For a good part of my adult life I've been finding my way towards the middle.

Politically, I’m often somewhere in the middle.

Religiously, I find myself in the middle, too.

Even on a lot of cultural and social issues, I find myself listening to one side and thinking, You have a point. Then listening to the other and thinking, Gosh, you have a point too.

That can be a messy place to live.

Because we live in a time when everyone seems to want to know which side you’re on.

Then, after you’ve chosen, you’re often expected to defend everything on your side and distrust anything coming from the other. And if you don’t choose a side, you tend to alienate yourself from one side or the other, or maybe even both.

Truthfully, I’m just not interested in doing that anymore. I have before, and it’s exhausting. Maybe that makes me a moderate, or “middle” man, since I often find myself somewhere in the middle of things.

I know traditionally, a middleman is someone who stands between two people or groups. Someone who connects them. And the older I get, the more I wonder whether that might actually be part of my role in this world.

Not to convince everyone to come to the middle, or convince conservatives they need to become more liberal or liberals they need to become more conservative.

Or convince religious people to abandon their convictions or people who have walked away from religion that they need to come back.

Maybe the goal isn’t getting everyone to agree, but to try and get everyone to talk.

Because somewhere along the way, disagreement became distance.

We stopped simply believing different things and started believing the worst about the people who believe differently. Instead of asking, “Why do you see it that way?” We start by saying, “What is wrong with you?”

And frankly, I don’t think that’s getting us anywhere. I may be wrong, but I just don’t see it as productive.

The middle can be frustrating because you get pulled in both directions. Like a game of tug of war. Both sides convinced you should be standing with them. And each upset when you try to understand the other, because simply trying to understand means you’re somehow on their side.

But understanding isn’t agreement, and listening isn’t surrender. You can hold strong convictions and still be curious about someone else’s. And you can disagree with someone and still recognize their humanity. That’s something I’ve really being trying to keep in focus, for myself, and as I’ve been writing.

It’s okay to walk away from a conversation believing exactly what you believed when you entered it — while understanding the person across from you a little better.

Doesn’t that count for something? It has to.

Maybe we don’t need everyone moving toward the middle, just need a few more people willing to stand there.

People willing to keep the door open, and say, “I understand why you believe that, even though I see it differently.” Or even, “I don’t understand why you believe that, but I want to try.”

People willing to remind both sides that there are human beings standing behind all those labels.

I know I’m still figuring out what I believe about plenty of things. My middle isn’t always neat or perfectly consistent. It’s messy, as I wrote. I’ve tried to sort out a lot of what I believe, without feeling the pressure of one side or the other on a lot of issues.

But maybe that’s okay.

Maybe being a messy middle man isn’t about having all the answers.

Maybe it’s about standing somewhere between the shouting and saying:

Hey, can we just talk?

There is a real psychological cost to constantly being treated as though you are somehow less than because you don’t fit neatly inside someone else’s box.

And I think more people experience this than we probably realize.

Maybe you don’t subscribe to their religion.

Or maybe you do share the same faith, but you don’t practice it the same way, interpret every belief the same way, vote the way they think you should, or belong to the right subset of it.

Maybe you don’t belong to their political party.

Or maybe you do, but you refuse to agree with everything the party says. Maybe you hold a more hybrid view of the world and don’t fit neatly on one side or the other.

Maybe your beliefs changed over the years, as a result of asking questions you once were afraid to ask, and you’ve started to realized that humanity is a lot more complicated than you once thought it was.

But the hard part is, the moment you step outside the boundaries you once subscribed to, or even the ones people created for you, something can change.

Suddenly, you start raising eyebrows.

People start wondering what happened to you. They question your motives, and your values. And sometimes they even question whether you as a person, because you aren’t the person they thought you were, or wanted you to be.

And slowly, when someone is treated as less than over and over again, the message starts to sink in:

You don’t fully belong here, and your voice matters less.

Your character is questionable, and your values are suspect.

You are someone to fix, convert, dismiss, or keep at a distance.

Because you aren’t:

Faithful enough.

Patriotic enough.

Conservative enough.

Liberal enough.

Still whatever enough.

And that is exhausting. I know it is for me.

Here’s the deal:

Human beings need belonging.

We need community. We need relationships. We need places where we can show up without constantly wondering whether one disagreement will change how everyone sees us.

But there is an important difference between belonging and conformity.

Belonging says:

There is room for you here, even if we don’t always agree.

Conformity says:

There is room for you here, as long as you stay within these lines.

And when acceptance becomes conditional on believing the right things, voting the right way, asking the right questions, or never changing your mind, people learn to hide parts of themselves.

They become quieter, and stop asking questions. They tend avoid certain conversation, and start to learn which parts of themselves are acceptable and which ones should remain hidden.

Not necessarily because their beliefs have changed, but because they know what might happen if they say what they actually think.

Over time, that can create isolation, self-doubt, anxiety, anger, and a constant feeling that you have to explain or defend who you are just to be accepted.

And perhaps one of the saddest parts is that you can experience all of this while surrounded by people.

You can belong to the church, show up at the family gatherings, sit at the same table, and still feel completely alone.

Because being included is not always the same thing as belonging.

I wonder if we have become far too comfortable with reducing people to categories.

And once we put someone into one of those boxes, we often assume we know everything else about them.

But we don’t.

Someone can disagree with you and still be a good person.

They can believe differently and still have deeply held values.

They can vote differently and still care deeply about their country.

They can question parts of their faith and still have faith.

They can change their mind without losing their character.

They can wrestle with complicated questions without needing someone to immediately provide them with a simple answer.

And they can hold views that don’t fit neatly into any category we’ve created for them.

We are complicated people.

I know I am. My experiences, faith, people I’ve met, struggles I’ve experienced, and even the questions I’ve asked, have shaped me.

I don’t see the world exactly the way I did ten years ago, and honestly Ihope I don’t see it exactly the same way ten years from now.

That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned everything I once believed. It just means I’m still learning, and listening, still asking questions and trying to understand people who are different than me. People whose experiences are different than mine.

And I don’t think growth should require an apology.

We have to stop reducing people to the boxes we think they should fit inside.

Because the moment we decide that someone’s worth depends on how closely they resemble us, we stop seeing the person standing in front of us.

And maybe one of the greatest forms of respect we can offer each other is allowing people to be complicated, to make their own choices, and to find their own way without treating them as less because of it.

Make room for people.

For their stories. Their questions. Their choices. Their complexity.

And above all, make sure they know:

You belong.

A few years ago, my body started doing things I couldn’t explain.

I was tired more often than I should have been. I wasn’t feeling like myself. Other symptoms began showing up too—enough that I knew something wasn’t right.

At first, there weren’t many answers.

I tried to explain what I was experiencing, and my doctors ran test after test. Most of them came back normal. On paper, everything looked fine.

Because I’d lived with anxiety on and off for years, it became the most likely explanation. After test after test failed to reveal a clear cause, my symptoms were increasingly attributed to anxiety.

And honestly, I started to believe it too.

The problem was that believing it didn’t make the symptoms go away.

If anything, it made things worse.

There’s something frustrating about wondering if what you’re feeling is real or if it’s “just anxiety.” You begin questioning yourself. You second-guess every ache, every moment of fatigue, every new symptom. It’s an incredibly lonely place to be.

Truthfully, it sent me into a spiral of panic and fear I never want to return to. I had to seek help, get on meds, and try to re-set a bit, before trying I could try and continue to figure out what was medically wrong.

Eventually, more testing revealed something no one had initially suspected.

I have genetic disorder called hereditary hemochromatosis.

For those unfamiliar with it, hemochromatosis causes the body to absorb and store too much iron. Left untreated, excess iron can damage organs over time. The treatment isn’t as easy as taking medication to feel better, as much as I wish it was.

It’s therapeutic phlebotomy. Or what they call “blood letting.”

In other words, I would need to regularly have blood drawn to lower iron levels.

Now, if you know me, you know this wasn’t exactly welcome news.

Needles have never been my thing.

In fact, I’ve spent much of my life feeling anxious around medical procedures. There were times when just walking into a doctor’s office felt like a victory.

When I was in the midst of my spiral, I would feel as though I was about to hit the floor. Like I was going to pass out. My blood pressure was all over the place, and my mind would race.

So being told I’d need regular therapeutic phlebotomies wasn’t just a medical challenge.

It was an psychological one.

And I wish I could tell you I conquered that fear overnight. Because I didn’t.

I just kept showing up.

Appointment after appointment. Needle after needle.

Sometimes with a racing heart. Sometimes wanting to leave before they called my name.

But I stayed.

