Last week, the missed deadline was unintentional, but justified. Since I last wrote to you, my condition took a nosedive.

On Friday 8/21 the overall body aches and pain I had been experiencing concentrated in my lower back and abdomen. The pain rivaled some of the worst I had experienced during my worst UC flares. My wife drove me to urgent care and I ended up spending the night heavily medicated - morphine and Toradol.

The urgent care team was baffled. Up until that day I had already gone through a myriad of tests, including bloodwork, 3 CT scans, 2 ultrasounds and various x-rays. They knew something was wrong because that night my fever spiked to 102.4 and my bloodwork was all over the place; my body was fighting something. What that “something” was just kept eluding them. With no cause in mind they reached out to a GI specialist who recommended I do an MRI to check my gallbladder, pancreas and liver. That, unfortunately, had to be done at Virginia Hospital Center (VHC) in Arlington. So, shortly before noon I was loaded into an ambulance for the trip to VHC.

Once at VHC I was started on IV fluids and rounds of antibiotics (piperacillin-tazobactam); I was put in the queue for the MRI and all that was left was for me to wait my turn in the tube. My turn came early Sunday morning.

This was my first MRI and I left the area hoping I’d never have to do this again. I was in the tube for nearly 40 minutes and the experience only exacerbated my condition.

The MRI, like all other tests, showed nothing, but the pain pattern continued. I’d feel “mostly” well during the day, then sometime around 6-7 pm the chills would start. Then came the lower back pain and abdominal pain. My temperature would also rise. Each night it hovered around 101 - the worst spike was 103.4. Toradol and morphine helped - although the morphine had some adverse effects and I asked for something different.

Given the pain pattern, starting in my lower back and working its way to my abdomen, my Drs. recommended two more MRIs - joy... I would be visiting the “tube” again later Monday night. This time around I was in the machine for an hour and 20 minutes. Quite possibly one of the most unpleasant experiences I’ve had to endure. As I write this, the spine/back MRI came back normal. Mystery continues. The results of the hip scan came later and showed I had minor muscular inflammation, however, no “source” to target.

I finally made it out of the hospital late on 8/30, nine days after all of this began. Drs. are still waiting on a handful of results, but given that the antibiotic cocktail they placed me on seemed to be working, and I’d shown no signs of fever in roughly 72 hours, they decided I could leave. I’m into day eleven of this ordeal and still no answers; this hospital stay rivaled my surgery visit of May 2025; at least then, the path to recovery was clear, today, even though I’m resting at home (still in some pain) I still have no idea where this is taking me...

Two weeks ago I wrote about not spiraling into despair so easily. I have to be honest that this ordeal is testing my limits. I’m trying to remain positive that my Drs. will find what is causing all this so I can put the experience behind me and move on, but remaining positive is increasingly difficult when the answers are so well hidden - and when your Dr. says “We may never know what hit you…”

Returning home was a godsend. Sleeping in my own bed felt great, and the rhythm of nurses, techs and lab personnel coming into my room constantly left no room for real rest. The hospital bed was also horrendous. I have no doubt that the shitty mattress gradually made things worse - point for the follow up survey. Being home has helped lift my spirits.

Yesterday also marked the end of a chapter in my life and I’m now officially retired. That threshold crossing, along with my hospital stay has reminded me of two things we deeply undervalue as a society. After 22 years of Federal service, 18 of them with the Department of Defense Education Activity, we still don’t treat teachers with the respect they deserve. And these past 9 days at VHC have shown me again how valuable nurses are to us. Their empathy, kindness, patience, and gentle treatment made some of my worst moments bearable.

I’m now just looking ahead hoping that whatever is inside my body vacates as soon as possible so I can get back to the things I love doing. I still have a handful of tests pending, and hopefully during my upcoming follow up I can get more answers; wish me luck…

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

I postponed my post because of that.

My Dr. thinks the hydrocele is not severe enough to warrant a procedure [yet] and is confident the steroids will help reduce the swelling. He’s also recommended I stay off the bike until I taper off the prednisone to make sure I don’t exacerbate the condition. It’s ironic that prior to, after, and as I recovered from a total proctocolectomy this may be the issue that keeps me off the bike (temporarily). Beyond that, it appears that all of the discomfort, pain, fever and all-around hell I’ve been going through the last few days may actually be COVID — now I’m just waiting for those results to come in.

The last week has been trying - between the hydrocele and the potential COVID I have felt horrible. Sunday and Monday I had some pretty severe body aches and a fever that spiked to 101°. All of this on the day before my 60th birthday. For the first time ever, I actually felt old. That feeling sent me back sixteen months and reminded me how I felt during some of the worst days when I was suffering from UC and my worst flares.

Nothing compared to the pain I went through back then, and I would not trade where I am today for where I was back then, but the sudden “setback” over the last week, coupled with the “milestone” birthday not only messed with me physically but also mentally.

For the first time in a long time my thoughts turned negative and I slumped into a couple of days of utter self-pity. Once again my wife pulled me back into reality. She helped me surface from the quagmire and reminded me that no matter what, there will always be some bumps in the trail and that I should not slip into despair so easily.

I guess that what I’m trying to convey, to anyone that is going through anything similar to what I am, is that challenges will surface regardless of your condition. Shoot, even healthy people with no history of chronic illness or recovering from major surgery will face moments of trial. We’re all human and bound to let our emotions overwhelm us on occasion. I guess that’s ok, but ultimately we can’t let them rule us.

Years ago I had to read Voltaire’s Candide for a literature class. I recently picked it up again and was reminded of one of its core messages - tend to your garden - simply because there is a garden to tend to. I know that I may need to lay off the bike for a short period of time, but I can still tend to “my garden.” I still can do small, physical and useful things in front of me while I figure out what my body needs. These “setbacks” are simply the shadows in a beautiful painting that help highlight all the vibrant colors within it.

It helps to have someone ground you - help you cultivate the good things around you. For me, it’s my wife. If you are alone and facing similar tribulations I hope that this post helps remind you that no matter what, deep inside you too can set aside your fears and feelings of despair and also work on cultivating the positive things around you.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

I’ve gone on a couple more rides after that one - neither as technical nor as demanding as the outing to Rolling Ridge. Somewhere along the way, the groin discomfort I had been experiencing over the past few weeks turned to groin pain. The discomfort was never severe enough to stop me from doing what I was doing, but then, a few days after that ride, it became unbearable. I ended up in urgent care.

At first I assumed it was connected to my peristomal hernia. It wasn’t. The urgent care team ordered a CT scan and blood tests to confirm - once again the UC rhythm of tests and blood work I used to experience in the past came to bear. Thankfully everything came back normal, which baffled me because the pain was still persistent. My wife and I also questioned why the urgent care doctors would repeat an abdominal CT scan (I had one a few weeks ago) and not focus on my pelvic/groin area, but we trusted the Dr.’s course of action.

Regardless, I booked an immediate follow up with my regular physician for him to assess my situation.

My regular Dr. reviewed everything the urgent care team had done and asked the same obvious question my wife and I did: why didn’t they check the area where I said it hurt? Given that, he ordered a pelvic X-ray to rule out any bone injury (that turned up some evidence of old, residual injuries) and an ultrasound, which I had done late last week. Right now, I’m just waiting for the ultrasound results.

His working theory: since my total proctocolectomy — colon and rectum removed, anus sealed shut — there’s simply more room in there now for my remaining organs to shift and settle. He suspects part of my small intestine has migrated down into my groin and created an inguinal hernia. If that’s confirmed, surgery is likely the fix — something I’m not exactly looking forward to. If it’s something else, we’ll deal with that as necessary. Either way, I remain anxious to find out why this persistent pain and discomfort decided to come along for the ride.

