Tending the Fire

My seven-year-old son is pictured here starting our first campfire of the season—with a magnesium and flint striker.

Yes, I let him do it.

And yes, my son can be impulsive.

So the obvious question follows: why would I hand something dangerous to a child who doesn’t always think before he acts? Shouldn’t I protect him from that? Shouldn’t I step in, control the risk, and keep him safe from himself?

That instinct—to remove danger, to minimize risk, to protect at all costs—is common. I’d argue it’s also incomplete.

Impulsiveness is not cured by protection. It is shaped by responsibility.

Childhood impulsivity is often biological, not moral. My son is an extrovert. I am an introvert. Carl Jung, who coined these terms, described introverts as those who reflect before they act, while extroverts tend to act and then reflect. In a culture that prizes caution and deliberation, the introvert can appear more “intelligent,” while the extrovert can seem reckless.

But Jung didn’t see it that simply. He described an intuitive intelligence in the extrovert—a way of engaging directly with the world, learning through action, adapting in real time.

I’ve done well in life as a man of reflection. My son will likely do well as a man of action.

Different eras demand different kinds of men. Some call for deep thought and restraint. Others call for decisiveness and boldness. My role as a father is not to reshape my son into my image, but to help him refine who he already is. That means encouraging reflection—but not at the cost of his natural drive to act.

Because here’s the truth: extroverts will make more mistakes. But they will also encounter more opportunities.

Susan Cain, in her book Quiet, points to research suggesting that extroverts tend to have a less reactive amygdala than introverts. In simple terms, they require more stimulation to feel the same level of arousal. This may explain why so many high-risk professions—firefighters, police officers, fighter pilots—are filled with individuals who remain calm under pressure. They are not careless; they are calibrated differently.

I see this in my son.

When he engages in something challenging—something with a real edge of danger—he doesn’t become more chaotic. He becomes more focused. Starting a fire with a magnesium striker isn’t easy. It demands patience, precision, and persistence. He locked in completely until he got it. Many adults would have given up long before that moment.

This is what responsibility does. It organizes energy. It channels impulsivity into competence.

If I remove every dangerous edge from his life, I don’t make him safer—I make him less prepared.

There’s a deeper issue here, too. Much of our overprotection comes from our own fear, not our children’s actual capacity. We project our anxieties onto them and call it care. But historically, fatherhood has not been about eliminating risk. It has been about initiating children into it—gradually, wisely, and with presence.

Not recklessness. Not neglect. But exposure with guidance.

Let the boy strike the flint. Let him struggle. Let him feel the weight of doing something that matters and carries consequence.

That’s where confidence is built—not from being shielded, but from being trusted.

We don’t raise capable men by keeping them from the fire.

We raise them by teaching them how to tend it.