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How Then Shall We Live

A professor, lawyer, lifelong learner, reflects on what college actually gave him – a World War II barracks, a prehistoric novel, Arthur Miller, and a holocaust survivor who answered the question that still matters most.

The graduation announcements have started arriving in the mail. Envelopes from family members, children of friends, and young people I know mostly through Christmas cards, sidelines, and the long social web of a South Dakota life, where there are at most two degrees of separation between anyone in the entire state, and that may be generous. They are heading toward ceremonies and photographs and whatever comes next. I am not standing at the front of a classroom anymore. But every spring, when the announcements arrive, I find myself thinking about what college meant, what I missed while I was in it, and whether it still offers young people something worth the cost, the time, and the trouble.

I have been thinking about this one for a while, trying to figure out how to say what I want to say. The topic is too big. The question is too complicated. Every time I think I know where it is going, it turns out I don’t, which is either a sign that I am not ready to write it or a sign that it is exactly the kind of thing worth writing. I have decided to believe the latter and proceed accordingly.

Consider this a first pass. I will come back to it. The question demands that. And it may demand more than one answer.

There was a quote on the wall of a classroom at Augustana College that I have never forgotten. It belongs to the philosopher George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” The building that held it had its own history. After World War II, Augustana purchased several barracks from the Sioux Falls Air Base and moved them to campus to accommodate a surge in enrollment. One of them, an H-shaped structure, became the Science Building, and later the Social Science Building, with a little theater tucked inside. It lasted nearly sixty years before finally coming down. For those who took classes there, it is hard to forget and hard to describe. Santayana’s quote went with it. Some things have to be carried.

Augustana College, Augustana University now, in the late 1980s was a small Lutheran liberal arts institution on the plains of South Dakota, the kind of place that took seriously the question of what education was for. Not just what you would do with it, but what it would do with you. You would study across disciplines. You would sit with ideas that made you uncomfortable. And at the end, if the institution had done its job, you would be prepared to wrestle with the question that sat underneath all of it: how then shall we live. And, though no one said it quite this way, how then shall we not.

The question, of course, is whether a place like that still exists, or whether we have priced it out, streamlined it away, or explained it so poorly that people no longer recognize its value when they see it.

I did not appreciate any of this at the time. I was eighteen. I had opinions and a meal plan and very little else. The liberal arts made no particular sense to me. College itself made no particular sense to me.

My father had two requirements for everyone in our family. The first was piano lessons. I took them long enough to negotiate my way out, eventually arguing that being in band should count for something. He accepted this, either because he agreed or because he was tired of the negotiation. The second requirement was not negotiable: you are going to college. My parents believed, with the certainty of people who had thought this through, that a degree was the most reliable path to a life with options. They had also, I suspect, done an honest assessment of my manual skills and concluded that the alternatives were limited.

So I went. I had no idea that over the next four years the place would fundamentally change me. I had no idea that a barracks turned classroom, a book I did not want to read, a playwright I did not seek out, and a quote on a wall I walked past a hundred times would still be with me decades later. The place changed me mostly for the better. I say mostly because I am a GenX kid with a healthy suspicion of clean endings. It was college. Some of it was a mess. But the mess turned out to matter too. It would be years before the liberal arts really set in — not until I found myself on the other side of the classroom, looking out at eighteen-year-olds with opinions and meal plans and very little else, and finally understood what had been happening to me all along.

At some point I enrolled in a course called God in the 21st Century: In Search of Fresh Images and New Metaphors. The title was the course. This was not about doctrine or tradition. It was about what happens when the old frameworks stop holding, when the answers no longer fit the questions people are actually asking.

I was assigned Jean Auel’s The Clan of the Cave Bear. My initial reaction was not enthusiastic. A five-hundred-page prehistoric novel in a religion course felt like a category error. We were given two days to read it, which felt less like pedagogy and more like a test of endurance. What stayed with me was not the plot but the structure underneath it, the way authority operated, the way people signaled power and enforced it. I did not have language for that at the time. I do now.

We also read Shusaku Endo’s Silence and The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzakis. I remember liking Silence without being able to tell you why. Some books work on you quietly and leave no forwarding address.

Kazantzakis stayed with me more clearly, mostly because of what was happening around it. The film adaptation had just been released and people were furious. Protests, boycotts, the full apparatus of public outrage. As a junior I did not fully understand the reaction. I understand it better now. He was not writing the untouchable figure many churchgoers recognize. He was writing the human one, a man who wrestled with the possibility of walking away. What if he had refused the role. What if he had chosen an ordinary life. The church has always held that Jesus was both fully human and fully divine. Kazantzakis chose to dwell inside that human struggle, and that alone was enough to bring people into the streets. Today I can see why deeply religious people would struggle with that. But I think that tension — human and divine, doubt and commitment, the road taken and the one refused — is actually at the heart of who Jesus is. The controversy, it turned out, was the lesson.

The professor knew something I didn’t. That is usually how it works.

It was an English course that introduced me to Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. It was on the syllabus, and attending his campus lecture was part of the assignment. I did not seek out the experience. It was required. And yet I sat there and thought: I am in the presence of history. The man had been married to Marilyn Monroe. He talked a little about his writing and I don’t remember much of what he said. What I remember is knowing I was somewhere important, even if I couldn’t have explained exactly why. I was twenty years old and that was enough.

What stayed with me was not the lecture. It was the play. Willy Loman did not fail because he worked too little. He failed because he believed the wrong things about what success meant. He believed the hustle was the point. He was wrong then. We are still getting this wrong. Every new wave of technology resets the hustle without changing the error underneath it. The tools change. The mistake doesn’t.

Which makes the question unavoidable: if college is still worth it, it has to do more than credential the hustle. It has to correct it.

Here is something they do not put in the brochure: higher education is terrible at explaining itself. Colleges will tell you the liberal arts are important. They will hand you a course catalog and a tuition bill and a vague promise about critical thinking. What they will not do often enough is tell you what it is for. Longevity is not an argument. And when they fail to explain it, people quite reasonably start to wonder whether it is worth what it costs.

I spent much of my adult life on the other side of the classroom. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,200 students sat in front of me, most of them business majors, most of them practical, most of them focused on what the degree would get them. I do not say that as criticism. It is honest. I understood it because I had been exactly the same way, sitting in a barracks turned classroom, annoyed about a book on prehistoric humans, completely unaware that I was being handed something I would spend the rest of my life unpacking.

But here is what I watched happen, year after year, with the consistency of a well-run experiment: the students who could think across disciplines were better at everything else. Not a little better. Meaningfully better. The accounting major who had wrestled with philosophy could construct an ethical argument under pressure and make it hold. The finance student who had read history understood something his peers sometimes missed — that markets are not machines, they are human systems, and human systems are not rational, they are emotional, and emotional systems repeat themselves with remarkable loyalty to their worst instincts. The business student who had learned to write, really write, could walk into a room and move people with a memo. These were not soft skills decorating the edges of a real education. They were the real education, wearing a different name tag at the conference.

If you are asking whether college has value, this is where I would point. Not to the credential, not to the starting salary, but to the ability to think, to connect, to see patterns where others see noise. Those things compound. They are hard to measure in the short term and almost impossible to replace later.

The argument that liberal arts and vocational programs are rivals is one of the more persistent and counterproductive ideas in American higher education. It is also wrong. The business major and the philosophy major need each other. The nursing student and the history student are asking different versions of the same question. The vocational and the liberal are not competing tracks. They are the same education, approached from different doors, and the ones who figured that out — who let the two inform each other — were the ones who could do things the others couldn’t quite explain.

At Augustana there was a senior capstone course built around exactly this idea. Three disciplines. Humanities, social sciences, natural sciences. The assignment was to put them in conversation with each other, to find the connective tissue, to arrive at something that none of them could produce alone. It was the institution making its argument at last, showing its hand after four years of dealing cards. The course was asking students to do what the whole education had been preparing them to do. It was asking them to think. Not about one thing. About everything, together, at once. And underneath all of it, the question the curriculum was always really about: how then shall we live.

That capstone course was part of a new curriculum Augustana implemented in the late 1980s, an institutional bet that the whole education should build toward something. It was the right bet. In my final years on the faculty, much of it driven by a dean who I believe fundamentally misread what the curriculum was for, the capstone was dismantled and replaced with a first-year experience. The question moved from the end of the journey to the beginning. I thought it was a mistake then. I still think it was a mistake. You cannot answer how then shall we live before you have lived anything. The capstone worked because students arrived at it carrying four years of accumulated confusion, challenge, and occasional revelation. That accumulation was the point. Strip it away and you have a nice orientation exercise. You do not have an education.

This is, I think, what is missing from higher education today. Not funding. Not technology. Not innovation. The willingness to ask the hard question at the moment when it might actually land.

The course was a January term. One month. Three professors. Every day. Peter Schotten, Murray Harr, and Sandra Looney. I want to name them because they deserve to be named.

Peter was Jewish, one of the smartest men I have ever known. As a professor he challenged you and pushed you, and he did it with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was building. He was my pre-law advisor and mentor, and when I later returned to Augustana as a colleague he continued to be both. I spent my entire teaching career trying to emulate him. I never did.

Murray had been raised Jewish, had family members who survived the Holocaust, had found his way to Lutheranism, and would later find his way back to Judaism. He had lived the questions he was asking. That mattered. It showed up in the way he taught, in the way he moved between traditions, in the way he assigned books that did not make sense until years later. It was Murray who, earlier, had assigned Clan of the Cave Bear. I understood it better now than I had then.