In the meantime, I’m still trying to get out and stay active - sitting at home is simply not in my nature. I’m actually drafting this entry with voice-to-text while walking the dog on our regular mile-and-a-half loop. I’ve still managed a few rides here and there, and I’ve been staying busy — working on my journal app, which I’ll be releasing soon, overseeing a concrete pad build for equipment at the local trail I manage, doing some client work, and getting ready to help design a new trail corridor in Loudoun County with my local trail builder.

I remain positive. I’m hoping it’s nothing serious, and that this too shall pass. On the eve of my 60th birthday, coming up on the 18th, optimism is really all I can offer myself about what’s ahead.

One more thing worth adding: since the surgery, there’s been a steady stream of side effects and adjustments I didn’t anticipate — most of it for the better. The surgery gave me my life back, just a different version of it than before.

I’m still learning what I can and can’t do, still finding the limits of what my body will allow, specifically because of how it’s changed. I suspect what I’m dealing with right now is exactly the impatience I wrote about shortly after I began my recovery — pushing to lift things, to work trails, to do what I used to do, like I used to do it, before fully accounting for what’s actually changed.

There's a lot of adjustment I've had to make, and still have to make, to keep things like this from happening again. That's the real point. The learning hasn't really stopped, and I suspect that new lessons will continue to come up as time progresses and I continue to live with a permanent ostomy.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

Until now, I really had not considered how the surgery would affect my actual riding. The first inkling of how it did came last week during a benign 35 mile road ride — the first time I had been on the road bike since the surgery. Until then I had been on numerous mountain bike rides at local trails, several gravel spins, including a multi day trip along the C&O Canal and some short spins along the bike paths around my neighborhood.

The extended road ride gave me a little pause. It had been so long since I hit the road that trading dirt for pavement made me a little nervous. I rode as I usually did, but was way more mindful of traffic than I usually am — despite it being minimal. As the miles rolled by my confidence grew and I finished strong along a dedicated bike path close to home.

On the “dirt” side things have been much easier, albeit, I’ve been riding the same handful of trails over and over, so the familiarity with the ribbons of singletrack has never been an issue. I know where the pesky roots are — where that punchy climb will rear its head, and where I can push the limits a little further than usual. Confidence on the mountain bike had never been an issue. I’ve ridden a ton of trails along the Mid-Atlantic while I documented them for one of my books, and traveled to distant places to experience new trails without trepidation.

This past weekend things were different. For the first time in the last couple of years I ventured to a regional location I had never ridden before. I was surprised when my buddy invited me for a ride and brought up Rolling Ridge. I suspect I never visited this place because it may have been closed to bikes in the past, and until a few days ago it had never entered my radar. Once I knew the location, one of the first things I asked my friend was “is there tech? Lots of rock gardens?” He answered in the affirmative. That’s when the angst crept in.

I’ve ridden my share of technical trails across the Old Dominion into West Virginia, Colorado and even in the Andes of Perú. But I have not rolled a “really” technical trail since way before my surgery. For some reason I started trying to get out of it. I kept throwing excuses at my buddy: “It’s too far away…” “I need to be home by 1.” Finally I did fess up and told him that I was hesitant to ride tech. He assured me I would love the trail. Still, as Saturday neared the angst kept creeping in, and by the time I met him at the trailhead all I wanted was to jump back in the car and drive back home.

But I also kept telling myself “you have to do it…” That wasn’t enough. I was already in the wrong mindset once we set out. By regional tech standards, Rolling Ridge is not high up there, but there were enough rock gardens and technical sections that are tough enough to intimidate any rider. And that they did. I rolled up to the first already defeated. I kept telling myself “you’ve ridden harder stuff than this” but nonetheless the trail had already beaten me.

I rode roughly 30% of the technical sections, and every time I stepped off the bike to walk them, I hung my head in shame. I told myself I was just being “uber” safe. You don’t want to hurt your stoma. You’re 60 years old — a brittle old man… My confidence was simply nowhere near where it had been a year or two before the surgery.

I’m sure some of it is age. But if I’m being honest, I don’t think Rolling Ridge beat me because I’m just a few years older. I was beaten way before I ever hit the first rock garden. Beaten in the days leading up to the ride by all of the excuse-making and second-guessing leading up to the ride.

That’s not aging. That’s the residue of fifteen months spent protecting a body that needed protecting, now showing up as hesitation in situations that no longer call for it. Until recently my fixation was “will I be able to ride,” but not “will I be able to ride with the same confidence I used to ride.”

That confidence has definitely taken a hit, but I feel I can reel it back in and channel it back — not only into my riding, but into the challenges I’ll face once I’m officially retired and start riding new trails, places that were never on my radar before…

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

Back then, my surgeon and my doctors all said some version of the same thing: it will take time, but things will fall into place. I believed them, mostly. I told myself I believed them completely. But there was a voice in the back of my head that didn’t buy it. That little guy on your shoulder that’s slightly quieter than doubt, more like a low hum of dread that showed up whenever the house went quiet. I never argued with my doctors; I just listened intently, waited, and crossed my fingers they were right.

If the last couple of weeks have proved anything, it’s that they were spot on — my remarkably unremarkable day-to-day, even with retirement bearing down on me, is proof of that.

If I could go back, I wouldn’t try to talk that voice out of existence — in some ways it helped me glide through some of the toughest experiences I ever dealt with. Instead, I’d send it a letter back in time and just tell it what actually happened.

You’ll be riding three, four times a week, sometimes more. Your bag changes will become routine enough that you stop thinking of them as medical events. The stoma irritation you’re bracing for mostly won’t come. Everything they’re telling you right now — the thing you’re nodding along to while privately doubting — is going to turn out to be true.

I don’t think the doubt was a failure on my part. I think it might have been necessary. I was positive enough to keep moving forward, and skeptical enough to prepare for something harder than what I got. Looking back, I’m not sure the version of me without any doubt at all would have pushed as hard through the parts that actually were hard.

I’d tell myself to lean into my support system. Trust those around you: your spouse, your friends. Share how you feel — sometimes the biggest lift will come when you least expect it, and the doubt will fade into the background. I’d tell myself to brace myself. The first few weeks and months after surgery will be hard, and that voice will turn into a scream. Don’t give in or listen to it. Stay the course, because before you know it, you’ll be writing this letter to yourself.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to take that kind of advice on faith. I distinctly remember the day I arrived in the United States to start a new life. I was 17, fresh out of high school and ready for a new adventure. My brother picked me up from the airport and said something to me I’ll never forget: “Take advantage of every opportunity — before you know it, ten years will have gone by.” Indeed. That was a little over four decades ago. It feels like yesterday.

This surgery, this new life, has given me another chance — I’d tell myself that. Last week I wrote that there’s something remarkably comforting about an unremarkable day. That’s not a throwaway line. It’s the whole point. So I’d tell my 15-month-younger self: Carpe diem. This surgery is an opportunity to start again. Seize it, and put your doubts aside.

Everything will be alright. Everything will fall into place. You’ll become a better version of you before you know it.

Fortunately, it did.

The correct supplies were waiting for me at home, enough to last the next ninety days, and within a couple of days I had settled back into a routine. I picked up some freelance work from a former client, began preparing for a new project, and started easing into what I hope retirement will eventually look like.

For the first time in a long time, my days haven’t revolved around doctor’s appointments, medication, surgery, or recovery.

Instead, they’ve been... ordinary.

