For almost seventy weekdays in a row now, I’ve hit publish on a short personal essay or article. In July, I embarked on a 100 (week)day writing challenge inspired by Tiny Experiments by Anne-Laure Le Cunff.

I started with a list of topics I wanted to explore. As I've gone along, I've thrown out many of my initial prompts and burned through the rest fairly quickly. On days I didn’t know what I wanted to write about, I would sit with my thoughts for a few minutes and wait until something sprang up from within, trying to tune into what was occupying my mind or what I was feeling in my gut.

This approach has worked pretty well for me.
Until today.

Day sixty-nine (I know). As I reached for something within me to write about this evening, I came up empty.

I picked up my phone and scrolled a bit as I brainstormed. I tried to unearth what I’m feeling or what’s sitting in my subconscious. There’s been plenty swirling around my head as of late. Work stuff and spiritual stuff. I heard a thought-provoking presentation about wandering today at a luncheon. But nothing I feel quite ready to write about yet.

I’m not sure if this is what writers call writer’s block. Or maybe I’m just tired. I haven’t been able to feed my brain as much lately. I’ve had less time than I’d like to read, and I haven’t gone down as many interesting rabbit holes as I normally do. All I know is that I don’t feel like I have enough inspiration in reserve to write thoughtfully about anything.

Ironically, this is me writing what I feel. I suppose I can write about whatever I want. This is my own journal-ish endeavor, after all. And what I’m processing today is that I haven’t done the work up front to make sure I’m not trying to pour from an empty cup.

I’ve been circling this theme in 2026. I need to cultivate what kindles my curiosity and stirs my heart. I must invest in what fulfills me and gives me energy, so I can show up more fully, not just in my writing, but in my everyday world.

So much of what we read online wants us to believe we’re missing out. And every time I scroll, it works. I’m always left feeling like there’s something I should be doing, buying, or being. If I’m not, I worry I’m wasting my life away.

The fear of missing out is an old friend of mine. When I first heard the term FOMO in the early 2010s, it immediately resonated.

As a child, my parents’ divorce meant that being with one side of my family meant missing time with the other. I felt torn between two places. I didn’t feel like I belonged in either. As a teenager, every day brought something new that felt like the end of the world if I missed it. Fitting in felt so important in those formative years.

As I’ve grown older, the things are different. But those feelings haven’t gone anywhere. It seems like other people always have something figured out that I don’t. Or they get to have experiences in their lives that I don’t get to have. They have skills, or abilities, or knowledge, or any number of other things that feel just out of my reach.

The content knows we are terrified of missing out. It preys on that fear. It promises some secret key to life, our profession, or our health. It draws a direct line from our deepest fears to whatever it’s peddling. It wants us to believe that this one thing could be the difference in being successful, happy, or whatever else we fear we’re missing. And it works.

Here’s the truth: I know what I need to feel happy and fulfilled. And quite frankly, I already have it all. It’s not that everything will always be perfect. There will always be plenty out of my control.

But if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that the good life isn’t nearly as complicated as we sometimes think.

There’s always more to learn.
I’ll always have room to grow.
There will never be a shortage of things I should be doing.

But there’s also always more to appreciate.
I’ll always need to make room to slow down.
There will never be a shortage of things I should stop taking for granted.

The true secrets of life are all actually pretty simple.
The content just wants us to believe otherwise.

Our aversion to feeling helpless can rob people of the help they actually need from us.

We love to focus on fixing problems when what people really need is our presence. We fixate on solutions when the best thing we can offer is our support.

I spoke this past Sunday at my church about Moses in Exodus 17. It’s a story I first came across as a teenager. I had just become a follower of Jesus. I’ve always loved the passage, despite not fully understanding all the details, because I think it’s such a great picture of supporting one another.

During one of Israel’s battles, Moses is standing on a hill overlooking the fight. When he holds up his staff, the Israelites prevail. When Moses lets his arms drop, they start losing ground.

