We’ve all said it. Hell, I’ve lived by it for years. But here’s the uncomfortable truth… that sentence is flawed and honestly? It’s a little selfish. Because when you shut people out, you’re not protecting them, you’re robbing them of the chance to show up. You’re assuming they wouldn’t care, or couldn’t handle hearing what’s heavy on your heart. And that’s not fair to them, or to you. The people who care about you don’t want the polished version. They want the real one. The tired one. The hurting one. The “I’m not okay today” one. Connection is built in the cracks not the highlight reel. And here’s the positive truth: Your problems aren’t a burden. Your silence is. Because silence leaves the people who love you guessing, worrying, and wishing they could help. Letting someone in isn’t weakness. It’s respect. It’s trust. It’s saying, “You matter enough to see the real me.” If you’re reading this inside our Unbreakable community, remember this: This place only works if we share the messy parts too. Your story might be the hand someone else grabs when they’re slipping. So let this be the reminder: You’re not a bother. You’re not too much. You’re not a burden. You’re a HUMAN BEING who’s allowed to take up space in someone else’s world. Drop a time someone showed up for you when you didn’t expect it. You never know who needs that reminder tonight.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit of that old familiar anxiety creeping in — this time about something that should be exciting: a trip with my son to Mexico. You’d think booking a long-overdue vacation would be all joy, but my mind doesn’t always work that way. It starts running through every “what if,” every worst-case scenario, like it’s trying to protect me from something that hasn’t even happened. I can feel it in my chest — that uneasy mix of excitement and fear fighting for space. But here’s the truth I keep coming back to: this trip isn’t about perfection, it’s about presence. It’s about making memories, not managing outcomes. My son deserves to see his dad relaxed, laughing, living in the moment — not stuck inside a loop of worry. So I’m reminding myself that courage doesn’t always look like charging into danger; sometimes it’s just buying the ticket, packing the bag, and choosing to breathe through the unknown. That’s what Unbreakable really means to me — doing the things that scare you, not because you have no fear, but because love and life are worth more than the anxiety trying to stop you.

Twenty years ago, we were in the fight of our lives — battling for Noah’s. It’s hard to put into words what that time was like: the sleepless nights, the fear, the hope that somehow everything would be okay. It feels like it was just yesterday, etched so clearly in my mind, yet at the same time it feels like a lifetime ago — as if those moments belong to another version of us. Time has a strange way of softening the edges but never erasing the memories. Looking at Noah now, it’s hard not to be flooded with gratitude and pride for how far he’s come and how strong he’s always been.

From RMF fields to the bright lights of the CFL — it’s been something special watching my son grow before my eyes. From those first awkward snaps and oversized helmets to the confident athlete / man he’s became in the process, every step has been a chapter worth remembering. People ask what the highlight has been, but honestly, how do you pick just one? Every game, every tackle, every moment he dusted himself off and kept going — that’s the real highlight watching him use his perseverance in life. As a dad, the pride runs deep with all my boys, It’s not about stats or trophies; it’s about watching the boy who once looked up to the game realize he belonged and tomorrow is a chapter yet to be written.

Meet Milo – my golden retriever, roommate, best friend, and the only family member who’s never argued with me (probably because he can’t talk). Milo isn’t just a dog. He’s a 65 pound shadow who follows me everywhere, a professional sock thief, and a world-class napper. He sheds enough hair to build another dog weekly, insists every guest is here to see him, and believes belly rubs are a full-time job (for me, not him). But here’s the thing—he’s family. The kind of family who doesn’t care about bad days, missed calls, or screw-ups. All he wants is food, fetch, and a spot on the couch… preferably mine. So yeah, Milo might drool on my shoes and hog the bed, but I wouldn’t trade him for anything. Because at the end of the day, he’s not just “my dog”—he’s family.