Some years ago, I found myself standing on a quiet, grey street in a small German town. It was a place I hadn’t seen in decades—the neighborhood where I lived as a young soldier in the Army with my family. Since then, life has taken many turns, divorce, jobs, oh so many countries, states, places, and faces have come and gone. Now here I stood holding my wife's hand, the weight of decades now past hanging around us, just standing there, staring, processing. In my mind, this street had been a "golden" memory: full of block parties, children’s laughter, and a sense of community that felt alive and warm, and reverberated through my mind. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yesterday all mixed together in an impossible mental timeline. So many people that I knew so well. People I saw every day, I worked with, dined with, had drinks with, listened to music, talked about our future plans like these days and friendships would last forever. Standing there, thinking about it all I found that I could see many of the faces in my mind, but the names escaped me now. I had looked forward to going back to Grunberg, to seeing it all again, to getting the taste once again of a point in time from my past. The reality that day was different. Standing there, just drinking in the scene, my mind wandering, with the clarity of the present settling in. The street was worn, the apartment buildings overgrown with weeds and trees, and the vibrant energy I remembered had faded into a hushed stillness. That moment brought a second wave of feelings I hadn’t expected. Like a dense fog clearing and suddenly exposing the open road once again. The realization that alongside the "golden memories" lives the weight of the sad times that also existed—the months-long deployments, the pressure of being a soldier, and the quiet fear that defined those years. The fantasy I had built in my mind washed away, leaving only the truth. I wasn’t there to relive glory days; I was there to close a door that had been left open for more than 30 years. Let me take a step back for a moment. For months now, I have been working on a draft of what I thought would be a travel blog about crossing the country by cars, motorcycles, trains, and maybe in a motorhome. It felt light and fun, just a plan to revisit the places in American that I had passed through over the years. It was well written, structured, made sense for a travel blog, but I just couldn't hit publish on it, something just stopped me cold each time. Something else was there, a deeper meaning that was driving me. I realized as I re-read what I had drafted that I was focusing on vehicles and destinations, as if the destinations were the goal. But I was ignoring something far more profound: The need to get out there once again, not just to see the destinations again. No, this was a need to reconcile with myself. Over the years I have gotten to see some amazing sights, cities, and meet many people. I have had the chance to make so many memories all over the world. Thinking back those memories have all been carefully polished. They are the stories I have loved to tell over and over as the years rolled by. But they end the same way each time. I left; I moved on. My life at times has moved at a hectic pace, and I have kept on promising myself "the way many of us do," that I will be back to this place, or that place for a longer stay next time. That I would spend more time with the people I just met or already knew. I always imagined that I could show up, and we could pick back up again and continue on without missing a beat. How I wish that were true. When we are truly honest with ourselves, well, we know somethings just will never be again: When I can remember the moonlight on the ridge and the taste of the coffee in that diner in 2004, but I can't remember the name of the person sitting across from me. When I can remember the smell of rain in the desert, a jukebox in a nameless town, but the person I was spending time with? Well, their name is gone, only the feeling remains, along with the hollow promise of "next time". Yes, if "next time" was money, I would be a very rich man. But "next time" is just an IOU that you give to yourself. Yes, it is a debt to yourself built over years and decades, until you start to realize it is one that can't ever be settled in full. Those years are spent, those precious moments gone, and time? Time is the one thing we never get any more of, no matter what. Slowly it started to come together, travel was not the story, there was a need under it all, a large step back I needed to take, the need to be honest with myself. I don’t just want to see the mountains or the historic squares of countless cities and towns, the oceans, the seas, or any foreign lands again. I need to return to these places as someone changed by time and experience to integrate the past with my present. Oh, we all create a "Greatest Hits" reel of our younger selves—the high-stakes career, the fast travel, the "golden" moments. But in the end nostalgia is a liar; it just polishes the edges and removes the grit. It leaves behind the version of us that only lives on in our minds. To move forward sometimes we need to turn the fading Polaroids of our memory into a clear, shared reality that can support a life yet to come. Maybe this was not about closure but about gaining clarity? A clarity that releases the past and allows me to fully inhabit the future. I have turned this over and over mentally. I have starting to write this out over and over, only to hit the wall where it didn't feel honest. I thought maybe I would just scrap the idea entirely. But the idea wouldn't let go of me, and finally I sat down again, and just let the words flow, let the feelings pour out. As I slowly read through the words I had hammered out without pause, without worrying about spelling, or if it made complete sense. An admission formed, one that was uncomfortable, one that isn't easy. We curate our own mental museums, carefully putting the spotlight on the mental trophies fabricated for ourselves. All while pushing the wreckage we have incurred our lives into the basement of our souls. We do it to survive; we highlight the high points to drown out the noise of the anger, the betrayals, and the quiet failures of our story. Uncomfortable chapters we would rather not read again, but ones that are the stones making up the foundation of us. I’ve reached a point where the museum feels more like an anchor. The basement door needs to be opened. I need to shine a light on it all and see the wreckage once again. I started by thinking this would be something I could 'finish'—an itinerary with a start and an end. But I was wrong. You don’t unpick decades of a built-up identity in a single year, or two, or maybe ten. This isn't a tour; it’s a release valve. This is a process of seeking clarity—of taking that second, deeper look at the 'golden' places built up in my mind, an open look with no filters. It is melding the truth of the past and how I intend to live from here on out. It’s about finally being honest enough to say: I was there, I saw it, it was beautiful, and often painful at the same time. And both of those things can be true at once. There is a profound vulnerability in admitting that you might be misremembering the "best years of your life." To admit the past was "glossed over" is to admit that you've been living with ghosts, nothing concrete that you can touch, just an illusion that is fleeting at best. In reality, I am talking about a reconnaissance mission for the soul. I know I can't go back to who I once was, and there is a "sadness" that goes along with that fading past, one that is also mixed with an "excitement" of what is to come. This is also about sharing life, seeing it all again, but now through the eyes of a loved one, and that is an entirely different experience. I want to share this all with my wife, just as we did years ago on the small grey street in Germany. Share it, so it becomes foundational for the future we build together, foundational for our understanding of each other. Shared between us as the years our life begin to sunset. I used to think I knew exactly who I was. I had the titles, the meetings, and the polished stories to prove it. But standing on that grey street in Germany holding my wife's hand taught me that those stories are just the paint on one of oh so many doors that’s been locked across the decades. It is time to see if the man I was and the man I am can even occupy the same space. I don’t know what I’ll find when the gold washes out and I’m left with the grit and the weeds—and that’s exactly why I have to go. The engine is idling. The map is open. But for the first time, I have no idea where the road is actually taking me. But this time I am not taking it alone. I hope if you are reading this and struggling with the silence of what comes next in life like I was, that you sit quietly and listen, give yourself the grace needed to be still and accept the gift of new tomorrows. I write this Knowing how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! 