Welcome to this month’s Musical Monday Musings, where I take a song from the soundtrack of my life and explore the truths it reveals about the journey of becoming a man, husband, father, and human being.
Today’s song is Dag Nasty’s “Still Waiting.”
If you’re not familiar with Dag Nasty, they weren’t exactly a household name, but for those of us who grew up in the Washington, D.C., punk scene of the ’80s, they were monumental. Part of the same scene that gave us bands like Minor Threat, Government Issue, and Fugazi, Dag Nasty brought something unique. They blended raw punk energy with melody and introspection, creating songs that didn’t just rage against the system—they reflected the internal battles we were too afraid to name.
As a teenager, my go-to Dag Nasty tracks were high-energy anthems like “All Ages Show” and “Dear Mrs. Touma”. But when I reconnected with their music in my thirties, it was “Still Waiting” that stopped me in my tracks.
“These are the toughest days
The time is slow and the skies are gray…”
The first time I truly listened to those lyrics, they hit me like a gut punch. By then, I’d spent decades in a fog of waiting—for life to get better, for circumstances to change, for someone else to make the first move. Waiting to feel valued and significant. Waiting to feel worthy. Waiting to feel loved. Waiting had become my default setting, and I didn’t even realize it.
The Weight of Waiting: Living in the Gray
If you’ve ever been stuck in a cycle of waiting, you know how heavy it feels. The days blur together, stretched thin by excuses and what-ifs. You tell yourself you’re waiting for the right moment, the right circumstances, or the right person to change.
For me, waiting wasn’t passive—it was a full-time job.
By the time I was in my thirties, life felt like an endless loop of dissatisfaction. I was married with kids, working hard, and going through the motions of what I thought being a man was supposed to look like. From the outside, it might’ve seemed like I had it all together, but on the inside, I felt deeply stuck.
I waited for my career to align with my passions, for my finances to stabilize, and for my marriage to transform into the connection I desperately craved. But waiting wasn’t just about external circumstances—it was about what I refused to face in myself.
My life felt like Groundhog Day, with only minor adjustments each day to the otherwise dull and lifeless grind of doing.
“Is this all there is?” I’d ask myself. “Really?”
I wanted more. But I didn’t know what to do. So I waited. And not silently. I was consumed by resentment.
- In My Marriage: I blamed my wife for the disconnection I felt, resenting her for not meeting needs I hadn’t even articulated. Deep down, I wanted her to change, to “fix” our relationship, but I wasn’t taking any steps to fix myself.
- As a Father: I was there physically but absent emotionally. My own frustration kept me from being fully present with my kids, even when they needed me most.
- In My Career: Every day felt like a grind. I told myself I was waiting for the “right” opportunity, but in reality, I was too afraid to take risks.
- In Myself: I felt like a stranger in my own life. The man I saw in the mirror was bitter, resentful, and afraid of what might happen if I moved.
And that’s about when I began reconnecting with Dag Nasty a bit and songs like “Still Waiting.”
“It seems like a hundred years
Since I thought it would all work out…”
That lyric hit me hardest because it described the slow erosion of hope. Waiting wasn’t just delaying my life—it was draining it.
Come to think of it, another band from that same D.C. scene captured this tension perfectly: Fugazi. Their song “Waiting Room” opens with a bass line so hypnotic and urgent it practically dares you to stand still. And those opening lines?
“I’m a patient boy, I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait…”
That song didn’t just name the problem—it amplified it. It felt like a challenge every time I heard it, a reminder of the ways I was trapped in my own waiting room. Like “Still Waiting,” it forced me to confront my stuckness and my inability to act. Both songs dared me to ask: How long are you willing to keep waiting?
A Legacy of Waiting: My Father’s Shadow
This pattern of waiting wasn’t something I invented—it was something I inherited.
My dad was (and still is) a good man. Growing up, he worked tirelessly, providing for our family and doing what he thought was right. But he lived in his own waiting room.