Inevitably, Moses gets tired. But his friends Aaron and Hur get him a rock to sit on. They stand on either side of him and hold his arms steady.

I’ve always loved that they don’t take the staff away from Moses. He’s still the one holding on. They are just there to support him and give him the extra help he needs to keep going.

Our lives are filled with ups and downs. The more people we care about, the more often we’ll find ourselves close to someone who is struggling. Difficult times are inevitable. They’re just part of life, both for us and the people we love.

But we can feel helpless when there’s nothing we can do about the struggles our loved ones are facing. We want to step in. We want to help. And it’s great when we can. More often than not, there aren’t easy solutions or quick fixes to the things life throws at us. Sometimes all we can do is be a listening ear, provide a little support, and maybe offer to say a prayer for them.

But these seemingly small acts are anything but insignificant. We remember the listening ear and the encouraging word. We remember the people who showed up. The people who were there for us and held us up. Maybe it doesn’t seem like we’ve done a lot, but sometimes it’s exactly enough. What can feel like helplessness can actually be the help someone needs.

One of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received was being called boring.

The person was around the corner. They didn’t know I was there. They mentioned my name and used the adjective “boring.” This person didn’t intend it as a compliment. I certainly didn’t hear anything positive in their tone. It was quite easy to be offended if I’m honest.

But the more I’ve sat with this experience over the years, the more I’ve grown to wear “being boring” as a badge of honor.

Because I do think I am pretty boring.

I don’t do anything super exciting. My story isn’t especially unique. Married, two kids, a dog. We have decent jobs. We make enough money but not a ton. Pretty close to paycheck to paycheck, but we live a good life. I’ve never been super adventurous. I don’t have tons of stories or interesting tidbits. Overall, I would say I’m pretty average.

But you can depend on me. I’m reliable. I love my boys and take care of them. I’m consistently a decent husband. Or try to be. I believe I am kind. I love people. I try to be encouraging. I pay my bills and my taxes. Or at least I have a good wife who makes sure these things are taken care of!

If boring is just another word for steady, then I am proud to carry the label. Because that’s exactly who I want to be for the people who count on me.

The blank page is the creative person’s nemesis.

You’d think a creative would thrive without boundaries. That having the freedom to do anything would invite an explosion of ingenious ideas. Surely the mythical muse prefers to inspire without any pesky parameters spoiling the fun.

But limits don’t stifle creative work. Guidelines can actually catalyze our creativity. It feels counterintuitive, but guardrails are a gift to the creative mind.

As a graphic designer, having no direction and a blank artboard is debilitating. When I’ve preached, not having any guidelines for where to start my sermon prep is daunting. When I write, the hardest part for me is the blinking cursor on a blank page.

Constraints help creativity because they reduce the number of decisions you have to make. Too many possibilities can paralyze creatives. It’s true that few creative people love being micromanaged, but, for the most part, a few parameters can be helpful along the way.

Constraints don’t tell you exactly what to create, but they can provide a bit of direction and vision to help kickstart creativity.

When my wife and I first got married, the majority of our fights were over how we fought. Some minor squabble would balloon into something much bigger because we didn’t know how to argue. We weren’t quite sure how to communicate.

She is the type who goes quiet when she’s upset. She’d prefer to disappear when things get heated because she doesn’t want to say anything that she’ll regret. I want to yell at each other until we love each other again. Yes, I’m a verbal processor with abandonment issues.

We struggled early on because our communication styles kicked our relational fight-or-flight modes into red alert.

Communication is compromise. Megan and I have learned how to communicate better over the years. We’re still not perfect. But I’ve learned to give her space when she’s upset. She’s learned that sometimes I just have to get my thoughts out of my head. Everyone is different. You’re different than your spouse and your boss. Your kids are different. Your best friend and your coworker are different. There might be similarities in how you communicate with each of them, but it still takes compromise to learn how to communicate well with all the people in our lives.

