Tag Archives: writing

When a Routine Becomes a Memory

03 Tuesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Cancer, Diabetic, Disability, Life, Uncategorized

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Tuesdays are my long days.

They start at 4:00 a.m. — rolling out of bed, grabbing a shower, getting dressed, and heading straight to the kitchen for the first of what will be four cups of coffee. Tuesday mornings mean Bible study across town at 6:00 a.m., so once my first 22-ounce cup is ready, I sit at the kitchen table and go over the material we’ll be covering later that morning. Sometimes I’ll pour a bowl of cereal while I drink my coffee and wake up enough to be conversational.

This morning, though, I lost track of time. One coffee refill turned into “oh wow, I need to leave now.”

I left the house about ten minutes later than normal, thinking I could make up the time on the drive. That thought lasted right up until I hit a blocked road. Detour ahead. The detour added about twenty minutes to my drive, which pretty much killed any hope of being early. And I’m one of those people who would rather be thirty minutes early than five minutes late. I ended up pulling in right at 6:00 a.m. — which, technically, is on time… but still feels late to me.

Normally, after Bible study, I head back toward home and stop for breakfast with one of my fishing buddies. Not today. Today was lab work day, which meant going to the doctor’s office to give blood. Ever since I lost all this weight, nurses seem to have trouble getting blood from me without sticking me multiple times. Either the blood stops flowing, or my veins decide to roll out of the way like they’re dodging responsibility.

This morning was no different. Three sticks before they found a vein that cooperated long enough to get what they needed.

After lab work, I went across the street to a diner and grabbed a breakfast sandwich to go. Once I got home, I spent most of the afternoon working on Boy Scout awards. We’ve got an awards ceremony for the young men in our troop this Saturday, and everything had to be sorted and organized. Of course, I found out I’m missing some awards, so tomorrow it’s back to the Scout office to track those down.

Tuesday nights are — or maybe I should say were — Scout nights for me.

Tonight was my last regular Tuesday night with the Boy Scouts. We have the awards ceremony on Saturday, and that will be my last official night serving as a leader. I’m not going to say much more about that until after Saturday. I’ve got something in mind that I’ll be writing about and posting here once everything is finished. All I’ll say for now is… it’s bittersweet.

After the meeting, some of the leaders stayed behind talking about old times and even tossing around ideas about future camping trips. I haven’t been home long, and it’s getting late. I’m not really sure what my Tuesday evenings will look like starting next week. Part of me is a little sad… and part of me is relieved.

I do have a training class starting next month that will fall on Tuesdays, but it’s only for eight weeks. After that? I guess we’ll see what new routine Tuesday decides to become.

I Found Hawaii Hiding in the Static

31 Saturday Jan 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio, Retirement, Uncategorized

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I’m not the type of person who posts something just to make a post. If I share something, it’s usually because it’s something I think is worth sharing — something about me, something about my surroundings, or something that happened that was funny, interesting, or meaningful.

But something happened this afternoon that honestly felt a little bit amazing.

It’s also something I’ve been working toward for well over a year… which means at this point it’s moved from “hobby goal” to “mild obsession.”

Some of you may not know what I’m talking about, and that’s totally fine. I’ve mentioned before that I’m into HAM radio and POTA (Parks On The Air). Basically, operators set up in parks and make contact with other operators. There’s an award if you manage to work a park in all 50 states.

For the past year, I’ve gotten contacts in every state… except Hawaii, North Dakota, and Alaska.

Those three have basically been my radio version of Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and that one sock that disappears in the dryer.

There are apps you can download that alert you when one of your missing states is on the air. Sounds great in theory. In reality, it usually means you rush to the frequency just in time to hear what sounds like someone whispering through a pillow… during a hurricane… from 4,000 miles away.

This afternoon, I got a notification that a station from Hawaii was on the air.

I jumped to the frequency.

Nothing.

Just static. Beautiful, expensive, professionally tuned static.

I listened for a while, hoping something would magically appear. Nope. Just more static. So I moved on and tried other POTA stations. Strike out there, too.

So I figured, why not go back and check Hawaii one more time?

This time, I could barely hear him. Like… if I blinked too hard, I might lose him.

So I threw my call sign out there, fully expecting to be ignored, like when you wave at someone in public and realize they were waving at the person behind you.

And then…

He came back to me.

We exchanged information, completed the contact, and right about then, my brain went:

“Wait… did that just happen??”

After over a year of chasing that contact… I finally got Hawaii.