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We recently had dinner with some friends. Having dinner with friends is certainly not a new occurrence, but also not what it used to be either. Although we live fairly close to each other, our schedules rarely seem to align. The conversation was lively, food was great, the evening was filled with laughter and the usual talk about getting together again soon. High-level plans of "we should", but nothing concrete. Later, I found myself reflecting on this all too familiar scene. I mean we had a great time, who doesn't want to enjoy more times like this? This was such a common scene earlier in life, what gives now? Why does it seem so much harder to find time for friends as we grow older? I mean, at the height of our careers, or deep into parenthood, it makes sense. But now, we are all at the point where our kids are adults. Some of us are now retired. Yes, the grandchildren are now around from time to time, but it is not like having the house full of kids like when we were raising our own. When we were younger, even at the height of parenthood, it felt like there was always room for each other in our lives. What changes? An uncomfortable truth I was sitting and noticing something that almost everyone feels but very few name out loud: the slow thinning of shared life, not from conflict, but from drift. It is a powerful realization because it’s quiet and uncomfortable, not dramatic. It is a drift we do not seek out and are usually powerless to stop. Time, change, life, they all relentlessly move on. As we move through different stages of life, our priorities naturally shift. In youth, socializing often takes center stage. School, free time, and fewer responsibilities allow for spontaneous hangouts and long conversations. Friendships grow easily because time feels abundant. With age, responsibilities multiply. Careers demand more hours, family obligations increase, and personal goals take focus. These changes mean that even if friends live nearby, finding overlapping free time becomes a challenge. The calendar fills with work meetings, family events, and personal errands, leaving little space for casual get-togethers. We move on, move away, and develop in different directions based on the experiences we are having. Life happens, and it can be emotionally expensive. The Illusion of Staying Connected As a child of the-let's call it-pre digital age. I look at technology as a blessing and a curse. It offers ways to stay connected, but it also changes how we interact. Texts, social media, and video calls can maintain contact but often lack the depth of face-to-face meetings, in person time together. That personal connection is something I feel deeply every time I do get the chance to spend time with people; I always walk away feeling a longing for that missed connection. When I really look at it, today's digital connections create a false sense of closeness, making it easier to postpone or skip in-person time. We get to see the facade of our friends' lives; we can give a thumb up and leave a comment or two. Heck maybe even a message here and there. But real connection, real understanding, real conversation, real emotion? No, not even close. It is definitely a blessing and a curse; technology can help coordinate plans and keep information flowing when time and distance are factors. The Challenge of Maintaining Long-Term Friendships The truth is friendships like all relationships require effort to maintain, especially over time, and not all of them will survive. When life pulls people in different directions, staying connected means intentional planning. There is also the unspoken truth that we often avoid facing, that some friendships naturally fade due to distance or changing interests, we just plain grow apart. We change as people, sometimes leaving only memories. Sometimes that is okay, I am still grateful for the time we had, and memories left behind. Others survive because both parties prioritize making time, or you are in the unique position where your lives have grown side by side and the connection was natural to maintain. Some of them are just too damned stubborn to die or go away, and time and distance seem to be non-factors. A year can pass and you seem just as close and can pick up from where you left off without missing a beat. Despite the challenges, it is possible to nurture friendships as we get older. We need to focus on prioritizing quality over quantity: meaningful is always better than often. I’ve also come to realize that the friendships that last tend to add something to life, not weigh it down. When that balance shifts, it’s usually telling you something worth paying attention to. Making time for friends, even when it feels hard, enriches our lives. Mourning the loss of friendship is also natural, like I said, life happens. This isn’t just a post about friends. It’s a post about time, and how it rearranges the people in our lives without asking permission. With that being said, I’m grateful for the time that was given, for the memories that still show up unannounced, and for whatever the future holds, whether it brings us closer again or not. I wrote this Knowing how truly blessed I am! Welcome 2026. If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! Finding Joy Amidst Materialism: Lessons from Our Cruising Adventures Holiday Gratitude — A Midwestern Reflection Our Aging Parents, the Unwinnable Battle with Time. Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

For nearly forty years, my mind wasn’t really my own. It’s a strange thing to admit, but the work I did—the kind that mattered deeply, the kind that was satisfying and heavy with importance—required a certain kind of "occupancy." There was always a "tenant" living in the corners of my mind. A strategist, a responder, a leader responsible for billions in assets and thousands of lives. Even on vacation, even at dinner, that tenant never moved out. My mind was a machine tuned to the "constant focus" of what was coming next. Even when I wasn’t at my desk, my thoughts were tied to the next task, the next plan, the next strategic move. Off-duty time wasn’t truly rest; it was just a temporary reset before returning to the routine. My resume lists the titles, the budgets, and the awards. It speaks of 'strategic leadership' and 'enterprise risk.' But it doesn't mention the smell of the charcoal filters in a gas mask while on high alert, or the weight of investigating a crime scene while standing over things no one should have to see. It doesn't mention the decades spent holding a line that most people don't even know exists, and one that often the public is better off not knowing. For forty years, I was the man the system needed me to be. I was the 'Honor Grad,' the 'Special Agent,' the 'Executive.' I built a life out of mission-essential tasks and invisible burdens. That was my reality for nearly four decades. And for a long time, I told myself that was just the price of service. Then, something changed. When I reflect on it, it was not all at once, quietly, slowly the changes built, I could feel it but not yet name it. But when the realization came it was sudden. I was on my little Kubota tractor, moving mulch, jumping on and off to clear branches and pull weeds. It was ten hours of manual labor at a church workday—the kind of work I’ve done a thousand times before. My body was tired from the physical part of the work, but for the first time in forty years, my soul wasn't. I stopped for a second and realized I was entirely, terrifyingly present. There was no "next." There was no strategic plan running in the background. There was no invisible clock ticking in my head. Over the last few months, I’ve found myself alone with my thoughts in a way I haven't been for what feels like a lifetime. It’s been a strange feeling—like walking into a room of a house I’ve owned for years but had not entered for so long I had forgotten most of the details that had once made it home. The mental space that had been occupied by deadlines, global logistics, and the relentless pressure of responsibility was suddenly empty. The tenant who had lived there for decades, driving me with an unshakable foothold of noise and "what’s next," had quietly moved out. There was an eerie calm. A deafening silence. In that silence, I met someone I hadn't seen in a lifetime. I met the kid from a Midwest farm town, still insulated and full of wonder about the world. I met the young man I was before the Army, before the career, before I started picking up the bricks of responsibility and stacking them on my shoulders one by one. Before the weight. I had built a life out of those bricks—success, service, 'personnel and projects'—but I hadn't realized that the weight, the thickness, or the height of the wall I was building was crushing me, holding me in, or keeping me from seeing the horizon. I began to walk through this new mental space, feeling my way through the rooms like a man on a rough mountain trail, careful not to stumble and fall, unsure of my footing in new terrain. For the first time in oh so many years I looked at the damaged areas, the worn corners, the places I had neglected while I was busy holding the world together. I looked at the cracks, and chips I had created. I was facing my own complicity in the creation of this space, and what I had traded to get here. At first, I didn’t know how to live in the quiet. I told myself I was "retired," so everything was different now. But now, being honest with myself "the one person I needed to be honest with", it was really only my schedule that had changed. Change had not yet reached the parts of me that mattered. I had been 'talking the talk' of retirement—bowling, golfing, writing—but I was just filling the space where the noise used to be. I was addicted to the person I had built around a career. I was still addicted to the weight. But sitting there on that tractor, the peace didn't just arrive. It settled in. It was a mental breathing room I didn't realize I was allowed to have anymore. It wasn't just a day of manual labor at church that helped me realize I was still wearing heavy armor. It was a process, being in Tennessee, being in Iowa, being with family, friends, and most importantly having time just with myself. I was 100% present with just me for the first time and it was hard to process. No strategic plan, no personnel issues, no invisible clock ticking in the back of my brain. In that moment of mental breathing room, I met someone I hadn't seen in forty years. That almost unrecognizable 19-year-old kid I left behind. Before he was a soldier in the artillery unit, a husband, a father, a grandfather. The young man who existed before the Berlin Wall fell, before the gas masks. before wars, and before seeing the "worst of the worst". I realized then that the hardest thing I’ve ever done