Sandra Looney was extraordinary. I have tried to find the adequate words for what she brought to that room and I cannot. Some things resist description. What I can say is that all three of them knew exactly what they were doing, and that the month they built together was the most intellectually alive I have ever felt in a classroom.

The centerpiece of the course was a trip to Minneapolis. We stayed at a Lutheran seminary, which felt appropriately on brand for a small Lutheran college on the plains. We saw a dinner theater production of Shenandoah — a Civil War musical about a Virginia farmer who tries to keep his family out of a war that will not stay away from his door. We sat in the front rows of Orchestra Hall, close enough that the music felt physical, close enough that I could see the faces of the musicians. I couldn’t tell you now what they performed. What I remember is thinking that each of those experiences alone would have been worth the trip.

Then we went to a Holocaust center and met Holocaust survivors.

Two survivors spoke with us that day. I don’t remember the name of either one. I don’t remember much of what they said. What I remember is a woman who rolled up her sleeve and showed us her forearm. The number tattooed there when she was a prisoner at Auschwitz. She had been a young woman when they put it on her. She was an old woman now, standing in a room full of college students from South Dakota who had just seen a musical and heard an orchestra, and she was showing us what human beings are capable of doing to one another.

The course had been asking all month how then shall we live. Standing in that room, looking at that forearm, I understood that the question had another side. How then shall we not live. That is not a rhetorical flourish. It is the other half of the education. The books, the arguments, the disciplines in conversation with each other — all of it points somewhere. That woman’s forearm pointed there too, more directly than anything I had read in four years of college.

I have never forgotten her. I don’t need her name to carry what she gave us.

I have been asking it ever since. As a student who did not know what he was being given. As a lawyer who learned that the law is a philosophy with consequences, and that the consequences have a way of clarifying the philosophy. As a professor who watched young people arrive with answers and leave, if things went well, with better questions. As someone who has now walked more than 2,200 days in a row, which turns out to be its own kind of answer, or at least its own kind of practice. You keep moving. You figure it out as you go.

The barracks is gone. A building that survived a world war, crossed a city on a flatbed truck, and held a quote about memory on its wall for sixty years is gone. Santayana would have had something to say about that.

Willy Loman is still out there, working the territory, certain that the next deal will be the one that finally makes it add up. The hustle goes on.

I started this wondering whether college still has value, whether it needs to change, whether what I was given is still being given. I think the answer is yes, but only if we remember what the education was actually for.

And somewhere there is a woman whose name I never knew, who rolled up her sleeve in a room full of college students and answered the question the month had been asking.

How then shall we live.

How then shall we not.

I am still working on both.

Books Referenced in This Post

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One Saturday at a Time

Four years ago the scale read 186. Today it tells a different story. This is the Forgiveness post — the hardest of the three to write, and the most honest.

Four years ago this spring, I stepped on a scale and it read 186. I had worked for almost two years to get there, and the work had shown up everywhere. New clothes in sizes I had not worn since college. Old energy back in the legs. Knees that did not complain when I stood up from the couch. The person in the mirror looked like someone I recognized again, which was not a small thing, because for a long stretch before that I had been avoiding mirrors the way some people avoid their inbox on a Monday morning.

Today the scale tells a different story. Not the one I want to tell, and not the one I had hoped to be telling four years later. Nothing dramatic happened in between, which is the part that took me the longest to understand, and the part that matters most for what this post is actually about.

I changed jobs somewhere in that stretch. That is probably a post for another Saturday, the one about the difference between academic life and the financial world, between a calendar that breathes and a calendar that does not. I will write that one later and spare you the full tour for now. What matters here is that the new work sat me down, the old rhythms did not fit the new life, and I did not build new ones fast enough. The body did what bodies do. It adjusted to what I was actually doing, not to what I meant to be doing. Turns out bodies are excellent listeners. Mine heard every excuse I made and took detailed notes.

The return was not a week or a month or a quarter. It was four years. It came on slowly, in small unremarkable increments, the way these things almost always do. There was no decision to point at, no bad stretch I can circle on a calendar and say this is where it went wrong, no villain. Just a slow drift, measured in pants sizes and the steadily growing list of things I did not want to look at too closely. That is the hardest kind of regression to explain, because there is no story in it. A bad month has a shape to it. A bad year has a cause you can name. Four years of gradual drift has neither, which is probably why so many people end up carrying some version of it quietly, with no good way to talk about it even when they want to.

Three weeks ago I wrote about why I started. Last week I wrote about what the scale does not tell you. Focus, then Facts. I told you there would be a third one, about Forgiveness, and here we are, which was always going to be the hardest of the three to write honestly.

I would love to report that writing those first two posts fixed something, that putting it in public and naming the framework and telling all five of my readers exactly what I was going to do was enough to break the pattern. That is the version of this post I wish I could write. It is not the one I am writing, because the last month has produced no meaningful progress, and that is on me. I know what to do. I am not doing it. The focus slips somewhere around Monday, the facts become negotiable by Wednesday, and by Friday I am telling myself the week was unusual and next week will be different. The weeks are never unusual. The weeks are the point, and pretending otherwise is how four years happen in the first place.

There have been family matters this spring that have required attention, and I am not going to write about them here. There has been travel. There has been what I consider the particular stress of spring, which always seems to arrive with more on the calendar than I remember agreeing to. None of that is an excuse, and I am not offering it as one. I mention it only because pretending the last month happened in a vacuum would be its own kind of dishonesty, and this post has no room for that.

What I usually do next, after a stretch like that, is spend a few days beating myself up about it. Quietly, mostly, but thoroughly. I run through the week, count the missed walks, replay the snacks I did not need, the water I did not drink, the extra serving, the dessert, and make a long internal case against myself that no actual courtroom would have let me bring. The lawyer in me knows better. The rest of me does it anyway. It does not change a single fact about the week that already happened, and it almost always makes the next week harder than it needed to be. This is the part they leave out of every motivational poster. The part where you know exactly what you did and you sit with it anyway.

That is the thing I have come to understand about Forgiveness, and it took me longer than it should have to get here. Forgiveness is not lowering the standard. It is not telling yourself the week did not count. It is not pretending the facts are something other than what they are. It is just the part where you stop prosecuting yourself long enough to get moving again. The setback already happened. That part is finished. The only thing still in front of you is how quickly you put the case down and start the next day.

Here is what I have learned after enough Mondays and enough fresh starts to know the difference. The people who make it back are not the ones with the most discipline or the most willpower or the best plan. They are the ones with the shortest recovery time. The ones who can look at a bad week honestly, set it down without ceremony, and show up the next morning anyway. That is the whole game. Not the falling. The getting up. And how long you spend on the floor in between.

The struggle is real, and I am not going to dress that up or sell it as something it is not. The fight continues, and I am not going to promise it is going better than it is. Forgiveness is the part that lets the fight continue at all, because without it, four years of drift becomes a reason to stop trying, and with it, four years of drift becomes a starting point. The same way it was a starting point in November of 2020 when I took that picture and looked at my face and decided I was done. The starting point is wherever you are standing. It is never where you wish you were standing, and waiting until you are somewhere better before you begin is just another way of not beginning.

So this morning I walked. This morning I also hope to play golf, weather permitting. This afternoon I will make choices about what I eat, and some of them will be the right ones and some will not. Tomorrow I will do it again. The ebb and the flow is not the obstacle. The ebb and the flow is the shape of it, and anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you something. Focus got me here. Facts tell me what to do now that I am here. Forgiveness is what keeps me here, on the days when here is not where I wanted to be by now. Four years. One Saturday at a time.

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What The Scale Doesn’t Tell You

Every morning, for nearly two years, I stepped on a scale. Same time. Same spot on the bathroom floor. I’d look down, note the number, and get on with my day.

The scale is an accountability partner. It doesn’t lie. It also doesn’t tell the whole story.

That distinction took me longer to understand than it should have. For a while, I treated the morning number like a verdict. Good day or bad day. Working or not working. And I’ll be honest, there is something genuinely satisfying about stepping on that scale and seeing the number go down. A small victory, delivered before the coffee is ready. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But a verdict requires complete information, and the scale is working with a thin file. It knows what you weigh at 6:47 on a Thursday morning. It doesn’t know what you did for the six months before that, and it isn’t interested in finding out.

I figured this out slowly, the way you figure out most things that matter, not in a single moment, but in the accumulation of small observations that eventually add up to something you can’t ignore.

One of the things I started noticing was my heart rate. Early on, three miles was work. My heart rate on those morning walks told me my cardiovascular system was doing considerably more than it should have had to. But the number that really told the story was the one I saw when I wasn’t moving at all. Resting heart rate is quiet data. It doesn’t announce itself. It just sits there, and over time, if you’re making the right choices consistently, it goes down. That number dropping is the body reporting back that something has changed at a deeper level than the bathroom floor can measure. The scale hadn’t moved much yet. But the resting heart rate had, and it knew something the scale didn’t. I still track it. On the days I’m doing things right, it shows up in that number before it shows up anywhere else.