I’m pretty sure if anyone had been watching me at that moment, they would’ve seen a grown adult sitting in front of a radio grinning like he just won the lottery… or at least found that missing dryer sock.

That was a huge accomplishment for me.

Now it’s down to Alaska and North Dakota.

And if today taught me anything, it’s this: sometimes the signal is there… You just have to sit through a little more static, be a little more stubborn, and try one more time.

(Also, if you’re in Alaska or North Dakota and like talking to slightly overexcited radio guys… I’m your guy.)

When DIY Repairs Fight Back

31 Saturday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Life, Uncategorized

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As a child, I would always watch my dad as he repaired different things around the house. In my childlike mind, he could fix anything. I remember coming home from elementary school one day and finding our television torn apart, parts scattered all over the den floor. While other kids’ dads were watching TV, mine had it in surgery.

To me, he was the ultimate jack of all trades.

Later in life, we helped him build the house we lived in—and the one my parents still live in today. I remember telling him I wanted to grow up just like him. Apparently, I took that statement way too seriously.

I did grow up, and I’m not exactly like him… but I’m close enough to make the family nervous when something breaks.

I can fix just about anything I put my mind to. I went to school for HVAC, got a state license, and still take 4 CEUs every year to keep it current. Learning that trade gave me insight into how most things work. I repair most of my own appliances, and I’ve only had to call in a professional a couple of times—and that was when my foot was in a cast and gravity was no longer my friend.

I keep my license active mainly for my parents and my kids. Recently, I replaced my dad’s heat pump after it developed a refrigerant leak. Unfortunately, thanks to government regulations, the refrigerant it needed is now apparently classified as “ancient artifact.” I’ve also worked on my daughter’s clothes dryer when it stopped heating—a simple fix that just required replacing the heating element. In most cases, troubleshooting comes naturally.

Then my son called me this past Tuesday.

He said there was water under his washing machine after he did a load of laundry. He sent me the model and serial numbers so I could start troubleshooting before we met. After some research, I narrowed it down to a few possibilities: water inlet valves, drain pump, drain hoses, or the dreaded tub seal/bearing—the washing machine equivalent of “it’s totaled.”

I found parts for everything except the tub seal/bearing. It wasn’t listed anywhere. Not even on the manufacturer’s website. I emailed the manufacturer and got their incredibly helpful response: “Call a professional service technician.”

In other words, “Good luck, buddy.”

That was not happening.

We met today to work on the washer. I stopped at a hardware store and bought some cinder blocks so we could raise the machine, and I could crawl underneath it like a mechanic working on a car with no jack. The wash cycle took fifty-six minutes, which meant I spent forty-four of those minutes lying on a cold garage floor underneath a running washing machine, questioning my life choices.

Nothing leaked.

The hoses were dry. The pump was dry. No water around the tub seal or bearing. Everything looked perfect. This was confusing, suspicious, and mildly insulting to my troubleshooting skills.

Just as I was starting to think maybe the washer was mocking me, water suddenly began pouring directly onto my face. I was instantly soaked—like someone had turned on a shower labeled “Idiot Under Washer.” Before my son could shut the machine off, I was already rethinking every decision that led me to that moment.

The water wasn’t coming from anywhere I expected.

It was coming from the top of the washer—from the spray nozzle.

My son has very hard water in his area. He’s constantly using CLR on showerheads and faucets to fight calcium buildup. Turns out, that same calcium had slowly clogged the washer’s nozzle until, when it finally activated, it shot water clear past the tub and straight down the side—right onto me.

The fix?

A small cup of CLR mixed with water, an old toothbrush, and a pocketknife.

Five minutes. No parts. No service call. No $120-per-hour technician.

And best of all, we got some quality father-and-son time out of it—although next time, I might bring a poncho.

I’d say we came out ahead.

I Just Wanted a Burger, Not a Lecture

26 Monday Jan 2026

Posted by in Uncategorized, Life

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Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Pexels.com

I’ve been debating on posting this for a long time, and honestly, I really didn’t have a reason to—until just recently.

I was at a drive-through the other day, placing an order like I’ve done a thousand times before. When I pulled up to the window, I addressed the person there as “ma’am.” Simple. Automatic. The way I was raised.

And that’s when the wheels came off the wagon.

I had made the mistake of identifying the person at the window as the wrong gender. My mistake. I went purely by appearance. I’m one of those people who tends to call it like I see it. If it quacks like a duck, it must be a duck…right?

Apparently not.

The person at the window immediately began to chastise me for not reading their mind.