And little by little, something changed. Not because I suddenly loved needles. Or sitting in that chair, uncomfortable with the idea there’s a needle in my arm. Or all the bruising that came from multiple failed phlebotomy attempts.

But because every appointment became another reminder that courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s deciding that something else matters more.

Today, a few years later, my iron levels are under control.

It took some time. In fact, it took more than a year, but I feel better physically than I did back then. And when I look back, I don’t see one grand, dramatic moment where I overcame my fear.

I see dozens of small victories.

Walking through the door. Sitting in the chair. Rolling up my sleeve.Making it through another blood draw. Through another phlebotomy appointment.

We often think victory has to be spectacular. We celebrate the finish line, the breakthrough, the moment everything changes.

But most of life isn’t lived in those moments.

It’s lived in ordinary Tuesdays when you choose to do the hard thing anyway.

I’ve come to believe that many of the strongest people I know aren’t people who accomplished one extraordinary feat.

They’re people who collected hundreds of little victories.

If you’re facing something today that scares you—a medical diagnosis, a difficult conversation, therapy, recovery, grief, or simply getting through another day—don’t underestimate the power of those small wins.

Sometimes healing doesn’t happen because of one giant leap. It happens because you kept taking one small step after another.

And listen, I totally believe there’s nothing you can’t do.

It may not look dramatic. It may never make the headlines. It may require you to enlist the help and support of others.

But those little victories have a way of changing your life.

At least it did for mine.

I don’t cry easily during movies. In fact, you could probably say I don't cry often at all.

But there are three stories that never fail to get me. Every single time.

The strange thing is that they’re three completely different stories. One is a Christmas movie. One is about a dying professor. The last is a World War II miniseries.

Yet somehow they all touch the same place.

Maybe it’s because each one reminds me of what matters most.

A Hobo’s Christmas

The first is an old movie called A Hobo’s Christmas, a 1987 made for television drama.

I’ve seen it more times than I can count. My mother had recorded it to a VHS tape, commercials and all. Years later, I purchased it on DVD. And people always chuckle when I say it’s one of my favorite movies.

The story is about Chance, a man who left his family 25 years prior to become a traveling hobo, who returns home to see his son and family after realizing he may not have very many Christmases left.

And Charlie, the son who's carried the pain of abandonment for years.

The scene that gets me every time is the family sitting around the dinner table at Christmas. Chance, along with the grandchildren, have invited all of his hobo friends over for dinner because they have no family, and no place to go at Christmas.

After dinner, Chance gives his son Charlie a home made train set he’s been crafting in the basement throughout the week while he’s been home.

Charlie, moved by the gift, then begins telling a story from childhood, a memory he says that stands out above the rest.

He recalls as a young boy remembering how other families would drive to the airport to watch airplanes take off. But his father did something different.

He would take the family down to the train station to watch the trains go by.

Every time I watch this scene, something happens inside and I begin to cry. Part of it is the music. Part of it is the story. And part is the moment itself.

But every time that scene comes on, it reminds me that while accomplishments fade and our possessions disappear, the memories we create with the people we love have a way of lasting far longer than we ever imagine.

Tuesdays with Morrie

The second story is Tuesdays with Morrie.

I’ve only watched it once. That was enough.

If you’ve never read the book or seen the movie, it tells the story of Mitch Albom reconnecting with his former college professor, Morrie Schwartz, after learning Morrie is dying from ALS.

What follows is a series of weekly visits.

Each week, Morrie teaches lessons about life, relationships, love, forgiveness, purpose, aging, and death.

The funny thing about this one is, I didn’t cry during one scene. I think I cried throughout the whole movie.

Maybe it was a mix of the weight of realizing Morrie was facing an incurable disease that would eventually take everything from him physically, and eventually his life. Or maybe it was watching him use the time he had left to teach one final class on how to live.

You see, Morrie understood something many of us spend our entire lives trying to learn. Something our culture tries to teach again.

That life isn’t about chasing success, status, money, and recognition.

No, Morrie kept pointing somewhere else, something different. That life is about relationships and compassion, and being fully present with the people we love.

And that we should use whatever wisdom, time, and talent we have to make a difference in the lives of others.

Even as his world grew smaller physically, his impact grew larger. He could no longer do all the things he’d previous done. Yet from a chair in his home, he was changing a life through conversations, kindness, and hard-earned wisdom.

And he was asking a question so many of us try to avoid:

If your time were running out, what would matter most? How would you spend your remaining days?

And perhaps just as importantly:

What are you doing with the days you have right now?

Because I don’t think Morrie’s final lesson wasn’t simply about dying well.

It was about living in a way that leaves something meaningful behind.

Band of Brothers

The third isn’t a movie at all.

It’s actually a miniseries produced by Tom Hanks called Band of Brothers.

If you’ve watched it, you know it isn’t easy viewing.

It follows Easy Company through some of the most difficult battles of World War II. The series doesn’t glorify war. It shows its cost and the sacrifice and weight carried by some ordinary young men asked to do extraordinary things.

There are countless emotional moments throughout the series.

But the scene that always gets me comes at the very end.

Major Dick Winters, one of the main characters the mini-series follows, reflects on a conversation he once heard fellow soldier Mike Ranney describe.

Years after the war, Ranney’s grandson asked him:

“Grandpa, were you a hero during the war?”

“No,” he replied, “but I served in a company of heroes.”

By the time that line arrives, you’ve already spent ten episodes walking beside all of these men.

You’ve watched the battles, and what they endured.

You’ve watched friends and fellow soldiers die, at times, pretty horrific deaths.

You’ve watched incredible courage appear in moments where fear would have been understandable.

And you’ve watched ordinary people repeatedly choose duty over comfort.

Then you hear that quote.

And you realize that true greatness rarely announces itself, and most interestingly , the people who deserve recognition are often the least interested in receiving it.

Every time I hear Dick Winters recount those words, the tears come.

And I’m not entirely sure what these stories have in common. Other than I cry at each one. Each story is so very different in almost every way.

And I’m not entirely sure why I’m sharing this today, other than it’s June 6th, and I found myself thinking about Band of Brothers and the men who landed in Normandy 82 years ago.

But maybe there is a common thread. Maybe it’s about what we do with our lives and what we leave behind. The memories we create together, the wisdom we leave behind, and the sacrifice we make for others.

Maybe that’s why these stories stay with me. They remind me that what matters most isn’t what we accumulate, but what we leave behind in the lives of others.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been part of several difficult decisions.

The kind of decisions that remind you leadership isn’t just about strategy, vision, or helping people succeed. The kind that keeps you up at night.

In each case, the decision had a direct impact on the person sitting in front of me.

A real person.

Someone with responsibilities, challenges, hopes, and a life that extends far beyond the workplace.

Those moments are never easy.

And despite what some people may think, they shouldn’t be.

I don’t believe leaders should become immune to the weight of decisions that affect other people’s lives.

Maybe some do. Maybe after enough years, enough difficult conversations, and enough tough calls, they learn how to compartmentalize it all.

But I’m not convinced that’s healthy—for the leader or for the people they’re entrusted to serve.

The reality is that leadership can hurt.

Certainly not every day, or every decision.

But there are some decisions that stay with you long after the meeting ends.

I’ve wrestled with that reality quite a bit over the last few weeks.

The conversations may be over, but the questions often aren’t.

Late at night, when the distractions are gone and the day finally slows down, I’ve found myself replaying decisions, examining every angle, and wondering if there was another path forward.

Could something have been said differently, or done sooner?

Could the outcome have changed?

Maybe those questions are simply part of caring. Maybe they’re part of carrying the responsibility that leadership demands.

Either way, they’re familiar companions on some nights.

You replay conversations in your mind, and you agonize over if there was another path. Could you have done something to avoid it? Because you know the impact of the decision you make will have an impact on someone’s life.

And yet, leadership requires something more than empathy alone.

It requires responsibility.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that leaders aren’t responsible only for the person sitting across from them. They’re also responsible for everyone else on the team.

The employees who consistently show up, sometimes carry extra work, and who want to be part of a healthy culture. Those who desire, even depend on strong leadership to create environments where they can succeed.

And the reality is, sometimes a decision that hurts one person today will benefit the t team tomorrow.

That doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t erase the human impact.

But it does provide perspective.

When leaders avoid difficult decisions for too long, the consequences rarely stay isolated to one individual. They spread. Morale suffers. Standards decline. Frustration grows. The burden shifts to those who continue carrying their weight and often the weight of others.

What can feel like compassion in the short term can become unfairness in the long term.

I’ve spent some time reflecting on that over the last few weeks.

Leadership is often portrayed as authority, influence, or opportunity. But much of leadership is stewardship. It’s accepting responsibility for the well-being of an entire team and making decisions through that lens.

