YOU GET WHAT YOU PERMIT

By Tim Rohr

This post is about an issue outside the usual.

A few years ago, when struggling with a domestic matter, I joined a couple of Dad's groups on Facebook. I joined because I was seeking encouragement from other Dad's. I did get encouragement, but in a backwards sort of way. I'll explain in a minute.

It's commonly known that in domestic matters, specifically child custody cases, Dad's are usually on the losing end: the mother gets the kids and dad's are functionally forced to pay a ransom (child support) to see their kids. 

I call it a ransom because the court has no means in place to see that Dad's dollars go to the "support" of the children instead of the mother's. In other words, the mother is free to spend Dad's dollars on anything she wants, including lifestyle choices harmful to the children (e.g. other men). 

And given that nearly 80% of divorces (and therefore custody cases) are initiated by women, men are right to criticize the system as a female-favoring racket.

However, the old adage "you get what you permit," measures up here. Given my experience in these groups, I have to admit that most men lose because they would rather blame the system than learn to fight. And even when I've encouraged them to fight, the complaint is "we shouldn't have to."

And that's the "backwards encouragement." I was encouraged to learn to win in my own case because I was disgusted by the number of men in these groups who gave up and who chose to blame and complain rather than "fight like a man."

I think that's all I want to say about this...for now. Just remember, and this goes for everything in life: YOU GET WHAT YOU PERMIT.

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Immediately after posting this, I happened upon this story of a man who refused to die. That's what I'm talking about.

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He was mauled, crushed, and torn apart—his throat slashed, his ribs broken, his back flayed open by the claws of a grizzly. In 1823, Hugh Glass lay in the wilds of the Upper Missouri, a dying man. His comrades, certain no soul could endure such ruin, abandoned him to the earth. But Glass did not die. With nothing left but a stubborn will, he began to crawl—mile after mile, dragging his ruined body across two hundred miles of wilderness, alone and hunted, where even wolves and vultures seemed to circle, waiting for his last breath.

It was not a miracle. It was survival at its rawest. Glass clawed at roots and berries, gnawed the bones of dead beasts left by predators, and drank from mud-choked streams just to keep the fever from taking him. Each day was a battle, each night a torment, yet he pressed forward, inch by inch, his body broken but his resolve unyielding. He should have perished a dozen times over, yet something within him refused to surrender.

At last, skeletal and half-dead, he stumbled into Fort Kiowa—a man who had defied the grave. His story was not written in triumph or riches but in endurance, carved into legend by the sheer force of will. By the time his tale spread across the frontier, Glass had become more than a trapper—he was proof of how far a man could crawl when death demanded he stay down. And so the question lingers still: if abandoned, broken, and left for dead, would you rise and crawl on, as he did?