Now, let me stop right here and say this: I wasn’t trying to insult, provoke, belittle, or make a statement. I wasn’t being sarcastic. I wasn’t trying to be clever. I was just ordering food. Hungry, slightly impatient, and completely unprepared for a pop quiz on modern social navigation.

I also want to be clear about something else. I don’t do political posts. I avoid them on purpose. If someone wants to label this as political, then congratulations—this will officially be my first and last one.

Here’s where I stand, plain and simple. If you’re a man and want to be a woman, so be it. If you’re a woman and want to be a man, so be it. If you identify as non-binary, or something else entirely, that’s your life and your choice. It’s not my job to run it, and it’s not my place to stop you.

But I also don’t believe it’s reasonable to expect strangers to instantly know what’s in your head.

Somewhere along the line, something that used to be automatic—sir, ma’am, he, she—has become a minefield. And the expectation, at least in that moment, was that I should somehow know the correct answer before the question was ever asked.

That’s the part that stuck with me.

We live in a time when communication is supposedly easier than ever. We’ve got phones, apps, and watches that tell us to stand up and breathe. And yet, basic human interaction feels more complicated than ever. Instead of conversation, correction. Instead of grace, assumption.

Here’s the honest truth: I’m going to get things wrong sometimes. Not out of hate. Not out of stubbornness. Not out of disrespect. But because I’m human, I’m older than Google, and I grew up in a world where appearances usually matched labels.

And maybe the better answer—for all of us—is a little more patience.

If I misidentify you, tell me. I’ll listen. I’ll adjust. I’m not above learning. But I don’t believe shame, scolding, or public correction at a fast-food window is how understanding is built. Respect shouldn’t be a weapon; it should be a bridge.

Life’s already heavy enough. We’re all carrying something. A bad day. A loss. A diagnosis. A bill we don’t know how to pay. The last thing we need is to turn a cheeseburger exchange into a courtroom drama.

So this isn’t a rant. And it’s not a political crusade. It’s one simple request from one imperfect human to another:

If I get it wrong, tell me. Don’t try to teach a lesson. Don’t draw a line in the sand. Just tell me.

Because I’m not your enemy. I’m just a guy in a drive-through trying to buy lunch.

And if we’ve reached a point in life where a stranger deserves a public scolding instead of a quiet correction, then maybe the real thing we’ve lost isn’t proper labels.

Maybe it’s grace.

Missing Clyde on His 21st Birthday

25 Sunday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Pets

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Today’s been a tough day.

As much as I tried to keep my mind occupied, there was no escaping the fact that today would have been Clyde’s 21st birthday. And yes — Clyde was a cat — but anyone who’s ever loved an animal knows they aren’t “just pets.” They’re routine. They’re comfort. Their presence. They’re family.

The fact that today was cold, rainy, and just flat-out miserable didn’t make it any easier. It felt like the kind of weather made for staying inside, listening to the quiet… and noticing who’s missing.

He’s been gone a little over two months now. And there are days I think things are getting a little easier. Then a memory pops into my head out of nowhere — the sound of him moving across the floor, the way he looked at me, the little habits he had — and it nearly drops me to my knees. Today was a good example of that.

Grief with a pet is strange. They’re woven into the smallest parts of your life. Feeding times. Favorite spots. Empty corners. You don’t realize how many pieces of your day belonged to them until they’re suddenly not there.

I used to think time was supposed to make this hurt less. I’m learning instead that time just teaches you how to carry it. Some days it’s light. Some days it’s heavy. And some days — like today — it feels like the full weight of 21 years.

So tonight, I’m letting myself miss him. I’m letting it be a tough day. Because Clyde wasn’t “just a cat.” He was a constant. A companion. A small life that left a huge space behind.

Happy 21st birthday, Clyde. You are still loved. And you are still missed.

Welcome to Wal-Mart: Please Scan Your Items… Or Don’t, Apparently

23 Friday Jan 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio, Retirement

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Winter Field Day kicks off tomorrow and runs through Sunday. For those who aren’t familiar, Winter Field Day is a Ham radio competition where operators try to make as many contacts as possible within a set time. Some of those contacts can be from all over the world — which means a few of us will be huddled around radios, headphones on, pretending we’re way more important than we actually are.

I volunteered to bring a dessert. Since there will only be four of us, I decided not to go all out. If this were a bigger crowd, I’d be firing up one of my Dutch ovens and whipping up something impressive like a cobbler or an upside-down cake. But for a small group? Cookies it is.