That means there will be moments when the needs of the group outweigh the needs of an individual.

Not because the individual doesn’t matter.

They do.

But leaders have a responsibility to everyone affected by their decisions, not just the person directly in front of them.

I’ve found that some of the most difficult leadership moments occur when both things are true at the same time:

You care about the person, but you know the decision still needs to be made.

Those are the moments that test leaders.

Not because they require toughness.

Because they require balance.

The balance between compassion and accountability, empathy and responsibility.

The balance between helping an individual and protecting a team.

The last few weeks have reminded me that leadership is rarely about choosing between good and bad options.

More often, it’s choosing between difficult options and carrying the weight that comes with them.

And while those decisions are never pleasant, I’ve come to believe that avoiding them serves no one.

Not the individual. Not the team.

And certainly not the mission of the organization.

The best leaders don’t enjoy making hard decisions.

They simply understand that sometimes the most caring thing you can do for a team is make the decision you’ve been hoping you wouldn’t have to make.

Leadership isn’t about avoiding discomfort.

It’s about accepting responsibility for outcomes, even when the path forward is difficult.

Sometimes that means making decisions that benefit many while deeply affecting a few.

I don’t think leaders should become immune to that reality.

The day we stop feeling the weight of decisions that impact other people’s lives may be the day we stop leading with compassion.

And sometimes, leadership requires decisions that will keep you up at night.

Social media gets blamed for a lot these days.

It’s blamed for division, outrage, anxiety, loneliness, misinformation, and the decline of civil discourse. Some of those criticisms are fair. Social media platforms are designed to capture attention, and often the loudest voices rise to the top.

But I sometimes wonder if we’re giving too much blame to the tool and not enough attention to something deeper.

Because social media didn’t create human nature.

It didn’t invent anger, pride, gossip, tribalism, or the desire to be right at all costs.

Those things have been around for a very long time.

It just gave people megaphones and platforms online to amplify those tendencies in ways that were never possible before, and expanded our ability to communicate and connect, but it also made it easier to contribute to the noise.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve contributed to some of that myself.

There was a time when I spent far too much energy engaging in negative back-and-forth exchanges online, especially around politics. Like many people, I found myself pulled into arguments that rarely changed anyone’s mind. The more I participated, the more I realized that most of those conversations weren’t producing understanding, healing, or solutions.

They were just producing more noise.

And maybe you’ve experienced that too.

Maybe you’ve spent time in conversations that went nowhere, arguments that changed no one’s mind, or debates that left everyone more frustrated than when they started.

Over time, I started asking myself a simple question:

What am I doing my social media platform, and can I really make a difference?

That question reminded me of something I learned years ago during a trip to Africa.

I was twenty-three years old and visiting communities where the needs were overwhelming. The poverty, the challenges people faced, and the lack of resources were difficult to comprehend. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be another problem that needed solving.

I remember feeling incredibly small.

What difference could one person possibly make in the face of needs that large?

As I talked to the people I’d made the trip with, I was encouraged to see it differently.

They told me, I wasn’t responsible for fixing everything.

I was responsible for what I did with the gifts, talents, abilities, opportunities, and voice that God had given me.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

That lesson has stayed with me.

Because the truth is that most of us spend a lot of time worrying about things outside our control while neglecting the things that are within it.

We can’t control every headline, solve every political conflict, or fix every problem facing society.

Every day brings another crisis, controversy, or issue demanding our attention. It’s easy to feel like we need to weigh in on everything, keep up with every development, and carry the weight of problems that are far beyond our ability to solve.

But no one person can fix all of it.

No one person can heal every division, change every mind, or address every injustice.

Trying to do so often leaves us exhausted, discouraged, and distracted from the places where we can actually make a difference.

But we can control how we treat people.

We can control the words we choose, and whether or not our presence makes a conversation better or worse.

Social media is simply one of the places where those choices play out.

We get to choose how to use it. We can use it to inspire people or spread hate.

We can use it to shame, ridicule, and divide. Or to encourage, educate, support, and connect.

The tool itself isn’t the one making the decision. We are.

That’s one of the reasons I started writing, and using my platform to share more of what’s on my heart. Not because I have all the answers, or because I’ve figured everything out.

In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I have a lot to learn and a lot more growing to do.

But because I reached a point where I wanted my small corner of the internet to contribute something different.

There is already plenty of outrage, cynicism, and people telling us who to hate and why.

I wanted to try adding something else to the conversation.

Something hopeful and encouraging. Something that points people back towards the things that matter most.

Will that change the entire world? Probably not.

But that’s okay.

I’m not responsible for changing the entire world. I’m only responsible for what I do with the voice I’ve been given.

And so are you.

Maybe social media isn’t the problem we think it is.

Maybe it’s a magnifying glass that reveals what’s already inside us.

If that’s true, then the most important question isn’t whether social media is good or bad.

The most important question is this:

Who are we, and what do we want to bring to it?

Because every post, every comment, every conversation, and every interaction is an opportunity to leave people a little better than we found them.

And that’s something every one of us can control.

Somewhere along the way, life has a way of convincing people that failure isn’t just something they experienced.

It becomes something they believe they are, an identity.

Maybe it came through any number of disappointments : a relationship that fell apart, the job that didn’t work out, a dream that never got off the ground, or that promise to yourself you couldn’t keep.

Or maybe it came through something much larger—a public mistake, a major setback, or a season of life where it felt like nothing was going right no matter how hard you tried.

After enough of those moments, something subtle begins to happen.

You stop saying, “I failed,” and start believing, “I am a failure.”

That shift changes everything.

Because once failure becomes identity instead of experience, people begin to pull back from life. They stop risking, stop creating, stop dreaming, and slowly stop believing that things can change.

Not because they lack ability, but because they become convinced the outcome is already decided.

That failure has their number. Disappointment is inevitable.

That eventually life will prove their worst fears right.

And shame has a way of tightening that grip.

Shame doesn’t just remind you of what happened; it convinces you that your worst moments are the truest thing about you. It keeps people stuck in the muck of their past, replaying old mistakes and carrying old versions of themselves into every new opportunity.

Over time, shame can quietly derail a person’s life.

Not always dramatically. In fact, sometimes it happens rather slowly.

I know that because I’ve made big mistakes. I’ve done things I regret. I’ve carried shame for longer than I care to remember.

And if I’m being honest, shame has a way of convincing you that you deserve to stay stuck. That your past should permanently disqualify you from growth, peace, purpose, or joy.

It convinces people to stay small, avoid hope, and stop exploring the possibility of the future because the weight of the past feels too heavy to move beyond.

Failure hurts, especially when it happens repeatedly. There’s something exhausting about pouring your effort, hope, and energy into something only to watch it fall apart anyway.

And if you aren’t careful, the mind starts collecting evidence.

I’ve written about this before. In “Snapshots and Soundtracks”, I talked about how our minds have a habit of treating those snapshots like they’re the entire story.

And when a snapshot sticks long enough, something else starts playing in the background.

The soundtrack.

But most often, that loop of shame you listen to over and over, is lying.

Failure is an event, not an identity. One of the most dangerous things a person can do is build a permanent home inside a temporary moment.

Because the truth is that every meaningful life includes failure.

Every person you admire has failed—usually more than once, often publicly, and often painfully. The people we look at and call successful today usually have a trail of rejection, embarrassment, setbacks, and mistakes behind them that nobody sees.

And sometimes the people who become the strongest are not the ones who got it right the first time, but the ones who had to rebuild after getting it wrong.

But listen, your success in your second chance is no less meaningful than someone else’s success in their first.

Sometimes failure becomes the thing that forces people to grow into who they were always capable of becoming. At least that’s what has happened to me.

Failure is not proof that you should stop. Sometimes it’s proof that you’re trying, stretching yourself, and attempting something difficult enough that success was never guaranteed.

That matters.

Because too many people quietly surrender long before life is actually over. They allow one chapter to become the entire story, one mistake to become a life sentence, and one painful season to define everything that comes after it.

But life doesn’t work that way.

People rebuild and recover. They often reinvent themselves.

And most importantly, they heal.

You can start over at 40, 50, and 60 years old. You can fail spectacularly, and still go on to live meaningful, impactful lives.

You are going to fail sometimes. That part is unavoidable.

But being bound to failure—living chained to the belief that you can never rise beyond your worst moments—is something entirely different.

You are bound to fail.

But you are not bound to failure.

A few weeks ago, I was walking past a cemetery after stepping outside during my stepson’s music compilation. I was able to listen to all of his performances, but at one point decided to get up and walk around because my lower back was bothering me.

As I passed row after row of headstones, I found myself thinking about how many dreams were buried there—how many ideas were never started, passions never pursued, and how many people likely carried potential with them that never had the chance to fully come to life.

