After completing the CERT program last Tuesday, we had our first drill at the local fire station. We spent the day going over everything we had learned during the past nine weeks. Overall, I think everyone did pretty well. However, one of our team members managed to get “electrocuted” during the simulation and had to be carried out along with the other cardboard victims.
Before anyone panics, it was all simulated. Nobody actually got electrocuted.
He was properly embarrassed, though, which is probably the best kind of lesson because I doubt he’ll make that same mistake again anytime soon. I’m not sure when our next drill will be, but hopefully it won’t be too far off. We learned a lot over those nine weeks, and at my age, if you don’t use it, you start forgetting where you put it.
I made it home with just enough daylight left to finish my mom’s Mother’s Day gift. Thankfully, most of the hard work had already been done. All I had left was to nail everything together and add the flowers. By the time I finished, though, I was more than ready to introduce myself to the recliner and heating pad for the rest of the evening.
The pain block seems to have helped a little. I think I may have overdone things yesterday and irritated my back again because I can definitely tell the difference between yesterday and today. Apparently, my back still believes I’m twenty years old right up until it sends me the bill the next morning.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be heading in to have another spot of skin cancer removed. This one is on my right side. The last time was on my left arm, so apparently, my skin believes in equal opportunity. I’m hoping they can get it all in one visit, so I won’t have to keep going back week after week to have more cut off.
Other than that, tomorrow is my only appointment, aside from Bible study on Tuesday morning. Depending on how well my back feels, how the procedure goes, and whether the weather cooperates, I may try to sneak away and go fishing one day next week.
At this point, sitting in a boat holding a fishing pole sounds a whole lot better than sitting in another doctor’s office waiting room.
Not because I wanted it to… but because apparently my life has decided that sleep is optional now.
I got up, got moving, and made my way across town for my 6:00 a.m. Bible study. There’s something about starting your day that early that makes you feel accomplished… and slightly confused about what day it actually is.
After that, I met up with my fishing buddy Rick for breakfast. Not long into it, my brother-in-law showed up—another fisherman, and to make things worse (or better, depending on how you look at it), he lives on the river.
So naturally, what was supposed to be a quick breakfast turned into a full-blown fishing summit.
We sat there long after the plates were cleared, swapping stories about recent trips and, of course, honoring the sacred tradition of talking about “the one that got away.” I’m convinced those fish get bigger every time we tell the story.
They started talking about the next fishing trip, and I had to sit that part out—for now. I’ve got a pain block scheduled this Thursday, and I’m hoping it gives me enough relief to get back out on the kayak soon. Because right now, the only thing I’m catching is back pain.
The afternoon was spent in the shop creating a respectable amount of sawdust, which is my way of saying I worked hard but also made a mess I’ll deal with later.
Then it was off to my CERT class this evening—our final one. For the past nine weeks, we’ve been learning how to respond in emergencies, and this Saturday is the big test and drill. Not just a written test either… we actually have to prove we’ve been paying attention.
No pressure.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I’ve been working on a Mother’s Day gift for my mom. I had a bigger idea planned, but after looking at it… and looking at it again… and then criticizing it like only I can, I decided to pivot.
My wife says it looked fine.
I say it looked like a future “learning experience.”
So I scaled it down to something simpler, and honestly, it’s going a lot better. I’ve got most of it done—just some sanding and paint left. If all goes well, I should have it finished tomorrow.
Speaking of tomorrow… the weather has decided to add a little excitement back into the schedule. There’s a risk of severe storms, including tornadoes.
That’s something that always hits a little differently.
Back in 2011, our town was devastated by a tornado. Our home was spared, but many weren’t. Lives were lost, and that’s something you don’t forget. So yeah, when the meteorologists start using words like “rotation” and “severe,” my anxiety tends to show up right on time.
If everything goes according to plan, I’m hoping for a little reward at the end of this week. If the pain block works, I may try to get back out on the water on Friday. After the CERT drill on Saturday, I’ll handle any last-minute touch-ups on Mom’s gift—if needed.
It’s been a long day. The kind that starts early, ends late, and somehow still feels like there’s more to do.
But it’s also been a full day.
And I’ll take that—even if it comes with a 4:00 a.m. alarm clock and a recliner waiting on standby.
With Mother’s Day fast approaching, I decided it was time to push through the pain and make something for my mom. She loves plants—like, really loves plants—so I figured a couple of wooden planters would be the perfect gift. Plus, I’ve got a pile of scrap wood that’s been quietly judging me for months, including some cypress fencing material my wife has been not-so-subtly encouraging me to “do something with.”
