The television was on when I walked into the waiting room yeaterday, but I couldn’t tell you what was playing. No one was really watching it anyway. Every few minutes, the quiet was interrupted by a nurse opening the door and calling another name. The room would briefly come to life as someone stood, gathered their things, and disappeared down the hallway before settling back into its familiar rhythm.

I’ve come to know that rhythm well.

As I waited for another round of labs, I looked around the room. Young adults whose lives should still feel wide open. Parents balancing hope with exhaustion. Grandparents who have probably spent decades taking care of everyone else and now find themselves needing someone to care for them.

Cancer doesn’t give a damn about your demographics. It doesn’t care how old you are, where you were born, what uniform you’ve worn, or what plans you’ve made for next year. It is completely indifferent.

Watching the room, I couldn’t help but think about where I was exactly one year ago.

Last August, I wasn’t waiting for routine blood work. I was waiting for answers.

Three different chemotherapy regimens had failed me. Each one started with cautious optimism. Each one ended with another difficult conversation.

The word my doctors used was refractory. It’s a word oncologists use every day. To me, it became a word that carried more weight than almost any other in the English language. It meant the cancer wasn’t responding.

Looking back, we finally understand why.

Everyone believed we were treating my classical Hodgkin’s lymphoma. What none of us knew was that I was also fighting T-cell/histiocyte-rich large B-cell lymphoma (THRLBCL), an extraordinarily rare lymphoma that wasn’t responding to the same treatment. We were fighting one enemy while another quietly continued its work behind the scenes.

That realization didn’t come overnight.

It came after months of infusions, side effects, fatigue, blood work, and wondering why nothing seemed to be working.

By August, the goal had changed. Instead of defeating the cancer, we were simply trying to keep me healthy enough for whatever came next.

Virginia Cancer Specialists became almost a second home. I knew where to park. I knew the faces at the front desk. I knew the routine before anyone had to explain it. Hydration. Blood work. Medications. Then another conversation about what options might still exist.

Those appointments weren’t about celebrating progress.

They were about buying time.

Then my oncologist made a suggestion that changed everything.

“You should start looking at experimental treatments.”

That sentence became my next mission.

Maria and I started making phone calls.

One after another.

Cancer centers across the country.

More than ten of them.

Every physician, every researcher, every coordinator treated us with kindness, even when the answer was no.

Some conversations carried another kind of disappointment. Several promising clinical trials had been delayed or canceled because funding had disappeared. Before cancer, I understood research in the abstract. Now I could picture the empty chair where a patient might have been sitting if that study had continued.

Then Memorial Sloan Kettering called.

We packed for what we thought would be a quick overnight trip. Maria laughed because, despite my insistence that we’d barely be there, she packed enough clothes for several days anyway. She knows me well. Whenever I say we’ll only need one night, life has a way of proving me wrong.

One day quietly became almost a week.

There were scans.

Biopsies.

Enough blood drawn that I joked they were trying to see if I had any left.

There were meetings with physicians, researchers, and specialists. Every answer seemed to uncover another question.

Then came the answer that changed everything.

I wasn’t fighting one cancer.

I was fighting two.

Oddly enough, that news brought relief.

Not because it was good news. It certainly wasn’t.

But because, for the first time in months, the pieces finally fit together. The treatments hadn’t failed because anyone had overlooked something obvious. We had been fighting one disease while another was quietly changing the battlefield.

Every now and then life gives you one of those Lose Yourself moments. A moment where fear and opportunity are standing in the same doorway. You don’t know what’s waiting on the other side. You only know you’ll regret never walking through it.

New York became that doorway for me.

The clinical trial wasn’t a guarantee.

It wasn’t even a promise.

It was simply another chance.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Looking back now, I can admit something I probably couldn’t have said then.

I was scared.

Not the kind of fear that makes for dramatic movie scenes.

The quiet kind.

The kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night wondering if you’ll see another Christmas. Wondering if you’ll watch your boys continue becoming the men you already know they’re capable of becoming. Wondering if you’ll grow old sitting on the porch with Maria, arguing over whose turn it is to make coffee.

Cancer has a way of shrinking your world. The calendar that once stretched years into the future suddenly becomes measured in appointments, scans, medications, and lab results.

I’ve often said cancer is a thief.

It steals your strength.

It steals your independence.

It steals your certainty.

But I think its greatest target is hope.

Hope is what gets you back into the infusion chair.

Hope is what makes you answer the phone when your doctor’s office calls.

Hope is what convinces you to keep taking the next step, even when you can’t see where the path leads.

Hope isn’t pretending everything will be okay.

It’s deciding that today is still worth living, regardless of what tomorrow brings.

I’ve also learned another truth.

Not everyone gets the opportunities I received.

Some cancers are found too late.

Some treatments simply don’t exist.

Some families spend as much time worrying about hotel rooms, gas money, and missed paychecks as they do about blood counts.

Cancer is cruel enough.

It shouldn’t also bankrupt hope.

I’ve been extraordinarily fortunate. I found outstanding physicians. I was able to travel to New York. I was accepted into an experimental clinical trial because countless patients before me chose to participate in research.

I’m simply trying to do the same for someone I’ll never meet.

As someone who served in the Army, I’ve never been comfortable using words like battle and war casually. Those words belong to people who may never come home.

Cancer is different.

Here, sacrifice is real.

Families are forever changed.

Lives are forever changed.

Some are lost.

This truly is a battle because every day asks you the same question.

Will you keep going?

Today, my scans remain stable.

Every three weeks I still make the trip to New York.

I still live with uncertainty.

But uncertainty doesn’t feel the same as it did a year ago.

As I finish writing this, another nurse opens the waiting room door.

Another name is called.

Someone smiles nervously at the person beside them before disappearing down the hallway.

Soon, someone will call mine.

Just another set of labs.

Just another appointment.

A year ago, I walked into this building wondering if there would be another option.

Today, I walk in carrying something far more valuable than certainty.

I carry hope and or today...

That’s enough.

By the end of my appointments, the afternoon sun had finally broken through the clouds.

For most of the Wednesday morning, New York had been wrapped in low gray skies and a slow rain. During the Uber ride to Memorial Sloan Kettering, the city looked like the backdrop for a Batman movie. Buildings disappeared into the mist, the streets glistened with rain, and everything felt heavy.

But as the hours passed, something changed.

The clouds slowly surrendered, and sunlight began pouring through the window beside my chair. I could feel its warmth settling across my face and shoulders. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Gentle. Almost easy to miss if I hadn’t been sitting still.

As I closed my eyes for a moment, I found myself thinking that hope often arrives the same way.

Not all at once.

Not with flourishes and fanfare.

Just enough light to remind you it was there all along.

That moment stayed with me because this wasn’t just another appointment.

For the last year and a half, nearly every conversation has revolved around one question: How do we get you through this?

Every appointment focused on blood counts, PET scans, medications, side effects, clinical trials, and whether the treatment was working. My calendar became a collection of oncology visits, infusion days, lab draws, and physical therapy appointments. Life was measured in three week increments between trips to Memorial Sloan Kettering.

This visit, however, felt different from the very beginning.

Before the appointments even started, Tuesday evening brought something that has become increasingly precious: time with good friends. As it happened, they were in New York City for work, and we managed to steal a few hours together.

For a little while, there was no discussion of lab values, scans, or treatment plans. There was simply laughter, good conversation, and the comfort that comes from being with people who know me as more than a medical chart.

It reminded me that healing doesn’t happen only in hospitals.

Sometimes it happens in a hotel bar, with expensive watered down drinks and mocktails, with friends.

...

Late on Tuesday I had a cognitive test. I passed. I still know the difference between a rhino, elephant and camel. I can still recite the five words I was given to remember: church, sun, red, book, face, and daisy.

The future remains uncertaim, and always will be for me and this diagnosis.

Cancer simply stripped away the illusion that tomorrow was guaranteed.

So I’ll keep planning. I’ll keep showing up for my appointments. I’ll keep listening to my physicians, taking care of my body, and doing everything I can to protect the gift I’ve been given.

I’ll continue to get busy living.

I’ll enjoy dinners with friends.

I’ll spend time with Maria and our boys.

I’ll keep chasing trails, writing stories, and appreciating ordinary moments that once seemed impossible.

Because the next chapter isn’t about what cancer took from me.

It’s about what I choose to do with everything it left behind.

As I left the hospital this afternoon, the clouds were still there.

They hadn’t disappeared.

They had simply parted long enough for the sunlight to reach me.

Maybe that’s what survivorship really is.

Not a cloudless sky.

Not pretending the storm never happened.

Just recognizing that the sun has never left.

Sometimes all we need is enough light to remind us to keep walking.

Before I share yesterday's scan results, I want to talk about a word that has taken on an entirely new meaning for me over the last nineteen months.

Most people think about cancer in terms of "cured" or "in remission." Those are wonderful words when they apply, but they are not always the most accurate way to describe every cancer or every patient.

In my case, I have been treated for both Hodgkin lymphoma and T-cell/histiocyte-rich large B-cell lymphoma. Both are aggressive lymphomas, and after everything my body has been through, my oncology team isn't simply looking for a scan that says "gone." They're looking for the bigger picture.

Yesterday's PET scan tells that story.

The lymph nodes we've been watching haven't grown. They haven't spread. No new areas have appeared. The report repeatedly uses the word unchanged, and for lymphoma, that word carries a tremendous amount of weight.

There are no new suspicious lesions. No new lymph nodes lighting up. The spleen remains clear. My bone marrow continues to settle down after months of recovery. Even the small nodule in my parotid gland, which has been present since my original scans, remains unchanged and is still believed to be a benign Warthin's tumor.

Stable doesn't mean the cancer has been cured. It doesn't necessarily mean remission in the traditional sense either. It means the disease is not progressing. It means the scan looks essentially like the last one. There is no evidence that it is gaining ground.

For someone living with these lymphomas, stability is not settling for second best.

Stable is a victory.