Communication is complicated. Everyone has different preferences and different baggage they bring into a relationship. Communication doesn’t happen when I say something or share something. Communication happens when someone else hears what I am trying to say. Or when I hear what someone else is trying to say. For some reason we think communication should come most naturally in our most important relationships. In my experience, they can sometimes be the toughest. Maybe complicated isn’t a bug. It’s a feature to help us see and hear each other on a deeper level.

Communication is crucial. Being heard is one of our foundational needs as humans. It’s how we connect and feel like we belong. It helps us feel secure and helps us grow. With communication, there’s no limit to the beauty and joy we experience in the world. Without it, things can get bleak pretty quickly. Despite being more connected than ever, we’ve never been more lonely. We’ve gotten worse at communication, and connection is incomplete without communication.

Communication is kind. Clearly communicating is one of the greatest acts of kindness we can offer another person. That means sharing with clarity, authenticity, and empathy. It means listening in those ways, too.

I think with my words. Talking things out with another person or writing them down for someone else to read is how I make sense of the tangled mess in my head. Talking and writing. Listening and hearing. I’ve learned others process things differently than me. Learning to hear each other in all the ways we communicate is one of the great beauties of life.

Speaking is not the same thing as communicating. Communication requires being heard and truly hearing others. It takes work to help another human hear you while you also learn how to hear them. But whether by giving someone space to process or letting them yell at you in the kitchen, clearly communicating is some of the kindest work we can do.

“If I continue to live like I’m living, will I achieve my dreams?” I saw a Substack note saying you should ask yourself this question every night before going to bed. I may have misquoted it. I would link to it to double-check. But I accidentally hit refresh. The note is now lost to the depths of the interwebs for me!

But the question got me thinking. Will I realize my dreams if I continue on the path I’m on? Truth be told, I have no clue.

I’ve made quite a few positive changes in this calendar year. I’ve started to get a handle on my health this summer. I’ve found joy in a daily writing habit. My mental health is much better thanks to moving my body, spending quality time with my family, and replacing doom-scrolling on my phone with Libby and my Kindle Paperwhite! I’ve added some new things professionally, and I’ve made some strides spiritually.

I’m content with the shape of my life. I’m proud of the trajectory of it. I’m a big believer that the big things might change our direction, but it’s the little things, day after day, that are truly life-changing.

But still, I don’t really know what my current dreams are. And I certainly don’t know what dreams might creep up in the future.

I also don’t know if what I’m doing will actually lead to what I want anyway. Life is funny like that. There are very few secrets to success, at least none that I’ve found. There really are no guarantees.

I think that’s what I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older. Sure, it’s important to have goals. Having a vision for where you want to go is one of the most valuable things a person can have. But life changes. Priorities get turned upside down.

Our best bet is to take care of the little things, take advantage of the opportunities as they arise, and take life one step at a time.

I don’t have a clue if I’ll achieve my dreams. I don’t really even know what my dreams are. But I can rest easy when I lay my head on my pillow knowing that I’m doing the best I can.

I remember being amazed by the oldies station as a kid. Such great tunes filled the airwaves. But the songs also seemed so ancient, like they were from a completely different world.

We drove past a vintage car the other day. My 10-year-old said, “Oh man, I bet that’s from the mid-1980s!” I quickly educated him by explaining that the vehicle was likely 30 years older than that, probably from the 50s. “The 80s aren’t quite vintage,” I told him. “Besides, your dad was born in the mid-80s!”

I don’t think that got my point across all that well.

Looking back, the music on the oldies station when I was my son’s age was from the 60s and 70s. The music from my childhood must seem just as ancient to my son today. The same amount of time separates him from my 80s and 90s childhood heyday. It’s hard for me to fathom that Ice Ice Baby could be considered “one of the classics.”

