Dads, Stop Over-explaining Everything

You’ve probably had at least one teacher who changed your life and gave you something that stuck longer than a lecture or an exasperated side-eye. The truly transcendent teachers—the Obi-Wans, the Mr. Miyagis, the Gandalfs—pass on more than knowledge. These individuals stir your curiosity. They leave space for the unknown.

In simpler terms: Not every lesson requires a thorough explanation.

Take The Karate Kid, a movie I somehow managed not to see until I was 35. Mid-flight between L.A. and D.C., I finally watched Daniel LaRusso get trained by the quiet, peculiar Mr. Miyagi. It was better than I expected. Actually, it was masterful. The ending scenes have to do with LaRusso winning his karate tournament by putting the iconic crane kick to work against the Cobra Kai dojo. Before that, however, the student is injured… then miraculously healed.

Twice during The Karate Kid, LaRusso is hurt. And twice, Miyagi stands over him, rubs his hands together, and performs some unexplained act that heals him. No tutorial. No backstory. Just a quiet, compelling mystery. It's never named as Reiki or acupuncture… which it might have been. To the audience and LaRusso, it just is.

That’s the point.

Cut Back on Some of the Details

Compare this to our modern cultural impulse. EXPLAIN THIS! EXPLAIN THAT!

Today’s audiences crave exposition. If something magical or improbable happens in a film, critics and Redditers descend like vultures to demand lore, logic, and behind-the-scenes mechanics. When Palpatine zapped Luke with Force lightning in Return of the Jedi, no one in 1983 asked how he did it.

Today, it would require a multi-episode arc and a Wiki page in order to “earn” the moment of inexplicable power.

Our desire to explain everything—to demystify—comes at a cost. It robs wonder from the student, the child, the viewer, or the reader. It kills imagination before it can take its first breath.

Myth and Magic in Plain Sight

My daughter was raised on Greek mythology as part of her storybook time before bed at night. From at least age four to ten, I would read her stories about Icarus flying too close to the sun, Prometheus stealing the fire, and Theseus facing the minotaur. Mixed in with more normal modern tales, of course. What I love about Greek history is that it’s scattered throughout American life in both obvious and subtle ways. Symbols, words, expressions…

To have the “weight of the world on your shoulders”

He or she is a “narcissist.”

The word “mentor” is ripped directly from a myth involving Athena… look it up

I’ve resisted pointing out every little appearance of Greek stories in modern life, hoping she would see them on her own and experience that jolt of excitement one gets when it clicks.

That happened yesterday as we watched Epic: The Musical (an online original musical in the style of Hamilton but for The Odyssey). When the god known as Hermes appeared carrying his staff, the Caduceus, she realized it was a common symbol used for hospitals and first aid jobs. The two intertwined snakes with wings…

I can’t express to you just how excited she looked in that moment. The magic of Greek myth is that, since it’s sprinkled all around us, this sometimes “boring” world we inhabit can appear more wondrous.

But that goes away if you do all the work for them. Give them the tools to see it, like an optometrist gives you the glasses necessary to see.

Cultivate a Little Wonder

The best teachers… Dads… and storytellers… don’t give you all the answers. They give you barely enough to inspire interest, enough to make you want to try, and then they vanish into thin air like Obi-Wan on the Death Star.

Saying that, I realize it must be a bit crude. We don’t want our mentors to vanish. I’ve written on Dad Saves America about the recent death of my father, and so that’s where some of this reflection is coming from. It’s a painful fact, but in almost every great story, the mentor or parent has to exit the stage for the younger person to become the hero they’re meant to be. Having them there is a comfort and security blanket, but boys become men in the wilderness.

Don’t vanish on your kids. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying… show them something amazing, and then step back to see what they do with it. If you stay hands-on, too often, there is such a thing as overwatering a plant.

When we over-explain, especially with children or students, we shrink the space where discovery and awe take root. What’s the point in reading a book if Dad is gonna explain everything to you in detail? Some knowledge is best earned, not given. Some answers are more powerful when half-glimpsed and uncomfortably found.

Here’s my invitation: whether you’re a parent, teacher, coach, or just someone with wisdom to share… consider withholding a little.

Not out of stinginess, but reverence. The next time your student asks, “How did you do that?” maybe just smile, shrug, and let them find out for themselves. There’s a balance to these things.

The mind, heart, and spirit all expand in the presence of mystery.