Part of that victory is something many people never see.

The treatments that saved my life also erased much of my immune system's memory. CAR-T therapy didn't just train my immune system to fight cancer. The chemotherapy leading up to it wiped out much of the immune protection my body had spent decades building. In many ways, my immune system has been starting over from scratch.

Yestrrday marked another milestone in that rebuilding process.

One hundred eighty-eight days after my CAR-T infusion, I began receiving the next round of vaccines to teach my immune system what it once knew. That included COVID-19, pneumococcal, meningococcal conjugate, DTaP (diphtheria, tetanus, and pertussis), and hepatitis A and B vaccines. Most of us receive these throughout childhood and rarely think about them again. I found myself getting excited to receive them because they represent something far bigger than a series of shots.

As my nurse prepared the syringes, I smiled and told her, "I'm a strong Jedi."

She laughed, probably wondering where that came from.

I told her it was something our youngest son, Noah, used to say whenever he needed shots as a little boy. Noah hated needles, but before each one he'd square his shoulders, take a deep breath, and remind himself that he was a strong Jedi. It was his way of finding a little courage when he needed it most.

Yesterday, I borrowed a little of Noah's courage.

Life has a funny way of coming full circle. Years ago, we were encouraging our little boy through a few childhood vaccinations. I found myself repeating his words as I started rebuilding an immune system that had been wiped clean in order to save my life.

They represent recovery.

They represent an immune system that is strong enough to begin learning again.

It is a strange feeling to realize your body has forgotten so much of what it once knew. It is an even more incredible feeling to watch it slowly relearn.

That makes this scan even more meaningful.

While my immune system continues to rebuild itself, the lymphoma is not moving forward. My blood counts continue to improve. Physical therapy is helping me regain strength and balance. Each week brings another small reminder that healing is rarely dramatic. More often, it happens quietly, one step at a time.

Nineteen months ago, success meant making it to the next treatment.

Later, it meant seeing my blood counts slowly climb.

188 days after CAR-T, success means another stable PET scan, another round of vaccines, and another opportunity to keep moving forward.

Would I love to hear the words "cured?" Absolutely.

Would I celebrate hearing "complete remission?" Without question.

But for where I am today, stable is exactly the word I hoped to hear.

Stable means there is no new disease.

Stable means the disease isn't winning.

Stable means I get to keep planning adventures with Maria. It means more time with our children, family, friends, and my Scouts. It means I get to keep writing, keep hiking a little farther, keep rebuilding my strength, and keep looking toward the future instead of constantly over my shoulder.

Cancer has taught me that victories don't always come with fireworks.

Sometimes they arrive quietly in a radiology report that says "unchanged."

Sometimes they come in the form of a handful of vaccines that most people haven't thought about since they were children.

Sometimes victory isn't crossing the finish line.

Sometimes victory is simply earning another mile.

I'll gladly celebrate another mile, and I'll gladly celebrate one simple word.

Stable.

May the Force be with you.

It is past midnight, and sleep is hard to come by, right now.

In a few hours, I will head to my local oncologist for lab work before we travel to New York City for my six-month PET scan. My anxiety is incredibly high. While I know that we will have a definitive plan forward regardless of the outcome, the nerves are still very real. I will keep everyone updated as things progress.

​In the meantime, I wrote a reflection on a conversation I recently had with a new Scouting leader. If Scouting is not your primary interest or the reason you visit this website, feel free to skip the rest of this post. However, I believe it contains a valuable leadership lesson for everyone, whether or not you are involved in the Scouting movement or not.

One of the best parts about being involved in Scouting is the conversations that happen after a meeting, or campout. The chairs, or tents, are put away and the coffee is getting cold, when someone asks a question that turns into an hour long discussion.

I had just one of those conversations with a brand new unit leader. We were talking about cliques and how quickly they can take root if no one is paying attention.

That conversation stuck with me. It also reminded me of something else I’ve been watching develop over the last few months in a different Scouting setting.

Over the years, I’ve seen this happen in units, at advanced Scouting trainings for both youth and adults, and throughout other parts of the Scouting program. I’ve also watched outstanding leaders, along with council and national leadership, recognize the warning signs and step in before the problem grew. The difference was never luck. They were paying attention, setting the example, and refusing to let anyone be left standing outside the circle.

The funny thing is that just about every adult believes they would recognize a clique if one started to form. But most don’t.

We're pretty good at spotting the obvious youth sitting by themselves at mealtimes. We're not nearly as good at noticing the Scout who is always "included" but never really belongs. They're there. They help clean up. They smile when you talk to them. They laugh at the jokes. Yet somehow they're never the one asked to lead the hike, cook dinner, teach the new Scout, or represent the unit.

If you're thinking, That would never happen in my unit, I'd encourage you to look a little closer. I say that because I've had to do the same thing. None of us are immune from missing what's right in front of us.

Scouting is supposed to be one of the great equalizers. Young people show up from different neighborhoods, different schools, different family situations, and different walks of life.

They all put on the same uniform. That's intentional. The uniform reminds us that everyone starts on equal footing. Character, not popularity, is supposed to determine who we become.

The patrol method is what makes that promise real.

On paper, it sounds simple. Put six to eight Scouts together, let them elect a patrol leader, give them responsibility, and let them learn by doing. They plan menus, cook meals, solve problems, make mistakes, and hopefully learn from every one of them.

Notice what isn't in that description.

It doesn't say adults disappear.

Sometimes people hear "youth led" and think that means adults should sit back in their camp chairs with a cup of coffee, solve the world's problems, and only get involved if someone catches the Dutch oven on fire. That's not youth leadership. That's adult disengagement.

The adult's role is actually harder than taking over. We are coaches, mentors, and guardians of the culture. We observe the patrol dynamics. We ask questions instead of giving answers. We create opportunities for every Scout to lead. We quietly redirect when one or two personalities begin dominating the patrol. We make sure the quiet Scout has the same opportunity to grow as the outspoken one.

Good adult leaders know when to step back.

Great adult leaders know when to quietly step in.

When adults stop paying attention, the patrol method begins to unravel. The unit slowly becomes less about patrols and more about friend groups. Leadership opportunities start rotating through the same handful of Scouts. Before long, popularity becomes the unofficial requirement for responsibility.

That isn't the patrol method.

That's just middle school with tents.

Sometimes it's obvious.

Sometimes it's as simple as the same four Scouts deciding they're cooking every campout because "they're good at it." The quieter Scout ends up washing dishes again. Nobody intended to exclude anyone. It just happened.

Then it happens again, and again, and again…

Before long you've accidentally created a culture instead of a coincidence.

I've also seen the other extreme.

Every now and then an adult decides they want to be sixteen again.

You know the type. They're always sitting with the same group of Scouts, laughing at the jokes, handing out high fives, and somehow every interesting job finds its way to that same circle of friends. Somewhere along the way they stopped being a mentor and started campaigning for Most Popular Adult.

Young people notice these things far more than we give them credit for.

They notice who gets invited.

They notice who gets overlooked.

Most importantly, they notice whether the adults notice.

One of the ideas I've written about before is assuming noble intent. I don't think most leaders intentionally create unhealthy environments. Quite the opposite. I think most genuinely care.

The problem is that good intentions don't replace awareness.

Leadership begins with paying attention.

As a commissioner, one of the first things I do when I visit a unit isn't look at advancement records or whether the flags were posted correctly. Those things matter, but they aren't what concerns me first.

I'm looking for the Scout standing alone.

Not necessarily physically alone.

Emotionally alone.

The one who hasn't spoken.

The one nobody asks for an opinion.

The one who quietly helps but never seems to belong.

If I can identify that Scout after spending ten minutes in a meeting, chances are the unit leaders can too.

The question isn't whether they saw them.

The question is whether they chose to do something about it.

Every Scout who walks through the door deserves the full promise of Scouting. They deserve to feel safe. They deserve to be challenged. They deserve opportunities to lead. Most of all, they deserve to know they belong.

Years from now, very few Scouts will remember who made the best Dutch oven cobbler or whose patrol won the camporee. They will remember how people made them feel. They'll remember whether someone believed in them. They'll remember whether an adult noticed them before they quietly disappeared.

As adult leaders, we spend a lot of time thinking about what we say. We prepare Scoutmaster's Minutes. We teach knots, first aid, and leadership. We explain the Scout Oath and Scout Law.

The truth is, the youth are watching us long before we ever stand up to teach.

They're watching who we sit next to at dinner.

They're watching who we invite into conversations.

They're watching whether we include the new parent standing by themselves or drift back to the same group of old friends.

They're watching whether we encourage the new assistant leader or leave them wondering where they fit.

They're watching whether we gossip, whether we complain, and whether we treat every volunteer with respect.

They're watching us after the flags are put away.

They're watching us when it gets dark around the campfire.

Those are the moments that reveal who we really are.

If we want our youth to pull up another chair for the Scout sitting alone, they first need to see us pull up another chair for someone else.

Pull one up for the new parent who doesn't know anyone.

Pull one up for the quiet assistant leader who is still trying to find their place.

Pull one up for the commissioner visiting your meeting.

Pull one up for the volunteer who always seems to be on the outside of the conversation.

Inclusion isn't another lesson we teach.

It's a behavior we model.

Culture doesn't change because we spend five minutes talking about kindness at the end of a meeting. It changes because the adults consistently demonstrate what belonging looks like. Young people are incredibly observant. They don't become what we tell them to be nearly as often as they become what they see us doing.

So the next time you're sitting around a picnic table, standing at a campfire, or sharing coffee after a committee meeting, take a moment and look around.

Who is standing alone?

Who hasn't spoken?

Who looks like they're waiting for someone to notice them?

Then do something wonderfully simple.

Pull up another chair.

Invite them into the conversation.

Learn their story.

The youth will notice.

One day, when we're no longer wearing the uniform or sitting around that campfire, they'll do the same for someone else.

That may be the most important thing we ever teach them.