It hit me that cemeteries are not just filled with people; they are filled with unwritten books, unstarted businesses, unspoken apologies, unrepaired relationships, and unfinished adventures that were always pushed off until “someday.”

Not because people were lazy, and not because they didn’t care, but because life has a way of getting in the way.

Bills show up. Responsibilities pile on. Fear becomes familiar. Doubt gets convincing.

Somewhere along the way, the dream gets moved to the back burner and filed away under the dangerous word: someday.

But someday is a dangerous place to live.

We convince ourselves there will always be another season, another chance, another better moment to begin. And sometimes there is. But sometimes there isn’t.

I’ve come to believe that one of the saddest things in life is not failure—it’s untapped purpose.

It’s knowing there was something inside of you, something you were meant to build, create, repair, or become, and letting fear, disappointment, or circumstances talk you out of it before you ever tried.

Listen—never, ever let your current context squeeze the life out of your hopes and dreams.

Whatever you’re facing, whatever is stacked against you in this moment, you can rise above it.

Maybe you’re dealing with a diagnosis you never expected, or your finances feel overwhelming. Maybe you lost the job you counted on, or you’re carrying mistakes you wish you could undo. Maybe someone hurt you deeply, or you lost someone you loved.

And it hurts. It does. Some seasons of life feel more like survival than living.

But while obstacles will distract, and they may even delay you, they should never deter you from doing what you were meant to do.

The stakes are too high for you to give up on yourself—and on your dream.

You can decide to sit in those circumstances and let them define you, or you can rise above them. As difficult as that may be, the choice is still there.

And I know what some people think when they hear that.

“You don’t understand my situation.”

“You don’t know what I’m carrying right now.”

Maybe not exactly.

But I do know what it feels like to face challenges that seem bigger than you.

I know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed by circumstances, discouraged by setbacks, and exhausted from carrying things you never expected to carry.

I know what it feels like when life doesn’t go according to plan, and when disappointment tries to convince you to stop believing in what’s possible.

But what I’ve learned—and what that walk past the cemetery reminded me—is that we often stay stuck because we spend all our energy staring at what we’ve lost instead of looking at what we still have left.

Hope is never found in what you lost.

Hope is built on what remains.

It is built on what is still possible.

It is built on tomorrow.

Not every dream has to be big enough for the world to notice.

Sometimes the dream is writing the book, or starting the business. Sometimes it’s repairing your marriage, or even going back to school. Sometimes it’s getting healthy, or simply becoming the person you know you’re capable of being.

The dream does not have to impress anyone else. It just has to matter to you.

Too many people stop dreaming because disappointment made them cautious. Failure made them quieter. Survival mode convinced them the dream was impossible.

But I don’t think it is.

There was a time when you believed more was possible for your life. There was a version of you that imagined bigger things, hoped more freely, and believed that purpose was worth chasing.

Maybe what we need most is not something new, but a return to that version of ourselves.

Maybe we need to remember what lit us up before life taught us to be afraid.

Maybe we need to stop visiting our potential like it’s a graveyard and start seeing it as something still waiting to come to life.

Because deep within you, there is still potential.

There is still resilience.

There is still strength you may not even realize you have yet.

The power to overcome has been there all along—it’s just waiting to be freed.

What you are feeling right now is real, but it is not permanent.

This moment is not your forever.

Most dreams never take flight, and too many problems go unfixed because we fear an unknown that should be afraid of us.

We have the strength. We have the potential. It’s just waiting to be unlocked.

And listen, you’re still here.

That means the story is still being written. It means purpose is still possible. It means the dream is still alive—if you are willing to pick it back up.

You do not need permission, or perfect timing.

You just need to begin. Whatever your dream may be.

And listen, if you dreamed and failed, then begin again.

Because regret is heavy, and carrying “what if” for the rest of your life weighs far more than the risk of trying.

That walk past the cemetery reminded me of something I don’t want to forget: I do not want to be buried with unused purpose.

I do not want to leave this world full of almosts.

I want to live fully, love deeply, try boldly, fail honestly, and know I gave my dream a real chance. And I hope you do, too.

Because in the end, it’s never too late to dream, and it’s never too late to do.

There are certain things in life that find you at exactly the right time.

For me, one of those things was HIKE for Mental Health.

When I first came across the organization in 2019, I knew almost immediately it was different. This wasn’t just about hiking mountains. It was about something deeper — mental health, human connection, healing, purpose, and hope.

And for someone like me, who has personally struggled with anxiety and understands what it feels like to fight battles internally while trying to appear okay externally, that mattered.

At the time, I had no idea how much this organization would eventually become part of my life.

I signed up for Summit Mt Washington because I loved hiking and believed in the cause. That was it at first. Simple.

But somewhere along the way, it became more than a yearly event.

It became personal.

Every year since, I’ve returned to the mountain with a deeper appreciation for what this community represents. Not just because of the fundraising. Not just because of the challenge. But because of the people.

People willing to share their stories, be vulnerable, and fight for others who may be struggling silently.

People willing to say: mental health matters.

And over the last three years, I’ve had the incredible opportunity to help lead Summit Mt. Washington alongside an amazing group of people. That experience has given me an even deeper appreciation for what this community truly is.

It’s not just an event.

It’s people coming together around hope, purpose, and the belief that mental health matters.

I’ve met some of the most genuine, compassionate, and inspiring people through this work.

People like Leo Walker, Tom Kennedy, and Nancy Kozanecki, who founded this organization after asking a simple but powerful question: Why do we hike?

Their answer became: We HIKE for Mental Health.

What began as a conversation has since become a national movement of volunteers who have raise more than $1 million for mental health research and trail conservation.

I’ve also had the opportunity to meet people like Sue Twombly, who struggled with mental health herself and wanted to make a difference.

She is the visionary behind Summit Mt. Washington — an event that began with just 11 hikers and has since grown into something that has brought hundreds together in support of mental health awareness, healing, hope, and community.

That kind of growth doesn’t just happen because of a beautiful summer hike.

It happens because people believe in the mission behind the climb.

I’ve been able to watch strangers become friends.

And friends become part of a community built around purpose.

Another part of this mission that deeply resonates with me is the focus on trail conservation.

Because when you really think about it, protecting these trails is about more than preserving land.

It’s about preserving places where people go to find healing.

Places where people can process grief.

Where anxiety quiets down for a little while.

And where people can reconnect with themselves, with others, and with purpose.

So many people heal and find clarity on these trails, including myself.

And that makes conserving these places incredibly important.

One year during Summit Mt. Washington, I met a family who had lost their son, brother, and boyfriend to suicide.

The kind of loss that changes people forever.

The kind of grief you do not simply “move on” from.

And yet, despite carrying that pain, they showed up.

They climbed, shared his story with us, and honored his memory through connection, community, and purpose.

That stayed with me.

Because moments like that remind you this is about so much more than a hike.

This is about people carrying heartbreak and hope at the same time.

It’s about refusing to let someone’s story end in silence.

And what made it even more meaningful was seeing how that experience continued beyond the mountain.

In the years that followed, their family went on to create their own annual nature-oriented event in his memory — creating space for people to gather, heal, remember, and connect outdoors together.

It became the kind of event that reflected the very heart of what HIKE for Mental Health is about.

And eventually, it became something my son and I would have the privilege of participating in ourselves when we joined them hiking Mt. Major in New Hampshire.

Honestly, I can’t think of a more powerful example of turning pain into purpose.

Of taking unimaginable loss and using it to help create hope and connection.

That’s the kind of impact this community can have on people.

And that’s part of why this mission means so much to me.

Over the years, I’ve watched this event grow tremendously. I’ve watched people hike carrying grief, trauma, anxiety, addiction, loss, and hope all at the same time.

And somehow, together, we keep climbing anyway.

That’s what makes this so meaningful to me.

The mountain has become symbolic of something bigger than itself.

Because life feels like that sometimes.

There are stretches where you question yourself.

Moments where you want to stop because the summit feels impossibly far away.

But then you keep moving. One step at a time.

And eventually, you realize you’re stronger than you thought you were.

That’s part of why I continue to hike annually for mental health research and trail conservation through HIKE for Mental Health.

Not because I think I can change the world alone.

But because I believe small acts matter.

Conversations matter.

Community matters.

Showing up matters.

Since I began participating in 2019, I’ve raised over $15,000 for the cause. And honestly, that number is hard for me to even process sometimes.

Not because of me — but because it represents something much bigger.

It represents every person who donated, shared my fundraiser, and encouraged me.

Every person who believes mental health deserves attention, compassion, research, resources, and hope.

It represents people coming together for something meaningful.