Time is an odd thing. When you’re young, you spend so much time wanting to get somewhere in the future. You rush off to the next stage of life. You want the newest stuff or the next big thing. As you get older, you find yourself nostalgic for simpler times. You know, the good ol’ days.

Maybe you wouldn’t choose to go back, but it is nice to rewind the clock now and then by listening to one of the classics.

Like Andy Bernard says, "I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them."

We often talk about highs and lows. Sure, we’d prefer things to always be going up and to the right, always on the upswing, always positive. But most of us have lived enough to know that’s not realistic. It’s not even how fairy tales go.

So we adopt a mountain-and-valleys view of life. There are ups and downs. Good times and bad. We even talk about it in most of our wedding vows: “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health” on and on until death.

There’s a problem with this outlook, though. If you’re hiking a mountain, you can only be in one spot at any given time. You can be at the highest peak, the lowest valley, or at any point in between. But you can only be where your feet are. You can’t be anywhere else.

But this isn’t how our world operates. Some of life’s toughest moments can also be some of its most precious. And just because you’re reeling in one area doesn’t mean you can’t be killing it in others. Work can suck but home be great. Things can be tough for a friend while other things are finally coming together. You can feel happy and healthy and still be struggling.

There are times when things are better, and times when they are worse. You’ll be a little richer in some areas and a little poorer in others. There’ll be sickness, and there’ll be health. Life is made up of a billion little highs and lows. And sometimes they come at you all at once.

I guess the point is that life usually isn’t all bad. And it’s rarely all good, either. We just tend to focus on one and ignore the other.

Some of us miss out on the highs because we’re too focused on the lows. Others avoid anything negative at all costs, never properly dealing with the lows and only focusing on the highs.

Maybe life isn’t like hiking one mountain at a time after all. Maybe it’s more like stopping to take in the whole view from wherever your feet happen to be. Seeing the peaks and valleys, the bright stretches and the darker ones. Taking in the things that are going well and seeing the things that feel like they are falling apart. All in the same view.

And maybe that’s the whole secret to living life well: learning to appreciate the entire landscape.

I used to hate basketball practice. Endless drills. Lots of sprints. Being stuck in the gym for 2 hours after spending all day cooped up at school. I liked basketball, but by the time high school had rolled around hoops and other sports seemed to overrun any other aspects of my young life.

Fast forward over two decades later, the idea of basketball practice seems like it would be so much fun. Especially if I could still jump and run like I could at 16. I’d love to hang out with friends for two hours after work, without any other cares in the world, and shoot around a ball and have some friendly competition.

I dreaded classes when I was in school, but now I love opportunities to sit down and learn from people. I’d groan when assigned a book. Now reading is one of the things I look forward to the most to unwind. The family time I thought was so boring as a kid, I now know was some of the most precious time I’ve ever had.

It’s interesting, really. We endure things that we one day end up missing. Times we wish we would have been able to fast forward through, we would do anything to go back and experience again.

We spend so much of life trying to get to the next thing, only to look back and realize the thing we were trying to get through was the thing itself.

It makes me wonder, what am I hurrying through that I’ll one day wish I could have back?

I took off running with my cousins toward the ocean. It was late in the evening. The sun had set. The last bit of light was hanging on over the beach. I had been cooped up with my dad, uncle, grandmother, and sister for the trek from Kentucky to Myrtle Beach. I’m not sure how long the drive took back then, but it felt like approximately 3 full days.

I was 11 years old. It was the first time I had ever seen the ocean.

I hate that I don’t remember many details about this trip. I remember my uncle’s spaghetti sauce one evening. I remember sleeping on a slice of the floor in one of the bedrooms. I remember learning how to play blackjack.

I remember the odd compliment my Aunt Rita gave me about my tan going all the way down my fingertips. Sometimes I look down at my fingers during the summer and think about my late aunt, a beautiful soul gone too soon.

I remember my mamaw looking over the room with all my cousins and all my aunts and uncles, “I guess I’m responsible for all this.”

