I had the privilege of meeting Dale "Graybeard" Sanders recently. If his name doesn't ring a bell, it should. Dale once became the oldest person to complete the Appalachian Trail. Then someone broke his record. So what's he doing now? At 91 years old... he's going back to take it back. Let that sink in for a moment. Over 2,000 miles. Mountains. Rain. Heat. Cold. Blisters. Countless climbs. At an age when many people have convinced themselves life is supposed to get smaller, Dale is making his world bigger. I'll admit something. Every now and then I catch myself wondering if I'm getting too old for some of the dreams still sitting on my heart. Too old for the next adventure. Too old to write another book. Too old to chase another big goal. Too old to reinvent myself one more time. Then I meet someone like Dale. Suddenly those excuses don't seem quite as convincing. Life doesn't stop at 60. Or 70. Or 80. Sometimes the only thing that stops is our willingness to believe there's still another mountain worth climbing. Dale reminded me that age isn't the finish line. It's just another number that too many people give far too much power. I don't know if he'll reclaim the record. But I know this... He's already won. Because at 91 years old, he's still choosing adventure over comfort, possibility over excuses, and purpose over surrender. That's the kind of life I hope I'm still living decades from now. Thank you for the reminder, Graybeard. Keep moving forward.

I’ve been thinking about something I’m calling pre-enjoying life… And yes, I may have just made that up, but stick with me. It’s June, and I’m already enjoying my next vacation in November. I’m enjoying the sights I haven’t seen yet. The sounds I haven’t heard yet. The food I haven’t eaten yet. The quiet moments I haven’t lived yet. The little adventures, the views, the coffee, the walks, the sunrises, the unexpected conversations, and probably at least one wrong turn that somehow becomes the best part of the whole trip. I’m enjoying it now. Not because I’m wishing my life away. But because anticipation is part of the gift. We have this strange habit of postponing joy until the exact moment something arrives. As if we’re only allowed to enjoy the vacation while we’re physically on vacation. As if Christmas can only be enjoyed on December 25th. As if happiness has to show ID and prove it belongs on the calendar. Nonsense. If you love Christmas, you can enjoy Christmas in June. Put on the music. Think about the lights. Imagine the tree. Remember the feeling. Let yourself smile like a delighted weirdo in the middle of summer because life is short and nobody put you in charge of being normal. Joy doesn’t have to wait its turn. If we can worry about what hasn’t happened, we can certainly enjoy things before they arrive. We can enjoy them while they’re happening. And we can enjoy them again as memories afterward. That’s gratitude with a kind of head start. So today, give yourself permission to pre-enjoy something. A trip. A holiday. A goal. A quiet morning. A future hike. A dinner with people you love. A season of life you’re working toward. Don’t wait until everything is perfectly lined up before you let yourself feel happy. Sometimes the blessing begins the moment you start looking forward to it. Pre-enjoy the good stuff. Life is better when we stop making joy stand in line. Love you!

Can attention become an addiction? I think it can. And before anyone gets defensive, I’m not talking about people who are genuinely struggling, trying, and doing the hard work to heal. Life is heavy sometimes. Mental health is real. Pain is real. Seasons of struggle are real. But so is this: Some people don’t actually want help. They want rescue. They want sympathy and validation from pity.. They want the emotional spotlight that comes from always being in some sort of crisis. And here’s the uncomfortable part: many of them don’t even realize they’re doing it. Because if they help themselves, it might actually work. And if it works, they may not be able to keep telling the same story about how stuck, broken, mistreated, overwhelmed, how helpless they are, or what a shitty life they have. And if they can’t keep telling that story, the attention starts to dry up... That’s a scary thing for someone who's built an identity around being the person everyone worries about. Now let’s be honest about the other side, too. Some of us love being the savior. We love being needed. We love being the strong one. We love rushing in with the advice, the comfort, the solution, the rescue rope, the emotional bucket, the cape, and probably a snack. But sometimes our “help” is not helping. Sometimes we are feeding the very pattern we claim we want them to break. There comes a point where compassion without boundaries becomes participation. You can love someone and still stop rescuing them. You can care about someone and still refuse to be their crisis manager. You can send love without sending your peace, your energy, your sanity, and your entire afternoon along with it. The hard truth is this: Healing requires ownership. Support matters. Love matters. Community matters. But at some point, every person has to decide whether they want to get better, or whether they just want people gathered around the wound. I used to try to save those people. Now I send them love.

Tomorrow, there will be a lot of beautiful Father’s Day posts throughout social media… And there should be. I’ll be posting about my own Dad. There’ll be posts about wonderful fathers. Strong fathers. Present fathers. Quiet fathers. Fathers who showed up, worked hard, taught lessons, offered protection, gave advice, embarrassed their children in public, and somehow considered that part of the job description. I love seeing those posts. But Father’s Day also makes me feel something a little more complicated. One of the biggest regrets of my life is that fatherhood is a joy I’ve never known. I’ve never been a father. A lot is said about women who have a biological clock and their maternal need and internal longing for kids. You don’t hear it much about that from men. I can only imagine what it must feel like to raise a child. To watch them grow. To worry about them. To guide them. To mess up sometimes and try again. To see parts of yourself in another human being, while also learning that they are entirely their own person. I imagine it is one of the greatest challenges a person can take on. And probably one of the deepest satisfactions. There’s something truly sacred about being trusted with a life. Not just to provide, but to shape. To protect. To love. To teach someone how to stand on their own, even when your heart would rather keep them close forever. I’ll never pretend to know what that feels like firsthand. But I do know this: the good fathers matter more than they probably realize. The steady ones. The trying ones. The imperfect-but-present ones. The ones who keep showing up even when they’re tired, confused, worried, overwhelmed, or quietly wondering if they’re doing any of it right. You guys matter. And for those of us who never became fathers, this day can carry a little ache beneath the surface. A quiet grief. A road not taken. A chapter never written. That doesn’t mean life is empty. It just means some dreams stay tender. and my journey was a little different than most (that’s the story of my life, actually…)

When I was younger, I needed someone to tell me the truth. The real truth. I needed someone to tell me that the depression didn’t mean I was broken beyond repair, and it could be managed. That panic attacks didn’t mean I was crazy, and having anxiety didn’t mean I was weak. I needed someone to explain that maybe, just maybe, I was just more sensitive than most people. Maybe I felt things a little more deeply. Maybe I carried more than I knew how to carry. Maybe my mind and body were trying to protect me, even if they were doing it in a terrifying and exhausting way. But nobody really told me that. At least not in a way I could understand. So I spent too many years thinking something was wrong with me. I thought I was defective. I thought everyone else had received some manual for life that I somehow missed. Because when you already feel anxious or depressed, the last thing you need is to also believe you are broken. You aren’t. That’s what I want you to hear today. You’re not broken. You may be overwhelmed, or exhausted. You may be carrying old pain and you could be more sensitive than the people around you. You may need more rest, more quiet, more space, more support, and better tools. But that doesn’t make you broken. It makes you human. And being sensitive in a hard world isn’t weakness. It means you have to learn how to take care of yourself differently. It means you have to stop apologizing for how deeply you feel and start protecting your peace like it actually matters. Because it does. I never met the person I needed back then. So I became him. And now I’m telling you as clearly as I can: You aren’t broken. You’re healing… You’re learning… You’re still here. And that matters more than you know. Love you!