Then there was the afternoon. Somewhere after lunch, the energy would just leave. Not dramatically, no collapse, no moment you could point to. Just a slow drain. The enthusiasm that was there at nine o’clock wasn’t there at two. What I started noticing, over time, was that this was a signal. On the days I was eating well and drinking enough water, the drop was smaller. On the days I wasn’t, it wasn’t just physical, it was everything. Focus, mood, the will to make one more good decision before dinner. The afternoon became a report card I hadn’t asked for, and the grades weren’t always flattering.

Water is the one I simply didn’t think about. Not resisted, just ignored. It wasn’t a choice, it was an absence of attention. The frustrating part is that even now, knowing what I know about how much it matters, I still find myself at two in the afternoon realizing I haven’t had nearly enough. What I’ve learned is that water does more than hydrate. It fills me up in a way that quietly crowds out the bad decisions. It cleans me out in ways I’ll spare you the details on. And when I’m properly hydrated, I simply feel better. Not dramatically, not in a way I could put in a spreadsheet, but in the way that makes everything else a little more manageable. It is not a wellness trend. It is not a lifestyle brand. It’s water. I still have to remind myself to drink it.

A recent week on the road reminded me how much of this depends on owning your schedule. Business travel is the enemy of everything I’ve just described. You don’t pick when you eat. You don’t pick where you eat. The water bottle you keep on your desk at home is five time zones away. Hotel gyms are negotiations with yourself you usually lose. I’ve gotten better at it over time, packing a refillable bottle, walking the terminal between flights instead of sitting, ordering the thing I actually want rather than the thing I talked myself into because everyone else did. But I won’t pretend the road doesn’t bend the week out of shape. It does. The strategies help me come home without giving back everything I built. They don’t make the week itself easy.

The pants are the most honest instrument I own. There is a specific pair in my closet that I have used as a benchmark for longer than I’d care to admit. The scale might be unmoved on a given week. The pants don’t care about the scale. They fit or they don’t, and they have no interest in making me feel better about the difference. You cannot talk a pair of pants into flattering you.

What connects all of these things is the same lesson, approached from different angles: sustainable change is not linear, and the scoreboard you’re watching is probably not the most important one. One bad week is not the story. A number that moved the wrong direction on a Wednesday morning is not the story. The story is the direction of travel across months, and you can only see it if you’re paying attention to more than one thing at a time.

I have been walking daily since long before this series started. The streak exists not because I have unusual discipline, but because I learned something that intensity never teaches you: consistency compounds in ways that don’t show up in a single morning. The fitness industry will not sell you this, because you cannot package it in a six-week program.

A sprint gets you somewhere fast. Consistency gets you somewhere real.

The scale will tell you the truth. Just not all of it. Learning to read the rest of the room, that’s the work nobody puts on the box.

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Saturday Routine

“I do not have a formal degree from the University of Michigan. I have something more valuable. A certificate of completion. Think of it as the Gen X version of a participation trophy.”

Last Monday, my beloved Michigan Wolverines won the NCAA Men’s Basketball National Championship. I have fielded the same question all week. What is your connection to Michigan? Did you go there? Are you from there?

The answer is simple. And complicated.

I do not have a formal degree from the University of Michigan. I have something more valuable. A certificate of completion. Think of it as the Gen X version of a participation trophy. I did serious post-graduate executive training there, which counts for something, at least in my mind. My uncle lived in Michigan for years and raised his family there. I gave genuine consideration to attending law school at Michigan. Unfortunately, Michigan did not give the same consideration to me. Perhaps it was my law school admissions scores. We will leave it there.

But the moment I fell in love with Michigan and its flagship university is easy to trace. My wife and I honeymooned at Mackinac Island. In nearly 25 years of marriage, we have returned to the island no fewer than 17 times. In the early years it was annual. It is woven into us in a way that is hard to explain to someone who has not stood on that island and understood immediately why you would keep coming back.

So when the final seconds ran out Monday night, it was not just a scoreboard. It was something older than that. And somehow, with the college basketball season now over, it feels like permission. Winter is done and spring can begin. Rightfully so, a small world is turning its attention to Augusta for a tradition like no other. The Masters is on. Saturday morning is about to change its address.

Augusta has pristine emerald fairways and perfectly manicured greens. It is the kind of green that makes you envious until you remember what Georgia feels like in July. The envy passes. My head has been somewhere else most of the week, and I am not apologizing for it.

Consider what a Saturday morning routine actually is. Not what it looks like on the surface — coffee, a dog, a tee time — but what it does. It is a standing appointment with a version of yourself. You show up to the same place at the same time, and over months and years, that consistency builds something you did not plan for. It makes you findable. Not just to yourself, but to everyone who has ever known you.

Outside of golf season, Saturday morning means Josiah’s. Same line, same order. Ginger handles public relations. I handle the coffee. She is better at her job than I am at mine. This past February, two Saturdays in a row, a former student appeared in line behind me. Same opening line both times.

“Professor Harris, I’m not sure you remember me.”

This is not a coincidence. It is not luck. It is what happens when you show up to the same place reliably enough that the people from your past know exactly where to look. I have taught roughly 1,200 students. I did not seek any of them out. I just kept showing up, and they found me. That is the quiet power of a routine that most people never think to name.

I always need a hint. I am always glad they said hello.

Golf season is a different Saturday entirely. Same day of the week, same general idea. Get outside. Move around. Spend time with people you stopped explaining yourself to a long time ago. We have been playing together for close to thirty years. There was no ceremony when that number arrived. You just look up one day, do the math, and feel briefly old before someone hits a bad shot and the feeling passes.

It is more about being outside than keeping score, but we always keep score.

Here is what thirty years of Saturday mornings with the same group actually produces. It is not a scoreboard. It is not even a friendship in the way most people define the word. It is something closer to a shared language. A set of references and rhythms that require no explanation because they were built slowly, Saturday by Saturday, across decades. You do not have to catch these people up. They were there.

Nobody on the fairway is going to tap me on the shoulder and ask if I remember them. Josiah’s is where the past finds you. The golf course is where you go to be exactly who you are right now, with people who knew you before you figured that out. Play your own game.

The line at Josiah’s will be there in October. Same order. Winter will come back, the courses will close, and Saturday morning will find its way back inside. There will probably be another former student behind me in line who is not sure I remember them. I will. I always need a hint, but I remember. That is what the line is for. Showing up to the same place long enough that the people who once sat in your classroom know where to find you.

For now, it is almost time. The same group. The same course. The same morning light that makes me think you might actually be good at this. I am not.

Don’t tell Ginger.

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The Long View of Friendship

Every spring, I send the same text. Just a few words asking whether they are in this year. Same message for thirty-nine years. Only the delivery has changed.

It started with a floor in Bergsaker Hall, a shared love of the Minnesota Twins, and a World Series nobody saw coming. What followed was nearly four decades of games, road trips, bad food, one covert operation that would have impressed the CIA, and conversations that always end up somewhere back in college.

The scores are gone. The games are not. This is a story about what stays.

I sent a text this week. Nothing complicated. Just asked whether they were in this year, and we started working on a date. It used to be a face-to-face conversation, then a phone call, then an email, and now it is a text. Same basic message for thirty-nine years. Only the delivery changed.

 

We met freshman year of college, a group of us living on the same floor in Bergsaker Hall. Different hometowns. Different majors. Different ideas about where life was headed, most of them wrong. We probably do not find each other without college doing what college does best, throwing a bunch of strangers together and letting time do its work. If you are lucky, a few of those strangers become people you are still texting nearly four decades later.

 

What we had in common, as it turned out, was the Minnesota Twins. That was enough. In 1987, that was more than enough.

 

For most of our lives, the Twins had been mediocre or worse. Then suddenly they were not. They played in a dome built for football, with plexiglass in left field, the Baggie in right, and acoustics that made the whole place feel like a washing machine on spin cycle. Other teams complained about it. We took that as a compliment.

 

They barely got into the playoffs. Nobody outside Minnesota thought they were real. Then they won the whole thing anyway. If you were college age and a Twins fan that fall, watching it happen with people who mattered to you, something got locked in.

* * *

Thirty-nine years of going to Twins games with friends, and I could not build you a proper box score from more than two of them. The first was September 27, 1987, that same fall, before the World Series run was even finished. It was the final home game of the year, and you could feel the buzz because everybody was hoping the Twins were headed to the playoffs. Sunday game. One o’clock first pitch. We got up early, stopped at Mr. Donut, piled into a car, and drove four hours like this was an entirely reasonable use of a weekend. Somewhere I still have the ticket stub.

 

There was a double play in the top of the first inning, ground ball to third, force at second, throw home, a 5-4-2, which is a weird little baseball gem. The Twins scored five in the bottom half before half the crowd had settled in. I had to look up the five runs. I did not have to look up the double play. That seems about right. I could not tell you what I had for breakfast yesterday, but I can still see that play. The Twins won. They clinched a playoff spot. More than 53,000 people went home happy.

 

Then there is Game 7 in 1991. Jack Morris. Ten innings. No runs. One of the best baseball games ever played, and somehow we were there. How we got the tickets involves a romantic subplot, and at this age I think it is better left slightly blurry. Another Sunday. Another four-hour drive. Then a celebration in the streets of Minneapolis, followed by turning around and driving four hours home because Monday was still coming, and apparently we were still pretending to be responsible people.