I don’t have many specific memories from the trip. I have a vague memory of being stuck in traffic on the way home. Like the kind of traffic where your uncle gets out of the vehicle and makes friends with the gentleman in the next car over. I don’t remember much more than that.

But I do remember that feeling. The feeling of being in awe of the ocean. Feeling the wind and mist hitting my face, the sand under my feet. The feeling of being with my family. Cherry Grove might as well have been heaven.

I’ve come to realize I’ve forgotten more moments from my life than I remember. But even the days I can no longer recall have helped make me, well, me. I’m sure as I get older, the memories will fade even more. But the feelings, and the forming, they will always be a part of who I am. Somewhere within me, there’s still an 11-year-old running toward the sea.

“I can’t stop thinking about breathing,” my 10-year-old complained. He was lobbying for permission to watch YouTube videos as he fell asleep. He’s always fighting off bedtime. I could see by the look on his face (and the irregularity of his breaths) that he was, in fact, thinking of breathing.

I suppose I was also around his age when I came to the same realization. Breathing is automatic until you think about it. As soon as it comes to mind, breathing shifts into manual mode. It’s one of life’s little peculiarities.

I’ve never been one who focused much on intentional breathing. I hear it’s important for self-regulation and all that. The only time I think about breathwork is when my watch chirps, “Take a minute to breathe.” Luckily, breathing still happens even when I forget, unlike other healthy habits that slip my mind.

Yet I wonder if being intentional about my breath would be beneficial. I’ve made some improvements over the last several months, such as commitments to reflective writing, reading to improve my attention span, and even being better about how I feed and move my body. Maybe some box breathing would do me some good, too.

Reading has been a conscious choice. And I continually fight the allure of the algorithms and easy dopamine hits. Walking outside each day takes intentionality and energy. Endeavoring to write each day for 100 days has been a struggle, but it has been worthwhile to dig deep into that well.

What else moves along through my life without much thought? Where else could I see my quality of life improve by shifting my mindset into a more manual mode?

I can’t pay attention to everything all the time. But maybe I should start being a little more conscious of some things that have become too automatic.

Besides, I do fight off bedtime just like my boy. That might be a good place for me to start.

A while back, I saw a video featuring author Seth Godin that shook me. He said, “Authenticity is for amateurs.” His point being that, professionally, people don’t need the “real you” all the time. For pros, consistency matters more than authenticity.

I’ve long believed in the power of authenticity. Some of the moments I’m most proud of, personally and professionally, have come because I was willing to show up as my authentic self. So, Seth’s take on consistency being more important than authenticity stuck with me. Because I think it’s actually true.

But here’s where I’ve landed, for what it’s worth: I think consistency is easier to sustain when the way you show up reflects who you actually are. I’ve also seen in my own life how much more powerful that type of consistency can be. Authenticity, to me, is showing up consistently in a way that is true to who you are.

You can be authentic without always being an open book. You can be authentic without wearing your heart on your sleeve, which is my default state for better or worse. You can choose what to share, when to share it, and what to keep to yourself. But you’re still consistently true to yourself.

Whether you’re an amateur or a pro, yes, consistency matters. But am I consistently being me?

We were sitting around the family dinner table, ready to eat soup. Well, our picky little boys were about to eat a separate dinner their mom made for them.

“Potato soup is one of my favorites,” Megan said as I spooned cupfuls of it into my overflowing bowl.

Without missing a beat, our 5-year-old scoffed.
“Potatoes aren’t soup!”

I mean, you can’t argue with his logic. It doesn’t matter how much I like potatoes in my soup. Nor does it matter how many potatoes you stuff in said soup. Potatoes are potatoes. Soup is soup. You might put potatoes in soup to make potato soup. But potatoes, in fact, aren’t soup.

I wonder how often I do this, equating two things so closely that I forget that they aren’t actually the same thing. How often do I do this to myself?