Today is my last day as a federal employee and I find myself looking back on a journey that didn’t actually start with a badge, a uniform, or a college degree. It started a lot earlier than that.

I’ve been working in some capacity since I was 11 years old.

At 11: I had my first newspaper route.

At 13: I was cleaning floors and stocking shelves at a local pharmacy (while simultaneously running a wholesale comic book business, entirely oblivious to tax laws).

At 14: I started washing dishes, eventually working my way up to prep cook and line cook.

At 18: I traded the kitchen apron for an Army uniform.

When I left active duty, the grind continued. I worked as a waiter, a carpet cleaner, and a mental health worker at a psychiatric hospital, all while putting myself through college.

When I finally landed at the Missouri State Public Defender Office, my real foundational training began. No course or textbook could match what I learned on the ground there. It gave me the bedrock principle that guided the rest of my career: Follow the facts, not feelings.

That early foundation paved the way for more than three decades of public service.

Looking back, I am incredibly grateful for every assignment, every challenge, and most importantly, every person who helped me along the way. No one accomplishes anything meaningful alone.

Whatever success I achieved belongs as much to my colleagues as it does to me. Throughout my career, I had the privilege of working alongside extraordinary auditors, analysts, investigators, attorneys, support staff, and leaders.

The cases and accomplishments matter, but what I will remember most are the people. The friendships, mentorships, and shared sense of purpose are what made this career meaningful.

The last 19 months have given me a completely different perspective on work and life. Facing serious health challenges forced me to evaluate what truly matters.

Titles eventually change. Offices get cleaned out. Badges, credentials, and equipment are turned in.

What remains are the relationships we build, the people we love, the lives we touch, and the legacy we leave behind through our actions. For me, the roles that matter most moving forward are husband, father, son, brother, friend, mentor, and servant to others.

One Piece of Advice for Those Still Serving

Figure out what matters most sooner rather than later.

Work is important. Service is honorable. Dedication is admirable. But remember to make time for the people and experiences that make life meaningful. The reports will get written. The cases will get closed. The emails will keep coming. Time with family, friends, and those you care about is far more difficult to replace.

Thank you to everyone who shared this journey with me. Thank you for your friendship, guidance, patience, support, and trust. You made me a better investigator, a better leader, and a better person. It has been an absolute honor to serve alongside you.

The future is wide open and I'm looking forward to navigating the next chapter of my life.

Over the last eighteen months, I have spent a lot of time in hospitals, clinics, infusion centers, waiting rooms, hotel lobbies, elevators, and doctor's offices. I've met people facing some of the hardest days of their lives.

I've watched families celebrate good news and quietly absorb difficult news. Through all of it, one thing has stood out to me more than I expected: A smile matters.

It is such a simple thing that we often overlook its power.

Ron Gutman gave a TED Talk called "The Hidden Power of Smiling" that explores the science behind something most of us do without thinking. Researchers have found that smiling can influence how we feel, how others perceive us, and even how we handle stress. Studies discussed in the talk suggest that people who smile are often viewed as more competent, more approachable, and more trustworthy. Smiling also appears to trigger positive responses in our brains and can help reduce some of the physical effects of stress.

What struck me most was not the science itself. It was how often I have witnessed those findings play out in real life.

I have seen nurses walk into a room carrying difficult news and still offer a warm smile that reminded a patient they were more than a chart number. I have seen fellow patients smile at one another in waiting rooms without saying a word, silently acknowledging that we were all walking a similar road. I have watched strangers exchange smiles in elevators at treatment centers and somehow make an otherwise ordinary moment feel a little less lonely.

A smile does not solve problems.

It does not cure cancer.

It does not erase grief, disappointment, fear, or uncertainty.

What it can do is remind us of our shared humanity.

One of the things cancer has taught me is that kindness is often found in the smallest moments. A door held open. A brief conversation. Someone asking how you are doing and genuinely waiting for the answer.

A smile often accompanies all of those things. It becomes a signal that says, "I see you."

Perhaps that is why smiling is contagious. Researchers have found that seeing someone smile often triggers activity in our own brains that encourages us to smile back. We are wired for connection. We are built to respond to one another.

That does not mean we need to force happiness.

There are days when smiling feels easy and days when it feels impossible. There were certainly days during treatment when I did not feel particularly cheerful. Yet even then, I discovered something interesting.
Sometimes the act of smiling was less about expressing happiness and more about expressing hope.

Hope that tomorrow would be better.

Hope that the next scan would bring good news.

Hope that the people I love would know I was still fighting.

Hope that there would be more miles to hike, more Dave Matthews concerts to attend, more family dinners to enjoy, and more memories to make.

A smile became less about pretending everything was okay and more about refusing to surrender to despair.

I find myself appreciating simple things more than I once did. A sunset. A conversation with a friend. Time with Maria and the boys. The greeting from my dog Tonks who acts like I've been gone for a year when I was only outside for five minutes.

Most of those moments naturally bring a smile.

Maybe that is part of the lesson.

We spend so much time chasing the big milestones that we forget how much of life is lived in the ordinary moments. A smile helps us notice them. It slows us down just enough to appreciate what is right in front of us.

So today, smile at someone.

Smile at a stranger.

Smile at a coworker.

Smile at the cashier.

Smile at your spouse.

Smile at your kids.

Smile at yourself in the mirror.

You never know what burden someone else is carrying. You never know when a small act of kindness might arrive at exactly the right moment.

Sometimes the simplest things turn out to be the most powerful.

My three-week trip to New York for treatment started early Monday morning with a stop at my local oncology office. Blood was drawn, numbers were reviewed, and we discovered my platelet count had dropped more than we would have liked.

There wasn’t any immediate concern. The likely culprit was a combination of a busy weekend, not enough rest, and spending more time than usual in the heat and sun. My body still likes to remind me that it has limits, even when I feel stronger than I did a few months ago.

To stay ahead of things, we decided to restart and increase my Romiplostim dose. Nothing dramatic, just enough to give my bone marrow a little extra encouragement and keep my immune system operating where it needs to be.

With my appointment behind me, I had a little time before picking up Maria from work. Rather than sit in the car scrolling through my phone, I wandered through a bookstore. I spent some time browsing, making mental notes of titles I might come back for one day.

One important update for the members of the “Let Maria Be The Passenger” committee: I drove the entire trip this time. Every mile up to the hotel. Every traffic jam. Every toll booth. You can all take a deep breath and rest easy knowing I finally did my part. I’m sure Maria appreciated the break, even if she still had to listen to my commentary along the way.

The morning of treatment arrived with the usual challenge of navigating New York City traffic. This trip came with an added wrinkle: World Cup traffic. What is normally a manageable drive into Manhattan turned into an extra hour of inching our way through crowded streets. Fortunately, we left early and built plenty of extra time into the schedule. Getting frustrated at traffic accomplishes absolutely nothing.

Once we arrived at Memorial Sloan Kettering, things settled back into the familiar rhythm that has become part of these visits. Check in. Wait. Labs. Treatment. Repeat.

While waiting for my infusion, I walked over to one of the windows overlooking Roosevelt Island. My sister Tara loves the island, and over the course of my treatment it has become a tradition for me to send her a picture from the fifteenth floor during each visit. The view has become one of those small constants in a season of life that has contained very few of them.

As I was taking the photo, a young woman walked over and began singing about looking out the window. She was completely making it up as she went, turning the moment into a freestyle song. It caught me off guard and made me laugh. Before I could really respond or thank her, she turned around and went back to her chair.

The entire interaction lasted a few seconds, but it stayed with me.

Hospitals can be heavy places. Everyone sitting in those chairs is carrying something. Some are worried. Some are exhausted. Some are waiting for answers. Some are celebrating good news. For a brief moment, one person chose to bring a little joy into the room. It was a simple act of kindness from a stranger, but it made the day a little brighter.

The infusion itself went smoothly. I’ll continue the booster shots for the next few weeks while my immune system keeps working its way back toward normal. My next trip to New York is scheduled for early July, when I’ll have my six-month scan.

That date has been sitting quietly in the back of my mind for a while now. No matter how positive the recent news has been, there is always a little uncertainty leading up to these appointments. I’ve learned that worrying about the results today won’t change what they will be tomorrow. The best thing I can do is focus on what is in front of me.

For now, that means following the treatment plan, listening to my doctors, enjoying time with my family, and appreciating small moments, and seranades, when they appear.

Last night, Gabriel and I stood among thousands of people at a Dave Matthews Band concert, singing along to songs I've heard countless times before. The band was in fire, the music was great, the crowd was energetic, the weather was remarkably cooperative, and for a few hours the worries and responsibilities of everyday life seemed to fade into the background.

Then came the encore.

Dave stepped to the microphone and began playing an acoustic version of Beach Ball.

Of all the songs in the Dave Matthews Band catalog, this one carries a different weight for me.

I've written about this song in a previous post and what it meant to me.

Over the last eighteen months, I have spent more time than I ever expected in chairs, treatment rooms, and traveling to New York City for more cancer treatment. The routines became familiar. The blood draws. The scans. The chemotherapy. The radiation. The CAR-T. The scans. The waiting.

There is a strange rhythm to being a patient. Life narrows. You focus on the next appointment, the next treatment, the next scan, the next set of blood work. The future becomes measured in weeks instead of years. You learn to celebrate small victories because sometimes they are the only victories available.

During the last 18 months, Beach Ball found its way into my headphones more often.

The song has always felt different to me. It carries a sense of hope without pretending life is easy. It acknowledges that there are storms while reminding us there is still beauty worth holding onto. The imagery of a beach ball floating through the air feels like a reminder that life is meant to be shared. Something passed from one person to another. Something that connects strangers, if only for a moment.

That idea resonated with me during treatment.

Cancer has a way of stripping away the illusion that we control everything. It forces you to accept uncertainty. It teaches you that some days you are strong and some days you are not. It reminds you that none of us gets through life alone.

What made the moment even more meaningful was learning afterward just how rare it was.

