There was a time I thought my dad might actually be invincible.
He was the guy in the power suit, helping build what would become Elizabeth Arden from nothing with his uncle, pulling long days as VP of Sales, and still somehow finding time to show up in dad-mode. He’d close a deal in the morning and still coach me through halftime like he was Pat Riley disguised as an exhausted Jewish father. He wasn’t just in the room—he was in it. And for a long time, I didn’t question that image.
I also didn’t win much growing up.
Let me explain.
My dad didn’t hand out easy victories. We’d play basketball, chess, even board games like Monopoly (where, yes, he actually would gloat when he bankrupted me). At the time? It pissed me off. But now? I get it. He wasn’t being cruel. He was training me—to push through, to never expect a handout, to work harder if I wanted to win.
That mentality shaped me. Honestly, it’s one of the reasons I’ve done well at DoorLoop. When the going gets weird or overwhelming, I don’t flinch. “We’ll figure it out” is basically my job description at this point—and it’s a mindset I owe to him.
The Lessons Were Never Just About Work
Sure, he taught me business—how to make a connection, how to close, how to really listen. But it ran deeper. I learned how to shake a hand from my dad. How to actually look someone in the eye and not just nod your way through a conversation. He never said, “Treat the janitor the same as the CEO.” He showed me. Every interaction he had—whether it was with the valet guy or some Fortune 500 exec—looked the same: firm handshake, warm smile, full attention.
That sticks with you.
He taught me about hard work without saying the phrase “hard work.” It was the 6 a.m. wake-ups. The “just one more call” at dinner. The mental notes he’d scribble on receipts or napkins or, one time, the back of a Blockbuster late fee notice. The man made business happen on the back of chaos and charisma.
But the biggest lesson? Grit. Not just the kind where you hustle for the sake of hustling. I’m talking about that stubborn, sweaty kind of persistence. The “yeah this sucks but we’re still doing it” mentality. He didn’t preach it. He lived it.
He didn’t need to tell you he was strong. You just knew.
And then one day—I didn’t.
When the Cape Slipped
I still remember the first time I heard fear in his voice. I was in my twenties. We were talking about some business issue he was facing—nothing specific I can recall now—but his voice cracked. Just for a second. Just enough.
And it wrecked me.
Not because I lost respect. Quite the opposite. That sliver of vulnerability gave me something I’d never seen before: the weight he carried. The mask he wore for us. The truth that even the strongest people are scared sometimes. And it made me love him more. Respect him more.
It’s easy to be confident when things are going your way. It’s a whole different kind of strength to show up anyway when they’re not.
And Then… I Became Him
Fast forward. I’m a dad now—two kids, a house full of toddler chaos, a career, a company on the side. Life is bananas. Some mornings I feel like I’m sprinting in place. But almost every day, I pause for twenty minutes.
Why?
Because of our coffee calls.
Every morning, I call my dad. No script. No agenda. Just the two of us driving to work in Miami traffic. We talk about nothing and everything. Yael’s latest opinionated streak. Diana’s lack of chill. Branding problems. The Heat and Dolphins heartbreaks. My sisters. Whatever.
We just talk.
And that song Cats in the Cradle? Yeah. That one haunts me. You know the story—dad’s too busy, then the kid’s too busy, and suddenly they’re both older and full of regret. Somewhere between the MBA, the startup hustle, and chasing two tiny dictators around the house, I caught myself becoming that guy. The one who says, “I’ll call later.”
So now I call first.
The Framework: Breaking the Cycle
If you’re reading this and seeing yourself in either role—the too-busy parent or the adult kid still waiting for that connection—here’s what I’ve learned about not becoming the song:
- Ritualize connection - Our coffee calls are sacred. They happen no matter what. Your version might be Friday night dinner. A walk. A ten-minute FaceTime. Doesn’t matter—just make it non-negotiable.
- Quality beats quantity - It’s 20 minutes. But we’re in it. Focused. Present. It’s not about the length—it’s about the depth.
- Share real work - Some of our best talks happen when I ask for advice on a pitch or he tells me about the projects he’s working on this week. It’s not “family vs. business”—it’s family in business.
- Acknowledge the gaps - There were missed games. Missed science fairs. And yeah, it hurt. But we’ve talked about it. We’ve said it out loud. That honesty helps fill the space that silence left behind.
And here’s what makes those calls work:
- No performance pressure – We can both be half-distracted and still fully present.
- Zero expectations – We’re not trying to accomplish anything. That’s what makes the space safe.
- No more superhero act – I tell him when work’s kicking my ass. He tells me when his knee hurts. That mutual honesty is the whole point.
My Dad’s Not Perfect. That’s Why He’s My Hero.
The man missed events. He didn’t always know how to say the right thing. But when he showed up? He showed up. He’d find ways to be there—whether it was dissecting my opponent’s weaknesses during halftime or giving a post-game breakdown that sounded suspiciously like an ESPN analyst with a personal stake in my self-esteem.
I used to think being a hero meant being flawless.
Now I know better.
It means showing up scared. Messing up. Saying sorry. Coaching from the sidelines, even when no one asked you to. Calling every morning, even when you’re tired. Letting your kid see you—truly see you—and loving them enough to let go of the cape.
As I navigate the beautiful chaos of raising Yael and Diana while building my own career path between DoorLoop and Zossoz, I'm grateful for the daily reminder that being a hero isn't about being perfect—it's about being present.
What about you? Who's the hero in your life that you've come to appreciate as beautifully human? Drop me a note—I'd love to hear your story over a virtual coffee sometime. After all, the best conversations happen when we remove the capes and just talk like people.