wasn't securing the nation's borders and supply lines. It was here and now. It was this process of securing the new border, the one between who the world needed me to be in the past and who I actually am now. It was surviving long enough to meet that kid again. He was still there, waiting for the noise to stop so he could finally take a breath. I find deep sadness knowing the world that 19-year-old knew is gone. That innocence was stripped away long ago, and it’s never coming back. The moment on the tractor wasn't just about moving mulch. It was the moment I realized I didn't have to keep the watch anymore. The season where the world’s weight rested on my shoulders is truly, finally over. The 'safety' I found there wasn't from a threat; it was the safety to finally be still. The maps have changed, the walls have fallen, and the people have moved on. "The world that 19-year-old kid knew is gone. But he is here. And he's the one I'm building this "victory lap" for. This isn’t an ending; it’s a decommissioning of sorts. I am repainting the walls of my mind, not for the tenant who left, but for the man who is finally home. The mental space I once gave to the world is now mine to fill with whatever feels right. I’m taking my time. I’m exploring. I’m finally listening to the melody instead of just keeping the beat. I hope if you are reading this and struggling with the silence of what comes next in life like I was, that you sit quietly and listen, give yourself the grace needed to be still and accept the gift of new tomorrows. I write this Knowing how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! Soulware™: The Pattern Behind the Person Why Someday Is a Dangerous Word Retirements bittersweet closure. Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

There are thoughts that don’t arrive loudly. They don’t crash in or demand attention. They just show up one day, settle into a corner of your mind, and wait for you to notice them. This one started that way. Some people go through life with some semblance of silence in their heads. Or at least if there is noise, it is the noise of daily life. It came to me slowly, building as tiny, intricate pieces that eventually formed a mosaic — something I could finally step back from and see clearly. It’s taken shape over the years I’ve lived, across the places I’ve served, with the people I’ve loved. It formed in those rare, quiet moments when life finally gives you space to think about the questions that tug at your heart and trouble your mind. I grew up a Midwestern kid in the 1960s, seeing life only through the keyhole of middle America. Like most of us then, life came with a church upbringing — Sunday best clothes, dinner with family afterward. Starting the day sitting with the family in the pews, hearing little snippets of a verse and someone’s interpretation of what it all means. It created something familiar, a comforting routine, like an old hymn you know by heart even if you don’t remember learning it. But looking back now, what it didn’t create in me was actual faith. True faith, I’ve found, is something you have to build within yourself. So, like a lot of young people, I drifted. Life pulled me into the Army, into the world, into responsibility. I saw the Berlin Wall fall. I served during wars. I raised children, moved across many states, and spent nearly three decades in federal service, trying to help hold together a world that doesn’t always want to stay held, let alone be saved. But somewhere in all of that noise, something deeper began to stir. In the late 1990s, I found myself drawn back to school — or, more accurately, the Army reminded me my GI Bill was about to expire. “Use it or lose it, punk,” was the message, as I remember it. Well maybe it was more formal in tone, but with the same feel. At the time, I was living in Madison, WI. Married. Two young children not yet in school, and one son entering middle school. I was working crazy long hours as a manager and needed a program that would work. I needed a program that would fit into a life that was, in reality, "running me" — not the other way around. I looked at a lot of programs, but I kept being pulled toward one at a Lutheran college. It wasn’t the least expensive. It didn’t have the best schedule. And some of the classes seemed, well, out of character for me to take. But I kept coming back to it, and eventually, I enrolled. It was there, in a Business Management and Communications program, that I studied scripture with intention for the first time. At first, it was just a series of required classes. But something in me leaned into it. Not to memorize it. Not to defend it. But to understand it — to finally connect with it. Over those next few years of study, I saw the birth of my own faith. And I kept going. I kept reading. Kept expanding into connecting texts, older and now excluded texts. Always trying to connect the dots and understand the messages from a people in a time now long gone. At the same time, I was diving deeper into science — something I’ve always loved. And what surprised me most was how the more I learned about the universe — about physics, the vastness, the unimaginable scale of it all — the more my faith didn’t shrink. It expanded. The more I drifted from the dogma of this little blue planet being the center of divine attention, the more comforted I became in my faith. What grew in me was a sense of scale, of power not bound to this small world destined to end in the blink of a cosmic eye. Something almost incomprehensible and far beyond the story I was raised with. When I hear “God made the heavens and the Earth,” I don’t picture a small planet in a small story. I picture the cosmos — trillions of worlds, billions of years, a design so grand it makes you feel both humbled and held. When I hear “Let there be light,” I think of the instant of creation — the moment the universe took its first breath. The heat, the violence, the majesty of the first things coming into being. When Scripture speaks of “days,” I don’t imagine our 24-hour cycle. I imagine cosmic time — a billion-year heartbeat in the life of a Creator who isn’t bound by clocks. And when I hear “Let us make man,” I can’t help but wonder: On how many worlds? In how many forms? Across how many ages? How many have come and gone, and how many are yet to be? These thoughts don’t pull me away from faith; they draw me deeper into it. Because if the universe is that vast, then the fact that we exist at all — here, now, on this tiny blue speck — feels like part of a design so intricate it took billions of years to prepare the stage for life’s arrival. For us, for atomic structures so elaborate that we can wonder about our own creation. That thought is humbling to my core. Now enter science. Science can explain the atoms, the cells, and the machinery of the body. We can account for every gram of the machine that is — or was — you. We can describe what processes happened; how much energy was created or needed. Science tells us that atoms are recycled constantly and are never destroyed. What makes us 'us' has been part of countless other things and will be again. Over and over. But science cannot explain the pattern — the 'you' that persists even as every atom is replaced over time. You are not the same machine from just a year ago; if you live long enough, every part of you will have been replaced multiple times. You are the 'pattern' — that word physicists use to describe the arrangement of atoms that makes up everything, literally everything we see, touch, and interact with. At the end of the day, we are made of a surprisingly small number of different atoms. The arrangement that makes you 'you' is complex, orchestrated by an energy that is not just the brain. We see this clearly when the body dies—the body keeps going until it runs out of chemical fuel for energy. Yes, science can explain why the body keeps working for minutes or hours after death — the stomach still digesting, enzymes still doing their job, cells still mobilizing to repair the brain, genes dormant since the womb suddenly activating in a last attempt to save the machine. The machine does not know it is all futile; the presence is gone, but the machine doesn’t know it, so it keeps trying to follow the program. But the conductor has left the symphony. No, science cannot explain the spark that makes you 'you'. For many, this is the soul — but that word can sound static, unchanging, issued, locked in. It can seem like something basic, peripheral in our lives, not the driver of the pattern. And yet everything in life tells us we can change. I’ve seen it countless times. People can and do change. So, I started thinking about this: if this inner presence is dynamic, evolving, capable of growth — then maybe it’s not a fixed soul in the old sense. Maybe it’s more like Soulware. The operating system behind the hardware. The pattern that holds us together. The presence that animates the machine. The grand conductor of the complex series of events we call our lives. The part of us that remembers, chooses, forgives, wonders, and loves. And maybe the reason I’m writing about this now — after a lifetime of service, faith, family, and trying to give back — is that I’ve come to believe something simple: If the universe took billions of years to make us, then our lives are not accidents. They are invitations. Invitations to grow. To change. To update the parts of ourselves that no longer serve us. To refine the pattern that makes us who we are. Maybe repentance is just a reboot. Maybe growth is an update. Maybe forgiveness is a patch. Maybe the soul is something we can tend to, nurture, and renew. And maybe — just maybe — the miracle isn’t that we exist. It’s that we get to decide who we become while our Soulware is still running the program of our life. I write this Knowing how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! Why Someday Is a Dangerous Word Life Doesn’t Always Follow the Plan Listening to the