Beach Ball had not been played in 328 shows. More than six years had passed since its last appearance in February 2020. It was also the first time Dave Matthews Band had ever used the song to open an encore.

For everyone in attendance, it was a surprise. For me, it felt personal.

Standing there hearing it live after all these years felt almost impossible. The odds of hearing it last night were incredibly small. Yet there it was, opening the encore as if it had been waiting for the right moment to return.

One lyric has stayed with me throughout this journey:

"Give me scars to bring me grace."

I don't know if another line has hit me quite the same way over the last year and a half.

Most of us spend our lives trying to avoid scars. We hide them. We wish they weren't there. We see them as reminders of pain, failure, loss, or battles we never wanted to fight.

Yet scars tell another story.

A scar means you survived something.

A scar means healing took place.

A scar means the wound did not get the final word.

My scars are not all visible. Some came from procedures, treatments, and the physical toll cancer takes on a body. Others came from fear, uncertainty, difficult conversations, and long nights wondering what came next. Some of those scars arrived long before cancer ever entered my life.

What I have learned is that grace often arrives through those scars.

Grace is found in the people who sat beside me during appointments. It is found in the doctors and nurses who dedicate their lives to helping others. It is found in family members who quietly carry burdens alongside you. It is found in friends who call, text, pray, and check in when they don't know what else to do.

Grace is found in realizing how much you need other people.

Grace is found in understanding that every day is a gift.

Grace is found in learning that strength and vulnerability can exist in the same person at the same time.

As the final notes drifted across the crowd, I couldn't help but smile, with a few tears in my eyes.

Thousands of people heard a rare song.

I heard a reminder.

A reminder of how far I've come.

A reminder of the people who have walked this road beside me.

A reminder that healing is rarely a straight line.

A reminder that grace often shows up where we least expect it.

The song ended. The crowd cheered. Gabriel stood beside me and recognized the moment for what it was to me.

Like every concert, the evening eventually came to an end.

The lesson didn't.

Sometimes grace arrives in a hospital room.

Sometimes it arrives through the kindness of another person.

Sometimes it arrives through a phone call, a prayer, or a hand on your shoulder.

Sometimes it arrives in the form of a song that hasn't been played in more than six years, returning at exactly the moment you needed to hear it.

Thanks Dave for playing that song.

Thank you all for being with me on this journey.

A few weeks ago, several of my blood counts were moving in the right direction at a pretty good pace. Part of that progress was thanks to the weekly injections I had been receiving to help boost my immune system. We stopped those shots for a while to see how my body would do on its own. After reviewing my labs yesterday, my oncologist and I decided it would be a good idea to start them back up for a little while longer.

A few of the numbers that are important for my participation in the clinical study have drifted downward. Nothing alarming, and certainly nothing that has anyone worried, but enough to show that my immune system is still rebuilding itself and could use a little extra support. The goal is simple: keep things moving in the right direction and avoid any disruption to the study.

It may also explain why I’ve been feeling more tired than usual lately. Not exhausted, just the kind of tired where an afternoon nap can easily turn into sleeping away half the day. It’s a reminder that even though I feel better than I did a year ago, my body is still hard at work repairing itself.

I’m continuing to stay active and keep up with the exercises my physical therapist gives me. Every time I think I’ve mastered one exercise, she seems to find another weakness that needs attention. The good news is that I don’t trip nearly as much as I used to, and I’ve regained a lot of strength in my left foot. The range of motion still isn’t where I’d like it to be, but I’m learning how to work with what I’ve got.

Today, I went to the range for the final time as a federal agent.

As I drove there this morning, I found myself thinking about my very first range day nearly twenty-six years ago. Special Agent Ron W. took me to an old range run by a local Texas police department to familiarize me with the weapon and see what kind of shooting skills I brought to the table. I can still picture that day clearly. The smell of gunpowder, the Texas heat, the nervous excitement of being brand new. It feels like it happened a few months ago, not more than two decades ago. Time has a way of compressing itself as the years go by.

Watching the younger agents shoot today filled me with a sense of pride. Long after I turn in my credentials, they will continue the mission of investigating fraud, waste, and abuse. They will carry the work forward, just as others did when it was my turn to step into the role.

When my turn came, I stepped onto the firing line one last time.

I settled into my stance, focused on the target, and let everything else fall away. For those few moments, there was no cancer. No retirement planning. No doctor’s appointments. No decisions about what comes next.

There was only the target and the task in front of me.

It felt peaceful. Almost like touching Nirvana for a brief moment.

As ready as I am for this chapter to end, I know there are things I will miss. More than anything, I will miss the people.

Some of my closest friends were made through this work. We spent countless hours together in surveillance vehicles baking under the relentless Texas sun, staring at a house and waiting for something...anything...to happen.

We froze through North Dakota winters that seemed determined to test the limits of human endurance.

We sweated through the heavy, humid air of Baton Rouge in the middle of July.

We sat in dirty living rooms and cluttered basements waiting for forensic processes to finish long after everyone else had returned to the hotel.

We were absolutely manhandled by Krav Maga instructors during a training in Atlantic City. What looked simple when they demonstrated it became a completely different story when it was our turn on the mat. Every mistake in balance, positioning, or technique was quickly exposed, often with us ending up on the ground wondering what had just happened.

We spent late nights in the office staring at logs, records, and mountains of data, trying to make sense of what we were seeing.

Along the way, we shared bad coffee, long drives, inside jokes, frustrations, victories, endless searches for a restroom in the middle of nowhere, and a truly unhealthy amount of Twizzlers.

Those experiences create bonds that are difficult to explain to people who haven’t lived them. The memories become part of who you are.

I know I’ll experience a lot of emotions between now and my retirement date on June 27. For now, I’m trying to appreciate each remaining day.

Standing on the range today, hearing the crack of pistol fire and catching the familiar scent of gunpowder drifting through the air, I realized something.

What I’ll miss most isn’t the job.

It’s the people.

I’m proud of those members of the OIG community who will carry the mission forward. I’m proud of the work they’ve done and the work they will continue to do. Most of all, I’m grateful for the opportunity to stand beside them for the last twenty-six years.

When I finally walk out the door for the last time, that’s what I’ll take with me.

Not the badges, titles, or cases.

The people.

A few days ago, I found myself in a spirited discussion with a friend about one of my guilty pleasures: the 7-Eleven roller hot dog.

Before you judge me too harshly, let me be clear. This is not a weekly ritual. It is not even an annual event. A roller dog appearance in my life occurs roughly once every two or three years, usually during a road trip, a late-night drive, or some other circumstance where convenience stores become temporary oases.

When I confessed this affection, my friend reacted with a level of disgust normally reserved for food poisoning and congressional hearings.

"You actually eat those things?"

I explained that yes, I do. Occasionally.

Her response suggested I had admitted to chewing on old tires.

The debate went back and forth for a while until she finally threw down a challenge. "If you can write about a 7-Eleven hot dog in a way that makes me want to eat one, I'll try it."

Challenge accepted.

The first mistake people make is viewing the roller dog as fast food.

It is not. It is slow food.

Unlike its backyard-grilled cousins that spend a few frantic minutes over open flame, the roller dog is given time. It rotates patiently for hours, turning slowly like a rotisserie masterpiece. Every revolution is part of a deliberate process. The exterior gradually darkens and caramelizes while the interior remains tender and juicy.

As the hours pass, tiny beads of flavor begin to emerge on the surface. Some might call them grease. Those people lack imagination.

What they are witnessing is the hot dog's essence being carefully coaxed outward, a self-basting process that would make many chefs nod in quiet appreciation. The roller dog spends its day bathing in its own savory richness, becoming something greater than the sum of its humble ingredients.

Then comes the bun. Soft. Warm. Steamed. Not toasted. Not crunchy. Not competing for attention. The perfect straight man to this duo. The bun understands its role in this performance. It serves as the stage upon which the star can shine.

The hot dog is carefully craddled inside, creating a blank canvas awaiting the artist's final touch. That artist, of course, is you.

Now we move to the condiment station, one of the great underappreciated culinary experiences in America. A line of possibilities stretches before you.

The ketchup arrives first, bringing sweetness and tang. Then comes the mustard, sharp and assertive, cutting through the richness with just enough bite to keep things interesting. The two mingle together in a partnership that has survived generations.

Next come the onions. Their crunch provides texture and contrast. The relish follows, delivering little bursts of sweetness, acidity, and nostalgia. Each bite becomes a carefully balanced composition of flavors and textures.

The warmth of the dog. The softness of the bun. The tang of the ketchup. The sharpness of the mustard. The crunch of the onions. The bright sweetness of the relish.

It is not fine dining. It does not pretend to be.

The roller dog possesses something far more important.

Self-awareness.

It knows exactly what it is.

There is no pretense. No foam. No reduction. No deconstruction. No chef explaining the concept behind the dish.

It is a hot dog on a roller.

Yet somehow, standing in a convenience store at 10:30 at night, halfway through a road trip, with miles still ahead and a fountain drink in your hand, it becomes exactly what you needed.

Maybe that's why I enjoy one every few years. Not because it is the greatest food ever created.

It isn't.

But because every now and then, something simple reminds us that joy doesn't always arrive in expensive packages. Sometimes it comes rotating slowly under fluorescent lights, waiting patiently for someone willing to keep an open mind.

So, my friend, the next time you find yourself standing in a 7-Eleven, I encourage you to approach the roller grill without prejudice.

Take a breath. Embrace the experience. Add the onions. Trust the process.

Art is where you find it.

For much of my life, I believed deeply in the phrase: “If it is to be, it is up to me.”

There is strength in those words. Personal responsibility matters. Ownership matters. Effort matters. Nobody can live your life for you, and eventually all of us reach moments where we must choose whether we will move forward or remain stuck where fear left us.

That mindset carried me through difficult seasons. Through leadership roles. Through setbacks. Through cancer. Through moments where simply getting out of bed felt like an act of defiance.

