Notes from the Sideline

My Ma was tough in ways most people will never understand. Not because she wanted to be. Because she had to be. My Ma loved music—whether she was playing an instrument or just listening with her whole heart, it lit her up. I love music too. Maybe that’s something she passed down to me. Maybe that’s how she kept a part of herself alive through the hard times. You’d never guess that behind the soft eyes and warm laugh was a girl who ran from unspeakable pain at 15 years old. A girl who survived things she never should’ve had to endure. Who carried more than her share… and somehow still found a way to give love to her kids. She raised us with whatever she had, even when it wasn’t much. We had laughter in our home. We had dysfunction, too. But I can tell you this: we had her. And that mattered. There were times I saw her cry. Times I saw her hold it in. Times I watched her get knocked down, but never stay there. That's the thing about resilience. It’s not shiny. It doesn’t ...

He told me to get in the car. I did—because when you're a kid and a grown man says that, you go. You don’t ask questions. You don’t expect much. But you definitely don’t expect what came next. We drove for a while, pulled into some parking lot, and without warning, he turned to me and punched me in the mouth. No conversation. No buildup. Just a fist and the words, “Stop being a little bitch.” I don’t remember what came after. Not really. I just remember trying to figure out how to explain my face to the world. I made something up—I don’t even recall what the lie was now. Only that I learned fast how to cover pain. How to tuck it in and keep it moving. You learn to survive. But here’s the thing: survival isn’t the same as healing. That punch didn’t just split my lip—it split something deeper. It told me I wasn’t safe. That I didn’t matter. That the men who were supposed to protect me could just as easily be the ones who hurt me. And for a long time, that scar shaped the ...

I’ve always been a noticer. Of how people move. How they hold their coffee. What they say when they think no one is listening. I watch the way life leaves fingerprints on faces—creases in the brow, light in the eyes, the slump of a shoulder when someone thinks they’ve failed. Maybe I learned it as a kid—when you grow up in a house full of chaos, you learn to read the room fast. You learn to listen between the lines. To anticipate. To survive. But somewhere along the way, it became more than survival. It became storytelling. Now, in quiet moments or loud ones, I look for the meaning in the mess. The small truths hiding in plain sight. The sacred tucked inside the ordinary. Because most people don’t stop long enough to see it. And if I can hold it for a second—capture it, name it, write it down—maybe it becomes something someone else needed too. That’s what this blog is. It’s not just stories about dogs and couches and coffee and backyard walks. It’s me, sorting out what it means to live...

Lewis was sitting on the back of the couch again. It’s his spot. Always has been. He can see everything from up there—the front door, the window, the kitchen… and me. He wasn’t barking. He wasn’t looking for attention. He wasn’t doing anything loud or flashy. He was just there . Present. Calm. Unbothered. And something about it made me pause—because lately, I’ve been chasing peace like it’s somewhere out there. But Lewis? He’s already found it. In a simple spot. In an ordinary moment. That’s when it hit me: Happiness is loud. Joy is quiet. Happiness is the tail wag when the treat bag rustles. The rush when something new arrives. The high after a win. But joy? Joy is deeper. It’s what holds you steady when there’s no treat, no win, no clear reason at all. Happiness is found in a moment. Joy is found in your being. Happiness depends on what’s happening. Joy is who you become when you learn how to be still. It doesn’t ask for applause. It doesn...

Misty couldn’t hear a thing. She could barely see. But if you opened a bag of chips or unwrapped a slice of cheese, she’d find you—every time. She had this howl. Not a bark, not a whine. A kind of long, hopeful song that said, “I know you’ve got something good… and I’d like a piece, please.” It never got old. She was one of the many rescues who came through our lives—broken in ways we could see, whole in ways we couldn’t. Misty had this way of showing up wherever she pleased. One minute she’d be under the table. The next, curled in a laundry basket or stretched out in the one warm sliver of sun on the floor. And her favorite perch? The back of the couch. She’d climb up there like she owned it—because, in a way, she did. She made the most of wherever she landed. And honestly, I think about that more than I ever expected to. She didn’t need perfect conditions to feel peace. She didn’t wait until she could see it all clearly to go after what she wanted. She didn’t care what an...

