I Am Mr. Rogers

A lot of you may not remember Fred Rogers. He was a little before my time, but I do remember him.

At first glance, he came across as a sweater-wearing, dorky, middle-aged guy hosting an oddly persistent puppet show for kids. As a kid myself, I watched if nothing better was on—DuckTales, G.I. Joe, or really any cartoon. Still, I must have watched more than I realized, because I’ve got “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood” permanently etched into my brain.

And I wasn’t alone. Mr. Rogers didn’t just leave an impression on kids—he left one on North American culture.

Those were not simple times. Segregation, the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., gun violence, divorce, nuclear war fears, the Challenger explosion, gay rights, and the complicated reality of growing up were all part of the cultural landscape. Mr. Rogers addressed all of it—carefully, thoughtfully—through imagination, puppets, and radical emotional honesty.

He received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, a Peabody Award, and was inducted into the Television Hall of Fame. Somehow, a Presbyterian minister with no real show-business pedigree ranked #35 on the list of the greatest TV stars of all time.

So how did he do it? Simple—though not easy. He saw something that needed to be done and focused his energy on doing it.

From my perspective, Mr. Rogers was honest, genuine, loyal, and courageous. He was brave enough to take on difficult, uncomfortable topics in a way children could understand—if they wanted to. He said what needed to be said without manipulation or agenda. And maybe most impressively, he was the same person on and off the screen.

Reporters tried—hard—to dig up dirt. They found nothing. No scandals. No secret lives. No contradictions. Just a man living exactly the values he taught. People felt safe around him because integrity does that—it lowers nervous systems.

Which raises the uncomfortable question: Do you live by what you preach? Do I?

The other night—maybe a couple nights ago—my wife and I were mid-banter when I casually said I see myself as similar to Mr. Rogers. She laughed. Not unkindly—but understandably. On screen, Mr. Rogers appeared gentle, even timid. Meanwhile, she’s seen me be… let’s say direct. Confrontational at times. Unapologetic and unapologetically honest. Honest enough that people—including family—have taken offense.

I teach and defend truths I believe in, often without much political finesse. And unlike Mr. Rogers, subtlety has never been my strongest interest. He was far better at that. He had patience and strategic gentleness that allowed people to learn without realizing they were being taught.

They thought they were watching a children’s show. But really, they were actually watching emotional health modeled in real time.

I’m working toward that kind of influence—but for now, I tend to take the shotgun approach: honest reflection, even when it has consequences… sometimes financial ones.

And some clients don’t return to therapy for that exact reason

.

Awareness creates accountability. Accountability is uncomfortable. And discomfort—while necessary—is still uncomfortable. Which brings me to a memory from a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (and at this point, many moons ago). I was accused of being an “ambivalent friend”  from a work colleague. If you haven’t heard the term before, you may recognize a more common version: frenemy—someone who pretends to be your friend while subtly (or not so subtly) cutting you down, especially at vulnerable moments.

The accusation came with an example: something I’d said weeks earlier at a white-elephant gift exchange during a work party. I was genuinely surprised—it felt completely out of left field. Still, I took accountability where it made sense. I apologized sincerely. I had no ill intent, no hidden resentment, no agenda.

My part of the street was clean. But theirs wasn’t and I was repeatedly asked—days later—to “acknowledge” being an ambivalent friend. And I couldn’t, because it simply wasn’t true. It wasn't my intent and because of this (and what stood out to me) was how calm I felt about the experience. My heart rate stayed steady. My emotions didn’t spike. I was the same person in that room as I am everywhere else.

That’s integrity. And integrity is freedom.

Have you ever been pressured to take accountability for something you didn’t actually do?

It can feel manipulative—like the goal isn’t truth, but emotional relief for the other person. If you “admit” to something false, they feel better. But that has nothing to do with you.

Here’s the part I still struggle with: If someone genuinely believes a friend is harming them behind their back… why stay close to that person? Choosing continued proximity to perceived harm is still a choice—and responsibility doesn’t magically transfer to the other person because of it...which brings me full circle.

I live by the same code I teach. I am Mr. Rogers—minus the cardigan and children’s television. Instead of silly jingles, I'm a therapist who works with adults struggling with addiction, anxiety, depression, and emotional...stuckness. Instead of puppets, I use therapy blogs and funny memes on social media and instead of neighborhood trolley rides, I have the Jed Said Therapy channel on YouTube which is currently sitting at 120k subscribers.

Yes, I still need work on subtlety but until then, I’ll borrow a line that fits me just fine:

"Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching" ~Fred Rogers

Until next time—Awareness up!

Jed Thorpe, CMHC, NCC