 

Everything else has blurred, which is fine. Blur has its own value. There was a game where the Twins were losing by so much that we started rooting for the other team, just to see a better brand of baseball before the day was over. There was one of the last games in the Metrodome, sitting right down the third base line in front of the visitors bullpen, close enough to hear everything and probably say a few things we should not have. There was one of the first games at Target Field, when the place was still new enough that we were wandering around like tourists, and somehow we ended up in the Legends Club.

 

You do not accidentally end up in the Legends Club. Somehow we had acquired two tickets even though there were four of us, and this was before the sophisticated scanning devices you see at ballparks now. So getting everybody in required a plan. And we had one. The kind of plan that would have made a CIA operations officer nod with quiet approval. Timing, nerve, precise execution, and the kind of straight-faced confidence usually reserved for people with actual credentials. We divided roles without discussion. Each person went in at the right moment, no hesitation, no eye contact, no deviation from the plan. A Navy SEAL team could not have done it cleaner. We were absolutely not supposed to be there. We stayed as long as we could. That remains one of my favorite life skills, the ability to act like you belong somewhere just long enough.

 

The scores are gone. The games are not.

 

Some things have changed. We started in the three dollar general admission seats, upper deck, outfield, way out where the baseball looked more like theory than sport. That was college. Cheap tickets, long drives, no money, no hesitation. Now we often pay more than one hundred dollars each for a game, and more often than not we end up in the Legends Club. The same place we once slipped into like it was a minor covert operation. Turns out if you live long enough, some of the places you used to sneak into will eventually just let you buy a ticket.

 

The food changed too, and not always for the better. That day in the Legends Club was the first time we learned stadium food could mean a lot more than hot dogs and Cracker Jack. We still like to inspect the ballpark menu, which is not a sentence our younger selves would have seen coming. When we do end up in the Legends Club — which has had enough corporate sponsors over the years that keeping up with the current name feels like a part-time job — we still usually come back with basic stadium fare because change is hard. But games have never quite been the same since the Hormel Dome Dog failed to make the move to Target Field. That comes up too, usually right after someone has settled for something that is not a Dome Dog and knows it.

* * *

In the beginning, the conversations were about college. What was happening on campus. What we were going to do with our lives. Who we were dating and how that was going, which was a mixed bag at best. We thought we were fascinating.

 

Then the years did what years do. Jobs. Cars. Spouses. Kids. Aging parents. Politics, when everyone felt sufficiently rested and charitable. The whole messy architecture of adult life, covered inning by inning over three decades. But we always end up back in college, because that is what happens when people have known you that long. Nobody lets you stay in your current form for very long. Somebody always remembers the earlier draft.

 

We still talk about professors we loved and professors we endured. Classes that mattered and classes we survived. Basketball games and football games that once felt like the center of the universe. Former romantic interests always make an appearance. They always will. And sooner or later, somebody brings up Nite City.

 

Nite City was a dance club near campus that we were convinced was sophisticated. It was not. But it had drink specials, and it had people from our college, and at that age that is really the whole formula. The facts are usually off now. The feeling is still exactly right.

* * *

The season started this week, and my hand reached for the phone before I had thought it through. That is all it takes. The Twins play a few games, and thirty-nine years of the same reflex kicks in.

 

For most of that time, the core group has been the same three of us. Others have joined in different years, depending on schedules and seasons of life. But lately it has settled back to the three, which feels about right. The text goes out. The replies come back. Then at some point we are sitting in that ballpark, talking about this year, then 1987, then somebody’s kids, then something dumb we did in college, then some old story that gets less accurate and somehow better every time it gets told.

 

I probably will not remember this year’s score either. That is what scores do. They fade. But I will remember who was there. I will remember what we talked about that had almost nothing to do with baseball. I will remember the feel of Target Field on a summer night when the season is still young and hope is still allowed to be a little irrational.

 

We were college age and convinced the Twins would just keep winning. They did not. But we kept showing up anyway, which turned out to be the more important habit.

 

Thirty-nine years. One text. Still working on a date.

 

Some things you just keep doing. Not because you mapped it out. Not because you saw the whole arc coming. Just because somewhere along the way it became part of your life, then part of your identity, and finally just part of you.

* * *

That is the long view of friendship. It does not look like much from the outside. From the inside, it is everything.

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Why I Started — And Why That Still Matters

In November 2020, I took a picture to make people laugh. It didn’t go the way I planned. What followed was the hardest and most important journey of my life. Some of it has slipped. Here is why I am starting again, and why the reason I started still matters more than anything else.

I began this blog to talk about how and why I was able to recapture my life by losing weight. The inaugural post was titled “Fat, Fifty and Fatigued,” and I meant every word of it. I do regular check-ins to see if I am happy with where I stand from a health standpoint. The honest answer lately is no. Since leaving academia to return to the financial field, some of the weight has crept back. The schedule changed, the rhythms changed, and somewhere in the transition the habits I had built started to erode. So recently I decided to begin the journey again. To get back to where I was, and maybe further. To do that, I need to go back to where it started. It all started with a picture.
The picture was taken on a Thursday, a week before Thanksgiving, 2020. It was warm enough that wearing a hoodie felt like a small act of rebellion against the season. I was teaching from my home office, which meant I could wear whatever I wanted, and I wanted everyone to know it. So I took a picture and posted it. Look at me. No tie. No commute. Just a guy in a hoodie, conducting class from his living room, winning the pandemic. And then I looked at my face in that picture, really looked at it, and the joke stopped being funny.
That was the moment. Not a doctor’s appointment, not a conversation with anyone who loved me. A selfie.
That picture was taken in the middle of one of the strangest falls any of us can remember. The country was a mess, and I was not in great shape either. The election had been called but half the country wasn’t ready to accept it. COVID was getting worse, not better. And every time you turned on the news, someone was talking about who was most at risk. They kept using the word comorbidity. I had to look it up the first time I heard it. It basically means the conditions that make you more likely to die. Obesity was on the list. High blood pressure was on the list. I had most of the list, and I felt it every day. Every night when the heartburn woke me up. Every time I caught myself in a picture and looked away. I was not just overweight. I was a walking risk factor and I had been for years, and until that Thursday in November I had been very good at not thinking about it too hard.
My oldest brother died that September, two months before I took that picture. Both of my brothers were born with extra DNA that hindered their development, leaving them vulnerable not just to viruses but to complications most of us never have to think about. COVID found him anyway. I was still carrying that loss when I posted the hoodie picture, still in that strange suspended grief where you go through the motions of normal life because there is nothing else to do. One week after I made the decision to start losing weight, my other brother came down with COVID. There were some touch and go moments. We made the call to get him to the hospital where he had a fighting chance. Unlike my oldest, I was able to visit him. He was there for a couple of weeks, and then he came home. He is still with us today. And somewhere in those weeks of waiting and visiting and hoping, I kept going. Because I had just watched COVID take a man who had no choice about his vulnerabilities. I had a choice. I was not going to waste it.
At my peak, according to my scale, I weighed 252 pounds. I had never said that out loud before I wrote it in 2021, and even then it felt strange to put it in public. There it is. I didn’t want to be a statistic. I didn’t want my family to lose me the same year they had already lost so much. So I started.
The timing helped, and if you read last week’s post, you already know why. A semester doesn’t wind down gradually. It collapses. Around Thanksgiving the intensity breaks, the calendar starts to breathe, and for the first time since August there is actual white space. That is what I had in November 2020. A picture I could not stop thinking about, a grief I was still learning to carry, and for the first time in a long time the capacity to focus on something I could actually control.
By 2022 I was at 186. Everything got better. The knees stopped hurting. The acid reflux that had woken me up almost every night for years was just gone. I bought new clothes in sizes I hadn’t worn since college. I felt like myself again, or maybe a version of myself I had given up on finding.
And then, gradually, some of it came back.
The financial world doesn’t have semesters. There is no Thanksgiving wind-down, no January slow start, no built-in breathing room. The days got longer, the schedule got tighter, and the habits I had built around a particular kind of life stopped fitting the new one. I didn’t lose the plot all at once. It happened slowly, one small compromise at a time, until I did a check-in one day and didn’t like what I found.
Here is what I know now that I didn’t fully understand the first time. Losing weight is hard. Keeping it off is a different kind of hard, and nobody really prepares you for that part. Motivation comes and goes. Discipline gets tired. The only thing that actually holds is knowing your why, specifically enough that you can find your way back to it when things go sideways. I have done this long enough to know that is true.
My why hasn’t changed. I don’t want to be a burden. I want to be around for the people who count on me. I want to feel the way I felt in 2022, when the knees didn’t hurt and the clothes fit and I had enough energy to actually show up for my life. That was true in November 2020 and it is true right now. The number on the scale has changed. The reason has not.
Focus. Facts. Forgiveness. That is the framework that worked for me the first time and it is what I am coming back to. Focus means knowing your why and keeping it close. The Facts piece means understanding what actually works, not what you hope will work. Forgiveness means accepting that setbacks are part of it, that starting over is not failure, it is just what comes next. Over the coming weeks I am going to walk through each one. If you are on this road too, I hope something here is useful. If you are just starting, welcome. You are in the right place.

Word count: 944 words.

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The Rhythm Is Gonna Get You: Circadian Rhythm, Spring, and Why Timing Matters

Gloria Estefan warned us: the rhythm is gonna get you. A reflection on circadian rhythm, academic life, and why spring feels like the only real beginning.