Harvey was on the back of the couch again this morning—his usual spot. Perched just so, head tilted slightly, eyes on me. Not barking. Not fidgeting. Just… present. Like he was checking in. Like he could feel the pace I’d been pushing. He’s not even two yet, but somehow he gets it. There’s a stillness in him that reminds me of something I forget too often: You don’t have to move fast to matter. You don’t have to carry everything just because you can. We all hold things we don’t talk about. Regret. Expectations. The pressure to be “on.” Old stories that we never asked for but somehow still feel responsible for. And most days, we don’t even notice the weight—until someone like Harvey sits still long enough to remind us what ease looks like. No drama. No noise. Just quiet presence. Just being. And that’s what landed for me today: You don’t always need a plan. You don’t need a fix. You don’t need to earn rest with exhaustion. Sometimes, it’s enough to sit where you are. To exhale. To put o...

Harvey gets it. This morning, I found him sitting peacefully on the step, surrounded by all his favorite toys. No stress. No shame. Just enjoying the little things that make his day better. And honestly? It was a reminder I needed. Do something today your future self will thank you for. It doesn’t have to be big. Sometimes it’s just gathering the things that bring you comfort. Taking a deep breath. Slowing down. Choosing joy—even in small, simple ways. Your future self isn’t asking for perfection. They’re just hoping you’ll show up—with grace, with intention, maybe even with a squeaky toy or two nearby. So take the walk. Call the friend. Rest without guilt. Or do what Harvey did: Find your quiet spot and surround yourself with what makes you feel good. Because those little choices today? They become the peace, strength, and joy you’ll thank yourself for tomorrow.

I used to think middle age was 50. That’s what they say, right? Halfway there. But if most of us won’t see 90… middle age isn’t 50. It’s more like 37, 38 if you’re lucky. That hits different. And I’m not sharing this to be morbid. I’m sharing it because some of us are still living like we have all the time in the world. We say, “I’ll slow down next year.” “I’ll travel when things settle.” “I’ll rest when I retire.” We work ourselves into exhaustion and hand over our best years to jobs that would replace us in five business days. We defer joy. We shelf the dreams. We tell ourselves we’re being responsible. And maybe we are. But one day, the calendar gets quiet. The kids move out. The office keycard stops working. The house doesn’t feel as full. And that “someday” we were saving everything for… doesn’t feel the same anymore. I’ve been thinking about that more lately—especially in the quiet evenings with Melanie. We’ve started naming the things we still want to do—not the big flashy stuff...

Bear sat next to me this morning—head up, tongue out, giving me one of his classic, unapologetically joyful smiles. We were just having coffee. Nothing special. No big moment. Just him. Just me. Just the kind of peace that sneaks in when you’re not performing for anyone. And it got me thinking: How often do we overlook the quiet joy of just being ourselves? We spend so much time trying to impress, to prove, to keep up. Trying to be more polished, more productive, more whatever the world seems to expect that day. But Bear wasn’t doing any of that. He wasn’t worried about being better. He wasn’t comparing his morning to anyone else’s. He was just… happy to be here. And maybe that’s what we’ve forgotten: That peace doesn’t come from being more. It comes from being honest. With who we are. With where we are. With what we truly need. There’s nothing wrong with ambition—but don’t let it convince you that your worth is always somewhere out ahead of you. Because sometimes, joy look...

I’ve started this blog a hundred times in my head. Usually in the quiet moments—after the kids are asleep, after the noise dies down, after a day that tested more than just my patience. The thoughts would come when I was driving alone, or standing on the sidelines of a game, or walking back to the truck after a long day on a job site. Sometimes I’d scribble a sentence or two in my phone. Sometimes I’d hear my own voice narrating the lesson I was living. And just about every time, I told myself: “I’ll write it down later.” But here’s the truth I’ve come to accept: Later isn’t promised. And silence has a way of stealing what was meant to be shared. So this is me, starting. This blog isn’t a blueprint. I’m not here to preach or posture. I’m just a man who’s lived enough to have something to say—and who’s finally ready to say it. I’ve raised children, rebuilt myself more than once, run businesses, buried people I love, made peace with failure, and stood in gyms for the ...