Unknown: Embracing the Journey of Uncertainty Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and before we know it, moments with family slip away without us fully appreciating them. Last year, a spontaneous decision to take my in-laws on a cruise turned into one of the most unforgettable experiences we’ve shared. This story is a reminder that “someday” can be a dangerous word when it comes to making memories. Sometimes you have to take the time to make the time now. I started working on this idea in a previous blog "Time Comes Collecting" https://www.fedtofreedom.org/post/time-comes-collecting Let me take you back to where this started. Last November, we were on a cruise celebrating my birthday. My wife and I have grown to love cruising. It’s a convenient way to travel, see new places, and enjoy a variety of experiences all in one trip. After each cruise, we make a short list of destinations we want to revisit and explore more deeply. During that trip we were standing on the top deck, holding hands and leaning on the railing. We were just taking in the salt air, the sunshine, the wonderful breeze rolling over us as the ship cut through the water heading to yet another island. While we were watching the beautiful blue waves roll by, my wife mentioned how much her parents would enjoy this. How they would just love the shows, the food, and the whole experience. She mentioned how her father has always loved the water, yet she was absolutely certain that sadly her mother would never agree to go on a ship. I held her hand and could see clearly in her face how much she was really wanting to share this time with her family. Later after having dinner and sitting in a lounge waiting for a show to start, fate stepped in, I received an email with a last-minute deal for a December cruise. The timing wasn’t perfect. It was boarding only three weeks after the cruise we were currently on. Did we have time, could we make that work, would her parents even go? But sometimes the imperfect moment is exactly the right one. I saw it as the chance to act rather than wait for a “perfect” time that might never come. My wife was beyond skeptical. She was convinced there was no way I would convince her mother to join us. But I called anyway. At first, her mother said exactly what my wife expected. “No way.” I was getting the classic “I told you so” look from my lovely bride. At first, I tried persuasion. I talked about the food, the music, the ports of call. Her response was immediate. “No way. I will be sick. I am sure of it.” So, I changed tactics. “Alice,” I asked, “do you trust me?” “Yes, of course, Glen.” “Then trust me. You are going to have a wonderful time, and we really want to do this for you and Jesse.” There was a long pause. Then, to my wife’s complete surprise, she said, “Ok, Glen. We are coming with you.” Yes, I did give my wife the “see, I was right” look. Booking that cruise turned into an unforgettable adventure. Both my in-laws loved every part of it. Saying it was like a dream vacation for them. And for people who immigrated from Africa to Canada, who worked so hard to raise 4 daughters and send them all to college, I was sure a vacation like this was something they had sacrificed many times. They thanked us repeatedly and told us how wonderful the trip was at every turn. After we returned home, we were snuggled in on the couch talking about what a great time we had, and my wife said she hoped that someday we could take them again. That word struck me again. Someday. Her parents are now in their late 70s and mid-80s. I found myself thinking about that word all week. How many somedays do we really have left where their health and energy will allow them to enjoy something like this? That thought lingered with me. I turned it over in my mind repeatedly. We’ve spent much of our lives working hard, living far away from our parents and siblings, always believing there would be more time later. Already in a flash our children are grown, even the grandchildren are growing up so fast it is all a blur. If we are honest with ourselves, we only have a limited number of trips around the sun, and they go by pretty fast if we aren’t paying attention. Eventually I said to my wife, “Your parents are in their late 70s and mid-80s. Just how many somedays do we really have?” We talked about how quickly the years had passed and how many opportunities we had already missed while focusing on work and responsibilities. I didn't hold back; I told her what I was thinking. “Look honey, we are able to do this now. So why wait, call them, and ask them.” She just looked at me, "are you sure Glen?" "Without any honey, call them, ask them, and we will make it happen." She called them and asked a simple question. "Mom, would you and dad like to go on a cruise again?” The answer came quickly and with enthusiasm. “Yes, oh yes, anytime! We would love it!” Then I could hear Alice yelling to Jesse on speaker phone. “Jesse, they want to take us on another cruise!” A moment later Jesse was on the phone. In that deep Congolese accent of his, shaped by half a dozen languages and a lifetime of stories, he said something that caught me completely off guard. “Thank you. Thank you. I love you, son.” For a second or two that sentence just hung there. “And I love all of you,” I replied. I looked over at my wife and saw the joy on her face at how happy she was for her parents' excitement. In that moment, that little smile on my wife's face, and the quiet tears of happiness welling up in her eyes made it all worthwhile. We just hugged each other for a long moment, with me telling her I would look at some options. By the end of the day, it was all booked, and we took them again in February. A six-day cruise to the Caribbean this time. And once again, it was a wonderful time together as a family. A different ship, all new wonder and excitement from Jesse and Alice, new experiences for us all to treasure. Experiences like that remind you how quickly life moves and how important it is to spend time with the people who matter most while we still can. Now we’re talking about doing it again, but on a much bigger scale. The whole family. My wife’s parents, three sisters-in-law, hopefully our adult children, and even the grandchildren. Yes, I know what you are thinking. That is a lot of people, Glen, have you lost your mind? Just the scheduling alone, Glen, have you lost your mind? Maybe, yes, and I know, it will absolutely be like herding cats. But knowing what I know, I can say this with a genuine smile on my face. This may be one of the rare times in life that I’m actually looking forward to herding some cats. I wrote this Knowing how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! Life Doesn’t Always Follow the Plan Time Comes Collecting Our Aging Parents, the Unwinnable Battle with Time. Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

So here we are I am racing into month six of being officially retired. Things have been really busy. I know you are reading that, saying, “Umm, but you are retired Glen.” Well, my dance card filled right up, and fast! But let's take a step back to October 1, 2025. I never thought I’d find myself scheduling my own day like a staff meeting. Yet there I was, at 6 a.m., resisting the urge to check my email and still feeling like my administrative assistant should be walking in with my calendar and briefing book for the day. It hit me then: decades of adapting to policies, acronyms, and rigid schedules had wired my brain into a constant state of risk management and over-planning. Retirement, I realized, wasn’t just about leaving work behind; it was about breaking free from the mental clutter that came with it. If you’re nearing retirement or already there, you might recognize this feeling. The challenge isn’t just about filling your time but about unlearning habits that no longer serve you. I had to start a mental and behavioral detox. For years, my mornings began with a ritual: grab the phone, open the inbox, and scan for urgent messages. It was automatic, like brushing my teeth. Not doing it made it feel like part of the morning was not complete, that something important might need my attention. It felt like a leash pulling me back into work mode. One morning, I caught myself reaching for the phone at 6 a.m. and then I paused. Why? There was no boss waiting for a reply, no crisis demanding immediate attention.  What was I doing? You may ask, "Heck, why were you even up at 6 a.m.” Glen Fair question. I ‘ve always been an early riser.    Back to the phone. Breaking this habit took conscious effort. I replaced the email check with other things: taking a morning walk, weather permitting. The fresh air and quiet streets reminded me that my time was mine. Getting back to working out, Project Glen was overdue. Working on projects I had been meaning to start and of course thinking about what the “what’s next” pieces of life might be. It took several months, if I am honest, but the urge to check emails faded, replaced by a sense of calm and presence.  