Gloria Estefan warned us. The rhythm is gonna get you. You can fight it for a while, but it always wins, usually at the worst possible time. Everything has a rhythm. The seasons. The school year. A marriage. Some people find theirs early and live inside it comfortably. Others spend decades bumping around looking for it. The rhythm does not wait for you to figure it out. It is coming for you regardless.

My wife figured this out a long time ago. The rest of us are still working on it.

For the most part, she goes to bed at the same time and wakes up at the same time. It does not matter the day, season, weather, or location. At some point she informed me this was called a circadian rhythm. For years, I nodded and smiled like I understood, which is generally how I handle most things, and then went about my day. But with the arrival of Copilot and ChatGPT, I was finally able to dig into it in a way my small brain could understand. That is how I found myself learning about my suprachiasmatic nucleus, located in the hypothalamus, nestled deep within the brain’s center, positioned below the thalamus and above the pituitary gland. Of course it is. This naturally led me to wonder whether mine had been injured in my January fall. I asked my wife, who works at a hospital. She told me I was fine. Just more irritating.

Further research suggests a handful of best practices for keeping your circadian rhythm aligned. My wife does all of them. She has a blinding light she activates each morning like she’s signaling aircraft. She goes to bed and wakes up at the same time every day, weekends included. She limits screens before bed, with a carve-out for Law & Order and Dateline, because apparently procedural crime dramas are melatonin-neutral. She eats on schedule. And caffeine, well, that deserves its own piece entirely.

Gloria Estefan. My wife. My mother. Fine. The rhythm got me.

For a long time, my rhythm was the academic year. August was pure optimism. You built syllabi, mapped out lesson plans, and convinced yourself this was the year everything would click. You would reach every student. You would teach differently. You would get it right.

Then the first faculty meeting hit. It was Dorothy throwing water on the Wicked Witch, except the melt took until May. Nothing kills momentum like a three-hour meeting about parking, assessment, and what absolutely must be in the general education curriculum that no student has ever once cared about. Even better when faculty from entirely different disciplines are sorted into small groups to solve these problems together. Nothing says higher education like a chemist, a music theorist, and a medieval historian trying to reach consensus.

The best part was that you could always tell exactly which discipline someone was from without ever seeing their name tag. Communications professors liked to speak, at length, about speaking. Biology and chemistry professors made everything about the scientific method, including whether the agenda had a proper hypothesis. Philosophy professors asked questions no one could answer, which they considered progress. History professors talked about the past, often at the expense of the present. English professors, being mostly gentle souls, just wanted to fix things, quietly noting that the third bullet point contained a squinting modifier and the mission statement had a dangling participle. Could we perhaps offer a friendly amendment? Business and accounting professors wanted to discuss the finances and would, given any opening, perform a SWOT analysis on everything, including the parking situation. And the business law professor felt a deep, personal obligation to remind the room that a friendly amendment is not actually a thing. You cannot offer one. It is not valid. It never was. Everyone asked anyway.

And yet, the meeting did not kill the August optimism. Not entirely.

Because then the students arrived. The campus came back to life. The halls filled up. And somewhere in the chaos of the first week you remembered exactly why you were there.

The fall semester was fun right up until the first round of exams and homecoming, whichever came first. If the football team was winning, the campus was noticeably happier, which tells you everything you need to know about higher education. Somewhere along the way, quietly and without fanfare, the great ideas from August disappeared. The innovative plans, the creative approaches, the belief that this year would be different, gone. Professors taught the way they always had, the way their professors had taught them. Innovation, it turns out, has a shelf life of about four weeks. But even that was part of the rhythm. Hope arrives in August. Reality settles in by October. Every year, right on schedule.

Then came the first round of illness, like it had its own place on the calendar, and we limped into fall break having earned it. And promptly wrecked our circadian rhythms for four straight days, which my wife would like me to point out is everything she would never do.

October turned to November, and suddenly it was registration, projects, and round two of exams. We stumbled into Thanksgiving slightly disheveled, definitely behind, and unreasonably relieved we had made it at all. Every class after Thanksgiving felt optional, whether anyone admitted it or not. For all practical purposes, everyone agreed to pretend otherwise. Students and faculty alike did what academics do best under pressure, negotiating, rationalizing, and convincing themselves a paper submitted at 11:58 p.m. represented genuine scholarship. And then it was over. By Christmas, the greatest gift was silence.

Spring semester was different, though not in the way you might hope. Fall arrived like a first date. Spring arrived like a Monday morning. Everyone knew what was coming and nobody was particularly excited about it. The energy was lower. The novelty gone. You already knew some of the students, which was either comforting or concerning.

February tested everyone. The holidays were a distant memory. Spring break was not close enough to matter. The days were gray and identical. You taught. They sat. Everyone just got through it.

Then March arrived. And March meant spring. And spring meant just enough hope to keep everyone moving.

Students left for spring break and returned tan and suspiciously cheerful, having traded a meaningful number of brain cells and part of their liver for the experience. They all came back physically. But something stayed in Florida. You could see it in their eyes, that faraway look of someone who had briefly escaped and had not yet accepted that they hadn’t.

As the weather warmed, attention drifted toward the windows and away from the board. The same was true for me. By March, I was done pretending otherwise. I had graded enough papers and sat through enough meetings to know that when the sun finally showed up with intent, something shifted. The same projects were back, just with new due dates and the same dread. But it felt manageable. The days were getting longer. The end was finally in sight. The rhythm was doing what it always does, pulling everyone forward whether they were ready or not.

And then it was over. Students moved out. Graduation happened. And then the campus went quiet. Beautifully, mercifully quiet.

I have not stood in front of a classroom in years. But every March, something stirs anyway. Old habits. Old rhythms.

Which brings me to now.

What is my rhythm if not the academic year? The calendar year never made much sense to me. January has never felt like a beginning. Short days. Dark skies. Cold everything. January feels less like a beginning and more like a life sentence.

Then we spring forward, which feels like something designed by Satan. A small disruption, but enough to remind you how fragile the whole system is.

And then, almost without warning, it changes.

Spring arrives.

Spring is August of the academic year. It is January with actual hope. The grass turns green. Leaves return. Flowers push through the ground. And then there is that first warm Saturday where you find yourself standing outside for no reason at all, just because you can. That is when you know it is back.

And baseball season starts. There is something about opening day, the impossibly green grass, the crack of a bat, the unhurried pace of a game that refuses to hurry, that feels like the world exhaling after a long winter. On opening day, every team is undefeated. Every fan is a believer. For a while, that is enough.

Spring does not just arrive. It reminds you that things come back. That the world has a rhythm, and if you are patient enough, it finds you again. My wife, of course, already knew all of this.

Some of us just needed a few decades. And a March morning.

Gloria was right.

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What the Day Means

This past weekend, many people celebrated St. Patrick’s Day. A massive snowstorm celebrated back. I missed the parade. I did our taxes.

Fair warning, this one is longer than most. I started writing and couldn’t stop. Hopefully you will indulge. Mothers deserve more attention.

I’m old enough to remember when St. Patrick’s Day was actually celebrated on March 17. Then someone probably decided it conflicted with March Madness and the next thing you know it’s drifting around the calendar like a bar promotion looking for a Saturday. Which, honestly, is all it ever was for most people. I just preferred the fiction.

Here’s what most people don’t know about March 17, nor do they care. It’s not St. Patrick’s birthday. It’s not the day he drove the snakes out of Ireland, and for the record, there apparently weren’t any snakes in Ireland to begin with, which makes that particular miracle less impressive upon reflection. We celebrate March 17 because it’s believed to be the day St. Patrick died, in 461 AD. The Irish built a party around a death anniversary. For me, that’s always been a strange thing to celebrate.

My mom was raised an Irish Catholic, and she loved St. Patrick’s Day the way she loved most things, fully, and with very little patience for people who didn’t. She loved a big party, loved an occasion, and could walk into a room full of strangers and leave knowing everyone. Not in a working-the-room way. In a genuine way. People wanted to be around her because being around her felt like something. She also had strong opinions about most things, and the wisdom to know when to share them, which turns out to be a much rarer combination than it sounds. She died on March 17, 2005, and I’m not a huge fan of this day. But here we are again, twenty-one years later, parade missed, taxes done, and I find myself back at this keyboard trying to figure out what this day is asking of me now and whether I have a better answer than I did the last time.

I’ve written about March 17 twice before. In 2022, I wrote about the sweater. Bright, multicolored, chosen by her on the last morning of her life. She had Parkinson’s for thirteen years and it took most of what made her her, slowly and without mercy. But that morning she picked the right sweater. In 2024, I wrote about standing on a sidewalk the day she died, holding the hand of a two-year-old who had no idea what had just happened and very much wanted to see some floats.

I didn’t want to go to that parade. I wanted to sit somewhere quiet and let the day be what it was. But he wanted to see the parade, and she would have wanted him to see it, and those two things together were enough to get me to the curb. He was completely, unreservedly delighted the way two-year-olds are, without conditions, without any awareness of what it cost the person next to him to be standing there. I was grateful for that. Uncomplicated joy turns out to be exactly what you need when everything else is the opposite of uncomplicated.

That two-year-old is an adult now, my son, and I’ve been thinking lately about how well he and my mom would have gotten along. They would have found each other immediately, compared notes, and spent a considerable amount of time making fun of me together, shamelessly and with great enthusiasm. I would have been irritated. I would have given anything for it.