But lately, I have been thinking about another philosophy. One that balances that rugged individualism with something equally important. One that a friend of mine John Lesko said to me when I discussed "If it is to be, it is up to me."

Ubuntu.

A word and philosophy rooted in southern Africa, often summarized as: “I am because we are.” Or more simply: “A person is a person through other people.”

Thais idea changes everything.

Because while determination matters, none of us truly survive alone.

Not really.

As Americans, we are often taught to celebrate self-made people. The lone figure overcoming impossible odds through grit and willpower. We admire independence so much that sometimes we forget how interconnected we actually are.

But when I look honestly at my life, especially over the last eighteen months, I cannot pretend I got through any of this alone.

When cancer entered my life, I did not fight by myself. Maria stood beside me through every appointment, every setback, every fear-filled night where uncertainty hung heavy in the room. My boys gave me reasons to keep pushing forward and offered their strength when mine faltered. Friends and distant family members checked in when I needed encouragement. Doctors, nurses, and therapists poured their knowledge and compassion into helping me heal. People prayed for me. People fed us. People sat with us in silence when words were not enough. Even strangers offered kindness.

That is Ubuntu.

The truth is, healing is rarely an individual act. So much of life is communal, whether we admit it or not.

The older I get, the more I realize that leadership works the same way.

Early in my career, I thought being a good leader meant having all the answers. Being strong enough, capable enough, driven enough to solve every problem myself.

But the best teams I have ever been part of were never built around one person. They were built around trust. Shared sacrifice. Shared purpose. People lifting each other when somebody stumbled. My previous boss Chuck Coe exemplified this idea. He walked the walk and relied on his team to deliver excellence. I miss him greatly and found myself wishing I could tap into his knowledge when I became a senior executive. But even though he was gone, he left a team of other amazing leaders that worked alongside of him and were their for me when I needed it.

A healthy team understands something important: your success is tied to mine.

That idea transformed the way I tried to lead people.

Instead of asking, “How do I succeed?” I started asking, “How do we succeed together?” That is a much harder question. But it is also a much more meaningful one. Ubuntu reminds us that our actions ripple outward.

The kindness we show matters. The bitterness we carry affects others. The grace we extend changes environments.

The love we give shapes families. The encouragement we offer may keep somebody else going another day.

None of us are isolated islands. We belong to one another more than we realize.

Even now, as I continue rebuilding strength physically and emotionally, I am reminded daily that recovery is not just about my own effort.

Yes, I still have to do the work. I still have to show up for physical therapy. I still have to take care of my health. I still have to make difficult choices.

But I do not walk this road alone.

Maybe that is the balance life tries to teach us. “If it is to be, it is up to me” reminds us to take responsibility for our lives.

But Ubuntu reminds us that responsibility does not mean isolation. Strength and community are not opposites. They are partners. We rise together. We heal together. We grieve together. We celebrate together.

Maybe the deeper truth is this: “If it is to be, it is up to us.” Not because individual effort does not matter. But because humanity has always moved forward shoulder to shoulder.

None of us become who we are alone.

I am because we are.

Thank you John Lesko for helping me reframe this idea, many years ago.

Here’s a quick medical update for everyone.

Maria and I made the trip up to New York City yesterday for my appointment at MSK this morning. Instead of fighting our way through Baltimore and Christiana traffic, we took Route 50 to 301 on the way up. It added a little distance, but it was absolutely worth it. The drive was calmer, quieter, and honestly a lot more peaceful. There’s something about that stretch of road that allows you to breathe a little easier and simply take in the scenery instead of gripping the steering wheel in frustration.

The appointment itself brought encouraging news. My blood work continues to look good, and several of the numbers they have been closely watching are still moving in the right direction. That’s a blessing I don’t take lightly. Because things continue trending positively, it looks like we may be able to reduce the frequency of my weekly visits to the local oncology center. That feels like another small but meaningful milestone in this journey.

We also scheduled my six-month PET scan for early July. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some anxiety attached to that. These scans always carry a certain emotional weight. You try not to let your mind wander too far ahead, but there’s always that quiet uncertainty sitting in the background.

At the same time, this journey has taught me something important. No matter what the results eventually show, we keep moving forward. We keep fighting. We keep trusting in God, in medicine, and in the people walking beside us. Cancer may shape parts of this chapter, but it does not get to write the ending.

There are ideas that quietly reshape your life without you realizing it at the time. They settle into your thinking slowly, then one day you look back and realize they changed the way you lead, communicate, and see other people.

For me, one of those ideas was “assume noble intent.”

Recently, my friend Tim Krause brought this phrase back to my mind after reading about it on my blog. Hearing him talk about wanting to share that mindset with his students made me smile, because it reminded me just how much that idea shaped me when I first embraced it around 2019.

At the time, I do not think I fully appreciated how much I needed it. Here is a link to the article: Do You Assume Noble Intent?

Leadership can harden people if they are not careful. When you spend years managing teams, solving problems, handling conflict, and dealing with pressure, it becomes very easy to grow cynical. You start anticipating excuses instead of explanations. You expect conflict before collaboration. You begin reading frustration, laziness, disrespect, or hidden motives into situations before giving people the benefit of the doubt.

I think many leaders fall into that trap without even noticing it.

But somewhere around 2019, this idea of assuming noble intent found its way into my thinking, and honestly, it changed the way I interacted with people.

The concept itself is simple: Most people are not waking up in the morning trying to make your life harder.

That sounds obvious, but it is amazing how often we forget it.

Someone sends a short email and we assume they are angry. Someone misses a deadline and we assume they do not care. Someone forgets to include us and we assume disrespect. Someone disagrees with us and we assume bad motives.

The mind fills gaps quickly, and unfortunately it often fills them with negative assumptions.

Assuming noble intent interrupts that cycle. It taught me to pause before reacting. To ask questions before making conclusions. To seek understanding before assigning blame, and over time, that changed the culture of the teams I led.

Instead of approaching situations with, my typical hot headiness:“Why did you do this?” I forced myself to say: “Help me understand what happened.”

This difference matters. One approach puts someone immediately on the defensive. The other invites honesty. It also relaxes me and gives me more clarity.

People opened up more when they felt they were being heard instead of judged. Conversations became less confrontational and more collaborative. Problems were solved faster because energy was not wasted protecting egos.

More importantly, it made me more empathetic.

You begin realizing that every person around you is carrying things you cannot see. Stress at home. Fear. Financial pressure. Illness. Anxiety. Grief. Exhaustion. Personal battles they may never speak aloud.

Sometimes what looks like indifference is actually burnout. Sometimes frustration is fear. Sometimes silence is someone simply trying to hold themselves together.

Over the last eighteen months especially, that lesson has become even more personal for me.

When you walk through serious illness, you realize quickly how invisible struggles can be. There were days I looked fine externally while internally I was exhausted, anxious, overwhelmed, or scared. That experience deepened my belief that we rarely know the full story another person is carrying.

That does not mean accountability disappears. Assuming noble intent is not about being naive or ignoring harmful behavior. Some people absolutely make selfish choices. Some people manipulate situations. Some people act with poor intentions.

But most people are simply human and humans are messy; sometimes. What I have learned is that grace often accomplishes far more than suspicion ever will.

The world feels increasingly conditioned to assume the worst in one another. Social media thrives on outrage and conflict. People are quick to judge motives without ever asking questions first.

But leadership, real leadership, requires empathy. Not weakness. Not avoidance. Empathy.

Assume noble intent. Lead with curiosity. Give people room to explain. Listen longer. React slower.

You may discover, as I am, that people often rise to the level of grace they are given.

I have a quick ask for you.

As my posts about cancer treatment and recovery have started to lessen, thanks to the grace of God and the miracle of modern medicine, I’ve been wondering about the future of this blog.

Many of you originally joined me here for medical updates, and I never want these posts to become just another notification or piece of clutter filling your inbox. Time is precious, and I want to be respectful of yours.

At the same time, this space has evolved into something I never quite expected. I’ve found that I genuinely enjoy writing, not just about recovery, but about life, family, service, reflection, and the random thoughts that drift through my mind during quiet mornings or long drives.

So I wanted to ask you directly: Would you like me to continue sharing those kinds of non-cancer-related posts here, or would you prefer I create a separate blog for them?

Please leave your thoughts in the comments, or feel free to reach out by phone, text, or email.

Most of all, thank you. Thank you for walking beside me through the last chapter of my life and recovery. Your encouragement, kindness, prayers, and presence have meant more than I can properly express.

This blog became something far bigger and more meaningful than I ever imagined, and that’s because of all of you.

I am writing this on the drive home, heading south on I-95. A little while ago, we passed the U.S. Coast Guard Academy for the last time as parents of a cadet there. That realization hit me a little harder than I expected.

For four years, that place represented so much in our lives. It was where Gabriel was challenged, shaped, tested, and ultimately transformed from a young man into an officer in the United States Coast Guard. Crossing past it today felt like closing a chapter that, in many ways, defined our family’s life during these last few years.

It was important to Maria and me to have our family there to celebrate this milestone with him. Ethan and Noah both made the trip. Maria’s parents came as well, and my father joined us too. Having everyone together mattered. Life gets busy, schedules pull people in different directions, and those moments when the whole family can gather in one place become more meaningful the older I get.

Even Tonks had her part in it all.

She stayed back at the Airbnb during the ceremony, probably confused why everyone suddenly disappeared dressed in nicer clothes than usual. But when Gabriel walked through the door later that evening, she was there waiting for him, tail wagging furiously, bouncing around him like she understood something important had happened. In her own way, she celebrated too.

We are all carrying a little evidence of the day home with us. There’s a slight sting on the top of my head where there’s a little less hair these days, and my face definitely caught more sun than I realized. Maria’s arms and cheeks are tinged red too. It was hot as Hades out there. The kind of heat where the air feels heavy and the sun reflects off every white uniform and metal railing around you.

But none of us cared.

Yesterday was something special.

