The Routine, Reality, Wisdom, and Vienna

March 8, 2025

Vienna

Chemo started early on Thursday morning. The drive is over an hour, and as Maria calmly navigates Northern Virginia traffic, I get time to sit with my thoughts, to steel myself for what’s ahead. By now, I know the routine: check-in, vitals, IV placement, the slow drip of medication designed to save me while making me feel like a stranger in my own body.

Even with familiarity, the process still intimidates me. The needles, the chemicals coursing through my veins, the uncertainty, not just of today but of the weeks and months ahead. The fatigue that lingers longer than expected. The moments where I don’t quite recognize myself.

Sitting in the infusion room, surrounded by others who have walked this road longer than I have, I see us, a group of people from different races, countries, genders, and ages. Cancer doesn’t discriminate, even if the world still does.

I hold onto the nods, the glances of quiet reassurance from those who understand. They know the weight of this journey, the uncertainty, the unspoken thoughts that never quite leave.

Moments That Matter

This past week, fatigue settled deep, making itself at home in my bones. I had to step back, listen to my body instead of pushing through. But even in the exhaustion, there was one thing I wouldn’t miss: Purple Rain on the big screen with Ethan.

Sitting in that darkened theater, watching Prince command the screenj, felt like a moment that needed to be shared. It took every ounce of energy I had, but it was worth it. Seeing Ethan’s face light up, experiencing something together that transcended the nausea and fatigue, some things, like music and father-son moments, are bigger than cancer.

Now, I shift back into recovery mode. Rest is the priority. A week of appointments ahead: nephrology, oncology.

And through it all, your words, your kindness, your support, they reach me exactly when I need them most. Your messages, your prayers, your check-ins. They come when the weight of it all feels too heavy, reminding me I’m not alone.

Thank you. For riding this out with me.

Vienna and Letting Go of the Chase

Today, during chemo, Vienna by Billy Joel played in my ears. It hit harder than I expected.

"Slow down, you crazy child

You're so ambitious for a juvenile

But then if you're so smart, tell me

Why are you still so afraid?"

The words felt like they were speaking directly to me. I’ve spent my life moving forward, always chasing the next goal. But now, I’m forced into a stillness I never chose. Cancer doesn’t let you keep running. It makes you stop. Sit with yourself. Face what you might have ignored.

As I listened, something Gabriel told me surfaced.

When Maria and I told him about my diagnosis, he went searching for wisdom. He turned to his mentors, looking for a way to make sense of it all.

One of them told him:

"Your father has reached a stage in life where wisdom is at its peak, and accolades no longer hold any significance."

Gabriel shared that with me, and at first, it felt like a thoughtful sentiment, something from a leadership book. But the more I sat with it, the more it stayed with me.

Had I really reached that point? Had I let go of the chase for accolades, validation, the external markers of success? Or was I only now beginning to understand what it meant to do so?

No Need for More Accolades

There was a time when achievements mattered. Titles, promotions, recognition, they were markers of progress, of purpose. I was always chasing the next thing.

But now, sitting with the fatigue in my bones, with the uncertainty of cancer, I see more clearly than ever: wisdom isn’t about what we collect. It’s about what we understand.

It’s knowing that moments matter more than milestones.

It’s feeling Maria’s embrace and knowing her unwavering presence is more valuable than any title I could ever hold.

It’s hearing the laughter of my boys, Ethan, Gabriel, and Noah, even when my body feels weak, and understanding that their joy is worth more than any achievement.

It’s realizing that the stories I tell, the connections I make, and the love I share are the only legacy that truly matters.

Trophies, certificates, applause, they fade. But the impact we have on others? That remains.

I don’t need more accolades. What I need is to share what I’ve learned, to give what I can while I can. My role as a father, a husband, a storyteller, and a mentor isn’t about recognition. It’s about connection.

Cancer has stripped away the illusion that success is something external. Now, I see that the greatest success is in how we live, how we love, and how we uplift those around us.

Looking Forward: What Comes Next

This doesn’t mean I have no future plans. If anything, I feel more purpose than ever.

I want to tell more stories. To create something lasting. To build Shades of Insight into a space where people find connection, where they feel seen, where we all remember our shared humanity.

I want to teach my boys, not just through words, but through how I live. I want them to see what truly matters. Not wealth. Not titles. But love, faith, and the courage to face life’s challenges with grace.

I want to encourage others, whether they’re facing their own battles or just navigating life, to stop chasing validation and start embracing meaning.

I want to go to Italy within the year with Maria. It was our plan to do so this summer. I want to dine in Venice, and see the Dolomites, and experience Rome.

Because in the end, wisdom isn’t about what we gain. It’s about what we give.

Wisdom is knowing when to stop seeking and start sharing.

And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

P.S.

To Gabriel’s mentors: thank you. Thank you for pouring into him, for guiding him, for helping him grow into the man God calls him to be.

Iza, this one was for you as much as it was for me. I love you, my dear sister.

Tara, I love you too. I'll have a post for you soon.