Someday

Someday.

Someday I’ll have it all figured out.

I’ll understand what it means to be a man in this world.

What it means to be a human being simply trying to feel whole.

Most days, I spend hours just trying to feel okay — in my bones, in my soul.

You probably wouldn’t guess that if we met.

There are few visible signs of the quiet war that wages inside me.

But it’s there.

A constant companion — unwanted, yet strangely familiar.

It’s always been this way.

Even as a child, I’d find myself wrapped in a deep sorrow I couldn’t explain.

No reason. No trigger.

My home was full of love. My belly full of food. My bed warm.

Still, the shadow lingered.

I’ve spent a lifetime wrestling with that feeling.

And maybe by admitting that, someone else out there might feel less alone.

Truth is, I believe this ache — this unsettled part of me —

is what pushes me to create something lasting.

Something beautiful.

I had a conversation recently about the muse.

Is she a lifelong companion or a fleeting mistress?

For me, she’s more like a spirit guide —

Leading me through the valleys,

pointing out the meaning in the moments I wish I could forget,

revealing lessons hidden in the dark.

Someday, I’ll understand it all. Or maybe I won’t.

But maybe that’s not the point.

Maybe the point is to keep moving.

To try to be better than I was yesterday.

To love with everything I’ve got.

To make people laugh — because that’s the medicine I know how to give.

Someday, I’ll understand it all.

Or I won’t.

And that’s okay too.

A Ride In His Truck

I took a ride through the country today, behind the wheel of my father’s old truck. As the road stretched out in front of me, I spoke to him the way a Catholic might speak to Mary. I wouldn’t call it praying, exactly—but I trust he’s close enough to the Lord that our conversation was overheard.

I miss being able to talk to him, to seek his counsel. These days, life moves at a dizzying pace. The years feel like they’re stuck on fast-forward. One moment it’s tomorrow, the next it’s already yesterday.

I often find myself buried under to-do lists, obligations, and fires that demand immediate attention. Everything is urgent. Nothing can wait.

These aren’t unique struggles—they’re just part of life. We’re all rowing the same boat, more or less, down the same river toward the same end.

But my father had this gift—he could still the waters. He calmed my anxious mind, quieted my spiraling thoughts. I wonder now, was that peace only surface-deep? Did he, like me, carry his own storms inside?

He was a preacher. People needed him. They leaned on him. Their well-being was tied to his words, his prayers, his presence. He carried their secrets, offered them peace, and handed out forgiveness like a balm for their wounds.

Lately, when I think of him, I think of the burden he must have carried. A weight only a few could ever truly understand.

I know I can’t.

And yet, when I drive his truck, I feel something close to peace. That’s rare for me. In that cab, I’m quiet—and more importantly, I’m allowed to be. I don’t have to perform or produce. I just am. Those moments are precious.

I’ll never be the man my father was. I’ve made peace with that.

But I do carry a deep well of love for the people in my life. I just fail, more often than not, to show it. I fail in a hundred little ways every day.

We all do. I know I’m not alone in that.

I write this not for anyone else—but for me. To hold a mirror to myself. To stare my flaws and my victories in the face.

I tend to ignore the victories. But the failures—I cradle them. I let them keep me awake at night.