I’ve been taking advantage of my flexible schedule by riding in the mornings before the Mid-Atlantic heat becomes unbearable, then spending the afternoons writing, meeting with clients, or working on projects that I’ve wanted to pursue for years.

It’s remarkable to me that the biggest change in my life is no longer recovering from surgery or adapting to life with an ileostomy.

It’s that life has quietly become... unremarkable.

I’m technically still on vacation. My official retirement won’t arrive until the end of August, but these weeks have become something of a dress rehearsal for the next chapter. Before joining the federal government, I spent years working for myself, so returning to freelance work feels surprisingly familiar.

The goal isn’t to stay busy for the sake of staying busy.

It’s to build a life that gives me enough flexibility to keep riding, writing, volunteering, traveling, and pursuing the projects that matter most, while still earning enough to pay the mortgage.

Courtney and I are both fortunate in that we’re entering this next phase with ideas we’ve wanted to pursue for years. Having the time - and now the opportunity - to finally work on them feels like a gift.

The rest of my days have been filled with rides, trail work, journaling, and the kinds of small, unplanned moments that once seemed much harder to fit into my schedule. Even chance encounters with unexpected trail users - like stopping to let a small gaggle of determined geese have the right of way.

There are still reminders that life is different.

The summer heat means I change my bag more frequently than I do during cooler months, and I continue learning little things about living with an ileostomy that I never anticipated.

But those have become routine adjustments rather than obstacles.

Fifteen months ago, fatigue dictated my schedule. Exhaustion followed me almost everywhere. Even leaving the house required planning around my UC.

Today, my biggest challenge is deciding whether to ride before breakfast or after.

I’ll take that trade any day.

I think that’s what strikes me most about this moment.

Recovery no longer feels like the focus of my life.

It’s become the foundation for everything that’s coming next.

Perhaps that’s what recovery was supposed to become all along - not something I think about every day, but something that quietly allows me to live the life I wanted to get back to.

There’s something remarkably comforting about an unremarkable day.

And after everything that came before it, I hope to have many more of them.

Carpe diem.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

As I mentioned in my last post, I was preparing for a trip to the West Coast while simultaneously stressing over my ostomy supplies.

As I write this, I’m somewhere over the Midwest, sitting in seat 23C on my flight back to the East Coast after spending nine days exploring the Sacramento area and a few days in Ashland, Oregon, where I managed to squeeze in an unforgettable ride on the trails of Mount Ashland.

When I left Virginia, I only had enough of my preferred 30 mm Hollister bags for two changes. After that, I would have to rely on an older 35 mm appliance that I hadn’t used in well over a year.

Knowing those bags left a small gap around my stoma, I packed enough supplies for at least five changes. I never expected to need that many, but if there’s one thing living with UC - and life after surgery - has taught me, it’s that being prepared is essential.

Unfortunately, I did have to use one of the larger bags.

Just as I feared, that extra space around the opening irritated the skin around my stoma. By the end of the trip I was nursing some pretty uncomfortable irritation and looking forward to nothing more than getting home, changing the appliance, and giving my skin a chance to recover.

Fourteen months after surgery, this is the first real setback I’ve had since those early weeks of recovery.

Ironically, it had nothing to do with the surgery itself. It had everything to do with having the right supplies.

Despite all of that, I’m still in a much better place than I was a year ago.

The highlight of the trip was an incredible day riding the trails on Mount Ashland - something I almost certainly wouldn’t have been physically capable of doing during one of my UC flares.

If you’re interested, I documented the ride over in my cycling journal, Westbound: Ashland, where I shared the photos, route, and everything that made the day so memorable.

Update

By the time you’re reading this, I’m back home.

The first thing I did was jump into a warm shower, start treating the irritated skin, and replace the bag. A little crusting has already made a noticeable difference, and I’m confident things will settle down quickly.

Even better, my supplier finally came through.

A box containing all of my correct supplies was waiting for me when I got home, enough to keep me stocked for the next ninety days.

Needless to say, it was a welcome sight.

This trip reinforced a lesson I’ve written about more than once over the past year.

Preparation matters.

Living with an ileostomy doesn’t mean I can’t travel, ride my bikes, or chase new adventures.

It simply means I have to plan a little more carefully before I leave home.

That’s a lesson I’ll carry into every trip from here on out.

My goal isn’t simply to be prepared. It’s to be prepared well enough that I can stop thinking about supplies and get back to thinking about the ride.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

Last week I joked about having to “re-authorize” my ostomy bags. My insurance company eventually approved them, but unfortunately they authorized the wrong bags; the ones I haven’t used in well over a year.

To make matters worse, my supplier didn’t just send my normal 30-day order. They shipped the entire authorization: one year worth of bags and a box of adhesive extenders I’ll never use.

Thankfully, I was able to return the shipment, but I’m still waiting for my insurance company to authorize the correct supplies.

My stress level has been a little higher than I’d like because, as I write this, I’m preparing to head out of town for nearly two weeks.

I only have two of my preferred bags left, which means I’ll have to rely on a couple of older bags I’ve intentionally avoided using for more than a year.

The bags, however, aren’t even my biggest concern.

I’m almost completely out of my no-sting adhesive remover wipes. To get by, I ordered a generic brand from Amazon. My biggest concern isn’t whether they’ll work—it’s whether they’ll irritate my skin.

After spending so much time getting my skin healthy again, that’s not something I’m eager to find out.

Ironically, everything else has been working remarkably well.

Over the holiday weekend, I traveled to Roanoke, Virginia, to spend four days mountain biking with friends. We had originally planned some long rides, but the prospect of riding into triple-digit heat simply wasn’t appealing.

Instead, we started early and finished before the hottest part of the day.

We still managed four rides in four days.

Despite the heat and humidity, my current setup performed remarkably well. My bag held up for the entire trip before finally needing to be changed on the last day. Considering the conditions, it was a pretty good real-world test of everything I’ve been experimenting with over the past few months.

I documented the trip over in my cycling journal, Roanoke Weekend, if you’d like to follow that adventure as well.

Now I’m packing enough supplies for nearly twenty days away from home, hoping that by the time I return, the correct bags and adhesive remover wipes will finally be waiting for me.

This whole experience reminded me of something I thought I’d left behind.

When I was living with active UC, I always had to be prepared.

I knew where every restroom was.

I carried extra clothes.

I rarely left home without a plan.

I never imagined that, after surgery, preparedness would simply take on a different form.

These days, it’s not about finding the nearest restroom.

It’s about making sure I have enough supplies before leaving town.

Living with an ostomy isn’t necessarily harder than living with UC.

It’s simply different.

If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that preparation didn’t disappear after surgery—it simply changed. Today, packing for a trip means a few extra supplies and a little more planning. It’s another part of life with an ileostomy, and just another way I’ve learned to keep moving forward.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

This past Friday, that process officially began.

Friday marked the start of an extended vacation that will culminate at the end of August with my retirement from federal service. But I’m not treating it like a vacation. Instead, I’m challenging myself to begin doing many of the things I’ve wanted to pursue for years.

The first is regaining the fitness I had before the flare that changed everything.

I’ve already put together a workout schedule that I hope will help me get there. The Mid-Atlantic heat and humidity have already thrown a wrench into those plans, but I’ve still managed to squeeze in three rides since Friday - including a 25-mile gravel ride followed the same evening by another outing on my e-bike hauling a chainsaw into the woods for trail work.

That second ride was considerably more difficult than I expected, despite the e-bike assist.

Still, not having to log in every morning and be tied to a 9-to-5 schedule is already making a difference. Having the flexibility to ride early, work outside, or simply listen to my body is a freedom I haven’t had in a long time.