My days became more focused, slow, intentional, and gratifying. This helped to get rid of another habit: how I planned my days. I found myself, at first, blocking out time for tasks with the precision of a project manager:   It felt oddly familiar, oddly comforting, like I was running a one-person company with a strict agenda. I quickly asked myself, "Why waste the mental energy doing that?" Just put important things on the schedule and let everything else go with the flow each day. I started experimenting with a looser approach: setting intentions instead of fixed times. For example, I’d decide to spend the morning outdoors without specifying exactly when or where. This shift allowed me to follow my energy and interests rather than a preset timetable. One of the most liberating moments came when I looked at my Harley. For years, I’d treated it like a project: schedule a ride when time allowed. It felt like I was managing a work asset instead of enjoying a passion. I decided to take the bike out without any agenda—no timeline. Just the open road and the wind. That ride reminded me what freedom really feels like. The Harley didn’t need a project plan; it needed me to show up and enjoy the moment. Show up and enjoy the moment; it's worth repeating. Retirement offers a unique chance to reset your mental habits. The acronyms, policies, and risk-averse mindset that served me well in a career can become mental chains if carried forward. The hardest part of this detox is shifting your mindset. After decades of adapting to policy, rules, and risk avoidance, it feels strange to embrace possibility without a safety net. But that’s exactly what retirement invites us to do. Once you adjust, life seems to open up. Once that freedom infects your mind and creeps into your soul, it is hard to think about how you ever had time for a job. Over the last six months, we have traveled a lot and spent far more time with family and friends, embracing quality time together. Started doing the “once we are retired” things you talk about doing “someday.” And in the grand scheme of things, we only get so many “somedays.”, so do not waste them. It didn’t take long at all for bicycle rides, hikes, bowling, golfing, traveling, and just catching up on taking care of myself and making time for those I love and cherish to fill my hours and days. Sometimes it makes me wish I had made this change sooner. It takes a real conversation with yourself. You don’t need a project plan for your life anymore. You don’t need to check emails at dawn or schedule every minute. Instead, you get to explore what freedom means to you. It might be a slow morning with coffee and a book, an unplanned road trip on your Harley, or simply sitting quietly and watching the world go by. After decades of adapting to policy, procedures, and risk avoidance, it takes time to relearn something much simpler: how to follow possibility instead of schedules. The funny thing about getting your time back is that it doesn’t stay empty for long. Once the mental clutter clears, life has a way of filling the space with things that matter far more than meetings and email chains ever did. Sometimes it’s a quiet morning walk. Sometimes it’s an unplanned ride on the Harley. And sometimes it’s the chance to create a memory with people you love that simply would not have been possible before. That realization hit me not long ago in a way I didn’t expect. But that’s a story for another day. Next: The story I mentioned… and a phone call that led to an unexpected cruise. I wrote this Knowing how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! The Slow Thinning of Shared Life Our Aging Parents, the Unwinnable Battle with Time. Gratitude & Disingenuous Complaining. Growing Older, Gratitude and Complaining. Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

We like to fool ourselves into thinking our lives can be planned and will unfold like a carefully drawn map. We plan our careers, set goals for family life, imagine the house we will live in someday, and picture what we will do when we retire. Yep, planning feels good. It gives us a sense of control and security. After all, when we have a roadmap, we feel like we know where we are going and what comes next. You’ve all heard it before: “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.” The old line that bankrolled a thousand consultants. But if you live long enough, you eventually realize something simple. Life is not beholden to your plans and rarely follows the map. No matter how carefully we plan, how detailed our calendars become, or how organized our intentions are, life has a way of shaking things up. Plans change. Schedules slip. Opportunities come and go, and rarely in the way we expect. Sometimes those disruptions are frustrating. Often, they are painful. Other times they send us down roads we never intended to travel. But they are also simply part of being alive. Over the past few weeks, I found myself rolling something around mentally. There has been a lot going on, but little things kept interrupting the neat little plans I had laid out. Nothing dramatic. Just small delays, small shifts in schedule, and small adjustments that pushed the days in slightly different directions than I had imagined. Individually, they weren’t much. But after a few of them in a row, I started to notice a pattern. The accumulation of effects. A pattern that, of course, I had seen before. One that, for me, has often been a source of irritation. Then this morning I had to drive to the airport. Family was flying in to spend the week with us, so the house was about to be full, and the logistician in me had worked the schedule out perfectly. The plane was scheduled to land at 9:00 a.m. I’d arrive right around the same time, park in the free one-hour parking, meet them at baggage claim, and we’d be on our way home in time for an early lunch. Simple. Clean. Efficient. Should be easy. I arrived right on time. Parked. Headed into the airport, they would be there any minute. Then the arrival board changed. 9:00 became 9:15. Then 9:45. Then eventually 10:45. Sitting there in the airport, watching those numbers change again and again, I felt the familiar little spark of irritation that comes when a carefully planned morning isn’t unfolding the way we expected. Ok, yes… if I’m being honest, it was more like a virtual forest fire than a spark. Can nothing go as planned? Why do we even try to schedule anything? And then I caught myself. The whole reason I was there was to pick up family. They were experiencing this delay from their end as well. These are people I love very much, who were coming to spend their most precious resource with us. Time. All of a sudden, the delay didn’t really matter. All that mattered was their safe arrival. In fact, it gave me time to sit there quietly and think about something that had been floating around in my head for a few days. Life rarely follows the plan. Not once. Not occasionally. Almost never. I sometimes think life laughs a little every time we pat ourselves on the back for our well-laid plans. Over the course of a lifetime, our paths are constantly redirected by things outside our control. Decisions made by other people. Weather that rolls in unexpectedly. Opportunities we never saw coming. Problems we didn’t anticipate. Moments of luck. Moments of hardship. Every life is shaped by thousands of these small turns. When I look back over the years, I can see countless moments where the plan changed. Some of those moments were frustrating at the time. Some were difficult. A few were painful. But many of them, in hindsight, turned out to be exactly the turns that led me to where I needed to be. Paths that seemed inconvenient at the time became foundations for things I would never have built otherwise. Places I never planned to go turned out to be places I’m grateful I visited. Opportunities I never would have chosen became some of the most meaningful parts of my life. That realization brings with it a quiet understanding. It isn’t just my life. Yes, I live it. But it is shared. None of us are truly solo in our existence. Every decision we make intersects with the lives of others. Their decisions, their circumstances, their plans, and their unexpected detours all weave into the same fabric of our lives. None of us move through life alone. When you begin to see life that way, something interesting happens. The frustration that comes from disrupted plans softens a little. You start to realize that many of the interruptions that push you off course are simply the result of living in a shared world. A world where other people’s lives intersect with yours every single day. And often, those intersections are exactly where the meaning lives. Family. Friends. The people we care about. Those are the real destinations, not the carefully timed schedules we write down on our calendars. Looking back, I can see that life has surprised me in countless ways. Not always in pleasant ways. Not always in painful ones either. But very often in ways that, over time, worked themselves out. We learn things we didn’t know we needed to learn. We gain things we didn’t know we were missing. Sometimes we even lose things that, in hindsight, we were better off without, even if we didn’t see it that way at the time. Often, we make what feels like a down payment of tears today… only to realize later that it was really a down payment on happiness. Life has a strange way of shaping us through the very detours we try so hard to avoid. These days I find myself planning a little less. And sharing my life a little more. And oddly enough… things seem to be smoothing out. I wrote this Knowing how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! Time Comes Collecting The Slow Thinning of Shared Life Listening to the Unknown: Embracing the Journey of Uncertainty Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base! Off the map