Simple. Easy. No problem… until I realized I didn’t have all the ingredients.

So, against my better judgment, I made a trip to Wal-Mart — the one place I did not want to be, on any day of the week, much less on a Friday afternoon.

For those unfamiliar with Wal-Mart (and bless you if you are), it’s basically a small country. Groceries on one side. Clothes, housewares, sporting goods, electronics, car batteries, fishing worms, and possibly a space shuttle on the other. If humanity has ever needed it, Wal-Mart probably has it… somewhere… in aisle 947.

I grab my few missing items and head to the self-checkout. Of course, there’s a line. I remember when self-checkout first came out, and the rule was “10 items or less.” When did that become “one fully stocked fallout shelter per customer”? People in front of me had carts piled so high I half expected a sherpa to come help guide them through.

As I’m standing there, practicing my patience breathing, I start noticing something a little… off.

One lady with a cart loaded down with groceries was pulling items out, dropping them into bags… and never scanning them. Not “oops, missed one.” I mean, confidently bagging groceries like she was playing a game of competitive grocery Jenga.

What made it worse? The Wal-Mart attendant was standing right there watching her… and doing absolutely nothing.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who noticed. People ahead of me were quietly making comments to the attendant. Still nothing. The lady continued her little “Scan-less and the Furious” routine like it was perfectly normal. At that point, I’m thinking either this is the boldest shoplifting operation I’ve ever seen… or I accidentally wandered into some kind of undercover training exercise.

Ordinarily, I probably would have said something. But then I hesitated.

Maybe she’s fallen on hard times and genuinely needs the food. Maybe this is one of those situations where you mind your business and let the universe sort it out. After all, an employee was standing there whose job — supposedly — was to prevent exactly this kind of thing.

On the other hand… karma has a funny way of circling back around and biting you right on the rear end when you least expect it.

So I paid for my legally acquired cookie ingredients, headed for the door, and left Wal-Mart exactly the way I found it — confused, slightly concerned, and in need of a shower and a prayer.

If nothing else, the cookies better be good. I risked emotional damage for them.

Cold Enough to Make a Southerner Pray

22 Thursday Jan 2026

Posted by in Life, Nature

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I don’t know who offended Mother Nature, but at this point, I’m convinced somebody cut her off in traffic, stole her parking spot, and ate the last donut. Whatever it was, we are all paying for it.

She is currently having a full-blown emotional breakdown in the atmosphere.

Seven days ago, we were told a freeze watch might be issued. Then some warm Gulf air came rolling in and bullied the Arctic air back north like, “Ma’am, this is the South. You’re lost.” For a hot minute, it looked like we’d escaped.

But no. Of course not.

Now, the forecast says temperatures were supposed to start dropping Saturday night and continue their descent into single digits by Tuesday morning. Single digits. That’s not “a little chilly.” That’s “why do I live where the air hurts my face?”

But don’t put away your shorts yet, because Mother Nature is also predicting mid-40s next week. Awesome. A whole three days of false hope.

And now… now they’re saying snow is possible next weekend.

So let me get this straight. We’re doing spring, winter, fake spring, and winter: the sequel all in the same ten-day period?

Mother Nature is not controlling the climate — she’s playing roulette with it.

She really needs to get her act together and make up her mind. People in the South are not equipped for this kind of psychological warfare. We own exactly one coat. It’s decorative. It comes out for Christmas photos and emergency runs to Walmart when the bread aisle looks like it’s been looted.

Down here, extended cold doesn’t just affect the weather — it affects our entire economy. Milk and bread disappear. Churches cancel. Schools close if a snowflake thinks about falling. We start with dripping faucets, opening cabinets, wrapping pipes, and saying things like, “I’m just gonna let it run all night,” as if we’re on some kind of plumbing life support system.

So to whoever angered Mother Nature: own it. Apologize. Send her a fruit basket. Light a candle. Do something. Because the rest of us are out here wearing three layers, questioning our life choices, and checking the forecast like it owes us money.

Mother Nature, if you’re listening — pick a personality and stick with it.

Confessions of a Closet Radio Nerd

16 Friday Jan 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio

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In a group discussion today, I was asked to tell something about myself that no one else knew. I had to think for a few minutes because I’m basically an open book. There’s not much left to reveal unless we start talking about my snack habits. After a minute or two, I finally said, “HAM radio.”