The second project is something I’ve wanted to build for years.

I’ve started developing a ride journal application that combines my GPS tracks, photographs, and the stories behind my rides. I already use Strava and Ride with GPS to record where I’ve been, but neither platform quite captures why a ride mattered. For now, I’m building it for myself, but if it turns into something others find useful, even better.

The third challenge is figuring out what comes after retirement.

Despite “retiring,” I still need to earn a living. More importantly, I want to spend my time doing work that I genuinely enjoy. I’d like to write more, continue building trails, and put the planning, leadership, and project management skills I’ve developed over the years toward something I’m passionate about.

That journey will also begin this week with my first site visit alongside a friend who builds trails professionally. Hopefully it’s the first of many.

As I look back over the last year, I’ve realized something I never expected.

Before surgery, my biggest question was whether I’d ever be able to ride my bike again. I worried about what the operation would take away.

Instead, it has given me something I wasn’t expecting.

Perspective.

I don’t feel energized because I have something to prove - although, if I’m being honest, I probably still do.

I feel energized because I’ve been reminded how quickly the things we take for granted can disappear.

That realization has made me want to make the most of whatever time I have left.

There will still be challenges.

In fact, I’m dealing with one this week that I never expected: getting my ostomy supplies reordered. Apparently, I need annual authorization from my insurance company.

Go figure.

Does my insurance think my stoma is going to magically disappear?

I digress...

It’s just another reminder that adaptation continues.

I’m choosing to stay positive, embrace the opportunities ahead, and make the most of this next chapter.

Carpe diem.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

Those principles helped me separate myself from the backward-looking patterns I had fallen into—the what ifs, the why me, and the self-pity that had begun to dominate my thinking. They helped me accept that there was probably very little I could have done to change the fact that I had Ulcerative Colitis. My choices throughout life may have influenced the path I took, but they were not solely responsible for my diagnosis, nor for the fact that I ultimately needed surgery.

Most importantly, Stoicism helped me accept where I was.

The daily meditations reminded me that there were simply things I could not control. Rather than spending energy fighting them, I focused on the things I could.

Once surgery was behind me, that focus shifted almost entirely to recovery. Over the past year, I worked to regain a new sense of normal. I accepted the challenge in front of me and, one small step at a time, worked to get back on the bike.

Along that journey I made many positive changes.

But, like most of us, I’ve also watched a few old habits slowly creep back into my life.

In my last post, The Next Adjustment, I mentioned that I’ve started gaining weight again—perhaps a little more than I’d like. It’s not entirely unexpected after losing so much during my flare, but it’s another reminder that simply recovering isn’t the same as intentionally moving forward.

Now, on the eve of my retirement, I find myself standing at another turning point.

For the first time in more than twenty years, my days will largely belong to me. That freedom comes with opportunity, but also responsibility. I want to use this milestone to intentionally rediscover the person I want to become—not just today, but over the next decade.

You could call it a mid-year New Year’s resolution.

So I’m returning to the Stoic principles that helped me through the darkest period of my life—not because I’m in crisis again, but because I want them to help shape what comes next.

Living with a stoma, managing a hernia, and adapting to life after surgery will always be part of my story. But I no longer want those experiences to simply define what happened to me. I want them to help define how I choose to live going forward.

This journal will continue to be a place where I hold myself accountable.

A place to document the intentional choices I make with the freedom retirement will soon provide.

A place to continue sharing this journey with anyone facing Ulcerative Colitis, contemplating surgery, or learning to live with an ileostomy.

Recovery is no longer the destination. Now the focus shifts to what comes after recovery.

Building strength.

Improving my health.

Becoming more disciplined with my time.

Continuing to ride, build trails, travel, write, and contribute in meaningful ways.

In many ways, I feel like I’m starting over. Not because life was interrupted—but because I’ve been given another chance to shape it with purpose.

Over the coming weeks and months, this journal will begin exploring that next phase.

Up until now, I was focused on getting my life back.

Now it’s time to build a better one.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

Thankfully, the irritation around my stoma has largely settled down. It appears to have been nothing more than a support belt shifting at the wrong time and pinching the skin around my stoma. It was uncomfortable and frustrating, but it also forced me to take a closer look at something I had been largely ignoring and taking for granted.

My support system.

Since developing a parastomal hernia, I’ve been using a two-belt setup. The first is a wraparound hernia belt that provides compression and support. Over that, I wear a second belt that helps secure my bag while riding and staying active.

For the most part, the arrangement has worked well.

When I’m sitting at my desk all day, working in front of a computer, or relaxing at night watching the World Cup, it provides the support I need and is generally comfortable enough. But as my activity level has increased, with longer rides, trail work, and more time outdoors, I’ve started noticing its shortcomings. In particular, the tighter belts can feel restrictive and, despite the snug fit, they still shift.

And with summer arriving in the Mid-Atlantic, doubling up on support layers also means doubling up on sweat.

Like many things over the last year, I found myself searching for a better solution.

What I didn’t want was a support garment that required me to tuck my bag inside my waistband. I’ve never been particularly comfortable with that idea. But after doing some research and reading reviews, I decided to try something different and ordered a support wrap from OstomySecrets.

To my surprise, I like it.

A couple of days after the “pinch,” I headed to Quantico for a somewhat demanding ride and decided to give the wrap its first real test. It felt good. More importantly, I wasn’t constantly thinking about it while I rode.

This past weekend, I gave it a second test during the 1725 Gravel Grinder in Loudoun County. I opted for the 40-mile route rather than one of the longer distances, but it provided another opportunity to see how the wrap performed under different conditions and over a longer period of time.

Once again, it worked well.

For riding, it has been fantastic.

The wrap provides enough support for both my hernia and my bag without feeling overly restrictive. It’s lighter, cooler, and moves with me much better than my previous setup.

But in the woods, doing trail work, I quickly realized that riding and trail building place very different demands on my body.

When I’m swinging tools, moving debris, bending over, clearing trail corridors, and spending hours on my feet, the additional compression from my hernia belt becomes much more important. For that kind of work, the compression belt still provides the support I need.

The same is true during my day-to-day routine.

If I’m sitting at my desk working, I can often get by with either a simple support belt for my bag or nothing at all. But I still have to remain aware of my limitations. Even something as simple as a forceful sneeze or cough can remind me that the hernia is still there.

What surprised me most was that there wasn’t a perfect solution. There wasn’t one belt that solved every problem. Instead, I’ve found different tools for different situations.

For much of my recovery, I kept looking for “the answer” - the right bag, the right belt, the right routine, the right system.

What I’m finding instead is that adaptation is forcing me to be much more flexible. The goal is learning what works, when it works, and being willing to adjust when it doesn’t.

Before and shortly after surgery, my doctors told me there would be trial and error and adjustment to life with an ostomy. I assumed the learning curve would last a few weeks or months.

Thirteen months later, I’m realizing that the learning curve never really ends.

The stoma itself has actually been one of the easier parts of this journey.

Managing the hernia—and learning how to stay active despite it—has proven far more challenging.

One factor that may also be contributing to some of these adjustments is something I didn’t expect to be writing about a year ago: I’m gaining weight.

Despite riding, building trails, and staying active, I’ve put some weight back on since surgery. That’s not necessarily a bad thing considering how much I lost during my flare, but it may explain why some of the support systems that worked a few months ago aren’t working quite the same way today.

That, however, is a topic for another post.

I’m sure there will be other surprises ahead. More things I haven’t anticipated. More moments when I’ll have to stop, reassess, and adapt.