So, around 9:30 this morning, I dragged all my equipment outside and got to work. By about 11:30, I had everything cut down to size and was feeling pretty good about life. That’s usually the exact moment things take a turn.
I started assembling the first planter and quickly realized something wasn’t right. The pieces weren’t lining up like the plans said they should. Now, the plans called for ¾-inch wood… and I’m working with ½-inch. Details, right? Apparently not. Turns out, those little fractions matter.
Still, I pressed on.
At this point, I’ve got one planter about 90% complete. It’s… let’s just say “custom shaped.” Not exactly square, which means putting the top boards on requires some math. And if you’ve followed me for any length of time, you already know—math and I are not on speaking terms. I’m pretty sure an angle finder is in my near future, the next time I wander into the store pretending I know what I’m doing.
After spending most of the day bending, lifting, and moving around, my back has officially filed a formal complaint. Sitting usually doesn’t bother me, but tonight I can’t seem to find a position that doesn’t make me question why I thought this was a good idea. The heating pad is doing its best, but the second I move, my back reminds me who’s really in charge. I took a pain pill earlier, but it’s apparently operating on its own schedule.
After looking at what I’ve completed on this planter, I’m not really happy with it. It’s one of those projects that looked a whole lot better in my head than it does sitting in front of me. So, there’s a good chance this one becomes a “keep it at the house” planter, and I’ll come up with something else for Mom.
I guess you could say this was my practice run… whether I planned it that way or not.
It all really depends on how I’m feeling after this upcoming pain block. If I can get a little relief and move around without feeling like my back is plotting against me, I may give it another shot and build something I’m actually proud to give her.
If not, well… Mom may be getting something a little less handmade and a little more store-bought this year—and honestly, she’ll probably love it just the same.
As for doctor updates, I’ve now got two appointments lined up—one with the orthopedic in mid-June and another with a pain specialist next Thursday. I’m hoping the pain specialist can help take the edge off until June gets here.
And yes, I’ll admit it… I probably shouldn’t have stayed out on that kayak as long as I did last Thursday. But I’ll still argue it was worth it. I needed that time on the water—maybe just not that much time.
Tomorrow looks like it’ll be a recliner day. I plan on catching up on my Bible study material for Tuesday morning. Theology isn’t exactly my strong suit, but I’m giving it my best shot—kind of like woodworking and math.
I also had a visit with my oncologist last week. My iron levels were low again, so they gave me a shot of Epoetin alfa to help boost my red blood cell production. They also ran my BCR-ABL1 test to check on my CML. The last several tests over the past six months have come back non-detectable, which is great news. I’m curious to see how this one turns out, though—it seems like those numbers like to keep me guessing. Should have results in a few days.
Other than that, things are pretty quiet around here. I’ll finish up that planter (eventually), survive the math, and hopefully have something worth showing for it.
I’ll check back in when I’ve got something else to write about… or when the second planter decides to humble me too.
I have Chronic Myeloid Leukemia (CML). I was diagnosed back in 2014. I’m not going to lie—when I first heard those words, I thought my world had come to an end.
I was devastated. I got depressed. I was angry at everything and everyone.
I couldn’t even carry on a simple conversation without it turning into something it didn’t need to be. In short, I wasn’t exactly easy to live with.
The truth is, everything I felt is something a lot of people experience when they hear the word “cancer.” That flood of emotions hits hard. But what I’ve learned since then is this—there is always hope, no matter the diagnosis.
I follow several CML groups online, and I try to help people who are just starting this journey and struggling to process it all.
Last night, I came across a post from a young woman who had just been diagnosed with CML. She was going through the same emotions I went through—fear, anger, and the overwhelming feeling that her life was over. She had just gotten married and was planning to start a family, but now she was ready to give up on that dream. Her husband, loving her the way he does, was willing to give that up, too.
That hit me.
So I reached out to her privately.
I told her what I wish someone had made crystal clear to me in the beginning: things have changed. Years ago, this diagnosis looked very different. Today, it’s not the same story.
There are medications now that can control this disease. It may not be something that just disappears, but it’s something many people live with—and live well with.
I also told her I understood exactly what she was feeling, because I had been there—the anger, the depression, the uncertainty. And I let her know she didn’t have to go through it alone.