Instantly, I was rewarded with the same looks people give when you say words like “cryptocurrency” or “CrossFit.” Blank. Confused. Slight concern. Not surprisingly, several people in the room had no idea what HAM radio was, which was perfect because it gave me a chance to climb onto my invisible soapbox and explain.

For those who are unfamiliar, amateur radio operators utilize radios and antennas to communicate with individuals locally, across the country, and occasionally around the world—without relying on cell towers, Wi-Fi, or satellites. Just radios, airwaves, and a little bit of nerdy wizardry. You can talk to someone down the street, or someone on the other side of the planet, assuming the atmosphere is in a good mood that day.

Some people collect stamps. Some people golf. Some people run marathons. Apparently, I sit in my house and talk to strangers through invisible waves in the sky. We all need hobbies.

What originally pulled me into HAM radio was the emergency side of it. When storms hit, and the power goes out, phones stop working, and the internet disappears, amateur radio is often still standing. Hams pass emergency traffic, help with search and rescue, and provide communication when nothing else will. It’s fun and practical. Like a Swiss Army knife… that talks.

And honestly, with the Verizon cell phone outage the other day, it kind of proved that point. We like to think our phones are indestructible… right up until we’re standing in the kitchen holding a useless glowing rectangle, whispering, “Why have you forsaken me?” That’s when old-school radio suddenly doesn’t seem so old.

I also told them about something I do pretty much daily called Parks on the Air. It’s an activity where people with portable HAM radio stations go out to qualified parks and try to “activate” the park by making contacts with “hunters” like me.

Let me be clear: they pack up radios, antennas, batteries, tables, chairs, snacks, and probably a small generator. They drive to a park, hike to a spot, and set up in the elements.

I sit in the comfort of my home, coffee in hand, climate control working beautifully, talking to them while they’re sitting in weather conditions not suitable for man, beast, or common sense. They’re battling wind, heat, cold, bugs, and curious squirrels. I’m battling whether my coffee needs more cream. It’s a dangerous hobby, but I manage.

Of course, there’s also something kind of amazing about bouncing your voice off the atmosphere and having it land in someone else’s living room hundreds or thousands of miles away. No apps. No passwords. No updates. No, “your call cannot be completed as dialed.” Just you, a radio, and a whole lot of invisible stuff you barely passed in science class.

As I was explaining all this, I realized how funny it is that in an age of FaceTime, group texts, and social media, the most surprising thing about me involves equipment that looks like it should be mounted in a WWII submarine. But honestly, that’s part of the charm. Something is refreshing about a form of communication that doesn’t require a monthly bill, a software update, or your first pet’s name.

If I sparked your interest and you want to learn more about HAM radio, I’d genuinely love to talk to you about it and try to answer any questions you may have. Fair warning: this offer may come with diagrams.

So yes… apparently I’m a closet radio nerd. And I’m okay with that.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see if anyone in Antarctica wants to hear about the weather in my backyard.

Can You Hear Me Now?

15 Thursday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Life

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For many Americans today, the answer was a resounding “No!” Verizon Wireless went down, and just like that, millions of us were spiritually transported back to 1983. Society wobbled. Productivity plummeted. Somewhere, a teenager had to actually talk to someone.

With our phones suddenly reduced to very expensive paperweights, many of us were forced to resort to smoke signals, carrier pigeons, and aggressively refreshing the screen like that was going to fix anything.

I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room when it happened, and it was better than cable. People kept picking up their phones… staring at them… turning them sideways… tapping them harder… then setting them back down. Five seconds later? Same ritual. Over and over. It looked like a support group for the technologically dependent.
Full disclosure: I was absolutely one of them.

We’ve grown so accustomed to grabbing our phones to check Facebook, watch a YouTube video, text a friend or spouse, or occasionally even make an actual phone call. When that little pocket computer doesn’t work, it feels like someone unplugged part of our brain. I half expected a nurse to walk in and say, “Sir, you seem confused… do you know what year it is?”

We’ve lost the art of voice communication. Kids will sit around the breakfast table and text their friends instead of talking to the rest of the family. You can have four people in the same room, all on their phones, silently sharing videos with people who aren’t there. These little glowing rectangles have become idols that we worship. We can’t seem to live without them — not even for a couple of hours. If the Wi-Fi hiccups, we act like we’re auditioning for a survival show.

I’m old enough to remember the dark ages — before pocket computers ruled our lives. Back when a “dead zone” meant the phone cord wouldn’t reach the couch. If you were bored in a waiting room, you didn’t scroll… you committed. You read a six-year-old magazine about kitchen remodeling. You memorized a poster about heartburn. You judged people quietly.
And somehow… we lived to tell the tale.