Adapting, I’ve learned, has become part of the process, a sign of progress.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

Holding the proof copy in my hands and seeing the journal finally make its way into the world felt like a major milestone. It represented a year of reflecting, and documenting what has been one of the most challenging experiences of my life.

I shared the link with friends and family. I was feeling proud of the accomplishment and pretty good about things.

Maybe a little too good.

Before and shortly after surgery, my doctors repeatedly reminded me that there would be a learning curve. Recovery would involve trial and error, setbacks, adjustments, and plenty of lessons along the way.

There were leaks. Irritated skin. Appliance issues. User error. Plenty of moments that tested my patience and confidence.

Eventually, things settled down.

Over time, I found a rhythm.

The anxiety faded. Life became more predictable.

Then this weekend happened.

After a hot ride and what was likely a little dehydration, I found myself dealing with cramps, headaches, and a restless night. After a full day’s rest, I ventured out for what should have been an easy ride.

I was helping a friend capture footage of a trail he recently finished building, so I brought my e-bike and spent much of the evening hopping on and off the bike, stopping to shoot video, and moving around more than I normally would during a ride.

That’s when the reminder came.

Something I hadn’t experienced in a long time: discomfort around my stoma.

My support belt shifted, pinched, and irritated the skin around it—nothing major, nothing dangerous, but enough to remind me that this journey isn’t something I ever completely finish learning.

For a brief moment, it brought back some familiar feelings.

Frustration.

Worry.

Even a little self-pity.

The kind of emotions that used to visit me far more often during the worst parts of my experience with UC.

The good news is that I know those feelings pass. I’ve learned enough over the last year to recognize the difference between a real problem and a temporary setback.

Still, the experience reminded me of something important:

Don’t take the good days for granted.

The disease may be gone, but its footprint remains.

Life is unquestionably better than it was before surgery. But every now and then, I’m reminded that adaptation is not a destination. It’s an ongoing process.

Fortunately, so is resilience.

Tomorrow is another day.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.

A little over a year ago, I was preparing for surgery and wondering whether I’d ever feel like myself again.

This past weekend, I found myself one step closer to two milestones that have been a year in the making.

The first was submitting the final files for My Journey With Ulcerative Colitis: Getting Back on the Bike to Amazon KDP.

The second was completing my longest mountain bike ride since surgery.

Neither one happened overnight.

The journal began as a collection of notes written during some of the most difficult months of my life. At first, it was simply a way to process what I was experiencing. Over time, those notes grew into essays, photographs, reflections, and eventually a short manuscript.

Last week, I confidently announced that the journal would be available this week.

As it turns out, Amazon KDP has its own learning curve.

After reviewing my first proof copy, I found a handful of minor issues—mostly related to photo bleeds, layout details and one typo (I hope)—that I wanted to correct before putting it out into the world. None of the fixes were major, but they were important enough that I decided to slow down and get them right.

After spending the better part of a year documenting this journey, it seemed silly to rush the final few pedal strokes.

The good news is that the journal is essentially finished. After one more proof review and a few final checks, it should finally be ready to go. A revised proof is already on the way, and barring any surprises, it should be available by the end of the week.

Seeing the cover, even with the “watermark” and printed pages for the first time has been incredibly rewarding.

From the beginning, my goal was to document not only the medical side of the experience, but also the places and activities that motivated me to keep moving forward. The photographs woven throughout the journal—the trails, roads, forests, and landscapes—were reminders of what I was working to get back to.

Over the weekend, I completed my longest mountain bike ride since surgery: a 32-mile tour through eastern Prince William County along Prince William Forest Park, Quantico, and Locust Shade Park.

The route carried extra meaning.

Locust Shade is one of the parks I helped transform into a regional mountain biking destination years ago. Many of the trails there were built, designed, or maintained by teams I helped lead. More recently, I’ve begun working on plans to expand the trail system even further.

For years, riding and building trails have been intertwined for me.

This ride reminded me that both are still part of who I am.

The bike rolled great with its new tires.

I felt pretty good too—at least until around mile 25.

By mile 27 the cramps arrived.

By mile 30 another one hit.

Still, I finished the ride smiling.

I still have some work to do when it comes to hydration and electrolytes, especially as the Mid-Atlantic heat and humidity begin settling in. I suspect I would have fared much better with a little more mix in my bottles.

But unlike a year ago, these challenges feel manageable.

They’re no longer barriers.

They’re simply things I need to learn.

As I reflected on the ride afterward, I realized both milestones had something in common.

The journal wasn’t created in a single burst of inspiration.

Recovery didn’t happen in a single breakthrough moment.

Both were built one page, one ride, one adjustment, and one lesson at a time.

Progress doesn’t come in big leaps, it comes one pedal stroke at a time. One more mile at a time.

One year ago, I was wondering what life would look like on the other side of surgery.

This weekend felt like proof that I’m finally living that answer.

Next week, assuming the proof copy passes inspection, I’ll finally be able to share the finished journal and release it into the world.

One more proof.

One more mile.

For now, I’m grateful for the progress—and looking forward to the miles and pages still ahead.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.

My visit with the Chair of Inflammatory Bowel Disease at Kaiser Permanente in early March 2025 became a turning point in my decision to have surgery. That appointment was a milestone in many ways.

During the visit, my doctor reviewed my medical history, medications, tests, results, and personal experiences, helping me piece together a clearer picture of where things were headed. She was direct in her assessment:

“You are dwindling…”

I had exhausted all medication options, and surgery was now the recommended path forward.

Part of our conversation revolved around my inability to find personal experiences that truly reflected what I was going through—something lived and documented by someone else that could help me understand what was about to come.

I mentioned that, because I couldn’t find that kind of resource, I had started journaling my own experience. Writing things down had become cathartic and was helping me cope with the day-to-day challenges I was facing.

She encouraged me to keep doing it.

She also told me that sharing a personal account like mine could genuinely help future patients understand the emotional side of the process in ways medical explanations often cannot.

That planted a seed.

Half jokingly, I asked:

“Would you be willing to write the foreword once I publish my book?”

She laughed, but I left the appointment and immediately told my wife:

“I’m doing it. I’m going to document this entire experience—everything I went through and everything I’m about to go through—and turn it into a book.”

At that point, I already had a lot of content written down. The bigger question was where—and how—to share it.

I was already publishing a cycling journal on BestRidesDC.com, documenting routes, rides, and adventures. But I wasn’t sure my journey with Ulcerative Colitis belonged there.

“My UC Journey” felt like the right title, so I checked to see if the domain was available and purchased it. Initially, I considered building a standalone website, but I also wanted a platform that could help expose the writing to a broader audience.

That’s when I discovered Substack.

That was nearly a year ago now.

From the beginning, my goal was to systematically clean up and organize the journal entries I was already writing into something cohesive—living with UC, deciding on surgery, recovery, adaptation, and ultimately getting back on the bike.

I also wanted to weave in photographs of the places I love to ride. The trails, roads, and landscapes became reminders of what I was working to get back to—and motivation to keep pushing forward through recovery.

That became the theme driving the entire project.

Once I had an outline and a place to publish the writing, I began laying the journal out in InDesign, slowly tweaking page designs and experimenting with formats along the way.

My original goal was to have everything ready for Amazon KDP on the one-year anniversary of my surgery.

Technically, the manuscript was finished.

But after reviewing my layouts, I realized the project deserved more attention than I alone could give it. So I handed it over to my brother, Miki—a professional book designer who has spent years creating beautiful work for a wide range of clients.

I didn’t want to rush him.

Instead, I wanted him to do what he does best.

Right now, we’re putting the finishing touches on the journal and even experimenting with a second format so we can determine which layout best supports the story and photography.