Before Gabriel’s graduation from the U.S. Coast Guard Academy, I found myself sitting in the reception area for VIPs and distinguished guests. Honestly, it was a little overwhelming at first. Everywhere I looked there were stars and bars on shoulders, senior officers and Chiefs moving through the room, stopping to talk with one another, sharing stories, laughing, and greeting each other like old family members who had simply picked up where they left off.

What stood out most to me was the camaraderie among the older Coast Guard officers and Chiefs. You could feel decades of service in that room. Sacrifice. Deployments. Missed holidays. Storms weathered both at sea and at home. There was a quiet bond there that didn’t need to be explained because every person in that room had lived some version of the same life.

Standing there among them, I felt a little imposter syndrome creeping in. I’m just Gabriel’s dad. A soon to be retired Special Agent. A guy trying to navigate life after cancer treatments and figure out what comes next.

At the worst point of last year, when my body was weak and the future felt uncertain, this was one of the moments I prayed I would live long enough to see. I remember lying awake at night wondering if I would make it to this day. Wondering if I would be healthy enough to travel. Wondering if I would physically have the strength to stand there beside my son.

By the grace of God, I’m still here.

Yesterday, I felt incredibly strong.

I could not be prouder of the young man Gabriel has become. You can clearly see the positive influence the Academy has had on him, not just in his bearing and confidence, but in his character. There’s a maturity there now. A steadiness. A quiet professionalism that wasn’t fully formed when he first arrived at New London years ago.

Then came the moment.

Standing there in the heat, after what felt like the longest speech ever delivered by a sitting President of the United States, I handed Gabriel his commission paperwork. In that instant, every difficult moment from the last eighteen months faded into the background.

The scans. The treatments. The fear. The exhaustion. The uncertainty.

For that brief moment, none of it existed anymore.

There was only joy.

I know that as a member of the military, Gabriel has now sworn an oath to support and defend this country. There will be moments in the years ahead when he and his classmates find themselves in difficult, uncomfortable, and dangerous situations. Service has always carried risk. It asks much from those willing to answer the call.

But I also know they are ready.

The Academy did not simply educate them. It challenged them. It pushed them beyond what they thought they were capable of. It taught them discipline, accountability, leadership, and resilience under pressure.

More importantly, they will not walk this road alone. They will serve beside classmates who have become lifelong friends, bonded through shared hardship and experience. They will learn from Chiefs and senior officers whose wisdom and leadership will guide them through the difficult moments ahead. Watching those interactions this weekend reminded me how important that mentorship and continuity truly are.

One generation teaching the next. Experienced hands helping younger ones find their footing.

That continuity of service may have been the thing that struck me most throughout the entire weekend.

This life comes with sacrifice, not only for those who wear the uniform, but also for their families. Missed birthdays. Holidays spent apart. Long nights waiting for phone calls. Uncertainty that quietly follows military families wherever they go.

Yet despite all of that, there are still men and women willing to raise their right hand and choose service over self for the betterment of all of us. For that, I am deeply grateful.

As a father, there will always be worry somewhere in the back of my mind. I don’t think that ever fully leaves you once you become a parent. But there is far more pride than fear.

There is also something deeply meaningful about the history behind this moment for our family.

Gabriel is the first Cooper to become a military officer since Captain William Cooper, who served during the Mexican-American War and later fought in the Civil War. He was wounded at the Battle of Buena Vista, where his brother was killed. Later, while serving with the 39th Mississippi, he was captured after the Siege of Port Hudson and spent years as a prisoner of war before finally being released near the end of the conflict.

But the Cooper family’s tradition of military service stretches back even further than that.

Back to the Revolutionary War.

Samuel Cooper fought for American independence in South Carolina and was later hanged by the British for being a Patriot.

Since then, generations of Coopers have answered the call to serve. My grandparents fought in the Pacific under General MacArthur during World War II. My father served during Vietnam. I served during Desert Shield and Desert Storm, even though I was never deployed to those operations.

Now Gabriel begins his own chapter of service as an officer in the United States Coast Guard.

Standing there yesterday, watching him receive his commission, I could not help but think about the long line of years stretching between those moments in time.

Different wars. Different uniforms. Different generations. Different Americas.

But still the same choice being made. A young Cooper standing up and choosing a life of service.

I’m sitting here in Mystic, Connecticut, on the eve of Gabriel’s graduation from the U.S. Coast Guard Academy. Family has begun gathering, filling the house with conversation, laughter, and the kind of energy that comes with major life moments. Tomorrow, we will watch our Cadet become an Ensign. I’ll write more about that later this week.

This morning, though, is quiet.

I’m sitting with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, watching Tonks sprint across the backyard with her nose buried in the grass, completely fascinated by every new smell she can find. The morning air is cool, peaceful, still, and full of pollen. As I sit here, my mind keeps drifting back to the last time I was in Mystic.

January 5, 2025. Three days before my cancer diagnosis. Three days before my kidneys started to fail.

At the time, I had no idea how much life was about to change. Looking back now, that trip feels like a photograph taken moments before a storm rolled in. The sky looked the same. The roads were familiar. Everything felt ordinary. Except I was in pain, from what I thought was a kidney stone.

Gabriel and I had made that trip after the OA Lodge Banquet, where he received a Servant Leadership Award for his hard work, dedication, and quiet commitment to Scouting and the Lodge. I remember watching him walk across the room with a mixture of pride and gratitude that is difficult to describe. Not simply pride in an accomplishment, but pride in the kind of young man he was becoming.

What stood out most to me was that none of what Gabriel did was ever about recognition. He never chased applause or attention. He simply showed up, worked hard, helped where needed, and carried himself with humility. Those are the kinds of people who quietly hold organizations together. The ones willing to stay late, do the difficult jobs, and make sacrifices without asking what they will get in return.

Awards eventually get packed away in boxes or hang on walls collecting dust. Character does not. Service does not. Selflessness does not.

On the drive up to Connecticut, Gabriel and I had one of those conversations that only seem to happen during long road trips. Miles of highway stretched ahead while winter trees blurred past the windows. Coffee sat in the cup holders as life unfolded somewhere between exits.

We talked about what it means to live a life of selfless sacrifice. A life rooted in honor. A life where serving others matters more than serving yourself. We talked about responsibility, leadership, and the reality that the right path is often the harder one.

What struck me during that conversation was that, even at a young age, Gabriel already understood something many adults never fully grasp. Service is not about recognition. It is not about titles, patches, awards, beads, or praise. It is about willingly carrying burdens for others simply because it is the right thing to do.

He gets it. Deeply.

He has committed himself to that kind of life.

As a parent, there are moments when you realize your children are no longer simply listening to your words. They are becoming the values you hoped to teach them. That realization hit me somewhere along that drive.

I see that same spirit in my other sons, Ethan and Noah, in several of my fraternity brothers, close friends, fellow Scout leaders, and in many of the youth I have had the privilege to serve over the years.

Men and women who quietly choose service over comfort. Who give their time, energy, and hearts to others expecting little in return. The kind of people who continue showing up long after the applause fades and the recognition disappears. The ones who stay behind to clean up after everyone else has gone home. The ones who carry burdens silently and step forward to help simply because someone needs helping.

What makes them stand apart is that their service is genuine. It is woven into who they are, not something they put on when others are watching.

I still believe deeply in noble intent. I believe most people begin their journey wanting to do good, to serve something greater than themselves, and to leave the world a little better than they found it.

But life has also taught me that not everyone who speaks the language of service is truly motivated by it.

There are people who wear the appearance of service like a uniform or a mask. They know the language. They know how to stand in the right rooms, say the right things, and position themselves where they can be seen. Sometimes they even convince themselves that what they are doing is noble. But eventually the difference becomes clear.

True service costs something.

It requires trust in others, humility, sacrifice, patience, and genuine love for people. A mask can imitate those things for a while, but it cannot sustain them when service becomes inconvenient, painful, or unseen.

Real service is steady. It does not disappear when the spotlight fades. It does not become transactional. It does not weaponize kindness, loyalty, or sacrifice when things no longer go their way.

Over time, I have learned to recognize the difference between those who serve because they love people and those who serve because they love what service gives them.

The people I admire most are the ones whose souls are rooted in service. Not because it benefits them. Not because it elevates their status. But because they genuinely believe other people matter. You can feel the difference in how they lead, how they treat others, and how they carry themselves when nobody is paying attention.

They remind me that goodness still exists in this world in powerful ways, even if it rarely makes headlines.

Looking back now, knowing what was waiting for me only three days later, that trip carries even more meaning. Before the unknown. Before the fear. Before hospitals, scans, and treatments became part of daily life, I had one final ordinary road trip with one of my sons.

A ride filled with laughter, reflection, and conversations about honor, sacrifice, and purpose.

I did not know then how much I would need those lessons in the months ahead. I certainly did not know how much those moments would still be teaching me today.

Hi, my name is Nymphadora Cooper, but everyone calls me Tonks. I’m the Cooper family dog and today I decided to hijack Dad’s blog.

The sun wasn’t even awake yet when Dad stirred. I knew something was different before he even swung his legs out of bed. Dogs know these things. The house had that nervous energy to it. Bags had been moved the night before. Mom kept checking things twice. Noah was awake before any sensible human should ever be awake. That’s when I knew.

Adventure.

Noah clipped on my leash and we stepped out into the cool darkness of the early Virginia morning. The air smelled damp and sleepy, like dew-covered grass mixed with freshly laid mulch. Springfield was quiet except for the occasional hum of tires somewhere far away. Even the squirrels weren’t awake yet. But I still did my patrol of the neighborhood anyway. A good dog has responsibilities.

When we got back, everyone moved quickly. Mom loaded bags. Dad carried his coffee around like it was somehow helping. Noah scratched behind my ears and told me we were going on something called a “road trip.”

Now, I don’t know what a Connecticut is, but I understood the important part. Gabriel was there. Apparently this “Coast Guard” thing means humans disappear for long stretches of time and then everybody gets emotional when they finally see each other again. Humans are strange creatures.