And in today’s world, I think we need more of that. A lot more of it.

HIKE for Mental Health has reminded me that purpose often lives at the intersection of personal pain and helping others.

It reminded me that healing is not always linear.

It reminded me that nature really can help people breathe and think clearly again.

And maybe most importantly, it reminded me that even when people are struggling silently, they are not alone.

One of the things I’m especially proud of over the last few years has been helping introduce a newer event alongside Summit Mt. Washington called Paint the Cog Orange.

The event gives family members, friends, supporters, and those unable to complete the full hike an opportunity to ride the Mount Washington Cog Railway to the summit in support of participants hiking for mental health awareness, research, and trail conservation.

What started as another way to spread awareness became something much more personal to me, as it also created an opportunity for my family to participate in a mission that means a great deal to me personally.

And honestly, that mattered more than I can fully explain.

Because when something impacts your life deeply, there’s something incredibly meaningful about being able to share it with the people you love most.

To watch your family become part of the experience, and create memories around a cause you genuinely believe in.

To stand together in support of mental health awareness, hope, and healing.

Those are moments I’ll always carry with me, forever.

Every August, when I step onto that trail toward Mount Washington, I carry all of that with me.

The gratitude.

The stories.

The mission.

The people.

The hope.

And as long as I’m able to climb, I’ll keep climbing for this cause.

Because this hike changed more than my summers.

In a lot of ways, it changed me.

—

To learn more about HIKE for Mental Health, support the mission, or explore upcoming events like Summit Mt. Washington and Paint the Cog Orange, locally here in New Hampshire, and around the country, visit iHike.org.

HIKE for Mental Health, a register 501c3, all volunteer organization helps raise awareness and funding for mental health research and trail conservation — protecting not only the people who need hope, but also the trails and outdoor spaces that help so many people heal.

Somewhere along the way, it became easier to forget people are people.

A profile picture, a comment thread, a stranger with a different opinion—a group we decide is easier to label than understand.

And once someone becomes just a screen—just a headline, just a category—it gets easier to say things we would never say if they were standing in front of us.

It gets easier to mock, dismiss, even dehumanize.

I remember one moment that really shook me.

Someone I knew—someone who knew me beyond a profile picture or comment section—said they wished harm on my family because of a difference in opinion.

Not disagreement, or criticism.

Harm.

What was said was so hateful, so disturbing, that I cannot even repeat it here. It is not suitable for print.

And honestly, it rocked me for a while.

Not just because of how cruel it felt, but because it forced me to realize how quickly people can lose sight of each other’s humanity.

Because behind the opinions and arguments are real people.

People who love and hurt and worry just like everyone else.

But we rarely stop to think about what it feels like on the other end of that screen.

The shame, humiliation, isolation, and anxiety of being publicly torn apart by people who do not even know you.

Some people carry those words longer than we realize.

And for someone already struggling, cruelty online is not always “just words.”

Sometimes it deepens depression, or reinforces hopelessness.

And sometimes it makes people feel like the world would be better without them in it.

We should take that seriously.

That’s dangerous.

Because dehumanization is almost always where cruelty begins.

When we stop seeing people as human beings—with stories, fears, families, pain, hopes, and dignity—we give ourselves permission to treat them like they matter less.

History has already shown us where that road leads.

Disagreement is not the problem.

We are allowed to disagree, or even challenge ideas.

And yes, we are allowed to hold convictions and stand firmly in them.

But disagreement should never require dehumanization.

You should not have to strip someone of their humanity in order to defend your beliefs.

And we should be very careful about excusing it when it happens to groups we personally dislike.

Because once we start deciding who deserves dignity and who doesn’t, we’ve already lost something important.

I want to be clear:

I never want anyone to feel unsafe, dehumanized, or harmed—emotionally or otherwise.

Whatever your background. Whoever you are.

That matters to me deeply.

Not because I agree with everyone, or every action should be excused.

But because human dignity should not be conditional.

We have forgotten our shared humanity, and have reduced each other to profile pictures.

We are living in a time where outrage travels faster than empathy.

It is easy to perform cruelty for applause.

Easy to mistake contempt for courage.

But strength is not found in how viciously we can tear people down.

It is found in how firmly we can hold truth without losing our humanity.

And whatever platform you have, use your voice for the good of people.

To lift people up. Not tear them down.

The world already has enough outrage.

Enough contempt.

Enough cruelty disguised as influence.

Maybe the real test of our character is not how we treat the people we agree with—but how we speak about the people we don’t.

I know what the summit feels like.

It’s incredible—the rush, the exhilaration, the clarity that comes with it. Like everything you pushed through was leading somewhere real, and you stop, take it in, and let it sink in for a second.

I’ve stood there before—above the trees, above the noise.

I’ve taken in that view. Felt that sense of this is what it was all for.

And more than anything—I remember what it felt like to trust myself.

Not perfectly. Not without doubt. But steady.

Like I knew what I was doing, and was capable of handling what was in front of me.
That I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was meant to do.

And that’s what makes the valley season harder

Because when you’re not there.

Everything feels heavy, slower. You have less clarity and more questions.

And you start overthinking more than you should.

Letting small things take up more space than they deserve.

That quiet undercurrent of anxiety that doesn’t always make sense—but is there anyway. And if I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that keeps looking up, thinking,“I was just there, how am I back here again?”

I saw this quote one time that stuck with me:

“Mountaintops inspire. Valleys mature.”

And while I know it’s true, it doesn’t make it any less easy.

Because if I’m being honest, I think we’d all rather be inspired than stretched.

I’d rather have clarity than questions.

Heck, I bet most of us would say we would even rather be heading up the mountain—knowing exactly when we will get there—than be stuck in the valley.

But the more I’ve sat with it, the more I think there’s something real in it. Because here’s the deal.

The valley has a way of rewriting the story if you let it.

It can convince you this is who you are now.

That the climb was temporary, but this—this is permanent.

That maybe this is just how it goes. That maybe you’ll always end up back here.

Well, I don’t believe that.

But I’d be lying if I said I’ve never thought it.

I’ve come to see failure differently.

Not as identity—but as experience, or as something that can be worked through.

Because there’s nothing you can’t come back from—even if it takes longer than you thought.

And maybe that’s part of what the valley is doing.

Slowing you down enough to see what’s actually going on. Forcing you to deal with the thoughts you could ignore when everything felt like it was clicking.

But there’s something else the valley offers, too—if you let it.

Remembrance.

Even from down here, you can still see the mountain.

Not clearly. Not perfectly. But enough to know it’s there.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Because you’re not just imagining a better place—you’ve experienced it.

You know what it feels like to think clearly.

To feel steady.

To be fully present in your life.

And remembering that—holding onto that—even in small ways… it does something.

It creates space.

It softens the edge of where you are, and reminds you that this moment isn’t permanent. That your current experience isn’t your only experience.

In a strange way, even looking at the mountain from the valley can be healing.

Not because it pulls you out immediately—but because it keeps you connected to what’s possible.

In life—and in the work I’m part of—you see this all the time.

People make real progress. They reach places they once thought were impossible.

And then life happens.

Stress returns. Old patterns show up. The mind gets loud again.

And the immediate reaction is, “Did I just undo everything?”

The answer is no.

You’re not starting over. You’re starting from experience.

The valley feels different when you’ve been to the summit.

Not easier—but different.

Because even on the hardest days, there’s something in you that knows:

This isn’t the only place I can live.

You’ve seen more.

You’ve felt more.

You’ve been further.

And that matters—even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.

So if you’re in a valley right now—and you know what the mountaintop feels like—don’t let that memory discourage you.

Let it remind you.

You’ve made the climb before, and you know what it takes.

And even if the path isn’t clear yet, you’re not as far from the summit as it feels.

You’re not lost. You’re just between summits.

We don’t need a bigger ballroom—we need bigger hearts for each other.

That phrase came to mind watching the response to yet another act of political violence—where the argument was made that events only justified the need for a bigger, more secure ballroom for events.

And while safety matters, that response largely missed the point.

Because the real issue was never the size of the room. Or the level of security it provides.

It was the hatred that tried to breach it—and if we’re honest, the hatred that already existed within it.

That’s the part we keep missing.

In moments of violence and hate, the answer isn’t marble, walls, or grander spaces. It calls for compassion, unity, and basic humanity.

Hatred doesn’t care about square footage.

It shows up in the rhetoric.
In the contempt.
In the way we cheer for humiliation instead of humility.
In the way we’ve normalized treating political opponents, or even our neighbors like enemies instead of fellow Americans.

The breach didn’t start at the doors.

It started long before that—in hearts hardened by division, in leaders who benefit from outrage, and in a culture that rewards anger more than understanding.