Along the way, I also reached out to my good friend Dr. Elmer Huerta and asked him to review the manuscript to ensure that nothing I wrote was medically inaccurate.

His feedback proved invaluable.

Afterward, I asked if he would be willing to write a short foreword for the journal.

I’m incredibly grateful that he agreed.

His introduction gives the project a level of validation I never anticipated.

Dr. Huerta is widely respected throughout Latin America and the United States for his ability to communicate complex medical topics in deeply human ways. Through his longstanding radio program and medical outreach, he has spent decades helping people navigate uncertainty with clarity and compassion.

Having him contribute to this project feels both humbling and deeply meaningful.

What started as scattered notes, photos, and reflections written during the most difficult period of my life has gradually evolved into something far more real than I ever expected.

Next week, I’ll finally be ready to share it.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.

Shortly after my surgery, and during the first few post-op visits with my doctor and ostomy nurse, I was reminded that the loss of my colon and rectum would redefine how my body processes fluids. We talked often about hydration and the importance of staying hydrated more than ever before.

My colon, after all, had been a critical component in absorbing water and electrolytes back into my system — part of the reason many of us have more solid stool. Without it, my body would have to compensate for that loss in other ways.

I was told that electrolytes — along with sodium and potassium — would become critical in helping my body strike the right balance. That reality has become increasingly evident over the last couple of months as my activity levels have begun to rise.

Prior to surgery, and especially during flare-ups, I tried to stay as hydrated as possible. I drank lots of water and usually kept a steady supply of Gatorade in the house to help out. When biking, I often carried an extra bottle filled with an electrolyte mix from Skratch Labs, especially on longer days in the saddle.

The difference then was that hydration was mostly something I focused on during the ride — not before it or after it.

Today, regardless of activity, I’m finding out that I need to stay hydrated every day and pay much closer attention to how I prepare for long rides.

That’s easier said than done.

Before surgery, I was generally drinking around five 16-ounce bottles of water per day — just shy of 2.5 liters. Since surgery, I’ve worked to maintain that baseline and add even more on active days. What I’ve found, however, is that water alone is not enough.

I’m generally on the bike at least three to five times per week. On weekdays I’ll ride up to 10 miles per outing, and on weekends I tend to stretch those distances a little further.

Two weeks ago, I headed out on my analog bike for a 22-mile ride. I made sure to drink plenty of water before and during the ride, but by the time I finished I felt completely depleted — almost to the level of fatigue I experienced during some of my more severe flare-ups. I also noticed that my output was thinner and relatively higher than usual.

I didn’t cramp, but I could feel myself approaching that threshold. Had I pushed even a couple more miles, I’m fairly certain my legs would have started protesting in more fervent ways.

Fast forward a week, and I once again headed out on a longer ride. This time I took the e-bike into the woods for nearly 30 miles and close to 3,000 feet of climbing. Like before, I drank plenty of water before and during the ride. This time around, however, I also brought salt tablets and electrolyte gummies and made sure to ingest them consistently throughout the 3.5-hour ride.

By the end, I was definitely feeling it — but still no cramps.

The next day I followed that effort with another shorter ride, again on the e-bike, and once again made sure to hydrate — but only with water.

It wasn’t until nearly five hours later, sitting in the comfort of my easy chair, that the cramps finally began to manifest themselves. First my toes, then — as I tried to stretch those out — my hamstrings.

Painful reminders that even though I thought I was doing enough, I still had a lot to figure out.

Once the cramps started, I went into full reactive mode trying to replenish my system. I took salt tablets, ate bananas, and drank plenty of G2 Gatorade. Still, sometime in the middle of the night — when I least expected it — another hamstring cramp hit.

A painful reminder that I need to re-evaluate my hydration habits and become far more proactive if I want to avoid finding myself in that situation again.

The good news is that, aside from some fairly painful cramps, I haven’t experienced any other serious dehydration-related symptoms.

What I’ve come to realize is that it’s not simply the volume of water consumed that matters, but the balance between water and electrolytes. I’m now working to incorporate oral rehydration solutions and other electrolyte sources into my daily routine to help my body better absorb and retain fluids. I’m also working to hydrate well before rides, especially if I know I’ll be spending long days in the saddle. More importantly, I’m realizing that hydration now has to be part of an ongoing recovery strategy — not something I only think about during or immediately after a ride.

I’ve also scheduled a call with my nutritionist to make sure whatever I’m doing is sustainable, adequate, and healthy long term.

I’m looking forward to sharing what she recommends.

In the meantime, I’m taking a few days off the bike to let these weary legs recover. Mid-Atlantic heat and humidity are on the way, and I want to make sure my body is ready for what’s ahead.

Another reminder that recovery is still a learning process — one that requires constant adaptation as I learn to navigate this new reality.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.

Nearly a year before my surgery, I started working on a proposal to extend the trails at Locust Shade Park in Prince William County, Virginia.

Locust Shade is a small county park that I helped transform into a regional mountain biking destination. My proposal included adding a bypass to one popular trail (the Col Du shade), extending loop opportunities, and building a new 1.5-mile extension to a trail that has become a marquee route in the region: 95th St.

The ideas—and the potential for extending the trails at Locust Shade—had been there long before. But during my last extended flare, I stepped away from trail building and maintenance almost entirely. I simply didn’t have the energy required to lead teams and spend hours in the woods doing physical work.

I finally submitted the proposal to Prince William County Parks and Recreation staff in December 2025, about seven months after surgery, while I was still very much in recovery mode. I figured that by the time the County reviewed the documents, visited the proposed corridors, and followed up with questions, I’d hopefully be recovered enough to move forward.

Still, as I drafted and submitted the proposal, I wasn’t nearly as active as I wanted to be. Winter was setting in just as I was beginning to find my footing again. In some ways, the colder weather helped—it created a natural slowdown that allowed me to stay focused on recovery.

Beyond riding my bike, one of the things I enjoy most is planning, designing, and building trails. When I submitted the proposal to Prince William County Parks, I was cautiously optimistic it would be approved. Based on past experience, I assumed it would take four to six months for the County to review the documents, ask questions, and revisit the corridors I had flagged back in 2024.

Then, on May 4th—on the eve of my one-year anniversary—I got the green light to move forward with one of the projects: the bypass to the Col Du Shade trail.

The outlook for the 95th St. extension is positive, and I hope to hear more in the coming weeks. That build will be considerably more difficult and require bringing in a contractor to do the bulk of the work.

The Col bypass is relatively short and will be entirely hand-built. Most of the work involves clearing the corridor, doing basic hand-tool work, and then letting riders gradually “burn in” the line over time.

Still, even that kind of work can be, usually is, physically demanding.

As I started spending more time back in the woods, it became obvious there were things I simply can’t do the way I used to.

Before surgery—and during remission—I was hauling a chainsaw with a 20-inch bar on my back and bucking trees like there was no tomorrow.

Now? Not so much.

I’m still out there, but the heavier grunt work—the carrying, lifting, and bigger cuts—is increasingly left to others. I spend more time supervising, planning, and directing work than I once did.

Even my role as a “swamper,” the person clearing logs and debris off the trail as trees are cut, has changed. I can’t manhandle large logs the way I used to, and I’m much more aware now of what my body can—and shouldn’t—do.

The hernia changed that.

The hidden reality is that I can still be incredibly active—but my limits are different now.

The good thing is that I’m surrounded by an incredible group of people, many of whom watched me go through this entire ordeal. They help when needed and, just as importantly, remind me not to overdo it.

That reminder matters.

As the weather has gotten warmer and my activity level has increased, I’ve also noticed another shift: more frequent bag changes.