He walks into a room and something shifts. Not in a loud way, he’s not performing anything. People just want to be near him, want to talk to him, want to know what he thinks. Strangers become less strange around him. He has opinions about everything, and like her, he knows exactly when to use them — and when to put them down in service of the people in the room. He reads the room the way some people read a clock, naturally and without thinking about it. He shows up for people, genuinely, reliably, in the ways that actually count. And he loves a good party, which in this family is less a preference than a personality trait passed down like eye color. And like her, he finds a way to get on camera. For the record, he will be missed this March Madness.

I’ve watched him in rooms the way I used to watch her in rooms, and the feeling is the same. The particular warmth of watching someone who doesn’t have to try to make people feel welcome because it never occurred to them that anyone might not be.

She never met him as the person he became. Parkinson’s had been taking her for years by the time he arrived, and she died when he was two, and the version of her that could have really known him, the sharp, funny, opinionated, life-of-the-party version, was already mostly gone by then. That’s the loss inside the loss, the one that doesn’t get talked about as much. It’s not just that he lost a grandmother. It’s that they lost each other, and neither of them got to know what they were missing.

But here’s the thing I’ve come to understand, slowly and without any dramatic moment of revelation. She didn’t disappear. She just carried forward. The warmth with strangers, the stubbornness, the peacemaking, the way a room feels different when he walks in, the absolute conviction that life is better with more people in it and the volume turned up, that’s not coincidence. That’s her, showing up in the next generation, wearing different clothes.

She would have recognized him immediately. And she would have adored him, and he would have adored her, and together they would have been a handful, and I mean that as the best possible thing I could say about either of them.

Here’s what twenty-one years teaches you. Grief doesn’t leave. It just stops being the loudest thing in the room. In the early years it’s everywhere. It answers your phone, comes to work with you, sits across from you at dinner and says nothing. But if you’re patient with it, and patient with yourself, it eventually learns to share the space. It lets other things back in, joy, distraction, a walk on a good morning. Twenty-one years in, grief and I have an arrangement. It gets March 17. I get the rest of the calendar.

Those words — your mother died — don’t stop being true. They just stop being the only thing that’s true. She loved a big party, she picked the right sweater, and somewhere in a son who lights up rooms and shows up for people and knows exactly when to say the right thing, she is still very much present. You don’t have to believe in anything supernatural to believe that. You just have to pay attention.

Life is worth showing up for. She knew that. Turns out, so does he.

This weekend I missed the parade and did our taxes. She would have had opinions about both. The taxes she would have understood, reluctantly. The missed parade she would have given me grief about for years, which, now that I think about it, would have been its own kind of gift. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Mom. You would have loved this one. You’d have especially loved who else showed up.

The sweater is still here. And in all the ways that matter, so are you.

This is the third March 17 I’ve written about here. The first two are here and here. New readers, start there. Returning readers, thank you for coming back.

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The next 30 million steps

Six years of walking at least 10,000 steps a day taught me a lot about perseverance. A fall in my driveway taught me even more about perspective.

In 1989, the first Life Alert commercial hit television. A woman on the floor yelling into a necklace: “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

To a twenty-something watching it at the time, the whole scenario seemed absurd. That was a problem for Old People, somewhere far down the road, probably around the same time you start voluntarily eating bran for breakfast.

Life, of course, has a way of adjusting your perspective.

Given my recent fall in the driveway, that famous line suddenly felt less like a punchline and more like a documentary. Gravity made a convincing argument, and the driveway won the debate.

In last week’s blog post, I joked that only five people read the essay and two of them probably clicked the link by accident. At least I think I was joking. The analytics suggest I may not have been. But those five readers were clearly paying attention. Within hours I received several helpful suggestions, including one enthusiastic recommendation that I start “walking by five in the morning,” which I assume is now considered medical advice.

Last week also marked six years of walking at least 10,000 steps a day. Other than writing about it here, the milestone passed with almost no fanfare, which frankly felt appropriate. Nearly 30 million steps sounds impressive until you realize most of those miles were not heroic. They were cold mornings, windy afternoons, and sidewalks that could politely be described as uninspiring. Plenty of days the couch made a very strong closing argument. People assume a streak like that is about discipline or health, and those things matter. My knees appreciate it. My doctor probably does too. But after six years, I’ve realized the real benefit isn’t physical. Mostly, it’s perspective.

And perspective has a funny way of making you look at familiar things differently.

This week the streak continued, but I changed a few things up. Same commitment, just a slightly different angle.

One morning I walked a familiar route in the opposite direction, clockwise instead of counterclockwise. Another day the treadmill got involved, and I started playing with the incline and speed like a bored airline pilot. One morning I swapped the usual podcast for music.

Small adjustments, same routine. And something interesting happened. By making those subtle changes, I started noticing things in my own neighborhood that I hadn’t seen before. An electric utility box that had always been hidden from one direction but stood out clearly from the other. A tree I don’t remember ever seeing, even though it must have been there the entire time. I noticed the sunlight hitting houses, water, and the sidewalk differently depending on the angle. Turns out sometimes the only thing that changes is the direction you’re looking from.

It reminded me of something I once heard from pro golfer Dicky Pride. When Pride prepares for tournaments, he sometimes walks the course backward during practice rounds. Not playing it that way, obviously, just studying it.

His explanation stuck with me. Golf course designers are good at their jobs. They know exactly where players look and where the traps appear when you approach a hole the way it was designed to be played. From the tee forward, the course tells you a story.

Walk it backward and suddenly you see something else. You see where the trouble really sits, and you notice angles you missed. The fairway that looked generous from the tee suddenly looks a lot narrower when you’re standing on the green looking back. The bunkers make more sense, and the danger becomes clearer.

Same course, different perspective.

Six years ago I started walking because I wanted to feel better. What I didn’t realize was that the real value wouldn’t be the miles behind me. It would be the perspective that comes from continuing to put one foot in front of the other. The real story was never the first 30 million steps. It’s the next 30 million.

The weather is finally starting to warm up, which means Ginger is thrilled the streak continues. She has always been a strong advocate for additional walking. So tomorrow morning we’ll head out again, same sidewalks and same neighborhood, maybe clockwise, maybe counterclockwise. Sometimes the best way to see things differently is simply to keep walking — just from another direction, toward the next 30 million steps.

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Six Years. Nearly 30 Million Steps. My Dog Is Thrilled.

The streak has become a daily permission slip to call the day a success. Some days it is a gift, a good conversation, an unexpected view, twenty quiet minutes nobody can touch. Other days it is just a man and his kitchen. Either way, you keep moving, and that is the philosophy.

Fair warning. If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you know what is coming. I have written about this before. My five loyal readers are nodding. The other two are still trying to find the exit. Feel free to skim. I mostly write these for myself anyway. It is cheaper than therapy and the co pay is better. Still, stay with me. Maybe something here lands for you too.

January was brutal, and I wrote about it. Somehow it became the most viewed post in the five year history of this blog. Apparently the best thing I ever did for readership was fall down. February was merely hard, and through all of it there was the streak. Today it turns six years old.

That means two thousand one hundred ninety one consecutive days. Not one missed. No exceptions. At least 10,000 steps every single day.

Nearly 30 million steps. Over 13,000 miles. An average of 13,500 steps a day. Thirteen thousand miles, on foot, mostly on ordinary days.

The last two months tested the streak more than most. I am still hurting from the fall in January, and my neck and back remind me every morning that gravity won. Some days I stand up slowly and negotiate with muscles that are not interested in compromise. There were days, more than I would like to admit, when I considered letting it go because six years felt like a respectable number. Instead, I pressed on.

Here is what that actually looks like sometimes. It is 8:57 p.m. I am tired. The weather is ugly. My neck and back are staging a formal protest. And there I am, walking circles around the main floor of my house, because every loop is 75 steps and I still need 1,256.

It is not scenic. It is not Instagram worthy. It is a middle aged man shuffling past his own kitchen for the fourteenth time while his dog watches with concerned confusion. But the steps get done and the streak survives, and somewhere in that absurd little ritual is the whole point. Some days, showing up looks nothing like you imagined, and it counts anyway.

The streak has become a daily permission slip to call the day a success. Some days it is a gift, a good conversation, an unexpected view, twenty quiet minutes nobody can touch. Other days it is just a man and his kitchen. Either way, you keep moving, and that is the philosophy.

Six years of daily movement has not made me stronger. It has made me steadier and less dramatic about hard days. I am more willing now to do the small, boring thing that keeps everything else from unraveling. The change was not heroic or loud. It was ordinary, and it stuck.

Today feels like spring’s opening act. The snow has mostly surrendered. I spotted a robin doing that smug little robin thing like it never left, and the days are stretching longer. Year seven will not be about intensity. It will be about curiosity. I want new trails, new neighborhoods, and roads I have never turned down before, because discipline got me here and curiosity can take it from here.

That is where you come in. Yes, you, all five of you plus the two still searching for the exit. If you have a favorite two or three mile route, send it my way and consider it your contribution to year seven. I cannot promise I will get to all of them, but I can promise I will keep moving.

Six years ago this started as a way to survive a pandemic. Now it is the anchor in chaotic mornings and the release valve at the end of hard days. It is quiet proof that I showed up for myself again, even when showing up meant walking past my own kitchen for the fourteenth time.

If I am honest, though, I am not the one who benefits most. Spring means real walks again, trails and air that does not sting. It means doors that open on purpose and paws that hit pavement with enthusiasm. Discipline is easier when someone is waiting by the door.