He worked grueling 12-14 hour days, coming home to crash in his chair with the paper, dinner, and the evening news. Sundays were his only day of rest—church, lunch, football, and little else. Whenever I asked him to play catch or spend time with me, the answer was always the same: “Maybe in a few minutes,” or “In a little while,” or “We’ll see.” Those few minutes stretched into hours—or, most of the time, disappeared altogether.
And it wasn’t just the small moments. There were bigger promises, too, always wrapped in the same vague hope:
“One of these days…”
One of these days, we’d go here or there, do this or that, or talk about something meaningful. One of these days, we’d take that trip, share that experience, or make that memory.
As I started having children of my own, my dad would go on to make similar promises to my kids. I remember hearing him tell them, “One of these days, when you boys visit, I’ll take you to Antietam.” It became a predictable part of visiting over the decades, just as reliable as the smells and sounds of the holidays. Year after year, as we’d be packing our things to go home, my dad would say it like it was some form of farewell.
Maybe some men would find it endearing. I didn’t. Hearing it sent me spiraling back to all those unfulfilled promises from my upbringing. All the times I’d felt abandoned, alone, or let down. It made me recall the countless times I felt fatherless and without masculine guidance. It wasn’t just disappointment—it was resentment, heavy and bitter. As a husband, father, and young man trying to make sense of life, that resentment cast a long shadow over my relationship with him.
My dad continued making these empty promises. But those days never came.
Seeing My Dad’s Humanity
I carried around a lot of pain from those experiences for many years. As I grew older and had more kids (six of them) my experience of fatherhood forced me to look in the mirror. And what I saw wasn’t just my reflection—it was my dad’s.
Ugh.
Sigh.
I was telling my kids a good bit of “maybe in a few minutes,” and not doing a great job of following through with a few things. In truth, I wasn’t just being lazy, but feeling quite sped up, actually. Life often felt like a big conversation about really important things coming up soon and often times, when my wife and kids would ask me for attention, it felt a bit like being interrupted. I was focused on other things. What I thought back then were important things, but I now realize they were rooted in much deeper issues. I was striving–endlessly–for a sense of value and worth, and I feared that if I took my foot off the gas, everything would come crashing down. I started to see the exhaustion, the disillusionment, the disappointment, and the fear of failure. I wanted more than this–for me, my wife, my kids, and my days. And you know what? I am pretty sure my dad did, too.
What if he hadn’t been withholding love, affection, and emotional connection from me? What if he, like me, loved me as deeply as I loved kids? What if he had felt like he couldn’t let off the gas either?
What if he was just stuck?
Waiting.
He, like me, couldn’t really focus on being present without this.
I came to a confident conclusion that such was the case and that he wanted more for himself and for us, but he didn’t know how to move.
That realization cracked something open in me. It began freeing me from a lot of the resentment and pain that I’d carried around with me. For the first time, I began to see my dad’s humanity. And seeing him clearly, as peers in this thing we call “fatherhood,” I began to forgive him—not because he asked for it, but because I didn’t need to carry the bitterness anymore. I began learning a powerful lesson at that moment–whether or not another person participates in the forgiveness process; it’s still possible to heal the pain we have within ourselves. I didn’t realize it at the time, or know what to call it, but I was experiencing Unconditional High Regard for my dad, or what we call “UHR” in my community. It is a liberating and powerful force for addressing pain!
Spoiler Alert: Waiting Is Not a Life Strategy
Here’s what I’ve learned: waiting isn’t harmless. It’s not just sitting around, passing the time until something better comes along. Waiting is an active drain on your energy and your soul. It keeps you stuck in resentment, self-pity, and the belief that the power to change your life lies somewhere outside of you.
“I’ve got nothing but time
So I’m still waiting…”
That lyric hits hard because it’s so easy to believe. But the truth is, time isn’t infinite. And the more you wait for life to happen to you, the more you lose the chance to actually live it.
Antietam and Breaking the Cycle
A couple of years ago, it became clear that something wasn’t right with my dad. He became confused, disoriented, and vacant at times. His memory started slipping. Conversations became more challenging. The signs of dementia were undeniable, and the promises of “one of these days” began to feel even more fragile.
By the time his cognitive decline became undeniable within the months that followed, it was clear that “one day” wasn’t coming. But instead of letting disappointment fester, my sons took action.