That’s why the answer can’t just be bigger walls.

The hatred we keep feeding does more to crack the walls of our country than any outsider ever could—because division from within weakens a nation faster than any threat from beyond it.

The answer has to be bigger hearts.

Hate will never win in America, and it’s time our leaders started leading like it.

To focus on anything less is to miss what this moment is truly asking of us.

Because if we’re honest, the root of so many of our problems isn’t policy—it’s how deeply we’ve learned to hate each other.

Somewhere along the way, disagreement became disdain. Differences became division. Opposition became dehumanization.

We stopped seeing people as neighbors and started seeing them as enemies.

And once that happens, everything gets worse.

But make no mistake— the issue isn’t one side or the other—and hypocrisy is hypocrisy whether you’re on the side of elephants or donkeys.

The bitter division that exists in our country permeates both sides.

And honestly, we’ve become more committed to defending teams than defending truth. More interested in scoring points than solving problems.

Too many leaders seem focused on preserving power instead of preserving people.

But politics is only the surface. The deeper issue is the climate underneath it.

Hatred.

The kind that shows up in how we talk to each other, how quickly we assume the worst, and then how easily we seems to write people off because of a vote, a belief, a mistake, or a label.

Hatred rarely arrives all at once. It grows in smaller places first—sarcasm disguised as wisdom, contempt disguised as conviction, silence when courage is needed, and the slow dehumanizing of people we no longer try to understand.

That’s how climates change.

Not overnight.
But gradually.
Conversation by conversation.

That quote matters because it reminds us of something we seem determined to forget—we belong to one another.

Our lives are connected. Our communities are connected. Our futures are connected.

When one side burns, everyone feels the smoke.

After moments of violence and hate, the conversation often shifts to symbols— stronger walls, louder statements, political posturing. But the truth is, we don’t heal a broken culture like that.

We heal it by changing how we treat each other.

America doesn’t have a space problem. It has a heart problem.

We have become too comfortable reducing people to labels. Too quick to assume motives. Too eager to turn disagreement into hatred. Somewhere between social media outrage, political tribalism, and the constant pressure to retreat to our sides, we forgot how to be neighbors.

And that forgetfulness is expensive.

It costs friendships.
It costs families.
It costs trust.
It costs peace.

But maybe there is silver lining. Maybe there is hope after all.

Because the reality is, if hatred is learned, maybe healing can be too.

Maybe restoring the climate in America doesn’t begin with politicians. Maybe it begins at dinner tables. In workplaces. In church pews. In school parking lots. In comment sections where people choose restraint instead of cruelty.

Maybe leadership starts long before elected office.

Maybe it starts when ordinary people decide they are done contributing to the noise.

Less outrage. More understanding.
Less performance. More principle.
Less hatred. More humanity.

This doesn’t mean we stop standing for truth. It doesn’t mean we excuse evil or ignore injustice. It means we stop pretending cruelty is courage and outrage is wisdom.

It means we remember that disagreement is not the same thing as dehumanization.

Hate will never heal hate.

Only people can do that.

And maybe what this moment is asking of us isn’t bigger ballrooms, stronger walls, or louder voices.

Maybe it’s asking for bigger hearts.

April 22nd.

The day my “stepdad”—who had already been my dad in every way that mattered—officially adopted my sister and me.

People hear the word adoption and often picture a young child, a courtroom, and the beginning of a new story.

But for me, adoption happened when I was 30 years old—23 years after our story began, when my mother married Ron.

By the time we sat before a judge, our story had already been lived.

The years. The memories. The lessons. The relationship.

I had already taken his last name as a teenager, so when my parents asked if I wanted to make it official through adoption, my answer was easy—yes.

It just made sense.

He was my dad.

He had taken me hiking, camping, and fishing. He introduced me to movies like Willy Wonka and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. He let me drink Kool-Aid and eat sugared cereal—just don’t tell my mother.

He introduced me to Black Mountain, a place that became special to me. We hiked those trails more than once—searching for quartz along the way, and later standing together high above, taking in the view.

Those were the moments that built the relationship. The everyday experiences that slowly turned a man who stepped into my life into my dad.

More than anything, he was willing to step in and become my father, even though I wasn’t born his son.

He chose to raise us, provide for us, teach us, support us, and love us.

He showed up—not once, not when it was convenient, but over and over again, in the steady and often unseen ways that define what a father really is.

He was there for the milestones and the messes, the wins and the failures, and the seasons where I probably made things harder than I needed to.

He stayed.

So by the time we sat in front of a judge, it didn’t feel like we were creating something new. It felt like we were simply acknowledging what had already been true for years.

The title had already been earned. The relationship had already been built. The love had already been proven.

The paperwork was simply catching up.

Still, sitting there mattered.

There was something powerful about both of us having the chance to choose it. Not because we had to, but because we wanted to.

A grown man sitting there saying, Yes, I want this. I want you in my life. I want this to be official.

And a father saying the same thing right back.

Yes, I choose you. Yes, you are my son.

That moment meant something.

Not because a document made us family, but because it gave words to something we had already been living for years.

In the eyes of God and our family, I had been his son long before that day. But hearing it spoken, making it legal, making it permanent—it mattered.

It reminded me that family is not just about where you come from.

Sometimes it’s about who stays.

Fatherhood was never about biology. Family wasn’t just blood. It was about presence, consistency, love, sacrifice, and choosing responsibility again and again.

On April 22nd, I sat before the judge that day and said yes—because he was already my dad.

The paperwork just made it official.

There’s something that keeps people from speaking up about their mental health.

It’s not always the symptoms. It’s not always the fear of the unknown.

More often than not—it’s stigma.

Not just the stigma society places on mental health—which is still very real and unfortunate—but the stigma we internalize.

I’ve shared parts of my story before, but the truth is, I struggled with my mental health—and I let that stigma keep me from getting help.

Growing up, I heard people say things like, “they’re just crazy,” “they must be off their meds,” or “someone needs a therapist.”

And none of it was said in a kind or understanding way.

So I started to believe it.

I bought into the idea that if I needed medication or a therapist, I’d be “one of the crazies.” That I’d be seen as broken. Less than. Not good enough.

And I wanted no part of that. So I stayed quiet.

For a long time, I tried to manage it on my own.

Push through it. Ignore it. Drown it out with hours of Netflix.

Convince myself I could fake it until I could make it.

But that’s the thing about mental health—you don’t just make it by pretending everything is fine.

And, because I didn’t deal with it. Because I let stigma win the battle of the mind.

It got worse.

And worse. And worse.

Until it didn’t feel manageable anymore.

Until the weight of it all caught up with me.

Until I hit a point where I felt completely lost, and the only thing left to do was finally ask for help.

That’s what stigma does.

It keeps you silent long enough for things to get worse than they ever needed to be.

Here’s the part I wish more people talked about:

Getting help didn’t make me weak. It didn’t confirm the fears I had about myself.

It did the opposite. It actually changed things.

Several years ago, I started taking medication for anxiety, and at different points along the my journey, I’ve sat down with a therapist.

And while I still have moments where I still wrestle with anxiety, it no longer consumes me. I no view navigating anxiety like riding a bicycle to the moon—impossible and out of reach.

Now try to imagine something different.

Imagine a world where people who struggle with mental health don’t feel like they have to hide.

Where they find connection instead of isolation. Honesty instead of silence.

Where people can talk openly about what they’re going through without fear of being judged or labeled.

Where conversations replace stigma.

Where healing isn’t something you have to do alone.

Where people access resources for mental health, in the same way they do for physical health. Without the fear of judgement. Without the fear of

That kind of world isn’t unrealistic. But it does require something from us.

It requires us to speak.

Because here’s the truth:

You cannot shame someone into better mental health.

You cannot humiliate someone into healing.

People who are struggling don’t need your judgment.

They need your understanding. Your patience. Your willingness to reach out instead of pull away.

They don’t need a pointed finger. They need an extended hand.

If you’re reading this and something feels familiar.

Don’t wait.

Don’t convince yourself it’s not that bad.

Don’t let stigma make the decision for you.

If you need help, ask for it. It takes courage to do that.

And whether you believe it right now or not—you have it in you.

Life is a dash.

That small line between two dates—that’s all we get.

We talk about life like it’s long. Like we have time.

But I’ve driven enough miles recently to know we don’t have as much time as we think.

I was reminded of this twice—on two recent road trips: one to Florida, the other to Minnesota. Both for goodbyes that came too soon.

The first time, I drove alone.

New Hampshire to Florida.

When you drive 20-something hours—1,500 miles from New Hampshire to Florida—there’s nowhere to hide from your thoughts.

I tried to break it up. Give myself distractions.
Short stops along the way—anything to make it feel like a normal road trip.

