I loved being the guy whose name got yelled across the room the second the door swung open— not because I was important, but because I belonged. Behind that bar I wasn’t hiding from the world, I was holding it still for a minute. Whatever storm people walked in with got set down next to their coat. Bills, breakups, bad bosses— none of it mattered once the glass hit the wood. I lived in the now like it was a religion. “It’s only money,” I’d laugh, “I’ll make more tomorrow.” No mortgage. No benefits packet. No quiet panic about whether I was doing life right. I wasn’t worried about the future because the present was loud and laughing and asking for another round. Yeah— I probably shaved years off my life one shift drink at a time. But I don’t regret it. Not for a second. I was free. Truly free. Not the kind that builds something lasting, but the kind that teaches you who you are without the weight. I learned how to stand my ground with my back against a bar rail. Learned my hands were steadier and my spine stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. I watched friends lose themselves— some slowly, some all at once— to substances that promised escape and collected souls instead. I learned that my pain was real but not the worst in the room. That people carry histories heavier than mine and still find a way to laugh at midnight. And in the Virgin Islands, for the first time, I learned what it feels like to be the minority to be seen differently before I ever opened my mouth. That lesson stayed with me. It still does. The service industry didn’t just pay my rent— it rewired my perspective. Showed me that life isn’t made special by what you stack up or lock away. It’s made special by who knows your name, who notices when you’re gone, who raises a glass with you when nothing else makes sense. I left that life eventually. Had to. Freedom without roots can’t last forever. But for a while— man, I lived wide open. And I carry those nights with me, not as regrets,

Sherri loved with everything she had. No filters. No fear of being too much. She loved the way children love— all in, right now, with no thought for later or what it might cost. And wherever she went, her smile arrived first. In Monroe City, Missouri, that smile became familiar— not famous, exactly, but known. Expected. Missed when it wasn’t there. Most mornings she rode her tricycle to the workshop, pedaling steady, slowing down for waves, for names, for anyone who needed to be seen that day. That smile made sure no one was invisible. On Friday nights, it glowed under stadium lights. High-school football was sacred— every snap mattered, every cheer came from a place that only knew how to believe. She found love too. A boyfriend. The man of her dreams. They talked football, laughed easy, stood side by side— proof that joy doesn’t ask permission or explanations. Some nights, she’d ride down to the beer joint— that’s what she called it— and take the mic for karaoke. No nerves. No shame. Just her voice, that smile, and a room better for having heard it. The hardest love was watching her say goodbye to her mother. We drove her to see Grandma one last time up in Iowa. At first, she didn’t understand. Then she did. And when it hit her, it hit all at once— pure, unguarded, devastating. Like watching a child realize the world had changed forever. After Grandma was gone, I worried about Sherri. I didn’t know how she would carry on. Didn’t realize she wasn’t alone at all. What I didn’t see then was a whole town quietly taking care of her— watching for her tricycle, saving her seat, cheering a little louder because she was there. When time grew short, we chose joy. We went to Branson. One last hurrah. Fall at Silver Dollar City— cool air, hills that tested tired legs, lights glowing after dark like the world itself was showing up for her. She was sick. She was cold. My brother and I took turns pushing her wheelchair up and down those hills— and never once complained.

We hung our coats in the classroom, slid into desks still warm from the morning sun, stood with our hands over our hearts and promised allegiance to something we were told would protect us. They said freedom was sturdy. They said rights were permanent. They said the grown-ups had it handled. They lied. We watched tradition guard injustice like a locked door labeled normal. We learned that comfort mattered more than courage, that cruelty could be excused if it wore the right uniform or quoted the right verse. Here in Missouri, they smile while ignoring our votes, preach morality while stripping autonomy, wrap power in prayer and call it righteousness. Good people— real people— support abhorrent things because it’s easier than admitting they were wrong. Because accountability costs something. We were promised a country that learned from its past, but instead we laminate the mistakes and hand them to our children like heirlooms. This debt is compounding. Every act of silence adds interest. Every shrug passes the bill forward. Our kids will ask where we stood when it mattered. They won’t care who we voted for— they’ll care who we protected. There’s still time to make this right, but it requires work. Uncomfortable work. Honest work. Not for pride. Not for power. For the ones standing in classrooms right now, hand over heart, trusting us not to fail them again.

I don’t know how to thrive. I know how to survive. I know how to wake up tired and still get out of bed. How to swallow doubt with coffee and call it discipline. I know how to keep moving when standing still feels dangerous. How to keep my hands busy so my mind doesn’t wander to places it knows too well. Most days I feel like an impostor— like someone is going to tap my shoulder and tell me I’ve stayed too long, that I don’t belong in the rooms I worked so hard to enter. I show up anyway. I show up for my kids even when fear rides shotgun. I show up for my wife even when I don’t recognize the man in the mirror. I’ve learned how to carry weight without letting it show, how to look steady while everything inside me is bracing for impact. People talk about thriving like it’s a destination— like one day you just arrive and everything finally clicks. But I live in the in-between. The gray space. The season where you’re not drowning, but you’re not breathing easy either. I don’t chase happiness. I chase stability. I chase enough strength to make it through today without borrowing trouble from tomorrow. Maybe thriving comes later. Maybe it doesn’t. For now, surviving means staying. It means choosing not to disappear. It means loving the people in front of me even when I’m not sure how to love myself yet. And if that’s all I can do today— then today, that’s enough.

We don’t just hand down names, or eye color, or the way our hands curl when we’re tired. We hand down pauses. The way we go quiet when certain subjects come up. The words we never learned how to say but taught anyway through silence. We hand down fear dressed up as caution, anger disguised as humor, beliefs we inherited so young they feel like instinct. Somewhere between love and frustration, between faith and doubt, between politics and the dinner table, between grief and the life that keeps moving— we decide what stays and what keeps repeating. Some of it we mean to pass along— how to show up, how to stay, how to love without keeping score. Some of it slips through without asking— the tension in our shoulders, the weight behind our laughter, the questions we learned to swallow. Our children don’t just watch what we do. They feel what we carry. And every day, whether we notice or not, we’re choosing— to keep passing it on, or to set something down before it reaches their hands. This is the first of my writings to be read by someone besides myself. Let me know what you think and if this resonated with you in any way. Thanks for reading!