For the first time, I’ve started mentally preparing myself for emergency bag changes in the woods. Given how much time I expect to spend building trails this summer, it feels inevitable that at some point the Mid-Atlantic heat and humidity will take their toll and I’ll have to deal with one.

Oddly enough, I’m not overly worried about it anymore.

That alone says a lot about how far things have come.

Over the last several months, I’ve slowly been learning not to push recklessly, to listen to my body more carefully, and to understand the difference between effort and overdoing it—a lesson I learned the hard way, and likely one of the reasons I’m dealing with a hernia now.

That mindset is what allows me to head back into the woods now—not trying to prove anything, but simply ready to begin building again.

When I first asked myself whether I’d ever be able to ride again, trail building was part of that question too, even if I never said it out loud. Riding bikes and building trails have always gone hand in hand for me. One was never completely separate from the other.

Now, despite the limitations and adjustments, I’m grateful to still be part of both.

And eventually, I’ll get to ride those new ribbons of dirt I helped create.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.

It’s hard to believe how far I’ve come over the last year.

On May 5, 2025, I was just two days away from major surgery. I had already stopped all medication and begun the unpleasant prep that would get me there. I was at my lowest—anemic, still bleeding, in constant pain, and physically depleted.

Looking back at my journal entries from those days, I was in dire straits.

At work, six people from my team had taken the Deferred Resignation Program (DRP), part of Trump’s second “Fork in the Road” effort to reduce the federal workforce. At the same time, I was at the tail end of the worst UC flare I had ever experienced and had unexpectedly inherited leadership of our communications team—pressure and stress I simply did not need.

In my journal, I wrote:

“Still bleeding like a mofo…”

Even after a blood transfusion, I was hanging on by a thread.

My anemia, blood loss, and seasonal allergies had me worried surgery might be postponed. I remember writing:

“Hopefully the surgery does not get pushed back.”

Thankfully, it didn’t.

And as I’ve shared over this past year—it changed everything.

Beyond surgery itself, life didn’t stop moving.

Shortly afterward, my daughter graduated from George Mason University.

I missed the ceremony.

That was what life had become before surgery: missing important moments because pain, urgency, and proximity to a bathroom dictated everything.

My wife also took the DRP and retired around the same time—a blessing in disguise, because it meant she was home and able to help me through recovery.

Then came another major shift:

Our daughter was accepted to Stanford.

Planning how to get her to Palo Alto became one of the first major life events I was able to actively participate in again.

I wrote more extensively about that cross-country road trip—and what it meant to attempt something that big so soon after surgery—over on BestRidesDC.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t watching life happen from the sidelines. I wasn’t homebound, tethered to a bathroom, or trapped inside relentless pain.

Recovery was underway—and slowly but surely, I began living again.

At the time, recovery felt slow.

Looking back, it was remarkably swift.

Three brutal weeks.

Then months of learning, adapting, and rebuilding.

What initially felt overwhelming gradually became routine. Now, one year later, I can look back with gratitude. I’m back in my life—albeit differently.

The challenges haven’t disappeared, but I’ve found rhythm again. Bag changes, supplies, adjustments, and awareness—they’re simply part of daily life now.

Compared to where I was, that’s a trade I’d make every time - one I wish I made sooner.

More major life changes are still ahead.

In the coming months, I plan to retire from federal service myself.

After more than two decades of military and civil service, I’m ready to move on. In today’s political climate, federal service is no longer something I want to remain part of. Instead, I’m focusing on new opportunities, new projects, and new ways to carry forward.

This past year forced me to confront endings I never expected. But it also created space for beginnings I never would have imagined.

Over the last year, I’ve documented much of this journey—not just to process it for myself, but in the hope that it may help others facing similar decisions.

Because while surgery changed my life, learning how to live afterward has been the real story. And that’s a story that is still being written—and worth sharing.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.

Now that I’ve shared how I got here, on the eve of my one-year anniversary, I’m going to begin sharing some of the things I’ve learned—and some of the things I wish I’d known before surgery—in the hope that, if you’re heading in that direction, you can apply them.

I’ve learned a lot of intangibles—things about myself that will undoubtedly be unique to you. Those are harder to pass along. But I hope you can do the same: dig deep, challenge yourself, stay centered, and face what’s ahead with focus and resilience. You can get through it.

There are also practical things I wish I’d known—things I could have started doing right away.

The biggest one?

Wear a support belt. Immediately.

Once my wounds and sutures healed, I wish I had started wearing a proper support belt—not the kind that holds your bag in place, but the kind that helps keep everything else where it should be.

I’m convinced that if I had done that, I might not be dealing with a parastomal hernia now.

That said, my hernia was likely the result of impatience—doing too much, too soon. Once it showed up, I learned that even something as simple as a strong cough or sneeze can contribute to it. There’s no guarantee a support belt would have prevented it, but it almost certainly would have helped.

I highly recommend getting one.

My insurance covered a Nu-Hope belt, but since they’re custom-made and take time to arrive, I picked up a few more affordable options from Amazon in the meantime.

Beyond the belt, I wish I had known about barrier strips and moldable seals (donuts).

When I left the hospital, I came home with a basic set of supplies. Shortly after, I placed what felt like an overwhelming order—different bags, one- and two-piece systems from Hollister and Convatec, pastes, sprays, adhesive removers, powders, ointments.

It was a lot.

What I didn’t have were barrier extenders and moldable seals—and that made a difference.

I tried almost every bag they sent me, and regardless of the system, I experienced leaks—sometimes severe. Nothing seemed to work.

Eventually, I settled on a Convatec bag with a pre-cut opening. But once the hernia developed, the rigid backing no longer worked well with my body.

That’s when I switched to a Hollister bag with a more flexible wafer that adapted better to my new contours.

Even then, I still had leaks.

It was frustrating—until I found barrier strips.

At first, I used narrow strips from Hollister, but they required multiple pieces each time. Eventually, I moved to larger elastic barrier strips from Coloplast.

Those were a game changer.

Since switching to them, I haven’t had any leaks, and my system has stayed secure.

Another lesson:

Even a millimeter of exposed skin between the wafer and your stoma will become irritated.

I initially used paste to fill those gaps, but it was messy and difficult to work with. Then I came across moldable “donut” seals.

These have made a huge difference.

I can shape them to fit snugly around my stoma, then place the wafer on top. That tight seal prevents output from reaching my skin—and keeps irritation to a minimum.

Since moving to a flexible system with seals and barrier strips, my confidence has grown significantly.

I’m now on a 3–4 day change cycle, although I expect that to shift with heat, humidity, and activity levels.

I’ve also settled into a consistent routine for bag changes—unless it’s an emergency:

Shower. Dry. Treat any irritated areas. Then apply the new bag.

One small tip: once my skin is fully dry, I use a hair dryer to make sure there’s no residual moisture before applying anything. It makes a difference.

I’ll continue sharing more of what I’m learning as I go.

I’ll be marking the one-year anniversary of my surgery—and getting my life back—on May 7. My goal is to release my book around that same time.

Stay tuned.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.

Up to this point, I’ve been writing about what happened—how things unfolded, how I got here, and what it took to move through it.

This next chapter is different.

Now I’m living it. And more importantly, I’m learning in real time what it actually takes to make this “new normal” work day to day.

The biggest change isn’t physical anymore—although there have been changes since surgery, and I’m still learning to adapt.

The most significant has been the development of a parastomal hernia.

I knew the chances were high. My surgeon had warned me it could happen—nearly 70% of patients who undergo the procedure I went through develop a bulge around or under their ostomy. For me, it showed up around eight months after surgery—likely the result of impatience and a desire to get back to full activity too quickly.

