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I rewatched Miracle tonight. The movie about how the US hockey team defied ALL odds to defeat the Soviets in the 1980 Winter Olympics, which was one of the greatest upsets in sports history. And it hit me in a way I wasn’t exp ecting. I remember watching that entire Olympic run as a kid —sitting there with my dad and my best friend. On the edge of our f*cking seats. We weren’t analyzing politics. We weren’t debating anything. We were just… proud. Proud of our country. Proud

There’s something I’ve noticed over the years that I don’t think I’ve ever said out loud. I feel more comfortable around the mental health clients I work with than I do around “normal” people. And I don’t mean that as a knock on anyone. It’s just… different. The people I work with don’t pretend. They’re eccentric. A little neurotic. They’ll tell you exactly what they’ve been through — sometimes within the first five minutes of meeting you lol. There’s no performance, no small

There’s a kind of silence no one really prepares you for. Not the kind where the room is quiet.Not the kind you can fill with music, or TV, or noise. Something deeper than that. A silence that sits underneath everything. Recently I lost my dad who was my best friend. Now my mom is fading in a way that feels harder to explain than death itself. She’s still here.But not really. Dementia sucks. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I’ve started to feel something I didn’t e

No one really warns you. Not in a way that sticks. You hear it, of course - “Time goes fast. ”“Enjoy it while you can.” “They won’t be here forever.” But it never feels real. Because your parents are just… there. They’ve always been there. They always will be. You don’t think about a world where they aren’t. At some point, without realizing it, you start to assume something quietly: That they’ll always be available. That you’ll always have time. That whatever you didn’t say o

For decades, I’ve lived inside the mental health system. Not just as a professional. Not just as an observer. But as someone who has had to navigate it from the inside - where the policies, labels, and decisions become personal. Over the past nine years, I worked toward a Doctor of Education in Health Services Administration. On paper, that’s the milestone. But what it really represents is something else: Time spent studying the system from both sides - living it, working in

I knew, in some abstract way, that one day my father would die. Everyone knows that. But nothing prepares you for what it’s like when the day actually comes — when the phone rings, when the room goes quiet, when the world builds a new shape around the absence of the person who was your anchor. I’m 60 years old. And I just lost my father — the man who wasn’t just my dad, but my best friend . People think losing a parent at this age should somehow hurt less. They say things lik

We know how it ends. Every love, every friendship, every season of our lives — all of it eventually slips through our fingers. People leave. People die. People change. You wake up one day, and the thing you thought you couldn’t live without is gone. And yet, we do it again. We fall. We risk. We open ourselves like fools, knowing full well we might be broken again. Why? Because something in us is stubbornly, wildly alive. Because love — even when it ends — is worth more than a