She has watched the kitchen laps and endured the treadmill indignity. She has waited on cold mornings with complete certainty that today would be worth it. She was right, because six years and nearly 30 million steps later, it was never really about mileage. In the end, it was always about the dog.

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Office Hours at Josiah’s: Do You Remember Me?

Teaching is more than just imparting knowledge; it’s about building lasting relationships and witnessing personal growth. Despite the lack of financial rewards, the joy of connecting with students remains unmatched.

Outside of golf season, when I am in town, I spend 45 quiet minutes with Ginger, a cup of coffee, and my thoughts in my usual booth at Josiah’s. Ginger handles public relations. You can follow her on Instagram @sdgingerdoodle. She is better at this than I am.

For Ginger, the best part is when kids ask to pet her. The second best is when they spill something on the floor.

For the past two Saturdays, the person in line behind me has been a former student. Same place. Different Saturday. Same opening line.

“Professor Harris, I’m not sure you remember me.”

That is a reasonable question. I have taught roughly 1,200 students. When I did the math, it stopped me. That is not a number. That is a neighborhood or, in South Dakota, a mid-sized town. I knew every name during the semester. Ten years later, without the Business Law textbook in your hands, I may need a hint.

Today, the former student I met in line told me she and her husband had moved away, later had children, and recently moved back. Now she is in school again and loving it. She asked if I remembered a friend from class. They still keep in touch. Of course I remembered. That is a life lived between cups of coffee.

I love these meetings. I love hearing what you built after class ended. I love knowing you still talk to people from that room.

At some point the question comes. Do you miss teaching? I do. I miss the relationships. I miss watching confidence take shape. I do not miss the pay. I do not miss the administration.

So if you see me at Josiah’s or anywhere else, say hello. Tell me who you are, or make me work for it. I would love to hear your story.

But only if I was your favorite.

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Not a Hockey Fan, Except Every Four Years

I will begin with full disclosure. I am not a hockey fan. In fact, I do not particularly like the sport, which is awkward considering the number of people who do. A few years ago, when the university where I work announced they were starting a Division I hockey program, I remember thinking that was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. If I am honest, part of me still thinks that, although I will concede that the food at the games is surprisingly good and sometimes that counts for something.

Simply put, hockey has always felt like a sporting event designed to expose my weaknesses. The puck disappears like a small black ghost. The action feels chaotic. I am never entirely sure whether I am watching a hockey game or a hockey match, or whether I am supposed to call it something else entirely, like a tilt or a contest, or perhaps just remain silent and nod respectfully while someone in a vintage jersey explains icing to me for the fifth time. The rules seem designed for people who grew up with skates on their feet, and I did not.

And yet, for two weeks every four years, hockey becomes the center of my attention. It interrupts my schedule and pulls me back in the way certain songs do, whether you want them to or not. That began in 1980, and the hook was set in a way that has never quite come loose. It had less to do with the sport itself and more to do with the moment in which it arrived, because sometimes a game walks into history at exactly the right time.

For those who were not alive at the time, it is difficult to explain what America felt like in 1980. We were only a few years removed from Vietnam, and the Cold War cast a long, steady shadow over daily life. Inflation was high. Gas lines stretched around corners. Iran had erupted in revolution, American hostages were being held, and there was a quiet, persistent sense that the country had misplaced something important and was not entirely sure where to look for it.

Then came the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, like a bright light in a very gray season. Hopes initially rested on Eric and Beth Heiden in speed skating and on figure skater Linda Fratianne. Eric Heiden delivered one of the most extraordinary Olympic performances in history, winning five gold medals in five events and setting Olympic records in each race, as if he had decided gravity simply did not apply to him that week. His dominance was breathtaking, but what ultimately captured the country’s imagination was something else entirely.

A group of American college players faced the Soviet hockey machine, a team that looked less like athletes and more like a system. It was more than a game, and everyone knew it, even if they pretended it was not. For two weeks, the country rallied around a team that had no business winning on paper but did so anyway, and in doing so reminded us that paper is not destiny. The Miracle on Ice was not just a victory. It was a pulse returning.

Last week, I watched the Netflix documentary Miracle The Boys of ’80, and it is outstanding. The players, now in their late sixties, tell the story with the kind of clarity that only comes after decades of perspective. In 1980 they were young and largely unknown. Today they are older men who understand what they were part of, and you can hear it in their voices. Memory has a way of polishing certain moments until they glow, and that one still does.

For every Olympics since then, I have tuned in hoping to feel that again, quietly wondering whether lightning ever agrees to strike twice. Sarajevo, Calgary, Lillehammer, and a dozen more came and went like chapters in a long book, each one arriving with promise and leaving with something less than myth. There were silver medals in 2002 and again in 2010, and those were fine teams filled with extraordinary talent, but by then the Olympics had changed, professional players filled the rosters, and the Cold War backdrop had faded into history.

The truth is that it will never feel the same as 1980, because 1980 was not just about hockey. It was about timing and need and a country that wanted something uncomplicated to cheer for. Some moments are less about what happened and more about when they happened. You do not have to love hockey to understand that, and I am living proof that you can dislike the sport and still carry that memory like a lucky coin in your pocket.

There is, however, one Olympics in that long list that I do not remember very well, and that has far more to do with my family than with hockey. During Salt Lake City in 2002, my wife was newly pregnant with our youngest child, and our oldest, who was seven, apparently decided he would sample multiple Winter Olympic disciplines at once when he launched himself off the main slope of a local ski area and directly into a tree, cracking his skull in the process. The small hospital we were taken to had exactly two emergency rooms, my son occupying one and my wife occupying the other after seeing his condition.

Everyone else received oxygen that day. I did not.

Everyone would fully recover, our youngest would be born perfectly healthy, and I remain convinced the extra oxygen in the building did not hurt. It may explain why my recollection of the silver medal that year is foggier than it should be. Or it may not. I was not getting any oxygen.

Today, after nearly forty six years of waiting and on the anniversary of the defeat of the Soviets, the United States beat Canada two to one in an overtime thriller to win the gold medal. It was not 1980, and it did not feel like 1980, but it was still a pretty good feeling, the kind that makes you sit a little straighter on the couch. Some echoes are softer than the original, but they still travel.

After the game, I went into the bowels of my home to find a relic of the past, because nostalgia apparently requires wardrobe choices. I am not entirely sure when I purchased the uncomfortable polyester knockoff Team USA hockey jersey, but it has been at least thirty years, and either way it predates both my children and my marriage. I once thought it dated back to 1984, though a little recent research suggests it carries an early to mid 1990s logo, which means my memory may be as unreliable as my understanding of icing. Nonetheless, it felt good to pull it over my head today. I was mildly surprised, and quietly pleased, that it still fit. Which, at this stage of life, might be the most improbable comeback of all.

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A Dream That Started With a Newspaper List

I love dreaming, though not in a sentimental way. I am drawn to ideas that begin quietly, almost casually, and then refuse to disappear. The kind that linger in the background long after the initial spark, returning at inconvenient moments and asking to be taken seriously. Those are usually the ideas worth following.

It is good and healthy to dream of what can be. When used properly, it can drive us toward a better life and a better world.

I love the United Kingdom—London in particular, Scotland without hesitation, and Wales in a quieter way. Each region carries its own language, rhythm, and sense of continuity. Even when you do not fully understand the language—literally or culturally—you sense that something deeper is being said. That feeling has stayed with me.

When I first began traveling to London, my attention was fixed on the familiar landmarks. I was drawn to the area that includes Buckingham Palace, St. James’s Park, Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey. Much of it unfolds near the Thames, though not every landmark sits directly along the river. The space feels unmistakably British—formal, ceremonial, layered with continuity. Even the London Eye, whether admired or merely tolerated, has secured its place in the broader skyline. Walking through that part of the city, it is difficult not to feel like you are moving through the official version of Britain, the one presented in guidebooks and history texts.

But the real London lies to the east of these landmarks, toward a different expression of authority. In London’s financial district, the skyline feels less ceremonial and more negotiated. The Gherkin. The Walkie Talkie. The Cheese Grater. The Shard rising with sharp ambition. And nearby, the centuries-old Tower of London, unchanged and unimpressed. Glass and steel operate within sight of medieval stone. The range of styles is not accidental. It reflects the demolitions that reshaped the city—from the Great Fire to the bombing campaigns of the Second World War. Destruction created space for reinvention. Nothing matches, yet everything coexists. That coexistence reveals something essential about institutions: they evolve, but they rarely disappear entirely.

I have always loved teaching for similar reasons. I value the moment when two ideas that seem unrelated begin to connect. When history feels less distant. When law feels less theoretical. Even after stepping away from formal teaching, that instinct—to connect disciplines and follow questions beyond their surface—has not left.

This past weekend, all these interests intersected while I was reading an article in The Times listing the five best pubs in London. It was a simple list, the kind meant to spark mild debate. Sadly, none of my favorite pubs made the list. Still, I found myself reading it twice. My first thought was practical: I should visit these places and see what makes them distinct. My second thought followed naturally: it would be better to experience them with others.

What began as travel curiosity shifted into something more serious because London makes that shift almost inevitable. You can walk from modern trading floors to medieval walls in minutes. Between those two worlds sit pubs that have operated for centuries. They have hosted legal debates, commercial negotiations, political organizing, and literary exchange. In the eighteenth century, writers and thinkers gathered in taverns to test ideas before they appeared in print. Reform movements were shaped in conversation long before they were formalized in law. Licensing structures themselves evolved in response to the civic role these establishments played.