Soon I was settled into the backseat with my blanket, watching the world slowly wake up through the window as we rolled onto I-95.

The sky shifted from black to deep blue and then into that soft orange glow that means morning has officially arrived. Trees blurred past us while Dad’s music drifted through the car.

Virginia became Maryland and that felt important somehow. Because I think this was the first time I had ever left Virginia with my family.

I don’t remember every part of my earliest days, but I remember enough. I was born down in South Carolina. Before I had warm beds, blankets, and humans who called me “good girl,” I had streets. For a few months, the world was cold, hunger, loud noises, and figuring things out one day at a time.

I learned quickly back then. You had to. I learned which humans might offer kindness and which ones would chase you away. I learned how to sleep lightly. I learned what rain felt like when you didn’t have a roof over your head.

Eventually, I ended up in a shelter. I didn’t really understand what was happening then either. One day I was outside trying to survive, and the next I was in a noisy building full of barking dogs, metal doors, nervous energy, and unfamiliar smells. It smelled like fear. But it also smelled a little like hope.

Then Virginia happened. More importantly, my family happened. Dad. Mom. Ethan. Gabriel. Noah. Home.

So when we crossed state lines that morning heading north on I-95, I sat in the backseat watching signs fly past the window and realized just how strange and wonderful life can be. A dog who once wandered the streets alone in South Carolina was now traveling to Connecticut with the some of the people she loved most in the world. That’s a pretty incredible thing when you think about it.

Not long after that, we drove through a place called Baltimore. Even from the highway, I could tell Baltimore had personality. The city rose up around us slowly, brick buildings and industrial shapes appearing beside the water. Massive bridges stretched overhead while ships and cranes stood in the distance like giant metal dinosaurs frozen in place. The roads twisted and curved in ways that made me brace my paws against the seat whenever Mom changed lanes.

Baltimore smelled different than Springfield. Salt from the harbor mixed with diesel exhaust, old brick, river water, coffee drifting from somewhere nearby, and the faint smell of breakfast sandwiches from cars around us. Humans probably don’t notice all those little layers, but dogs do.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard a ship horn echo across the water. Cities have sounds the same way forests do. You just have to listen differently.

As quickly as it appeared, Baltimore slowly faded behind us in the mirrors while the highway carried us farther north. Maryland became Delaware. Delaware felt very short. I barely got comfortable before Dad announced we were already leaving it.

Humans seemed very concerned about something called “traffic.” Personally, I thought traffic was wonderful. It meant slower speeds and more opportunities to stare out the window.

At one point Mom pushed a button on the steering wheel that made the car honk like an angry goose. She seemed to enjoy using that button.

The smells changed as we drove farther north. Virginia smelled like pine trees and damp earth. New Jersey smelled like highways, rain-soaked concrete, and food.

So much food.

Every rest stop carried hundreds of scents at once. French fries. Coffee. Hamburgers. Gasoline. Other dogs who had passed through before me. Tiny stories left behind on little patches of grass beside the parking lots.

Then came New York City.

Even I could tell this place was different.

The roads tightened. The cars multiplied. Buildings suddenly rose into the sky like giant cliffs made of steel and glass. Everywhere I looked there was movement. Yellow taxis darted around us like angry bees. Geese honked constantly.

Dad pointed things out while Noah stared out the window. Bridges stretched over the water like enormous metal spiderwebs. I caught glimpses of rivers shining between buildings. Graffiti splashed color across walls and train cars. Steam rose from grates in the streets like the city itself was breathing.

The smells were impossible to understand all at once. Hot dogs. River water. Pizza. Thousands and thousands of people.

The city was loud and chaotic and alive, but there was something exciting about it too. Even from inside the car, I could feel the energy buzzing everywhere around us.

At one point traffic slowed nearly to a stop while towering buildings surrounded us on every side. I just pressed my nose against the glass and watched the city move around us like some giant living creature.

Eventually, though, the skyscrapers faded behind us. The roads softened. Trees returned. Small towns replaced endless concrete.

Connecticut felt calmer somehow.

Quieter.

The roads curved more gently there. The air smelled cleaner whenever we stopped. As the miles rolled by, I kept my nose near the cracked window, breathing in the changing world around me. Every state had its own scent. Its own personality.

Humans remember trips with photographs. Dogs remember them with smells, and somewhere along that drive, I realized just how lucky I was to even be there at all.

Sometimes Dad reached back from the front seat just to rest his hand on my head for a second. Sometimes Noah scratched behind my ears while staring out the window. Sometimes Mom turned around just to check on me and smile. Those little things matter to dogs. They matter a lot.

Then suddenly everybody got excited.

“We’re here.”

I sat up immediately.

Because before I even saw him, I smelled him. Gabriel. One of my humans.

That’s the thing about dogs. Time doesn’t matter much to us. Whether it’s been days or months, love smells exactly the same no matter where we are.

Some endings in life arrive loudly. Others happen slowly, quietly, almost unnoticed at first. A career changes direction. A season of life fades away. A relationship that once felt effortless suddenly feels exhausting.

We spend so much time trying to hold things together that we sometimes forget not everything is meant to continue forever. Some relationships, habits, and expectations eventually outlive their purpose.

Necessary endings are painful because they force us to acknowledge that growth often requires letting go. Not out of hatred or bitterness, but because carrying certain weights any farther begins to damage you. There comes a point where protecting your peace becomes more important than preserving appearances.

Cancer has a way of clarifying things. When your body is fighting to recover, you begin to notice what drains you mentally and emotionally too. During this process I’ve had to prune parts of my life that no longer brought balance, support, or understanding.

That has included certain relationships. Some people only know how to take. Some only know how to criticize. Some will weaponize your vulnerability because it makes them uncomfortable to confront their own behavior.

I know this post may cost me a few readers. Ironically, the person I’m speaking about is responsible for bringing many of them here in the first place. At the beginning, that support felt kind. Genuine. I appreciated it more than they probably realized.

Over time though, the gesture stopped feeling like support and started feeling transactional. It became something held over my head. A reminder of what they believed they had done for me. As if kindness created debt. As if I was expected to tolerate disrespect because of the audience they helped bring here.

That is not kindness, nor love. That is leverage.

Real support is given freely. It does not come with a scoreboard attached to it. It does not become a weapon pulled out during moments of anger. Nobody deserves unlimited access to your life simply because they once helped you. Gratitude and self respect can exist at the same time.

Being accused of “using cancer as a crutch” told me everything I needed to know about that relationship dynamic. Those words were not said in frustration alone. They were ugly. Cruel. The kind of words that reveal something deeper about the soul of the person willing to say them.

If I could trade away these last eighteen months, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would trade the hospital rooms, the scans, the fear, the exhaustion, the treatments, and the uncertainty without a second thought. More than anything, I would trade away the pain and worry this disease placed on my family. Watching the people you love carry fear in their eyes while trying to stay strong for you is something I would never wish on anyone. No one “uses” that as a crutch. No one chooses this road because it is convenient.

I have tried to be honest here on this blog. Honest about the fear. Honest about the setbacks. Honest about the victories too. Writing became a way to process the chaos and make sense of emotions that sometimes felt too heavy to carry alone. It was never intended to become ammunition for someone else to weaponize against me later.

Vulnerability should not be treated like weakness, nor should trust be twisted into leverage during moments of anger.

The truth is simple: surviving cancer changes you. Treatment changes you. Fatigue changes you. Priorities change you. If someone cannot offer compassion during the hardest chapter of your life, they have no business demanding unlimited access to your energy.

Moving forward with treatment, work, recovery, and life means protecting my mental health just as much as my physical health. They may see the situation differently, and honestly, that’s okay.

Everyone tells themselves a story that helps them sleep at night. I no longer have the desire to stand still and serve as someone’s emotional punching bag.

Life is too short, too fragile, and too valuable for that.

Sometimes the healthiest words you can say are the simplest ones: you can fuck right off.

Sorry for the harsh language, but those are the ones that capture my feelings in this moment.

There’s a strange tension in my life right now. Physically, I feel good. Better than I have in a long time, honestly. I’m working through physical therapy, rebuilding strength, slowly increasing my cardio, trying to reclaim the parts of myself that treatment stripped away. Chemotherapy took more than hair and energy. It took endurance. It took muscle. It took the version of me that could disappear into the wilderness for two weeks with everything I needed strapped to my back and think nothing of the miles ahead.

That version of me is still there somewhere. I know that. Right now he’s just rebuilding.

I am improving in physical therapy. I can actually see the results now. The strength is returning to my body little by little, enough that I notice it in everyday things instead of just numbers on a chart or exercises on a worksheet. I’m trying to be smart about it and not overdo things. That can be difficult for me because mentally I always want to push harder and move faster than my body is ready for.

I’m also paying attention to what I eat. I’m back to around 195 pounds and eventually I’d like to get back down closer to 185. For now though, I keep getting told the same thing by the medical team: focus on balanced meals and healing first. The rest can come later.

They are probably right.

Still, I would be lying if I said part of me was not looking forward to getting my beach body back and reclaiming my sex symbol status. Humor helps. Sometimes you have to laugh a little after spending so much time in hospitals, treatment rooms, and waiting areas. Recovery needs moments of lightness too.

The hikes will come back. The strength will come back. The confidence in my body will come back too. Recovery is not dramatic most days. It is repetition. Small victories. One more exercise. One more walk without feeling exhausted. One more moment where your body reminds you that healing is happening, even if it is happening quietly.

Medically, things are moving in the right direction. The numbers continue to improve. We are slowly decreasing the amount of medications I need to boost my immune system because those numbers are getting close to normal again. That is a huge win. The kind of win that may not look dramatic from the outside, but means everything when you have spent months watching blood work and waiting for your body to recover.

I still have another scan coming up in a few weeks, and that will help determine the next course of action. Continue the current plan. Adjust it. Maybe move toward the next phase. Right now, a lot depends on those results.