Hindsight is 20-20. I wish I had followed my surgeon’s guidance more closely. I’m fairly certain it happened while I was out in the woods doing some unnecessary trail work.

Seeing it for the first time caught me off guard.

But after a visit with my surgeon, I was reassured that with proper management—keeping weight off, using a support belt, and avoiding heavy lifting—I would be fine.

The hernia has added a layer of discomfort to my day-to-day, but I’ve worked with my ostomy nurse to find the right supplies to manage it.

More than the physical change, it forced a shift in how I approach everything.

I’m more aware now. More patient.

I’m no longer thinking about recovery the way I used to. I’m thinking about how to move through a normal day—and how the small decisions I make add up over time.

That earlier impatience—the tendency to push too far—had a visible and likely permanent effect.

Now I pay attention to what I do and when I do it. That awareness has helped me manage things more consistently—and avoid making the same mistake twice.

The hernia also forced me to rethink my setup.

The bags I had been using no longer worked. The adhesive barrier was too rigid, and I couldn’t get a proper seal around the new contour. That led to a couple of unpleasant reminders—unexpected leaks in the middle of the night. One of them rivaled some of the accidents I experienced during the worst of the disease.

That part was frustrating.

But it also forced me to adapt.

I eventually found a more flexible bag that conformed better to the new shape and paired it with extenders to improve the seal. Since making that change, my confidence in the system has grown significantly.

Early on, my bag changes were frequent—every one to two days. I dealt with some pretty rough skin issues, but my ostomy nurse helped guide me through techniques that made a significant difference.

With her help, I developed a solid, reliable system and settled into a three- to four-day routine.

The first few months, I struggled with the changes. Now I time them to minimize stress.

That timing matters.

What and when I eat affects both my output and my change schedule. Just like UC was highly personal, life after it is too.

I’ve read that some ostomates eat marshmallows before a change to slow output. In my case, it makes no difference. What works for me is avoiding food for the first half of the day I plan to change my bag. I eat dinner as usual, then the next morning I wait until later to remove the bag, shower, and complete the change.

That’s the routine I repeat every three to four days.

It also gives my skin a short break. Even half an hour without the bag is a welcome reset.

I’ve only had a couple of true emergency changes. In those cases, I change the bag as soon as I get home so I can shower and make sure everything is clean before applying a new appliance.

One thing I didn’t anticipate was kidney stones.

I experienced severe pain at the end of my road trip to California when we dropped my daughter off at Stanford University (proud dad). I later learned that my condition increases the likelihood of kidney stones, likely due to changes in hydration and electrolyte absorption after surgery.

Since then, I’ve been much more intentional about staying hydrated—especially on the bike.

The bike, interestingly, is no longer the measure of my success.

Early on, the question I kept coming back to was whether I would still be able to ride.

That question has been answered.

The bike is still a key part of my life, but now it’s something different. It’s one of the places where I notice things are working. It’s been a steady confidence builder—something that has helped me move through other challenges.

There are still moments where things don’t feel normal.

Where I notice it. Where I think about it more than I want to. Where something doesn’t go the way I planned.

Those moments haven’t gone away.

They just don’t define everything anymore.

I’m still figuring it out.

Still adjusting. Still learning what works for me.

There’s no finish line for this part—just a process that keeps unfolding, one where I continue to refine things over time.

Now it’s about the day-to-day. The new experiences ahead. The ones I plan to keep sharing.

I came across a quote by Gloria Steinem recently:

“The final stage of healing is using what happened to you to help other people.”

I don’t think I’m fully there yet.

But I feel confident enough in where I am now to start moving in that direction—to pay it forward, to turn experience into something useful, and to share what I’ve learned in the hope that it helps someone else navigate their own path.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.

By the end of those rides—the short loops, the gravel miles, the overnight at Lockhouse 49—something had shifted. I hadn’t figured it all out yet, but I had accumulated enough wins to start trusting myself again.

Life with an ostomy was no longer theoretical. I had driven long distances. I had changed bags in unfamiliar places. I had dealt with mistakes, leaks, discomfort, and uncertainty—and kept moving forward anyway. I had to. I was starting to develop a system—a pattern.

That didn’t mean the challenges were over. Far from it.

What it did mean was that I had finally crossed an invisible threshold: from recovery into adaptation.

Up to that point, everything had been about getting through—surgery, healing, learning how not to break myself while putting pieces back together. What came next was different. Less dramatic, but more important.

It was about learning how to live well inside this new reality.

What surprised me most was how much of that learning had nothing to do with medicine, surgery, or even cycling. It was about patience. It was about humility—and finally letting go of how things used to be without giving up on who I still wanted to be. The “what ifs” faded, no longer relevant.

That’s where the new normal actually began—in the quiet, everyday adjustments no one talks about. The things I wish I had known earlier. The lessons that only revealed themselves through trial, error, and time.

That shift began the moment I woke up from surgery—but understanding it, and learning how to live inside it, took time. There was no neat transition period where I could pretend things might eventually return to the way they were.

They wouldn’t.

The rules had changed overnight. And whether I liked it or not, I had to learn how to live inside a different body—one life lesson at a time.

Those lessons included how long I could go between eating and sleeping without disrupting the night. When to change the bag—not just because I had to, but because it made sense. How hydration affected everything. How much planning was just enough—and how much was too much.

There was no guide for this part. No clear milestones, no defined finish line. There were hints in social media support groups, but most of them were buried in hundreds of comments to simple questions.

What I found was that it was about repetition.

Trial. Error. Adjustment.

Some days felt easy. Others didn’t.

There were still moments where the bag felt foreign—where I was aware of it in a way I couldn’t ignore. Moments where I questioned things. Wondered how long it would take before this all felt normal… or if it ever fully would.

But those moments didn’t last the way they used to.

The difference now was that they passed. And each time they did, they took a little less with them.

Physically, things were improving—but not evenly.

Some parts of my recovery moved quickly. Others didn’t. The discomfort from the surgery itself lingered longer than I expected. Sitting still wasn’t always comfortable. Certain movements still required thought. There were reminders—constant at times—that my body had changed in ways I was still learning to understand.

But I wasn’t stuck anymore.

I was moving.

Cycling became part of that process again—not as a goal, but as a tool I could use to reconnect to “before.”

Each ride became less about distance or performance and more about awareness—how things felt, what worked, what didn’t.

There were adjustments I didn’t expect to make—and ones I’m still making. Small ones. Subtle ones. The kind you only notice because something feels slightly off until it doesn’t anymore.

I haven’t stopped thinking about where I was, or where I might be a year, two, or even five from now. But I stopped enough for the doubts to fade into the background.

That’s when I started to understand what this “new normal” actually was.

It wasn’t something I was going to arrive at all at once. There wasn’t a switch I could flip, nor a single moment that would mark the shift.

It formed slowly—through repetition, through discomfort, through small decisions made over and over again until they no longer felt like decisions.

It happened quietly in the background. In the space between rides. Between bag changes. Between days that felt good and days that didn’t.

It happened in the realization that I was no longer trying to get through something, but instead learning how to live inside it.

It has been nearly a year since my surgery, and I’m still learning. Still adjusting. Still working to figure out what this version of normal looks like.

But things are coming into focus.

I’m finally trusting my system—the supplies I’ve chosen, the habits I’m forming. Nothing is perfect yet, nor do I think it ever will be. But there is enough to see that I’m heading in the right direction.

And for the first time since all of this started, that feels like progress in a way that really matters.

This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.