And I told her about this blog—about my life after diagnosis, the ups and downs, the fishing trips, the everyday moments. I wanted her to see that there is still a life to live after hearing those words.
Honestly, I didn’t expect a response.
But she wrote back.
And after several messages, I could tell something had shifted. Knowing that someone else had been walking this road since 2014—and is still here—gave her a different perspective. It even made her reconsider the idea that her future, including having a family, might not be over after all.
That right there is why I share my story.
CML is not a death sentence. It’s a bump in the road. A big one sometimes—but not a roadblock.
My numbers still go up and down like a rollercoaster. Some months are good, some aren’t. But it’s been that way long enough that it doesn’t shake me like it used to.
Life goes on.
And that’s exactly what I told her—live your life. Keep your appointments. Take your medication. Listen to your doctor.
But don’t stop living.
Because this diagnosis doesn’t mean the end of your story.
Sometimes it convinces you that you saw something that wasn’t there. Other times, you can look straight at something—multiple times—and somehow never actually see it. I can’t explain it, but I’ve experienced it enough to know it’s real.
The other day, I wrote about my wife and I panic cleaning the house. In the process, I moved several things to what I thought were “safe places.” You know the kind—those spots that make perfect sense at the time but completely betray you later.
One of those items was a set of red flags I bought for the back of my kayak. They’re there to warn drivers that I’ve got a load sticking way out past the truck bed. Bright red. Hard to miss… or so you’d think.
Well, those flags disappeared.
I tore this house apart looking for them. I knew exactly where I put them. I knew the room. I knew the box. I checked that box more times than I can count. Opened it, moved things around, looked carefully… and every single time, nothing.
Gone.
Now, I’ve been down this road before. When I can’t find something after a while, I usually just give up and buy another one. That’s the reason I own more tape measures than any one man should. Same goes for hammers. I’m pretty sure I’ve got at least 15 scattered throughout this house.
At any given moment, I can find four of each. At other times… not a single one.
It never fails.
So while packing for my fishing trip, I gave up on the flags and moved on. I grabbed my Nikon camera, put a fresh battery in it, set the time and date, and placed it in a Ziploc bag along with a notepad and pen so I could keep everything together.
Or so I thought.
Because when I got to the river… the bag and the camera were nowhere to be found.
Now I’m standing there wondering how something can vanish between my house and my truck. Later on, I start searching again—this time for the camera.
And guess what I found?
The flags.
Right there. In the same box. In the same room. In the exact spot I knew I had already searched.
I didn’t just glance in that box—I looked in it. More than once. And somehow, I never saw them.
But the moment I stopped looking for them… there they were.
At this point, I’ve just accepted it. There’s no explaining it. The mind sees what it wants to see—and sometimes, it refuses to see what’s right in front of it.
So tomorrow, I’ve got a plan.
I’m going to look for something else entirely. Maybe a missing tape measure or one of those fifteen hammers. And if history repeats itself, I’ll stumble across that camera and Ziploc bag like it’s been sitting there the whole time… just waiting for me to notice it.
Earlier today, I stopped at a convenience store I don’t usually visit. I could feel my blood sugar dropping, and I needed to grab something quick to bring it back up.
Funny how priorities can shift in an instant.
As I was scanning the shelves—trying to find something that would help but still be somewhat healthy—I noticed a young kid. He couldn’t have been more than 12 or 13. Something about the way he was moving caught my attention.
Then I saw it.
One item… then another… quietly slipping into his pockets.
Just like that, my low blood sugar wasn’t the most important thing anymore.
I glanced over at the cashier, but she was tied up with another customer. So I grabbed a pack of crackers and headed to the counter, waiting for my moment. When she finished, I motioned like I needed help with something and quietly told her what I’d seen.
We both stood there, watching.
And as we watched that young man, I couldn’t help but think back to something that happened years ago during a Boy Scout Winter Blast trip.
Every year, right after Christmas, we’d load up and head out for five days of camping. One year, the boys were working on the Railroad merit badge and took a trip to a train museum. On the way back, they stopped to get gas, and while the leader was pumping gas, one of the boys decided it would be a good idea to steal a can of snuff.
Not only that—he went back in multiple times. And somehow, others encouraged it.
We didn’t find out until later that night when one honest scout came forward, wanting to come clean.
When we got back to the scout hut, we handled it.
We searched bags, found everything, and then made a decision that stuck with me to this day.