Am I really what I do for a living? Or what I spend my time doing? What have I believed about myself for so long that I’ve forgotten it’s only part of who I am? What small things have I allowed to define me?

My little guy is right. Potatoes aren’t soup.

And even the parts of ourselves that take up the most room aren’t the whole of who we are.

Don’t let anyone bully you out of sharing your story.

Now, you should never feel compelled to share things about yourself that you're not ready to share. But sharing your story is a gift. It can be a gift for yourself and for others.

Some might call this a testimony.
Others may call it being an advocate.
Sure, maybe don’t let it become your whole identity.
You’re so much more than just one piece of your story.

But never for a second allow anyone to convince you that your story isn’t worth sharing.

One of the most heinous lies we believe is that we are alone. Mine and Megan’s struggle with infertility taught me this.

Anytime I’ve opened up about my own struggles, whether with becoming parents, or my weight, or fatherhood, or my mental health, or my spiritual journey, or imposter syndrome, or any number of other things, being open has led to beautiful moments of connection with others. Mostly encouragement for me and sometimes for them, too.

If you have any sort of platform and want to use it for something good, do it.
Don’t let haters discourage you. It says way more about them than it does about you.

Sharing about my life on social media isn’t a natural thing for me, surprisingly enough. I’d much rather be a lurker. But I have precious friendships built upon my willingness to be open publicly about the things I’ve struggled with.

Call it cringe if you want (sometimes even I do), but if I hadn’t allowed myself to lean into my weirdness at times, really lean into my cringiness, I would have robbed myself and others of some pretty special moments along the way.

Does that annoy some of you? I’m sure it does. But maybe that just means we’re not each other’s type of people. And that’s okay. Because I’m just here looking for my people.

Everyone is working an angle, it seems.

People always have an agenda. They want something. They are trying to position themselves. They are trying to convince you, or manipulate you. There are always strings that are being pulled and plans in the works.

It’s fine, I suppose. We all want something. We all need things. We’re all just doing the best we can to get a little bit ahead. We’re trying to keep our heads above water, or get ahead a little bit, or achieve our dreams, or any number of other clichés so true they no longer really mean anything.

Some might think people like me are obtuse, oblivious to what’s really going on. Would I rather you just be straight with me? Of course. But that’s not the point. Maybe I’m just seeing where our interests happen to intersect, complementary angles that might just be able to create a shape that’s worth something.

I’ve had to learn to keep a few degrees of separation, though. Because even I have a line. Experience has given me an acute understanding of things. I used to think other people were congruent, because that's how I choose to live my life. You never have to calculate where I stand or what I’m up to. You get the same me at work or at play.

Please forgive me for the tangents. I just never realized navigating through life would take so much geometry.

They say the secret to a good marriage shows up in a pan of brownies.
Well, no one else really says that. But I do.

I was delighted this weekend to see a batch of brownies show up in our kitchen. They were some fancy type of brownie. Don’t ask me what kind. I just saw they were a bit more elevated than Megan’s favorite go-to Trader Joe’s mix.

My wife had taken a small piece out of the center. All the brownie edges were still intact. This is how I know we are meant to be together.

A middle piece is Megan’s preferred choice when it comes to brownies. She likes the soft, gooey middle while I prefer the crisp, chewy edges. She cuts her piece right from the heart of the pan. I think the “As Seen on TV” All-Edges Brownie Pan is brilliant. We complement each other perfectly.

Now, we’re still alike, sometimes a bit too much, on things that matter. We share the same values and outlook on life. We have similar family goals and support each other personally and professionally. We share a deep love for Ted Lasso. So, yes, we’re aligned on the most important things. I mean, we do both like brownies, after all.

This is what I mean by “a good marriage shows up in a pan of brownies.” Maybe for you it’s more like the olive theory or the IKEA test. What matters is that you complement each other in a relationship. You’re different, yet the same.