They planned their own trip to Antietam and invited him—and me—along for the ride.
It was a bittersweet day. Sweet, because I saw my sons refuse to wait. But somber, because it drove home the cost of waiting—not just for my dad, but for me.
How My Sons Learned to Move
The trip to Antietam wasn’t just a moment of closure for my sons, me, and my dad. It was a declaration from my sons: “We will not be men who wait.” They would be men who act, build, and create the lives they want instead of waiting for them to happen. And in doing so, they’ve inspired me to keep doing the same. I’m so proud of them, who they are, and the way they’re going for it, not one of these days, but today.
I’m also thrilled that they’ve had the benefit of being exposed to great men—mentors, role models, and friends who’ve challenged them to take ownership of their lives. That exposure has been transformational, and I consider it one of the greatest blessings of my life.
And that journey—their journey—began when I decided to change mine. Now, I’m not taking credit for their growth. They’re leading themselves well. Yet, had I stayed stuck in waiting as my father did, who knows what would have happened?
Fortunately, I didn’t stay stuck.
Despising “One of These Days”
Since then, I’ve come to truly despise that phrase. It’s a thief dressed in good intentions, robbing us of the present while holding out the illusion of a better future.
Thanks to experiences like these and a whole lotta disillusionment in life, marriage, career, and work, I’ve learned that waiting doesn’t create the life you want. Action does. Not just any actions but effective actions. And sometimes, the most effective but challenging action is to begin breaking the patterns we’ve inherited—the waiting, the delaying, the deferring of dreams—so that we can live fully, here and now.
How I Began To Break Free from Waiting
The process of breaking free from waiting wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. Here’s what I’ve learned about overcoming stuckness (in a nutshell):
- Face Your Shame: Waiting often masks deeper fears—fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of not being enough. Confronting those fears is the first step to freedom.
- Reclaim Your Power: Stop looking to external circumstances for validation or permission. The power to change your life comes from within.
- Take Small Steps: You don’t have to fix everything overnight. The smallest act of movement—making a call, having a conversation, taking a risk—can break the cycle.
- Surround Yourself with Great Men: Transformation doesn’t happen in isolation. Seek out mentors, friends, and role models who challenge you to grow. Spend time with men who aren’t stuck.
Feeling Stuck? You’re Not Alone
If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of your own waiting, I want you to know—you’re not alone. The frustration, disconnection, and yearning for something more are common struggles for so many men. Whether it’s in your marriage, career, relationship with your kids, or even within yourself, these feelings can feel overwhelming, like an anchor dragging you further into stagnation.
And here’s the truth: these challenges don’t just go away on their own. Waiting for things to get better rarely leads to change. But I also want you to know this—your story doesn’t have to end here.
The pain of waiting often masks deeper fears and unmet needs, and confronting those can be hard. It can feel like an impossible climb, especially when shame and self-doubt are whispering that this is just how life is. But it’s not. Breaking free of the patterns that keep us stuck is possible. I know because I’ve been there.
And if you’re feeling stuck, I invite you to consider this: what if waiting isn’t your destiny? What if the life you’re longing for is closer than you think, but it begins with something as simple as taking a single step?
Still Waiting? Or Just Warming Up?
Dag Nasty’s “Still Waiting” still resonates with me, but it doesn’t haunt me like it used to. Now, it feels like a reminder of where I’ve been—and where I refuse to go again.
If you’re stuck in your own waiting room, I want you to know this: waiting doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t heal wounds or create freedom. What changes everything is movement.
The decision to take a single step—no matter how small—can break the cycle.
Stop Waiting—Start Moving
P.S. If you’re stuck—whether it’s in resentment toward your wife, frustration with your job, pain toward your father, or figuring out what’s next—I understand. I’ve been there.
I also know how to not stay there, and I spend my time helping men become unstuck, unshakable, and unstoppable. Not by doing more or trying harder but by learning to reconnect with ourselves, address our pain, and break free from the deep patterns that keep us stuck.
If you’re ready to stop waiting, let’s talk.
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