I remember catching the New York City skyline at night.

Lights everywhere. Buildings lit up like nothing ever stops there. Like life just keeps moving, no matter what.

For a few minutes, I let myself get lost in it.

It almost worked.

Then I made my way through Washington, D.C.

Past the Capitol building. The White House. The Washington Monument. The Jefferson Memorial.

All of it built to last. Built to carry meaning long after we’re gone.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped at the Battle of Bentonville Civil War site.

It wasn’t crowded. No noise. No rush.

Just open land, a few markers, and a kind of quiet that makes you pay attention whether you want to or not.

You stand there and realize—this ground holds the last moments of people who thought they had more time.

But even that didn’t change where I was going.

I was on my way to honor my friend Denton who had died in his early 40’s from cancer.

I kept thinking about the hikes we’d been on—time out on the trails where nothing felt rushed.

And the overnights at Valley Vista, sitting there listening to him talk through all the things he wanted to build, the ideas he had, the projects he was excited about.

Plans.

Real ones.

The kind you assume you’ll have time to get to.

And somewhere between the skyline at night, the monuments built for centuries, that quiet field in Bentonville… and those memories of Denton, it hit me:

We chase things that feel permanent while living lives that aren’t.

The second trip stripped away any illusion that the first one was a one-off.

New Hampshire to Minnesota.

This time with my friend John, which made the miles a bit easier.

And like before, we tried to make it a trip.

We stopped at Niagara Falls at night.

Water crashing in the dark, lit up in colors that almost didn’t feel real. Loud, constant, impossible to ignore. The kind of place that reminds you how small you are—in a good way.

For a moment, it felt like perspective.

We made our way through part of Canada before crossing back into Michigan—stopping in Frankenmuth, known as Michigan’s Little Bavaria.

We wandered through the world’s largest Christmas store, and then stopped at this little cheese shop— and if you know me, you know I love cheese. For a little while, it felt normal.

And then reality caught up again.

The night before the funeral, we drove into Wisconsin.

Ice storm.

Roads slick. Visibility low. Every mile slower than it should’ve been.

It got bad enough that we had to stop and find a hotel.

No distractions left. No scenery to take in. Just focus, tension, and the weight of where we were headed.

Because this trip wasn’t about the stops either.

It was about Jillian who in her late 30’s had also suddenly passed away.

I’d known her since we were kids—back in elementary school. We grew up together.

Snow Camp.
Youth group.
SoulFest.
Sundays at her family’s house playing cards.
Trips to P&H with the crew.

So many memories that just felt like they’d always be there.

Then as adults, we went on living—getting married, having kids, building lives we assumed would keep going.

The kind of history you don’t question.

The kind you assume keeps going.

We don’t have the time we think we do.

We act like life is a long runway. It’s not.

It’s moments. Short ones. Unpredictable ones.

And they don’t wait for you to be ready.

“Life is a dash” sounds simple. Maybe even a cliche’

Until you’ve spent hours on the road, heading somewhere you wish you didn’t have to go.

I’d give anything to not have made those trips.

But I did. And now I don’t see time the same way.

Not in a dramatic, “live every day like it’s your last” kind of way.

Just—more honest.

More aware that the dash isn’t something you stretch.

It’s something you use.

The photos coming back from Artemis II are hard to put into words—they make you pause.

Especially this one.

Earth—vast and beautiful, held together in the dark. Everything we are, everything we know, all in one place. It makes you realize how different things look when you step back—when you zoom out.

It’s hard to look at something like that and not feel it shift something in you. Not because it makes life smaller—but because it gives you a different perspective on it.

And it got me thinking about how different life looks depending on how close you are to it.

There have been seasons in my life where my world got small—not physically, but mentally.

I know I have shared this before, but there was a time when anxiety had a grip on me that I couldn’t explain to anyone who hadn’t felt it.

It wasn’t just stress. It was constant. Loud. At times completely overwhelming.

There were days where even leaving the house felt like too much.

My world shrank to whatever was right in front of me—my thoughts, my fears, the weight I couldn’t seem to shake. And when your world gets that small, everything inside of it feels massive.

Everything feels urgent.
Everything feels heavy.
Everything feels like it’s all there is.

But that’s not always reality.

It’s perspective.

Zooming out doesn’t make your problems go away. But it does give you clarity. It helps you see what you couldn’t see when everything was right in front of you—when your view was narrowed and your world felt small.

Sometimes the problem isn’t that everything in your life is falling apart. Sometimes it’s that you’ve lost the ability to see beyond what’s right in front of you.

Or even see what’s around you. Friends, family, resources you may be able to access.

And when that happens, it’s easy to believe that how things feel in the moment is how they are—everywhere, all the time. That there’s no space beyond it, no relief, no way out.

I’ve felt the shift before, though—not in space, but out on a trail.

Miles in, away from the noise, something changes. The constant loop in your head starts to quiet. The urgency fades just enough to breathe again. Things that felt overwhelming don’t necessarily disappear—but they settle.

Not because your life suddenly fixed itself, but because your view of it did.

You don’t need to leave the planet to zoom out. But sometimes you do need to step away long enough to see clearly again.

That might look like getting outside, going for a walk, stepping away for a bit, or reaching out to someone you trust—just giving yourself some space from the noise.

It’s not a cure. It’s not a fix. But it creates space.

And sometimes, space is the difference between feeling trapped and realizing you’re not.

When your world gets small, it’s easy to believe that’s all there is.

It’s not.

Sometimes you just need a little distance to remember that.

It doesn’t take much anymore.

A comment. A question. A different opinion.

And suddenly, what could have been a conversation turns into something else entirely—defensive, reactive, tense. Like both sides are bracing for impact instead of trying to understand.

We don’t just talk anymore.

We take positions.

We back into our corners.

And then defend it all costs.

And if we’re being honest, a lot of the time we’re not even listening—we’re just waiting for our turn to respond.

That’s often how we, as everyday individuals, interact with people we disagree with.

Sometimes it’s face to face, but often times it’s behind a screen. Lobbing insults. Assigning ill intent. Letting things ramp up and boil over the second we see something that challenges what we believe—whether it’s politics, religion, or something else entirely.

And if we’re being honest, we’ve all been pulled into it at some point.

But this can’t be how we conduct ourselves—especially if we actually want conversations instead of battles.

I’ve been thinking about this more lately—not just because I see it everywhere, but because I’ve felt it closer to home.

There have been times where even talking about politics—or sometimes religion—with my wife has been a challenge. And this is someone I love with everything I have.

Not because there’s a lack of respect.

Not because either of us is trying to win.

But because we see some things differently.

And when everything around you is telling you that differences are threats—it doesn’t take much for a conversation to feel like a battle.

That’s what gets me.

Because if it can happen in a strong, loving relationship, it can happen anywhere.

And it is happening everywhere.

The truth is, the level of divisiveness we’re living in right now is toxic.

And I don’t think we can keep waiting on leaders, institutions, or anyone else to fix the tone of the conversation for us.

If it’s going to change, it starts with us.

With how we show up.

With how we respond.

With whether or not we’re willing to treat someone with respect—even when the gap between what we believe and what they believe feels wide.

That means actually listening—not to respond, but to understand where someone is coming from, and why they believe what they believe.

And even if we still walk away disagreeing, it shouldn’t turn into name-calling, assumptions, or tearing each other down over differences in opinion or perceived intent.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped seeing disagreement as something to work through—and started seeing it as something to win.

We’ve been trained to think in sides.

You’re either with me or against me.

You believe what I believe, or you’re the problem.

But life isn’t that clean.

There’s more gray in it than we like to admit.

Most people aren’t all one thing.

Most issues aren’t that simple.

And most of us have changed our minds at some point—not because we were weak, but because we were willing to listen.

That only happens through conversation.

Real conversation.

The kind where you’re not just waiting to speak—but actually trying to understand.

The kind where you can say, “I see it differently,” without it turning into, “You’re wrong.”

The kind where disagreement doesn’t automatically mean division.

I’m still working on this.

Choosing to stay in the conversation instead of shutting it down.

Choosing to listen a little longer than feels comfortable.

Choosing not to react as quickly as I want to.

Not because it’s easy—but because it matters.

Because at the end of the day, I don’t want a life—or a marriage—where the only conversations I can have are with someone who agrees with me on everything.

And I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

As we enter what Christianity refers to as Holy Week, I can’t help but reflect on the tension I’ve had over the last few years with the faith I grew up in.

This week is meant to center everything—the life, sacrifice, and heart behind faith in Jesus Christ. And yet, the disconnect feels clearer than ever.