Instead of calling the police, we made other plans. A couple of weeks later, with the parents’ approval, we drove those boys over an hour back to that store. They had to face the manager. Look him in the eye. Own what they did.
Then they spent the afternoon cleaning bathrooms, picking up trash, and sweeping the parking lot. Let me tell you—nothing builds character faster than a public restroom and a push broom
It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t easy. But it mattered.
Those boys learned something that day. And years later, I still see some of them—and they turned out to be good men.
Back in the store today, the manager approached the young kid and asked him to empty his pockets. He hesitated, but eventually did.
Then something interesting happened.
The cashier asked him what he thought he should do.
He didn’t have much to say. Turns out pocket-stuffing confidence doesn’t translate well into public speaking.
Then she turned to me and asked for my opinion.
I told her what I had seen work before—that maybe giving him a chance to make it right, to work it off, might stick with him more than anything else.
I don’t know what they decided. Maybe he spent the afternoon sweeping. Maybe he just got a warning. Maybe he swore off convenience stores forever.
Maybe I’ll never know.
But I do know this—sometimes the best lessons don’t come from punishment… they come from accountability.
From being given the chance to face what you did and make it right.
I just hope that young man takes this moment and carries it with him the way those scouts did.
At 4:00 a.m., my alarm will go off, signaling the start of a long—but hopefully rewarding—day. I’ll roll out of bed, grab some breakfast, and head out to meet my fishing buddy at his place by 5:30.
But before I ever get to the water, today was about preparation.
After spending hours out in the heat working on crafts, I came home and shifted gears—loading up the kayak, rods, and every piece of electronics I’ll need. I made sure batteries were fresh, gear was in place, and all safety equipment was accounted for. Or at least… most of it.
Ever since the great Easter weekend cleanup (or “panic clean,” if we’re being honest), there are still a few things that seem to have vanished into thin air. I had a feeling that once I started moving everything around, I’d forget where I put something important.
I was right.
A few weeks ago, I bought some proper red safety flags for the back of my kayak—bright, reflective, and actually visible. In Alabama, anything over 12 feet is supposed to have a red flag attached, and my old solution—a once-red rag—is now so faded it looks more like a tired brown surrender flag than anything useful.
And of course… I can’t find the new ones.
I know how this story ends. I’ll stumble across them one day while I’m tearing the house apart looking for something else I can’t find. That’s just how it works.
But missing flags or not, I’m determined to make the most of tomorrow. A good day on the water doesn’t come from perfect preparation—it comes from being there.
Somewhere in between all of that, I’ve also got a craft fair coming up Saturday. Today, despite the heat, I managed to put together a couple of new trial pieces—a rustic serving tray and a small hanging planter. I didn’t go all in on them just yet. No sense in making a dozen of something if nobody wants one.
But if they sell? I’ll be making more.
There’s something satisfying about working with your hands—whether it’s shaping wood into something useful or casting a line and waiting on that tug. Different kind of work, same kind of reward.
Currently, I’m in my recliner—coffee in hand, heating pad doing its best to negotiate peace with my back. And as I sit here, I can honestly say this past weekend is one I wouldn’t care to repeat anytime soon.
The emotional rollercoaster alone was enough to wear me out.
A few months ago, my doctor of 40 years was involved in a near-fatal car accident. For four decades, this man has been more than just a doctor—he’s been a steady presence in my life. The kind of doctor who knows you, not just your chart.
Since the accident, his daughter—a nurse practitioner—has been stepping in and taking care of his patients. The last I heard, he was in rehab and making progress. There was hope. Even with the complications from his pancreas injury, things seemed to be heading in the right direction.
Then Easter weekend came.
We had family over and made a conscious decision to set aside the plumbing chaos and focus on what Easter is really about. For a little while, everything felt normal again. Laughing, eating, spending time together—it was a much-needed pause.
But Monday morning had other plans.
Like I usually do, I started my day with a devotion and then sat down to scroll through Facebook. That’s when everything shifted.
Right there on the screen was the news—my doctor of 40 years had passed away due to complications from his pancreas.
Just like that… he was gone.
It’s hard to explain the weight of that kind of loss. It’s not just losing a doctor—it’s losing someone who has walked alongside you through so many seasons of life. Someone you trusted without question.
And in the middle of processing that, reality didn’t pause.
I had been waiting on MRI results from the previous week, and now I’m left wondering how—or when—I’ll even receive them. It’s a strange feeling… needing answers, but suddenly not knowing where they’ll come from.