That is, until you happen to have kids. Then they devour all your brownies.
At that point, it’s every parent for themself!

My little boy takes my hand as we walk toward soccer practice. He’s a little nervous as he sees each of the fields filled with increasingly older kids. “You don’t have to go all the way over there,” I reassure him. “Your field is here with kids your age.” He drags me, my lawn chair in tow, out to the middle field anyway. His coach bends down to ask him his name as dad and his chair slip off to the sideline.

These moments sneak up on you. Small moments when you observe something big about life. Sometimes the lesson hits you like a soccer ball upside the head, sometimes it’s a little more subtle.

I watched my five-year-old hesitantly warm up to his new coach, slowly learning that he can’t just pick up the ball or take a water break whenever he wants. He’s more engaged than he was last year during soccer. The little boy is growing up. “That went better than expected,” Dad thought. The assistant coach fixes the laces on the boy’s cleats. Oops, dad must not have tied them very well.

I attended a Catholic funeral recently. I was comforted by the routine of it all. It wasn’t my routine, but I appreciated the liturgy.

Liturgy is a pattern. At least that’s my nondenominational understanding of things. A pattern of repeated practices that remind us of what’s true about God, and about life, and about me. Prayers, Communion, songs, and Scripture carefully repeated.

The repetition shapes us over time.

We often think it’s the big moments that change us. And I suppose that’s true. Big moments do often change the trajectory of our lives. But I’ve learned that it’s the little things, day after day, that quietly mold us.

Bedtime stories and family dinners. Holding your kid’s hand or putting (well, wrestling) them to bed each night. It’s the simple walk with your spouse. Or the encouraging call or text from a friend.

It’s these little moments, repeated over and over, that actually shape who we ultimately become.

A lifetime of little liturgies.

I have this magic gift. Whenever I walk into a messy room, I snap my fingers and everything snaps into place. The trash is trashed. The laundry laundered. Clutter decluttered. All in an instant. I don’t know if it’s telekinesis, reality warping, or simply an army of enchanted cleaning fairies. The job is just done. The mess is gone.

Now you might wonder why the bedroom clutter, piles of laundry, or stack of dishes are able to reach such unwieldy levels when I possess this magical gift. Truth is, I never consider this ability until things have gotten out of hand, until the thought of having to clean up the mess is almost paralyzing.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve snapped my fingers when I’ve faced an overwhelming mess, hoping for a little magic. Even at 40, I still snap. “Maybe this time,” I think. “Maybe this time it’ll actually work.”

It’s never worked.
But I always do it.
Just in case.

I never learn my lesson. The real magic would be cleaning the mess before it spirals out of control. Folding the laundry in a regular routine. Tidying the house before the kids’ toys stack up. Doing the dishes before a few turns into a few dozen.

The mysterious souls who consistently keep up with household chores are sorcerers in my book. They’ve truly mastered the dark arts.

I don’t know why I defer uncomfortable activities until their dread turns into despair. It’s more than mere laziness. More profound than simple procrastination. Avoidance rules my life. Why do I believe that some future version of me will handle all this better than today’s me?

It’s deeper than just dishes and laundry, clutter and trash. Household chores are just the most visible version of this lie I believe.

Deep down, I’m convinced it’s worth real suffering later to avoid small discomfort today. I would never word it this way. My brain is much too clever for that. But I believe it all the same.

I avoid uncomfortable conversations until life’s little issues boil over, burning people close to me. I neglect my health (and avoid the doctor’s office) until my weight and lab work show things have gotten out of control. I put off simple problems at work, letting them grow into needless complications.

Avoid it now. Deal with it later. Maybe things will magically get better, and we’ll all live happily ever after. I believe in this sinister fairy tale. I’m personally, professionally, and profoundly under its spell.

I try to snap my fingers to clean up the mess. I’m desperate to avoid the hard work required when things have gotten too far out of hand.

It’s never worked.
But I always do it.
Just in case.

