A glider chair sits in our house, mostly unused now. It’s just fabric and wood, but it holds midnight feedings, whispered promises, and the version of me who learned how to be a father through grief. Some objects are more than objects. They are witnesses.
I went papa bear because I had to. I escalated because my daughters needed me to. The system doesn’t care—but I do.
On a sweltering July afternoon, I wandered the St. Louis Art Museum and found myself in front of a familiar painting. What happened next caught me off guard. I didn’t just see the art—I felt the soul of it. This is a story about stillness, presence, and the unexpected portal that opened inside me.
A solo dad’s nighttime run and a rescued rabbit remind him that kindness is the real curriculum.
An unexpected funeral on a summer sidewalk leads to sacred grief, soft hearts, and a visit from something beyond.
A field report on fatherhood, emotional reactivity, and learning to breathe through chaos. Written on the shores of recovery.
The tornado missed us by less than a block. The damage, the chaos, the grief—it was all just down the street. We were spared. And somehow, that made it harder to hold. I spent the next morning walking the neighborhood, trying to make sense of what it means to survive.