Then there’s my son’s situation.
After all the speculation and stress, we finally got to the root of the plumbing issue. It turns out the culprit was a mixing valve in the guest bathroom shower. It had been leaking hot water for quite some time, and the damage… well, let’s just say it didn’t hold back.
Walls will have to be removed. Flooring in the living room—gone. Parts of the kitchen tile are also coming out.
It’s one of those situations where the problem hides quietly until it decides to introduce itself in a big way.
The repair itself was handled today, and the water mitigation crew has already started their work—cutting into walls, setting up fans and dehumidifiers, and beginning the long process of drying everything out.
Now comes the part nobody enjoys—dealing with the insurance company.
So far, they’ve been less than eager to step up. If it were up to them, I’m pretty sure they’d prefer to pretend the whole thing never happened. Thankfully, the mitigation team has experience dealing with this kind of pushback and has assured us they’ll fight to make sure the necessary repairs are covered.
We’ll see how that plays out.
But if there’s any silver lining in all of this, it’s this:
At least we didn’t have to tear up the living room slab chasing a mystery leak. He’ll end up with a new wood floor. And he has people in place who know how to handle the construction—and the insurance headaches that come with it.
Sometimes, that’s about as good as it gets.
This weekend was a reminder of how quickly things can change. One moment you’re celebrating with family, and the next you’re dealing with loss, uncertainty, and unexpected challenges.
But through it all, one thing remains the same—faith, family, and the strength to take the next step forward… even when you’d rather just stay in the recliner a little longer.
And for now, that’s exactly where I’ll be.
Coffee in hand. Heating pad on. Taking it one moment at a time.
The beginning of my Easter weekend started out simple enough—help my son check on a leak in his slab.
Now, when someone says “just come take a look,” you picture a quick in-and-out job. Maybe a loose-fitting, maybe something obvious. Ten minutes, tops. You feel confident. Capable. Like a man who knows where his flashlight is.
What you don’t expect… is a full-blown plumbing adventure.
Since I was only supposed to be looking for a leak, I made the brilliant decision to leave all my tools at home. Normally, they live in my truck, but since I recently had some body work done, everything got unloaded—and apparently, my motivation to reload it went with it.
That decision came back to haunt me almost immediately.
Before heading to my son’s house, I had already been given my “honey-do” list for the day. My wife wanted a new overhead kitchen light installed and the handrails painted before our Easter guests arrived. So, naturally, I thought, “Let me just swing by, find this leak real quick, and get back home.”
Famous last words.
I picked up the light and paint, called my son, and headed over. When I got there, I grabbed the one and only tool I thought I’d need… my flashlight.
That flashlight and I were about to be very disappointed.
When I walked in, I found my son wrestling with a toilet. Not just any toilet—this was one of those “engineered by someone who hates plumbers” models. You know the kind. The connections are hidden, your hands don’t fit, and nothing is where it should be.
He was trying to replace the flush valve, and what should have been a simple job turned into a puzzle designed by a madman. You couldn’t even get your hand behind the tank to reach the nut. At one point, I ended up breaking the old valve just to get it out… which is always a confidence booster.
Eventually, he told me he had it under control, so I went back to my original mission: finding the world’s most elusive water leak.
About 15 minutes in, I heard some… colorful language coming from the bathroom.
That’s never a good sign.
Turns out, he was now fighting the same battle we just had—getting the new valve tight enough without being able to reach the nut. And since all my tools were sitting comfortably in my garage at home, we were working with whatever he had lying around… which wasn’t much.
After some struggling, twisting, and me contorting my body into shapes it was never designed to make, we admitted defeat and made a trip to the hardware store for some “special” wrenches.
Spoiler alert: they helped… but not much.
Eventually, through persistence, determination, and probably a little bit of stubbornness, we got the valve installed without leaks. Victory was ours… and so was the back pain.
Once I finally made it back home, it was time to tackle my original assignment. With my wife’s help, I replaced the kitchen light, then moved on to painting the handrails… along with a good portion of my shirt. Apparently, I believe in fully committing to a project—whether I mean to or not.
After finishing up, I rewarded myself the only way I know how: parked in my recliner, heating pad in place, enjoying the first of several cups of coffee like I had just completed a home improvement marathon—which, in my mind, I had.
Later that night, I took my meds as usual and noticed something looked a little off. Turns out, in the chaos of cleaning and rearranging, my medications got mixed up—and instead of taking my sodium bicarbonate, I doubled up on my muscle relaxers.