Granted, there was a moment today when I really wished I could call or text my wife to let her know I’d be making a few stops on the way home. Instead, I found myself longing for the return of phone booths — the kind where you could pull over, squeeze inside, dig a quarter out of the cup holder, and make an honest-to-goodness phone call.

No apps.
No passwords.
No updates.
No, “your call is very important to us.”

Just a dial tone, the smell of warm plastic, and the unsettling feeling that the last person in there may have been a superhero… or a criminal.

Maybe today’s outage was a good reminder that the world won’t end if our phones stop working. Conversations still exist. Eye contact is still legal. And boredom, while uncomfortable, won’t actually kill us — though judging by that waiting room, several people were close.

So if you need me, I’ll be over here practicing my smoke signals, teaching kids how to communicate using actual words, and checking my cup holder… just in case phone booths ever make a comeback.

Please Hold…My Brain is Loading

11 Sunday Jan 2026

Posted by in bariatric-surgery, Cancer, Family, Leukemia, Weight Loss

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When I started this blog some years ago, it was mainly meant to be a diary of sorts — a place to vent and to voice my opinions. Gaining an audience was never part of the plan. This was more “Dear Diary” than “Dear Internet.” It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with CML that I decided to use this platform to write about my experiences with cancer and maybe, just maybe, help some other poor soul going through the same thing.

As with most things in life, plans change. Sometimes gently. Sometimes with a two-by-four.

Not only was I dealing with CML, but I also decided to write about my experiences with gastric bypass surgery. When I was doing my research, I noticed there really wasn’t much content out there. And what I did find often ended shortly after surgery, for whatever reason — almost like everyone vanished once the anesthesia wore off and nobody ever came back to update the internet.

There’s something else that’s been going on for quite some time, and I’ve finally decided to put it down on paper. I’ve been experiencing brain fog for several years, and over time, it has gotten worse. “Brain fog” is a term used to describe symptoms such as difficulty concentrating, memory problems, mental cloudiness, confusion, and trouble finding words — essentially, feeling like your brain is running Windows 95 in a world that expects fiber internet.

I notice it most when I’m trying to carry on a conversation and, right in the middle of it, my mind just… leaves. Names vanish. Phone numbers disappear. Sometimes I forget what I was saying while I’m still saying it. Short-term or long-term, it doesn’t matter. It’s there… then it’s not, kind of like my car keys.

What makes this so difficult isn’t just the symptoms themselves, but how they sneak into everyday life. I’ll walk into a room and forget why I’m there. I’ll open my phone to look something up and immediately forget what I was looking for. I’ll stand in the kitchen staring into the fridge like it’s going to explain my life choices to me.

Conversations that should be easy sometimes turn into mental obstacle courses as I search for words I’ve used my entire life. It affects my confidence more than I care to admit. When you can’t trust your own memory, you start second-guessing yourself. You hesitate before speaking. You rely more on notes, reminders, and the people around you. I’m grateful for their patience, but it’s a strange feeling when your own brain doesn’t always show up prepared.

Some days are better than others. There are moments when everything feels clear and normal, and I start to think maybe I’ve turned a corner. Then there are days when my thoughts feel like they’re moving through mud, and even simple tasks take extra effort. Those are the days that wear on you — not with fireworks, but with a steady drip of “Seriously? Again?”

If you Google the term “brain fog,” you’ll find a long list of possible causes: lack of sleep, medications, chemotherapy, B12 deficiency, and even anemia. I’ve spoken to my doctor about it, and while some over-the-counter options might help, with my anemia and the chemotherapy drugs I’m on, they may not make much difference. In other words, this may just be part of my user agreement for now.

I don’t share any of this for sympathy. I share it because this blog has always been about honesty — the good, the bad, and the occasionally forget-why-I-walked-in-here. Brain fog may be part of my story right now, but it’s not the whole story. I still laugh, I still enjoy life, and I still manage to function… even if I need a few more sticky notes than the average person.

I’ve learned to adapt. I write more things down. I set reminders. I give myself a little more grace than I used to. And when I lose my train of thought mid-sentence, I’ve decided it’s perfectly acceptable to blame the fog, shrug, and move on. If nothing else, it gives the people around me a chuckle — and honestly, some days I’m laughing right along with them.

And if you ever see me standing in a room staring off into space like I’m waiting on divine revelation, don’t worry. I’m probably just buffering.