It's A Wonderful Life

It’s a wonderful life

There’s a moment in It’s a Wonderful Life that I think about more than almost any other scene in cinema.

George Bailey stands in his living room, his house, his sanctuary, and everything caves in at once. The noise. The kids. The broken banister knob. The model town he built with care, clipped and shattered in a single moment of desperation. He snaps. Not because he doesn’t love his family, but because he loves them so much, and he’s terrified he’s failing them.

That scene wrecks me every year.

Not because it’s dramatic.

But because it’s honest.

George is desperate. He’s ashamed. He’s scared. He’s overwhelmed. He’s exhausted from carrying responsibility that never seems to let up. He’s trying to do the math in his head. How money is going to come in. How this problem connects to that one. How close he is to the edge. Whether he’s doing okay or doing terribly or doing worse than he even realizes. Stress, then relief. Relief, then more stress. Life and obligation colliding at full speed.

That’s fatherhood.

That’s adulthood.

That’s real life.

George Bailey wanted to see the world. He wanted adventure. He wanted to build things, go places, be more. And then life happened. Duty happened. Love happened. And slowly, almost invisibly, those dreams were deferred, reshaped, or quietly buried under responsibility.

And yet.

He finds Mary. He builds a family. He creates a home filled with love so real it hurts. There is no doubt, none, that he loves his children with every piece of his insides. But there’s also no denying that something is lost along the way. Not gone forever, but dormant. Waiting.

People joke about the “midlife crisis,” but I don’t think it’s about sports cars or reckless behavior. I think it’s the moment a person realizes there are roads they never took, things they never tried, risks they never allowed themselves to take. Suddenly they feel time pressing in. Not in panic, but in urgency. A quiet voice saying: There’s still time. Don’t waste it.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat alone, at a bar, at home, late at night, saying the same prayer George Bailey says. At the end of my rope. Not knowing what to do. Scared. Completely lost.

And the hard truth?

A lot of the time, it’s about money.

I hate what money does to creative people. I hate how it turns joy into pressure and passion into fear. I’m building something right now, a business, a space, because I want a place where creativity can exist without being strangled by constant financial anxiety. Yes, money matters. It has to. But I also believe, deeply, that if creative people could do their thing without that relentless pressure, the world would receive something extraordinary in return. Honest work. Generous work. Free expression without constraint.

That’s the gift.

I watch this movie every year, and it breaks me every time. But I look forward to it. Because it reminds me not to settle and also not to miss what’s right in front of me. To understand that even if life doesn’t look like the adventure you imagined, it can still be a wonderful life if you care for what surrounds you.

I have two daughters. Six and nine.

Sometimes I wonder: if I didn’t have kids, would I be traveling the world recklessly, chasing adventure with wild enthusiasm? Maybe. Maybe not.

But here’s what I know for sure. These two girls are the best things in my life. And my responsibility now isn’t just to provide. It’s to shape the thoughts in their minds. To show them that you can love deeply and adventure boldly. That you can contribute to the world. That fulfillment doesn’t require abandoning responsibility. It requires intention.

George Bailey had friends. He was invited to parties. He mattered to his community. He was embraced. He made an impact. He was loved, even when he couldn’t see it.

I think that’s all I really want.

I want to belong.

I want to be part of a community.

I want my kids to remember me as generous and loving.

I want to be invited to the New Year’s Eve party.

I want adventure.

I want fulfillment.

I don’t want a midlife crisis.

I want a full life.

And every year, George Bailey reminds me that even when you feel lost, even when the pressure feels unbearable, even when the dreams feel delayed, you may already be living something extraordinary.

You just might need help seeing it.