Yep, that is an old photo of my brother and me from 55 years ago, sitting in a bathtub together. There we are, maybe four and six years old, with plastic buckets on our heads, completely carefree. Buck naked, happy as clams, we were perfectly comfortable in our own skin, with not a shred of self-consciousness between us. It’s funny how something as simple as a bucket on your head can make you feel invincible when you’re a kid. No worries about what people think, no second-guessing. We just were.
Fast forward to today, and my brother, now 61, and I, 59, recently took a trip to our house in Door County. Just the two of us, away from the grind of everyday life—no family responsibilities, no work, just some time to hang out like we hadn’t in years. We made a fire, poured a couple of drinks, and started talking. I mean really talking—deeper than we had in a long time. And at some point, the conversation turned to how we’ve lost that sense of innocence, that feeling of being completely comfortable in our own skin.
We wondered why it’s so hard now, at this stage in life, to feel like that. At 61 and 59, shouldn’t we have it all figured out by now? We have careers, wonderful families, and have navigated some very complex ups and downs. But somehow, instead of growing more comfortable with who we are, it feels like we’ve piled on layers of expectations. Somewhere along the way, we lost the buckets on our heads and started wearing masks instead.
We talked about why is it so difficult to feel comfortable in our own skin these days. One reason we came up with is that life has a way of stacking pressures on top of us. When you're young, no one expects much from you—you’re free to be yourself, mistakes and all. But as you grow older, the expectations—both from others and from ourselves—start to build. We feel like we have to fit into roles: successful professional, loving husband, responsible father. The freedom to just “be” gets crowded out by the need to “perform.” And somewhere in all that, the ease we had as kids just fades away.
Another thing we realized is that we’ve been carrying around other people’s judgments, real or imagined, for so long that we’ve started sometimes to forget who we are underneath it all. We’ve become more cautious, more self-aware—sometimes too much for our own good. It’s like we’ve convinced ourselves that the world is watching and we have to live up to certain expectations. Why do we feel like someone is keeping score?
As the fire crackled and the drinks loosened us up, we brainstormed some ways to reclaim that feeling of comfort in our own skin. One idea was to focus on doing things we love without worrying about what others think. As kids, we didn’t care if we looked silly; we just did what made us happy. So why not bring a bit of that back?
We also talked about mindfulness—how staying present can help us shed those layers of self-consciousness. It’s something I’ve struggled with myself as I am horrible at meditation but we agreed that when we focus on the here and now, we’re less likely to get tangled up in what we think we should be or how others might perceive us. Whether it’s taking a walk, meditating, or just sitting by a fire with a drink in hand, the more present we can be, the more at ease we’ll feel.
We also reminded ourselves that, despite everything, we’re pretty damn lucky. We’ve made it this far, we’ve got each other, and we’ve still got the chance to get back to that more comfortable version of ourselves. The fact that we can sit together, laugh, and get deep into these conversations is a gift in itself.
That weekend with my brother was more than just a few days away; it was a chance to reconnect—not just with each other but with who we are underneath all the layers. We may never feel as carefree as those two boys in the bathtub with plastic buckets on their heads, but we can take steps to get closer. And as we sat by the fire, I realized how important it is to have someone like my brother to talk to. He’s been there through it all, and even though we’ve both changed, at our core, we’re still those same kids.
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