There are no quick fixes when we’ve allowed neglect to take root. Things would have been so much easier if we had done the daunting work as it appeared. We understand this. But we didn’t do it. We don’t do it.

I know I should have taken care of the mess while it was still small. I should have kept up with the laundry and dishes. I should have eaten better. I should have scheduled the appointment and had the conversation. I should have dealt with this problem before it became the problem.

So, yes, the real magic would have been dealing with things before they got out of hand.

But what I should have done no longer matters.
What matters is what I’m going to do to clean things up now.
And how I’ll choose to handle the next mess differently.

I can’t snap my fingers and fix things in an instant.
All I can do is roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Today is Day 50 of my personal 100 (Week)Day Writing Challenge.

Halfway there! 🎉🥱

I wanted to look back at what I’ve written before moving on to the next fifty. Some pieces have meant more to me than others. Some were more fun to write. A few were me pushing myself to try something new.

Getting a little uncomfortable

The Deaf Ear was a very different kind of writing for me early on. It’s simple, but I dug a little deeper into myself and my own experience for the imagery. I was trying something outside my comfort zone.

It’s not necessarily a piece I expect a lot of other people to love. But I was proud of the result. There’s something satisfying about trying a different way of writing and coming away with something that somehow feels right.

Enough is Enough might be the piece I’m most proud of. I wanted to communicate something deeply personal while using as many plays on the word enough as I could.

Finding words for things I believe

Give a Damn is quite possibly my favorite piece from this whole process so far. It’s something I believe to my core, and I’m happy with the way I was able to communicate it.

Scooting Over was my first real attempt to explain an idea I’ve carried around for a while: The Kids’ Table. I call it an idea. Maybe it’s more of an emerging core value. I tried to get a little more personal with this one.

I’ve also enjoyed making time to write through some of my core values about leadership and my profession:

• Stop Making Things So Clear

• Do we really want to lead?

• To experience the best of people, you have to take the worst of them, too.

Sometimes I’ve been straightforward. Sometimes I’ve tried to have a little more fun with the delivery. I’ve appreciated having a reason to slow down and put those beliefs into words.

The Skeleton of a Leader grew out of my experience with Leadership West Virginia last year. The program had a real impact on me, and I was happy to finally give some of those thoughts a place to live outside my brain.

The boys keep teaching me

The most meaningful writing for me is still the writing about my boys.

Fatherhood has taught me more than I ever could have imagined. Some of those lessons have found their way into these pieces:

• Why Don’t We Have Pandas?

• Little Puns & Growing Punchlines

• Taking the Squiggly Way

• Backyard Campouts and Bedrock Memories

• One First Day and Two Growing Boys

I’ve been working on different skills throughout this challenge, but this type of writing comes most naturally to me. I love exploring a small but very real moment that illustrates some deeper wisdom.

My boys are forever my best teachers.

Having some fun

K-9 Landmines is about our dog.

She’s a good girl.

This was one of the more fun pieces to write.

An Acquired Taste came from wanting to write something lighter but still real. Something relatable and, hopefully, a little interesting.

Coffee it is.

Fifty more

I’ve briefly considered stopping my challenge here. 50 is a nice round number. I’ve learned so much about writing and about myself. I’m also tired. And busy. There’s a reason days 49 and 50 of my WEEKday writing challenge are coming on a Saturday and Sunday. I’m glad I gave myself some wiggle room.

I want to give myself more time per piece in the future. More research. More reflection. Let something sit for a while and come back to it. I may eventually rewrite some of these pieces. I know I’ll at least revisit them.

But I’m going to try to stick with it. Try to keep learning and keep farming my own inner world to see what other thoughts and ideas I can harvest.

Most importantly, I’ve fallen in love with writing. I’m infatuated with the creative act itself. I love the artistry and the act of communication. I don’t know if I’d call myself a writer. And if I am, I don’t know what kind of writer I’ll one day be.