The Need For Approval

The Confession

I need to admit something... I’ve been chasing approval like it’s the last socket in a dead circuit. Not just for my kids, or my boss, or the neighbors who think I’m “so strong” for raising three on my own. I’ve been chasing it like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. And it’s been a damn lie.

Look, I’m no expert on this. I’m just a guy who spent twenty years wiring houses, fixing things that were broken, and pretending I had it all together. But the truth? I’ve been wiring my own life wrong. Hiding the frayed edges. Covering up the mistakes. Because I was terrified people would see the real me: a guy who still cries when he finds his wife’s favorite mug in the cupboard, a guy who’s scared he’s failing his kids, a guy who needs to be liked just to feel like he’s not drowning.

Here’s what I hid: I’d skip my daughter Maya’s middle school play because I was too scared to show up. Not because I was busy – I was always busy. But I’d make up a story: “Work got crazy, honey.” I’d sit in my truck outside the school, watching the lights go on, feeling like a coward. Why? Because I was afraid she’d see me fumbling with my keys, trying to hide the fact I’d been crying in the bathroom before I left. Afraid she’d think, Dad’s not okay. Afraid she’d see the guy who couldn’t fix his own life.

I’d say “yes” to extra jobs – even when I was dead tired – just to hear the words “Jimmy’s a lifesaver.” I’d take on the 3 a.m. call for a flickering light in a nursing home, even though I knew I’d be nodding off at the dinner table later. Why? Because the feeling of being needed, of being “good enough,” was louder than the exhaustion. I’d rather be tired and approved than rested and unremarkable.

And I’d lie to my kids. Not big lies. Tiny ones. Like when my son Ben asked if I’d seen his missing baseball glove. I’d say, “Yeah, I think it’s in your room,” even though I’d tossed it in the trash because it was ripped. Why? Because I couldn’t admit I’d forgotten, or that I was too busy to care. I’d rather he think I was perfect than see me as just a guy who sometimes drops the ball.

Why it was hard to face: It wasn’t just about being a good dad. It was about the grief. After Sarah died, I felt like I’d lost the blueprint for being a man. She was the one who knew how to smooth things over, who could make anyone feel seen. I was just… the guy who fixed the lights. So I started chasing the idea of being seen. Like if I could just be the guy who never messed up, who always had it together, maybe I’d feel like I was still the husband Sarah married. Like maybe I’d prove I was worthy of her memory.

But here’s the thing: I was lying to myself. Every time I skipped Maya’s play, I wasn’t protecting her. I was protecting my own shame. Every time I took the extra job, I wasn’t being strong – I was running from the quiet, where I’d have to face the fact that I was tired, and that was okay. I was so busy trying to be approved, I forgot to be real.

The moment of honesty: It wasn’t dramatic. No grand speech. It was a Tuesday. Ben was 14, slamming his bedroom door after I’d snapped at him for leaving his laundry on the floor. I was in the kitchen, staring at the coffee pot, feeling that old panic – He hates me. I’m failing him. I was about to grab my keys to go work late, just to escape the mess.

Then Ben walked in. Not slamming. Just… standing there. He looked at me, really looked. And he said, quiet but clear: “Dad. You’re always trying to be someone else.”

I froze. The coffee pot was still dripping. My hands were shaking. I wanted to say, No, I’m not. I’m just… but the words died. Because he was right. I was trying to be someone else. The guy who never got tired. The guy who never needed help. The guy who had all the answers.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded. And then I did something I hadn’t done in years: I sat down at the table. And I cried. Not the quiet, controlled tears I’d been holding for twenty years. The messy, ugly, real kind. I cried because I was tired. I cried because I was scared. I cried because I’d been lying to my own son for years.

And Ben? He didn’t say anything. He just put a hand on my shoulder. And that was it. No fixing. No judgment. Just… presence.

What changed: Nothing big. Just a tiny shift. I stopped chasing the approval. I started chasing peace.

Here’s what I figured out: 1. Approval is a ghost. It’s not real. It’s not a thing you can hold. It’s just the echo of someone else’s opinion. And it’s never enough. You can get ten “good job” texts, and the next day, someone will say something that makes you feel small. It’s a treadmill. I got off. 2. Your kids don’t need a perfect dad. They need a real dad. Ben didn’t need me to be the guy who never snapped. He needed me to be the guy who said, “I’m sorry I snapped. I was tired. Let’s talk.” And you know what? He forgave me. Because I was real. 3. You just do the next thing. Not the perfect thing. Not the approved thing. Just the next thing. Like showing up for Maya’s play last week. I showed up. I was late. I was still tired. I didn’t have a perfect story. But I was there. And she hugged me. And that was enough.

Practical advice for when the need for approval hits you like a dead battery: - Pause. When you feel that pull – I need to say yes, I need to fix this, I need to be liked – stop. Breathe. Ask yourself: Is this for me, or for them? - Do the small thing. Not the grand gesture. Just the next right thing. Like calling your kid back when you’re tempted to skip the call. Or admitting you’re tired instead of faking it. - Let go of the “should.” You don’t need to be liked. You just need to be here. In the mess. In the tired. In the real.

I’m still not perfect. I still get the urge to chase approval. But now, when it hits, I remember Ben’s words: You’re always trying to be someone else. And I remind myself: I’m just a dad. And that’s enough.

I don’t need to be the guy who never drops the ball. I just need to pick it up. And show up. Again. And again.

— Jimmy Hawkins, just a dad figuring it out