Youth often feels like a time of endless energy and resilience. We are magically invincible during those early years. We move freely, take risks, and rarely pause to consider the long-term effects of our actions. Even when Mom is warning us "you will feel that when you get older". Yet, as the years pass, our bodies begin to tell a different story, often filing grievances and protests. Aches in our knees, the stiffness in our backs, and the subtle changes in our appearance are receipts and reminders  that time is a merciless accountant that will come to collect in the future. The choices we make in our youth will come due, and with interest! Bills that come in the form of physical reminders that aging is not just about growing older but about paying the price for the life we once lived. Some of us have racked up some pretty high tabs over the years. Oh, to be young: When we are young, running, jumping, lifting, and bending just happen. We pushed limits, often ignoring the small warnings our bodies send. Whether it’s the late nights or the repetitive strain from sports or work, these actions accumulate silently. My joints, especially my knees and back, bear the brunt of this invisible toll. Years of impact and strain lead to wear and tear that only become apparent decades later. Suddenly, simple movements like bending down to tie shoes or climbing stairs become challenges. Just reaching down to grab my shoes has landed me in bed, laid up for a few days. The body’s resilience fades, replaced by stiffness and discomfort, reminding us that there is always a payment due.   Aging transforms the body in ways that are both expected and often surprising. Hair turns gray and thins. Sometimes it takes a hike completely;  weight distribution shifts, often settling in places we never anticipated. And rarely ever wanted. Skin loses elasticity, and muscles weaken. These changes reflect the cumulative effects of our lifestyle, genetics, and environment.  No one escapes it. The phrase "time comes collecting."   Have you heard it? If not, you will, and it will be perfectly clear. A creak, a crack, a groan here and there. Like the little old cash register bell, ching, ching, ching.   Oh, it is not usually a sudden or single event, and the price to be paid may come sooner rather than later.   But for most of us, it is a gradual process where the body’s past choices manifest as present realities with ever-compounding interest. This unwelcome reckoning is often met with surprise or frustration, not because it is sudden, but because our youth doesn't prepare us for aging. We didn't take a class on it, no guidebooks, no videos, no, nothing can prepare you, it is an experience only ride. As I get older, I have been reflecting on this. Ok, feeling, not just reflecting, but being laid up gives one time to reflect. Just this last week, while doing what I consider minor maintenance work around the house, I got that familiar ping in the back; it reminded me. Ok, it screamed at me. It clearly let me know that the body is a record keeper and that I owe a lot of bills. You remember that kid in the movie? I want my two dollars! Time is more relentless than that.   Every bike, skateboard, motorcycle, car, football, wrestling, impact, every fall from the tree, or bang and bump on the playground, every extra slice of pizza, and more than my fair share of beer , along with every hour spent hunched over screens or working with tools, adds up. The price is not just physical pain now, but a critical shift in how we experience the world and ourselves. Don’t get me wrong; for me, acknowledging the cost of how we spent our youth is not about regret but about gaining understanding. It invites me to have a deeper appreciation for both the body’s endurance and the inevitability of change. This time of reflection can be a source of wisdom for some or perhaps denial for others. For me, it has all been about encouraging a gentler relationship with myself and a recognition of the sacrifices, challenges, and, well, some very questionable decisions I made along the way. Growing older is a strange kind of journey. You lose things you once took for granted and gain things you never asked for. Sadly, as we all know, it is not a journey that everyone gets to make. Yes, we may lose some of our former strength and flexibility, but we gain stories, memories, wisdom, and a future we can now shape through our experience. The aches and pains I have now are bits and pieces of a larger narrative about living life fully. A narrative I plan to continue as long as I can. We all ignored the body’s signals in youth, not understanding that it leads to a steeper price later. And I am guilty of this one far too often, check, please. I have started realizing that even though the physical costs of youth can feel like burdens, they also mark a life I have lived with passion and energy. Our pasts are locked and can only be learned from; today is all that we can control, so keep your hands on the wheel. This perspective allows me to embrace aging not as a decline but as a continuation of life’s complexities with a few more guardrails in place, and I have to keep rolling with it. So slow down, listen more closely, and yes, honor the years that have passed; but also plan for the years we have left. The cost of youth can also be a magnificent down payment on our future if we learn from it. It can be part of a larger process in our lives of growth and acceptance, and that next chapter can be a beautiful one if we let it. I, for one, have enjoyed the ride so far. Now pass the aspirin, please. I wrote this Knowing how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! The Slow Thinning of Shared Life Our Aging Parents, the Unwinnable Battle with Time. Gratitude & Disingenuous Complaining. Growing Older, Gratitude and Complaining. Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

About a year ago, some friends asked us if we wanted to go with them on a cruise. This is something I have wanted to do for quite a while, but my lovely bride was not sold on the idea. But with a little push from our friends, she agreed to take the plunge and go on our first cruise. To say we had a great time is an understatement. Yep, we loved it.   Fast forward, and a few cruises later, cruising has become a favorite pastime for my wife and me. We enjoy the ships, the entertainment, the travel, the food, and the drinks. The value we get from these experiences is undeniable. Yet every journey also brings a sharp contrast into view.  There is a stark reality of poverty in many of the places we visit;  it is simply unavoidable. But intertwined with the poverty, you also cannot help but see the joy and humility of the people living there. People with little in the way of material possessions but an abundance of love, happiness, and family. These things always play on my mind and often lead me to reflect deeply on what happiness really means and how it exists beyond material wealth.  This winding rabbit hole usually leads me back through the years of my own memories. Lessons from Our Cruising Adventures Our first few cruises were all new to us: the luxury, convenience, and, of course, the destinations.  The ships are floating cities, offering endless entertainment options, gourmet dining, and comfortable accommodations. Each day brings new destinations and adventures, all while enjoying the comfort of the ship. Did I just write that? Sounds like a travel brochure. But it is the truth. We quickly realized that cruising offers more than just travel. It provides a chance to relax, connect, and experience new cultures. Witnessing the Contrast Now let me say this: after a career in federal service, with the bulk of it as a soldier or supporting the military, I am not new to seeing poverty. I have traveled and lived all over, seeing both wonders and destruction. But this is a little different. The contrast between the gleaming, commercialized cruise ports or private islands and the local living conditions outside the port gates is impossible to ignore. Any benefit from the industry seems to be quickly wiped away by rising costs that make local life even harder. It hits you immediately. It is visible in the simple homes with paint falling off, weathered from the endless sun, wind, rain, and salt in the air.  The crumbling infrastructure that surrounds you, broken sidewalks (if there are any) and power lines looking like strings of Christmas lights you fight with each December. Fences are falling down, refuse is on the sides of the roads, all over empty lots, and found in what should be stunning beach areas. Half-starved dogs wander around, unseen, now just part of the background.  In just the few hours you are there, you clearly see the daily struggles of the locals. While people get annoyed at vendors trying to sell them something at every turn, when we slow down and think about it, that sale may be the only money they make that day. It’s a hard in your face reminder of how incredibly fortunate we are materially. Yet, even with all of that as the backdrop, I am surprised by the smiles and warmth we see all around us.   Despite what we see through our narrow lens of life, families still gather closely here, children play freely, and people share smiles and laughter; it is a joy that is genuine.  When you do buy something, you can see it matters. When you stop in a little side street place to eat, you feel the true gratitude that you are there. (Plus, the food is normally incredible.) Lessons on Contentment and Happiness For all we have accumulated, I wonder how the scales tip when we add all we have lost on the other side? I think we would be shocked at the true cost just for what we have sitting in our garage and in our closets. A few things feel clear to me: Joy is not tied to possessions.  Gratitude deepens happiness.  Family and connection matter most.  Simplicity brings clarity.  This all pulls me back to being a kid. Growing up in “small town” middle America. As I reflect, life was simpler; we found so much joy in the little things. Joy, which feels much harder to find now, and is an absence that has created a void. A void we try to fill with stuff. Where I grew up, Muscatine, Iowa, was a very different place decades ago. So many parks, the river, and close-knit neighborhoods. A town with festivals, parades, little shops and stores, working-class everywhere. It sounds almost cliché when I say it out loud. As my mind drifts back through time, I don’t really remember what I owned; I do remember how I felt, who I knew, and the memories we shared. I feel the loss of the closeness we had as a family in those days.   Back when we really made time for each other. Back when we all celebrated, laughed, cried, and grieved together as a family. We can look for villains in this story, sure. But blaming the generations that came before for wanting to make life better for their children, well, it just feels wrong. They couldn’t see the future any more than we can.    