Because when I look at the stories this week points to, I don’t see power used to control people—I see it laid down. I don’t see someone elevating Himself above others—I see someone stepping fully into the mess of humanity.

Even in what’s called His triumphant entry, He comes in on a donkey—not as a symbol of status, but of humility.

I see someone who flipped tables when the place of worship was being distorted and turned into something it was never meant to be.

I see someone who knelt down and washed feet.

And I know this isn’t true everywhere, or of everyone. But I’ve seen enough in the broader Christian culture to know the tension is real.

Because at times, what feels loudest doesn’t feel most faithful.

More about being right than being compassionate.
More about image than integrity.
More about drawing lines than building bridges.

And if I’m being honest, that’s confusing.

Because when I read the Bible, I don’t see a faith that leads with arrogance. I don’t see a life built on tearing people down. I don’t see someone avoiding the messy, complicated parts of people’s lives.

I see something different.

I see patience.
I see sacrifice.
I see a willingness to sit with people who are struggling.

I see a faith that moves toward people, not away from them.

If I’ve understood anything about faith, it’s this: the highest call of a Christian isn’t to be right. It’s to love.

Not in a surface-level, easy kind of way.
But in a way that moves toward people.
In a way that makes room for them.
In a way that sees them as more than whatever they’re going through.

And I don’t think that was ever meant to be complicated.

But somewhere along the way, it became something else.

Because I’ve seen how quickly people can be criticized, labeled, or pushed aside when they’re the ones struggling—as if their situation says something about their worth, and as if distance is somehow more justified than compassion.

That’s where the tension really sets in for me.

Because I don’t see that in the life I’m trying to follow.

The more I’ve wrestled with it, the more I’ve noticed something harder to ignore: at times, it feels like faith has been shaped into something narrower than it was ever meant to be.

As if there’s only one way to believe.
One way to think.
One way to belong.

And if you don’t fit neatly into that, you’re somehow outside of it.

I’ve seen faith tied tightly to identity, ideology, and things that feel more about control than conviction.

I’ve wrestled with how often faith seems to be used to push an agenda, rather than inform one.

There’s a difference.

One starts with conviction—something internal, something lived out—and shapes how you move through the world.

The other starts with a position, and then reaches for faith to justify it.

And over time, that shift matters more than we think.

Because when faith becomes a tool to advance something else—political, cultural, or personal—it can slowly stop looking like faith at all.

It starts to sound louder, feel more rigid, and leave less room for humility.

And if I’m being honest, this is the tension I keep coming back to:

I can get behind Jesus.
I just can’t always get behind some of His followers.

Not because I think I’m better.
But because I’ve seen how easy it is for something meaningful to become something else entirely.

There’s a part of me that understands why people walk away.

If what you see doesn’t match what you’ve been told, it starts to feel like the whole thing might not be real.

And if I’m honest, I’ve had moments where I’ve questioned it too.

Not in a dramatic, walk-away-from-everything kind of way, but in a quiet, internal way—the kind where you start sorting through what you actually believe versus what you’ve simply absorbed over time.

Because there’s a difference.

And I think more people are starting to feel that difference.

The more I’ve wrestled with it, the more I’ve realized something I can’t ignore:

What people do in the name of faith is not always the same as faith itself.

That doesn’t excuse the harm.
And it doesn’t make the disconnect any less real.

But it does matter.

Because if I base my understanding of faith solely on how I see it represented by people, I’ll miss what it actually is at its core.

And when I strip everything else away—the noise, the opinions, the arguments—I keep coming back to something simple:

I’m not interested in a version of faith that loses its humanity.

And I’m not ready to walk away from something that, at its best, calls people to something better.

So for now, this is where I’m choosing to stand—

Not in having all the answers.
Not in trying to fix everything.
But in trying to live out the parts of faith that I still believe are true.

Quietly.
Consistently.
And as honestly as I can.

If you’ve felt this tension too—like what you’re seeing doesn’t match what you thought faith was supposed to be—you’re not alone.

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There was a time when everything felt heavy.

After my divorce, life didn’t just change—it felt like it lost its footing. The routines were different. The silence was louder. And I was learning how to navigate life as a single dad to a very funny, very energetic 4-year-old. In between all of that, my mind had a way of filling any quiet space with everything I didn’t want to think about.

That’s when I started getting outside more.

It actually started with an invitation.

A friend of mine asked if I wanted to hike Cannon Mountain over Memorial Day weekend.

At the time, it felt like a stretch. I wasn’t in shape. Mentally, I was still trying to find my figure it all out. And the idea of getting out there, even for one hike, felt like more than I had in me.

But I said yes.

Not because I was confident. Not because I had it all figured out. But because I needed something to move toward.

So we started.

And that first hike was tough.

Not just physically—though it was that too—but mentally. Every part of me wanted to turn around. I questioned why I said yes in the first place.

But we kept going.

One hike turned into another. One trail into the next.

There were hikes where I questioned why I even agreed to it—long days, steep climbs, legs burning, mind pushing back.

And then there was Mount Adams… which is a story for another time.

Somewhere along the way, it became more than just getting outside.

It started to change me.

The noise in my head got quieter.
The weight I was carrying felt lighter.
And for stretches of time, I wasn’t stuck in the past or worrying about the future—I was just there.

Out on a trail, things have a way of putting life back into perspective.

You realize not everything needs to be solved right now.
You remember that forward movement—even slow, uneven, uphill movement—is still movement.
You start to believe, even just a little, that you’re going to be okay.

Hiking didn’t and won’t fix everything.

It didn’t erase what happened. It didn’t magically solve the hard parts of life. And it’s not a cure-all for what people carry.

There was a time, a few years later, when anxiety got so intense it was difficult to even go outside.

That part matters too.

Because healing isn’t a straight line. Just because something helps doesn’t mean you won’t have seasons where it feels hard again—where even the things that once grounded you feel out of reach.

But even then, I knew what was waiting for me on the other side of that.

It gave me space when I needed it most.
It gave me a reset when my mind wouldn’t slow down.
It reminded me that I was still capable of moving forward—even when it didn’t feel like it.

And over time, those small steps added up to something bigger.

These days, getting outside isn’t just something I do when things are hard—it’s something I come back to because it keeps me grounded. It helps me think clearer. It brings me back to what actually matters.

If you’re in a season where things feel heavy, you don’t need a perfect plan.

Just start where you are.

Get outside.
Take a walk.
Find a trail.

You don’t have to go far.

You just have to go.

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Sometimes it feels like our thoughts are in an all-out sprint—racing, stacking, and moving faster than we can process. And no matter how hard we try, we can’t catch up, let alone keep pace.

I remember a few years ago when I started experiencing physical symptoms that didn’t make much sense. My body felt off. My head felt heavy. My bones ached. I went to the doctor expecting something concrete—something they could point to and fix.

But they initially couldn’t find anything specific that was causing it. No clear answer. No obvious issue. So they attributed it to anxiety.

And I bought it—hook, line, and sinker.

And that’s when my mind really took off.

I started thinking about every symptom. Noticing everything. Questioning everything. I can’t tell you how many times I used my Apple Watch to check my heart rate.

And the more I thought about it, the worse it felt. The worse it felt, the more I thought about it. It became a loop—my thoughts feeding the anxiety, and the anxiety fueling even more thoughts.

It felt like something I couldn’t get ahead of.

And if I’m being honest, that feeling still shows up sometimes.

Even last night, I found myself getting anxious about something small that quickly didn’t feel small at all. For about 30 minutes, my mind would not stop. I kept spinning it over and over, trying to think my way out of it—but I couldn’t. The harder I tried, the faster it seemed to go.

Eventually, I stopped trying to outrun it.

I took a shower. Slowed things down. Focused on my breathing. Nothing dramatic—just simple things to give myself a little space.

And little by little, it passed.

In those moments, it’s easy to become discouraged. We can’t see where it ends. We don’t know how long it will last. And the more we try to control it, the more it feels like we’re falling behind. So we strain, we push, and we try to hold on to something—anything—that might slow it all down.

But there’s something worth remembering: even a runner can’t sprint forever. At some point, the body forces a slowdown—not because the runner failed, but because that pace was never meant to be sustained.

The same is true for our thoughts.

It may not feel like it in the moment, but they will slow down. The surge will pass. The noise will settle. And when it does, we finally have the space to catch up.

And sometimes, it takes something simple to help you get there. A shower. A walk. A few deep breaths. Not because it fixes everything—but because it gives your mind just enough space to begin slowing down.

That’s when clarity begins to return. Not all at once, not perfectly, but enough to take the next step forward.

So if your mind feels like it’s running ahead of you right now, don’t panic. You’re not broken. You’re not losing control. You’re just in the middle of the sprint.

And the sprint never lasts forever.

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