My wife came to me sometime in late 2025, maybe even on our anniversary. We were married on New Year’s Eve in 1993, the same date Dale Jr. and Amy Reimann chose, and the same date Ozzy and Sharon renewed their vows. Apparently, it attracts people who aren’t afraid of commitment and chaos.
She told me it was time to start writing, not writing just to write, and not posting for the sake of posting, but taking what lives in my head and putting it down on paper so it can exist outside of me.
It sounded simple, but it wasn’t, because writing like that means letting people see what you actually think, what you notice, and what you feel. That’s uncomfortable. I’ve always talked a lot, but talking isn’t the same as revealing. You can fill a room with words and still keep the important stuff locked up pretty tight.
Once I started writing, something shifted, and it didn’t just trickle out, it poured. Thoughts that I used to let drift away now get pulled to the front of my mind and allowed to sit there for a while. I turn them over, let them percolate, and look for the words that describe what they’re trying to tell me. Along the way, I’ve written about things I know, lived through, or have observed.
Let’s be honest, I’ll never write a book, and I’m still a little surprised that anyone cares about what I’m writing in the first place, but here we are.
As I’m typing this, about fifteen minutes ago I finished a piece about a visit to the VA hospital and a few veterans I noticed while I was there. I was telling Beth that just a few months ago I probably would have walked right past those moments without thinking twice, not because I didn’t care, but because I wasn’t paying attention in the same way.
Now I catch myself leaning against a wall, thumbs on fire, typing notes into my phone as fast as I can, trying to capture every authentic detail of a conversation, every tone, every mannerism, and every small interaction that used to earn nothing more than a quick chuckle before fading away. Now those moments are noticed and appreciated. They aren’t just background noise anymore. They have meaning, and they stay with me longer than they used to.
It’s amazing what happens when your perspective shifts. You don’t change locations, you don’t change routines, and you don’t suddenly live a different life—you just start seeing the same world through a different lens. What used to blur past you suddenly deserves attention, and what used to feel ordinary starts to feel worth preserving.
Beth gave me a reason to pay closer attention to a life that was already happening all around me. I don’t know how long I’ll keep writing or how many people will keep reading, but I know this much: I’m seeing more than I used to. And so far, it’s been a good thing.