We can’t blame the generations now coming into our world. They only know what they have experienced and can't understand what they have never known. Reminds me of a line from my favorite Bruce Lee movie: Enter the Dragon. The villain Han says: "We are all ready to win, just as we are born knowing only life. It is defeat that you must learn to prepare for."  The cruise ports are loud, colorful, and built to separate you from your money: pure sensory overload. Familiar. Comfortable. An illusion.    But once you step beyond them, you see another world, an alien one for many. But in this world, the things that matter haven't disappeared.  Family. Love. Connection. Reflecting on Our Own Lives This past year has been one of change. Work, family, new commitments. A thousand moving parts, all in different directions. It has me reflecting on how I have been approaching happiness and fulfillment. It’s easy to get caught up in more things and the next experience. But joy shows up in quieter places in life. Those quieter places tell me to slow down and appreciate the present.  Appreciate who I have in my life, not what. As our lives keep changing, we are learning to change with them. We talk more these days, and back home, we are focusing on meaningful connections and gratitude. Whether it’s sharing a meal with loved ones, enjoying a quiet moment together, or spending quality time with family and friends. Bringing It All Together As we age and as we transition from the workforce, we continue to open our eyes to the richness of a life well-lived. We feel it when we can spend time with those who matter most. With our parents, if we are blessed to still have them. Our children, our grandchildren, and, of course, those whom we call friends. Slow down, breathe, and be thankful. Make time where we used to make excuses. The contrast between the luxurious illusion we live in on the ships and the simplicity of the communities we visit hasn’t deepened our understanding of joy, love, and happiness. It has reawakened it with a vengeance. Time is not promised to anyone, so make the most of it. So, to my good friends from Fort Walton Beach who pushed to get us out on that first cruise. And who continue to share their most precious commodity with us, their time. We thank you for making this last trip just as memorable as the first. Not because of the ship or the destination, but for your presence, love, and friendship. Making lasting memories by spending quality time with the people you love! That's what really lasts. Until next time!   I wrote this Knowing how truly blessed I am! Welcome 2026. If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! Holiday Gratitude — A Midwestern Reflection Gratitude & Disingenuous Complaining. Growing Older, Gratitude and Complaining. Recharging in Cabo: The Trip That Reminded Me What Matters Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

The Zoo, With Subtitles Some people go through life with some semblance of silence in their heads. Or at least if there is noise, it is the noise of daily life. I am not one of those people. When the world gets loud, chaotic, or just slightly unhinged, my brain doesn’t panic — there is always a soundtrack instantly at the ready. A guitar riff. A half-remembered lyric. (Or lyric that we remembered wrong, but it is too funny to change now) A line from a Cheech & Chong album that’s been riding shotgun in my head since not long after the bicentennial. It’s not conscious. It just happens. New Year, Same Zoo So, when my wife and I headed to the MGM Grand this New Year’s Eve for our annual ritual of food, drinks, fun, and fireworks. Always followed by a rapid but orderly exit strategy — I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. Not more unusual, than is usual for New Years Eve anyway. We used to go to Old Town Alexandria, but it is far too crowded these days. But we do fireworks every year, and for maybe the last 5 or 6 years it has been here. Same place. Same plan. Clean, easy, free parking. Which is a minor miracle in D.C. But this year… something was different. Very different. Mind you, we don't gamble, so are not in the gaming area of the casino, we go all over the rest of the place: there are great restaurants, theaters, and shops all through the place. Did I mention free parking? But this year the casino at large wasn’t just busy. It felt like a new ecosystem  had formed. As we stood waiting for our reserved table at Ginger, the line behind us became its own exhibit. It was crowded with groups of people that didn't have reservations hoping to get seated. We had to navigate through a large crowd just to get up to the hostess to let her know we were there for our reservation. A woman behind us in the reservation line announced loudly and with conviction, "Charles do you see this? I am not sure if I am looking at strippers or streetwalkers". Ten minutes later, she declared she wasn’t waiting with this crowd  and marched off, dragging Charles behind her. I said a little prayer for Charles as he scurried off in tow. At our table, the couple next to us appeared to be attending very different events. He looked dressed for shall we say a time period in the 1970s "where he might have managed a group of said ladies previously referenced by Charles wife." Which leads us to: She was dressed appropriate for a party but was lounging back and to the side more like she was at home sitting on a sofa eating some "Haagen Das" watching late night television. Big, shiny, high heels kicked off and laying on the floor in the aisle next to the table. Shall we say: colorful language flying freely between them. (Profanity used as punctuation, mostly a comma it seemed). A waitress nearly went down after tripping over fashion footwear loose in a four-star restaurant. As we moved through the building later, we got stuck behind a group that looked like the wardrobe department had been assigned randomly. One woman wearing plastic clam shells for a top, a mini skirt, fur stole, and platform heels that defied physics. Another in full evening gown. Another in jeans. Two men in suits — one loud red, black lapels, and large black stripes down the trouser legs. Very uniform looking, that other in funeral black. (or men in black, either way,,,,,) And an Asian guy who looked ready for the Yukon lumberjack trials, complete with huge boots, plaid button up, suspenders, and a long neck bottle of beer. Champagne flowed. The group moved as one. That and we noticed “Why are there so many children here?” Kids everywhere. Not in the casino — but very much at   the casino. Four-year-olds. Eight-year-olds, tweens. Sitters are hard to come by, I guess. Midnight was approaching. At some point, I realized even New Years normal felt out of place this night. Like we’d accidentally slipped into December 32nd. I was waiting to smell the cigarette smoke and hear the monotone voice telling us how we had slipped into another dimension where time and space collide. In the elevator, a couple in their late sixties were discussing how cold it was. The woman said she was glad they weren’t in New York — too cold to see the ball drop. Without missing a beat, her husband replied that when it’s that cold, he doesn’t need New York — he’s got his own ball drop going on. To which his wife mused that she thought it was a retreat not a drop, shrinkage and all. There were snickers. I’m pretty sure someone translated it into Mandarin, because a whole group started chuckling. And through all of this — the outfits, the kids, the chaos, the horns, the weed-scented air, the fireworks crowd — my brain did what it always does. It cued the music. Da da da da da da da… DA NAH… da, da, da, DA NAH… da DA NAH… “The Zoo” by The Scorpions. I didn’t say it out loud. I never do. I just hummed it quietly to myself, watching the human parade move past. Normally, this is where I get the side-eye. Or the poke. Or the subtle hand tug that says, Knock it off, Glen. This year, none at all. Because this year, it fit. That’s when it hit me. Those little lines in my head — the songs, the quotes, the absurd humor — they aren’t jokes. They’re mental subtitles. A way of observing and categorizing without judging. A way of staying curious instead of cynical. They surface when the world tilts toward the surreal, not because I’m above it, but because I’ve been around long enough to recognize the pattern. Human behavior doesn’t really change. Only the costumes do. At midnight, we stood on the deck overlooking the Potomac. Fireworks lit the sky. People cheered. Couples kissed. Old anxieties briefly went quiet. And somehow, in the middle of all that madness, after the fireworks ended. We walked hand in hand, surrounded by people but inside our own small bubble of normal at the same time. Thirty minutes later, we were driving home. Radio playing low, enjoying the quiet. Just content to be for a while. I was thinking back, back to how this tradition began in the first place. I proposed to my wife on New Year’s Eve years ago, watching the fireworks light up the sky as a brand-new year was ushered in, and a brand-new life for us both was about to begin. We’ve watched fireworks together every year since. Some traditions matter more than others even if it is only to us two. Another year folded neatly into memory, goodbye 2025. But this time, this one was far less forgettable than New Years past have been. If you know the lyrics to “The Zoo,” you know why it fit this night. And if you don’t — well — that’s okay too. Sometimes, the best way to understand the world isn’t to try and explain it. It’s just to listen…and let the soundtrack of your life spin in the background. I wrote this Knowing how truly blessed I am! Welcome 2026. If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! Holiday Gratitude — A Midwestern Reflection The World Is Strange, and We Live in It, a grocery store misunderstanding. The Female Memory Archive: Why You’ll Never Win a Trial at Home Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!