Now, if you’ve never done that before, let me tell you… It turns your entire next day into a slow-motion documentary.
I spent most of Easter in a fog.
Thankfully, it was a good kind of day. We had family over—my son and his girlfriend, my daughter and future son-in-law, and even her sister. There was food, laughter, and the added bonus of some first-time introductions.
It was one of those moments where everything just feels right.
Even if you’re slightly sedated.
After everyone left, I curled up in my recliner and took a much-needed nap.
Because sometimes the best way to end a long weekend of fixing everything for everyone else… is to finally sit still long enough to not break anything else.
“When things don’t go your way, remember that setbacks are temporary opportunities for growth, strengthening your character, and redirection toward better possibilities.” — Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart
That quote popped into my head today as I read the police report I downloaded about my recent accident. I was fully expecting to see the words that every driver hopes to read: “The other guy did it.”
Instead, the report pretty much said… “Nice try.”
I was sure the fault would be placed on the other driver. The young man involved practically admitted it was his fault, and there was even a witness asking if I had just been hit by him.
Apparently, the police officer saw things a little differently.
My first thought was to grab the nearest object and throw it across the room. But then reality set in. The problem with throwing things is that eventually you have to go pick them up again. That’s a lot of effort just to prove you’re mad.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to control my anger. That was not always the case.
Back in my younger days, if I got mad, there wasn’t an object within arm’s reach that was safe. Books, pencils, notebooks—if it wasn’t nailed down, it was at risk of becoming an airborne projectile.
And the yelling… oh boy.
If you needed to find me in school, you didn’t need a map. You just followed the sound of someone yelling loud enough to be heard three blocks away.
My classmates often thought it was hilarious that they could get me mad so easily. Some of them would poke the bear on purpose just to watch the show. Looking back, I realize they were basically getting free entertainment.
One particular morning in high school still sticks in my mind.
We had a new student starting that day. From the moment I saw him, I had a feeling we probably weren’t going to be best friends.
As was tradition, we all introduced ourselves. His name was Curtis.
Now this was seventh grade—a time when hormones were just starting to wake up, and teenagers thought they were tougher than they actually were. Curtis apparently wanted to make a name for himself, and for reasons I still don’t understand, he chose me as his audition.
Later that day, during P.E., we were playing dodgeball. Curtis grabbed the ball and launched it straight at me, hitting me square in the face. It was a solid hit too—bloodied my nose pretty good.
As I got up off the floor, I looked over at him. Curtis was smiling from ear to ear and asked if I wanted some more.
Now here’s where things get a little fuzzy.
I honestly don’t remember much after that.
What I was told later was that I picked up the ball and threw what witnesses described as a cannon shot directly at Curtis’s face. The ball hit him square in the nose and dropped him like a sack of potatoes.
Curtis didn’t get up.
He just lay there.
What I do remember is standing over him when he finally woke up. Blood was slowly making its way across the gym floor, and he looked up at me and said the most unexpected thing:
“What an arm.”
I helped him up, and moments later, we were escorted to the principal’s office, where we received matching three-day suspensions for fighting.
The funny part is that Curtis and I actually became good friends after that and stayed friends all the way through graduation.
But unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of my temper. There were more fights and more suspension slips over the years.
It wasn’t until I got married and had a son that I realized something had to change. I didn’t want my son growing up thinking throwing things and yelling at the top of your lungs was a normal way to handle problems.
Learning to control my anger wasn’t easy. I tried several different approaches—from therapists to self-management techniques. In reality, it wasn’t just one thing that worked. It was a combination of several things over time.
Finding my “happy place” turned out to be one of the biggest keys.
These days, I consider myself a much calmer person. I no longer throw objects across the room. I might still mutter a few colorful comments under my breath, but at least the neighbors can’t hear me anymore.
So when I read that police report today, I just sat there for a moment.
Years ago, something in my house would probably have been airborne by now.
Instead, I just took a deep breath and reminded myself that setbacks happen.
Monday, I’ll call the police officer listed on the report and politely ask why he determined the accident was my fault when the other driver claimed responsibility. There was even a witness who said the same thing, although unfortunately, I don’t have their contact information.
Without evidence, that statement probably wouldn’t hold up in court.
Still, I guess that quote is right.
Sometimes life throws you setbacks.
The important thing is learning not to throw things back.
Grayfeathersblog 