.
It’s apologising to your wife mid-dinner because you said something stupid while distracted, then pretending to enjoy cold lasagne while a child asks what happens when people die.

That’s balance.
Messy. Loud. Unimpressive. Real.

I used to chase harmony — that perfect split between work and home.
But business doesn’t work in halves.
Neither does life.

When Yakk’s on fire, I’m all in.
When the family needs me, I’m all in there too.
And sometimes, both need me at once — and one version of me has to take a number and wait.

There’s guilt in that, for sure.
The Stoics called it the tug of duty.

But they’d also remind you: you can only be where your feet are.

I can’t fix a client campaign from the dinner table, and I can’t make my kid laugh from a meeting room.
Balance isn’t splitting your time evenly — it’s giving your attention fully.

The myth of balance is that it’s peaceful.
It isn’t.
It’s wobbly.

It’s that second right before the tower of life tips over and you manage to catch it — barely, clumsily, miraculously.

It’s laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry, and then someone will ask, “What’s wrong, Dad?” and you’ll say, “Nothing,” and then immediately burn the garlic bread.

After dinner, when the zoo quiets down, the cat licks spaghetti sauce off the wall, Elise sighs, and my mother-in-law smiles that wise smile — I get it.

She’s not just watching chaos.
She’s watching life happen.

It’s supposed to look like this.

The mess, the motion, the mistakes — that’s the point.

Balance isn’t when everything’s still.
It’s when you stop expecting it to be.

Reflection:​
Stop chasing “balance” like it’s something you can achieve.
Ask instead: where am I needed most right now, and can I be there fully?
If you can, you’re already balanced — even if the house looks like a zoo.

PS: The garlic bread will burn again tomorrow. That’s fine. It means you’re alive, busy, and probably doing alright.

Until next time,

Broden Johnson
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