🙏 The Blessing of Disingenuous Complaining. I catch myself grumbling sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. A sore knee after a walk. The way my back tightens after a morning of yard work. The way everything cracks, snaps, and pops first thing in the morning — and none of it in time, or in key. Getting up off the floor after sitting there for a half an hour now feels like an Olympic event. And let me tell you, these days I find nothing humorous about it, nor is there any gold medal at the end! The body I once pushed through the Army, twelve-hour factory shifts, and more than a few twenty-four-hour parties is no longer quite so forgiving. If you are in that “certain age,” you know exactly what I mean. So yes, I complain. About traffic, prices, young people today, loud cell phone talkers, parking, and today's music of course. All justified, of course—or so I tell myself. But here’s the truth: my complaints about getting older are disingenuous at best. They’re theater. Just noise layered on top of a life that, by all accounts, has been a blessed one. If you press me, I’d admit it—my “complaints” are punctuation marks. A little color commentary to remind myself that yes, I’m getting older, but no, it’s not the end of the world. Family, friends, health, good fortune, and a decent career. When you boil it down, the trajectory has always kept climbing. Life has been a roller coaster, sure, but from where I started to where I stand now, I have so much to be grateful for. I’ve seen enough, lived enough, and lost enough to know that aging is a privilege. Every wrinkle, sore joint, and moment of slowing down is proof I’ve had time many never got. Complaining without gratitude is easy. Complaining while recognizing just how good life has been— that’s perspective. It hits me sometimes in the small moments. Like when I find myself irritated over a 30-minute wait at a top-tier restaurant. Then the voice kicks in: Dude, you’re at a four-star restaurant. Sit down. Be happy you can do this with your family. Things I thought I wanted oh so badly while I was young and chasing success, seem distant and not quite as important today, and this is a trajectory that keeps evolving. Shiny and new takes a distant backseat to old acquaintances, and family. I find simple places and activities that I would have said "once upon a time meant something to me" , really still do, and more so than I ever thought possible. That turn of mind—gratitude poking through the noise—is what keeps me grounded. This is the first little nod to some things on my mind lately. A short series of what I’m calling "Getting Older": Field Notes. A little journey through what it means to age—gracefully, stubbornly, humorously. Sometimes it’ll be lighthearted (yes, I’ve taken up bowling and literally got back on the bike). Further testing the knees and lower back. Sometimes it’ll be sobering (watching parents fade with age is a trial none of us escape and can never really be ready for). But all of it will be honest. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: you can’t dodge getting older, time just keeps racing by. But you can decide how to walk, stroll, bike—or dance into the sunset—into it. And the only way worth doing it is with grace and gratitude. Keep watch for the next post in this series "Bowling Balls and Bicycle chains"! If you found value, humor, or just found your smile while reading this, please hit follow, sign up so you get notified when new posts come out. Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. Definitely reach out if you want resume, research, or interview skills support. Thank you. Watch for the next in the series.

Today is Tuesday. Christmas has passed, and 2025 is rapidly slipping into the rearview mirror the way years do, even if you think you are paying attention. 2026 is already close, just outside, beating on the door, and the sense that time just keeps accelerating feels more pronounced than ever. This morning, I did something I almost never do. I rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke up much later than usual— 8:00 a.m. — and the time startled me. It shouldn’t have; But it did. I jumped up, went through my morning routine:  first, a little movement to get the blood flowing, shower, brush the choppers, brew some coffee, and get on with the day. There I was, sitting at the table with a warm mug in my hands, just looking outside at the trees moving in the morning breeze on this brisk, almost January day. And that’s when I slowly began to realize it. No, it didn’t hit me; it wasn’t some epiphany, no lightning bolt from the sky or any light bulb moment. Just a strange thought slowly becoming clearer and then turning into a strange feeling. I checked my calendar. There was nothing there. Nothing important. Nothing urgent. Nothing I needed to be anywhere for; no product was due from me. A calendar that, for decades, was the director of my life and which had never really been empty… was empty. Not like when you are on vacation. Not a pause. Not a temporary reprieve. Empty. My time today was my own. All of it. As this realization quietly solidified, the thought settled in firmly. My life is different now. And so here I sit, not thinking about plans or destinations, just standing at the edge of motion— feeling the familiar pull to move, but now without a clear reason, only a growing sense of longing to follow. Retirement arrived on October 1st, 2025, it arrived with no fanfare at all. It just arrived like another day on my calendar. One highlighted with the simple word “Retired” marking the start of a new season in my life. An alien season for me, if I am being honest. We all kind of plan for it, but being ready for it? Well, that is a different conversation altogether.   So, this morning, I started writing a post about the New Year and what it will bring. I was planning on something to wrap up 2025, and a feel-good post about ushering in 2026. I was really struggling with writing it. At first it wandered around, sounding like a travel brochure for a minute. (Not a good one either) Then it sounded like a “planning for 2026, with a list of what I want to do this year” post. I was just stuck; that is the honest truth of the matter, and I wasn’t sure why. I have written a lot over the years, about a lot of different things, and the posts that fill my blog site now have been fun and, for the most part, easy for me. Normally I sit down and write as if we are sitting and talking over coffee or a beer. That is just my style. So why was this one so hard? I bounced this back and forth mentally for a little while. Then the mists cleared, and it dawned on me that most of my writing is normally reflective in nature. That gave me pause. What was different here? My entire adult life has been about trying to keep order in a life filled with obligations. I have been a father and a husband since post high school. I have been a soldier, manager, holding high-level positions my entire career.  All of that was full of unknowns, but the focus was always on successfully managing the mission. It was never just sitting back, letting the breeze blow by, and saying, "Okay, where do we go today?" As I filled my second cup, I thought about who I was, am, and where I am going. My posture toward the world since I was a teenager has been: See the unknown Bound it Manage it Protect others from it Move on anyway. My life has been meticulously built and bounded by duty and responsibility. I was thinking about how I always hear people speaking of new seasons, new chapters, and changes in life. But never do I hear that anyone has taken the time to define them, and that is exactly where I was stuck. Maybe that was the problem; we can't define them; we have to experience them.   In reality, for me this is something radically different: Seeing and accepting the unknown. Not assigning it a task or timeline Letting it remain open and trying to grow with it. I need to learn how to just let the breeze blow through and decide whether to follow it today or not. Because now, in this new season it is for me to decide. Get up or roll back over for another hour or two. This next phase is not about what I am going to do; it is about me finally stopping bracing for impact and allowing life to happen.  Giving myself permission to start trusting that tomorrow doesn’t need to be dominated or managed to feel safe. As I write this now, I am thinking quietly through it. I feel that tug, that longing, and I am realizing there is a quiet power in not knowing exactly what’s next and a strange new freedom that comes with it all. After decades of schedules, goals, and obligations, retirement has opened a space where movement itself becomes the point. Now there is a freedom to not feel as if I am daydreaming of ‘what if" or “I will someday” and can say, yes, today is or is not the day, and that is okay.  More than okay, actually; it is liberating! As 2026 is set to kick off, the pull to move now comes from curiosity rather than obligation. It is a gentle invitation to explore without pressure or expectation. Motorcycle rides through quiet country roads and train trips that follow no strict schedule. Each step is a question rather than an answer, a way to listen to what life wants to reveal. As I sit this morning with my coffee, writing these words, I am thinking about what today will bring. So far, it has brought a stirring, a quiet pulling, a signal, and I am paying attention, listening closely to what the unknown wants to whisper to me. I am looking forward to the moments and meanings yet to come. The memories I have yet to earn, the stories that are yet to be shared, and learning far more about myself in the process. I hope to see you out on that wonderful road in the coming new year.  Cheers to you all, and farewell 2025. I wrote this thinking how truly blessed I am! If this resonated with you, hit follow and sign up so you’ll get the next post. Give one of these a read next! The Coffee Cup Prophet at Christmas Holiday Gratitude — A Midwestern Reflection Living at the Crossroads of History, My life of Movement and Momentum! Consider buying a coffee to help support the site. And reach out if you want help with resumes, research, or sharpening your interview skills, or just to touch base!