When The Wood Pile Falls

"WTF…" I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Why can't I do something as basic as stack firewood without it collapsing?"

And then the familiar spiral began.

Don't I know how to put logs in a pile so they don't fall down? I need this wood stacked now so it can season properly. When January comes and my family needs warmth, this wood won't be ready. Since I can't stack wood in July, my family will freeze in January. What kind of father am I? What kind of husband? Am I really worthy of being the head of this household if I can't even manage to keep my family from the cold because I don't know how to stack wood?

These thoughts crashed through my mind after the logs crashed to the ground. I stood there at a crossroads: I could kick down the rest of the pile in frustration and quit or I could try something different. I could practice self-compassion and see where that path led me.

I stepped back from the situation. I took a breath and remembered what the old-timers say about firewood: "It keeps you warm in the summer and warm in the winter"

I reminded myself that others have faced this exact same struggle. Somewhere out there, countless people have watched their woodpiles topple over and felt that same surge of frustration and self-doubt. This is part of the common human experience—we all struggle, we all fail at simple tasks sometimes, and we all have that inner critic ready to turn a fallen woodpile into evidence of our shortcomings.

Then I practiced mindfulness, questioning whether what my inner critic was telling me was actually true. Would my family really suffer in January because I couldn't stack wood perfectly in July? Of course not. The wood was still there—maybe not in a tight stack, but it would still burn just fine even if it sat scattered in the yard. Besides, we heat with oil too, so we'd be OK.

Finally, I asked myself the most important question: What would I say to one of my children if they were in this same situation?  I'd probably say something like, "Hey, let's pull some of these pieces out and see if we can restack this. It might take a little extra work, but we can figure it out together."

Why shouldn't I offer myself the same kindness?

I used to be world-class at beating myself up. I could take any minor setback and transform it into proof of my unworthiness as a father, husband, or human being. Old habits die hard, and I still catch myself going down that familiar path sometimes. But I'm working on practicing more self-compassion these days, learning to understand that I am enough—exactly as I am.

I'm a good father. I'm a good husband. I'm a good friend, and I work hard at being a good neighbor. When my woodpile falls, or I forget the bread at the grocery store, or I burn dinner, self-compassion reminds me of this truth. I am enough, even without the perfect woodpile.

The logs got restacked not perfectly, but well enough. Sometimes the most important thing isn't whether the woodpile stands; it's whether we can pick ourselves up with grace when it falls.