That leaves me living in a strange kind of limbo.

It is an odd space to exist in because life outwardly looks normal again. I’m back to planning things. Thinking about hiking trails I want to revisit and trips I want to take. I can laugh, work, travel, and enjoy life again. Yet somewhere in the background there is always this quiet countdown to the next appointment, the next lab draw, the next scan result posted to a portal.

Cancer changes your relationship with time.

You stop looking too far ahead because you learn quickly that plans can change with a phone call. At the same time, you cannot stay frozen waiting for medical updates forever. So you learn to live in between. In between fear and hope. In between recovery and uncertainty. In between who you were and who you are becoming.

Some days that balance is easy. Other days it feels impossible.

I’m still cautious around large groups of people. I wear a mask when necessary. It makes me a little self-conscious sometimes, standing out in a crowd when most people have moved on from all of that. Still, I remind myself that caution is not weakness. It is part of recovery. Part of protecting the progress I have fought so hard to make.

Even the small things feel meaningful now.

My hair is growing back. We think I was losing some of it on top because that was still my “December hair.” Hair that had gone through the last heavy round of chemo before the CAR-T process. That treatment was designed to wipe out my immune system completely so it could rebuild. My hair probably never stood much of a chance against it either.

Now it is coming back.

That makes me happier than I expected it would.

Maybe that sounds a little vain, but I do not think it really is. Hair is one of those quiet parts of your identity you never think much about until it changes. I’m used to running my hands through it when I’m reading or thinking. It’s habit. Muscle memory. One of those small human routines tied to comfort and familiarity.

When cancer and treatment begin taking pieces of your routine, even tiny things matter when they return.

What I’m learning is that recovery has its own rhythm. You cannot force it. You cannot rush the process just because your mind is ready for life to return to normal. The body heals on its own timetable. Progress comes in layers, quietly stacking on top of one another until one day you realize you are stronger than you were a month ago.

Maybe that is the real challenge in all of this. Not waiting, but learning how to move forward without needing immediate certainty. Trusting the steady steps even when the destination is still unclear.

For most of my life, I have measured progress by distance covered, objectives completed, and mountains climbed. This season is teaching me to measure things differently. A good scan. Stronger blood work. A longer walk. A little more strength returning to my legs. Hair growing back. The ability to imagine future adventures again.

That is still movement forward. Quietly. Steadily. One step at a time.

I sat there getting ready to send my retirement notice to my Supervisor. The cursor blinked. It feels heavier than it should, like it understands what this moment carries.

It was harder than I expected.

There was a strange mix of emotions sitting just beneath the surface. Gratitude for the years, the work, the people. Pride in what was done and what was endured, and something quieter, harder to name. The realization that a chapter I once thought would define me is now something I am choosing to close.

On the radio, Pig by Dave Matthews Band comes on, and then the line hits:

All good things must come to an end sometime… oh, but don’t burn the day away.

It landed differently.

This is not an ending built on regret. It is not walking away from something broken. It is stepping away while there is still meaning in it, while the memories are still good, while the work still matters.

But my life is not defined by the work that I have done.

It is only one chapter, not the whole story. The job shaped me, tested me, and gave me a sense of purpose for a long time. It introduced me to people who became part of my life in ways I never expected. It gave me moments I will carry forever. But it does not get to write the ending.

There is more to me than the cases, the titles, the years of service. There are the quiet mornings, the time with family, the trails I have yet to walk, the conversations I have not had, the parts of life that were sometimes pushed aside in the name of the mission. Those parts are still there, waiting, steady and patient.

This next chapter is not about replacing what was. It is about rediscovering what else is.

That line from the song feels less like a warning and more like a reminder.

Do not rush through this moment.

Do not numb it.

Do not treat it like something to just get past.

There is weight here because it meant something.

So I sat with it a little longer. I think about the early days, the long hours, the cases that stayed with me, the people who stood beside me through it all. I think about how much of my life has been shaped by this work, and how much of me I am carrying forward because of it.

I am not burning the day away. My retirement date is June 27, 2026, and for the first time, that date feels real. It is no longer something out on the horizon. It is approaching, steady and certain.

Between now and then, there are still days to be lived inside this chapter. Conversations to have. Hands to shake. Quiet moments to take in and remember. A chance to close this part of my life with intention, not haste.

After that date, there is something else waiting. (More to follow.) Not an ending, but an opening. More time with family. More miles on trails. More mornings that are not defined by a schedule or a title. More space to simply be.

So I sat there, not rushing to send the email.

Because on that day, like all the others that led me here, deserves to be fully lived.

It caught my eye this morning without asking for attention.

My old hiking hat sat where I must have left it, quiet and familiar. The brim is softer now, shaped more by weather than by design. There are sweat stains worked deep into the fabric, the kind that no wash ever really removes. A thin layer of beeswax still clings to it, faintly tacky in places, giving off that subtle, earthy scent that only comes from years of use. When I picked it up, it felt exactly how I remembered. Broken in, not worn out.

That hat has lived a life.

It is older than Noah.

I remember buying it on a road trip that took me through Christiana, Delaware. I was not looking for anything in particular, just passing through, when I saw the Eastern Mountain Sports sign. Something about it pulled me in. I picked up the hat without much thought at the time. It felt right in my hands. Durable. Rugged. Built for use, not display.

They do not even make that model anymore.

At one point, I wanted to get one for each of the boys. Something they could carry with them, something that would last. Something that could take a beating and keep going.

This one did.

It has spent over 300 nights with me in a tent. Nights where the air turns sharp after sunset and the ground beneath never quite levels out. Mornings where the world wakes slowly, light filtering through trees or spilling across open land, and the hat goes back on before the first step of the day. It has absorbed sweat from long climbs and the cool mist from early mornings. It holds the scent of pine, dust, campfire smoke, ash, and rain.

Real rain. The kind that soaks through everything and turns trails into streams. I can still feel how the brim darkens as it takes on water, dripping steadily while I keep moving forward. Then there are the hot days, relentless sun overhead, the kind that bakes the ground and drains you faster than expected. That hat stays in place through all of it, shielding my face, buying me just a little more comfort.

It has stood atop my head on high peaks, resting there as the wind pressed in and the temperature dropped, protecting me from the mountain elements. In those moments, when the world stretches out below you and the air feels thin and sharp, it is a small thing that makes a real difference. A quiet layer between you and everything the mountain throws your way.

Sometimes, it gets switched out for a beanie. The cold demands it. When the wind cuts across your ears and settles deep, you learn quickly what matters. But even then, the hat is never far. It waits at base camp, or in thr pack on my sweaty back, ready for when the air softens again. I always come back to it.

At night, it takes on a different role. It becomes a place to keep the small things, a headlamp, a watch, a pocketknife, whatever I need close. Sitting right beside my head on that blow-up air pad, it is part of the rhythm of camp life. Not just something I wear, but something I rely on.

It has touched everything.

Desert sands that slip through your fingers and cling to everything you own. The heavy, slow-moving waters of the Atchafalaya Basin, thick with life and heat. Glacial ice that feels ancient under your feet. Hail that stings when it hits. Relentless sun that presses down hour after hour. Leaves brushing past on narrow trails. Bugs landing, crawling, existing in their own quiet world.

It has been part of all of it.

It went with me to Philmont Scout Ranch three times. Once with each of my boys. Even though I had thought I had forgotten it on my last trip out there, it was there in the bottom of my pack, I found it on the second to last day of the trek. Just patiently waiting for me. There to celebrate the end of the hike with me. To ride atop my head as we descended from the Tooth of Time into Basecamp.

That place has a way of shaping people. You watch young teens arrive unsure, still figuring things out, and over the course of miles and days, you see them change. The environment demands it. The elevation, the weight of a pack, the unpredictability of the trail. Problems show up whether you are ready or not, and they have to find solutions. Real ones. Creative ones. You can see the shift happen. They stand a little taller. Speak with a little more confidence. They become something more than they were when they started.

The hat was there for all of it and watched them grow.

It made the trip to Iceland, where the wind does not just blow, it cuts. The air there feels alive, cold and constant. I remember pulling that hat down tighter, letting it take the brunt of it.

It stood with me at the edge of the Grand Canyon, looking out over something so vast it almost silences you. That trip was different. Shared steps, shared views, shared moments that settle into you deeper than anything else.

Maria calls it my “hat meme.” Pronounced “me-me.” It always makes me smile. That is what the boys used to call their security blankets when they were little. The things they carried everywhere. The things that made the world feel steady when everything else was new or uncertain.

Somewhere along the way, this hat became that for me.

Now it sits here, showing every mile. Every storm. Every long day under the sun. It would be easy to see it as something past its prime.

But that is not what I see.

I see something that has endured.

Something shaped by time and experience. The stains are not flaws. They are proof. The beeswax, the wear, the softened edges, they all tell the story of a life lived fully, not carefully preserved.

I find myself in that reflection more than I expected.

This journey I am on right now is slower. It asks for patience I am still learning. There are days where I feel worn in ways that are hard to explain. Not broken, but changed.

But there is still purpose here.

That hat does not try to be new again. It does not need to. It is exactly what it is supposed to be now. Reliable. Proven. Carrying more meaning with every mile behind it.

Maybe that is the lesson sitting in front of me this morning.

Not everything that shows its age is fading. Some things are settling into what they were always meant to become.

Still useful. Still steady. Still ready for whatever comes next.

I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, and for a moment I could feel all those places again. The wind. The heat. The quiet. The weight of a pack. The sound of boots on dirt.

I set it back down where I found it, a little more carefully this time.

This morning, it reminded me of something I needed to hear.

There are still miles ahead of me. Not the same miles as before, not yet. This season asks for patience, for healing, for a different kind of strength. The trails will still be there when I am ready. The mountains are not going anywhere.

Neither is that hat.

This morning it reminded me that I have many more adventures ahead. Until I’m ready to be back out there, my old friend will be waiting.