The pub has long functioned as an informal institution—part marketplace of ideas, part community forum, part literary workshop. It reflects how people deliberate in practice, not just how they are governed in theory. If Parliament represents formal authority, the pub has often represented conversational authority, and the two have existed in tension and in dialogue.

The more I thought about that newspaper list, the more it stopped being about five destinations and started becoming a larger question. What role do informal institutions play in shaping formal ones? How often do we overlook the spaces where culture is actually formed because they seem ordinary? At some point, curiosity became inquiry.

I began researching readings and mapping neighborhoods. I designed a course poster using a photograph I took last December, and seeing the image framed with a title made the idea feel more concrete. I have attached the image below. It moved from a passing interest to something that could, with discipline and intention, take shape.

I do not know whether this will ever become a formal course or even a friends’ vacation. It may remain research, travel, and writing. But it is a rabbit hole I am willingly descending.

We often assume dreams must become programs, credentials, or measurable outcomes to matter. Yet sometimes the value lies in following a question far enough to see what it reveals. Sometimes the work is simply in listening more carefully—to cities, to institutions, to the conversations that shaped them.

So I will ask you something practical. What is the quiet idea you have been circling? What article, book, or conversation has lingered longer than expected? What would happen if you gave it structure and followed it further than convenience allows? If this idea were ever to become something more defined, would you commit to a month of study—walking those streets, sitting in those rooms, asking those questions, and listening for meaning beneath the surface?

It began with a newspaper list, and it continues because I am still listening.

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The Stories That Remain

I know I’m dating myself with this story, but still stories matter. Lately, I worry we are losing our ability to connect through them.

When I was in high school, Chicago released a song that became a staple at every dance. The lights would dim, and somewhere in the opening line—I guess I thought you’d be here forever—the gym suddenly felt much larger and much quieter. Teenagers stood shoulder to shoulder, unsure where to put their hands, hoping the song would end before anyone noticed they weren’t moving at all. Standing a little closer than usual felt like progress.

“You don’t know what you got until it’s gone.”

Forty years ago, those words were about a breakup. A boy and a girl. A slow goodbye.

Age changes lyrics. It sharpens them.

Both of my parents died when I was relatively young. Now I’ve reached the age where friends and colleagues are experiencing what I went through decades ago. I recognize the look. The stunned quiet. The way the world keeps moving while something essential has stopped.

When my parents died, I was devastated. They were far from perfect. But they were my parents, and I believe they did the best they could. As children, we only see one version of our parents. Mom and Dad. We don’t see the other hats they wear.

My parents held high-profile roles in our town. I understood that in theory. In practice, they were the people who packed lunches and asked about homework. My father wasn’t a public figure to me. He was the man who sat in the stands.

After they passed, people began telling me stories.

One day, a rancher came to see me. He was nearly six-foot-four, with large hands that looked like they had done real work. He had a military haircut and an imposing presence—the kind of man who fills a room without speaking. I had only ever known him as unshakable.

He stood in front of me and cried.

He told me how my dad had saved his life. Then he told me how my dad had saved his wife’s life too. He said he thanked God for Doc Harris and for what he did. Then he looked at me and said, simply, your dad was an amazing man.

I had never heard that story.

In that moment, my father became larger—and somehow closer. I learned about the quiet ways he showed up for people. The unseen hours. The choices I never knew about. And I understood that sometimes saving a life mattered more than making it to a baseball game.

When people die, all we really have left are the stories. If we don’t tell them, they disappear.

That’s why it matters to speak them out loud. To share them while we still can. Stories are how we keep people alive—not as they were in one role, but as they truly were.

You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

And sometimes, you don’t really know it until someone tells you the story.

So maybe today, reach out to someone and tell a story—about a parent, a friend, a moment that mattered—because maybe, just maybe, it will remind us of our shared human bond.

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2026 arrived quickly and with a certain enthusiasm for chaos.

Some seasons arrive quickly, carrying more than we planned to unpack.

It was probably best that I didn’t subscribe to Dry January. I should have known the year was going to be a beast when, less than six hours into it, I was in a hotel and the fire alarm went off—and it wasn’t a drill. This is not how you want to meet a new calendar year. Then the gods of fate said hold my beer when four members of my immediate family experienced “medical” events, including three emergency room visits, three hospitalizations, and a surgery. January came in like it had a clipboard and a very aggressive agenda.

Along the way, I learned—or was reintroduced to—phrases like spinal stenosis, Clostridioides difficile, colitis, concussion, and tympanostomy. My medical vocabulary has expanded more in a few weeks than it had since I snuck into my dad’s home office and leafed through his copies of the Journal of the American Medical Association and Annals of Surgery. I may not have earned a degree, but I’ve at least qualified for a certificate. Possibly laminated.

And in case you hadn’t noticed—perhaps because you, too, were distracted by sirens and discharge papers—there is also a lot going on in the world.

Much of my attention has been on the Twin Cities. My family has been impacted. My friends have been impacted. This hits close to home. I watch and wonder how we got here. Early in my professional life, I spent time both prosecuting and defending criminal cases, which means I have a reasonably high tolerance for human dysfunction. Even so, many of the things I now see and read—especially through that lens—are genuinely shocking. Not shocking in a cinematic way. Shocking in a quiet, procedural, this-is-how-it’s-written-down way.

Current events often pull me back to what I studied in college, back when you could take courses that wrestled directly with uncomfortable truths instead of politely circling them. I took more than one class focused on the Holocaust and similar atrocities. As a senior, I enrolled in Light in the Darkness: Courage and Evil in the Twentieth Century. The course focused heavily on the Holocaust. At the time—and still—I struggled with how something so terrible could happen.

We studied life in Nazi Germany. We discussed Anne Frank. We read Elie Wiesel. We also read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, a book I still don’t fully understand, which puts me in excellent company that includes most honest readers.

Though my memory of the course is imperfect—college being a long time ago and optimism being a powerful anesthetic—several moments stand out. Perhaps most significantly, we took a “field trip” to Minneapolis. While there, we attended a concert at Orchestra Hall, spent an evening at the Chanhassen Dinner Theatre, and visited a Holocaust museum.

But there is one experience I will never forget.

We met Holocaust survivors.

One woman had been sent to Auschwitz. She told us her story patiently and answered our questions with care. Then, in a moment that permanently fixed itself in my memory, she rolled up her sleeve and showed us the tattooed number on her arm—a mark that had been there for more than forty-five years. No build-up. No warning. Just history, sitting across from us in a folding chair.

She spoke about the days leading up to liberation. She described the moment she knew she was free. She was offered a ride to the nearest supply camp roughly a mile away. She declined. This, she said, was her freedom walk. She walked the entire distance, stopping frequently because she was so weak. She had to keep her head lower than her heart to avoid losing consciousness.

She spoke about her first bite of food—and the danger of eating too much, too quickly—because her body had essentially shut down. She knew she was close to death, close enough to feel it in a practical, unsentimental way, but she willed herself to live. She told us she kept repeating to herself: Not today. Today I am free.

Someone asked her how she felt about Germany now. Very calmly, she explained that she bore no ill will toward Germans born after World War II. They were not responsible, she said; they carried the scar, not the guilt. But Germans who were present at the time—who did nothing and said nothing—were responsible for the atrocities.

There was no theatrics. No slogans. No grand conclusions. But the emotion, the pain, and the anger hung in the air, doing what facts sometimes do when delivered by someone who earned them the hard way.

I don’t remember her name. I remember her message.

Make sure this never happens again.

Since then, I have found myself returning to her words. I wonder—perhaps naively—whether a similar regime could ever arise in my own country. I keep reaching the same conclusion: yes, it absolutely could. Not because of any single current event, but because we are human, and humans have repeatedly shown a remarkable capacity for atrocity, especially when paperwork is involved.

I also arrive at a more uncomfortable conclusion: there is no way to know how I would respond.

Would I recognize what was happening in real time? Would I speak out? Would I protect those being targeted? Or would I choose personal or family safety over principles and values? Would I convince myself that compliance was temporary, reasonable, or necessary? History suggests these decisions are rarely dramatic. They are incremental. Transactional. Rationalized. Often explained afterward with excellent grammar.

And that, more than anything, troubles me.

What unsettles me most is not that the news feels alarming—news often does—but how quickly alarming things begin to feel normal. A headline that stops you cold on Monday becomes background noise by Friday. By the following week, it’s something we summarize with a shrug and a sentence that starts with, “Well, I guess that’s just how things are now.” That is usually the point at which questions about how we would respond quietly turn into questions about what we are willing to tolerate.

What we are willing to tolerate is shaped, in no small part, by what we understand to be our rights in the first place. When those boundaries are clear, normalization has limits. When they are vague, everything becomes negotiable. Fortunately, we do not have to define those boundaries from scratch or rely solely on instinct and outrage. We have a well-worn roadmap. It is called the Constitution. It does not prevent abuse or guarantee wisdom, but it does establish a baseline—certain rights meant to exist regardless of convenience, popularity, or who happens to be in power.

At its most basic level, that baseline includes the right to move through daily life without harassment; the right not to be stopped and required to justify one’s existence; the right to be free from restraint, harm, or worse based on minor suspicion; and the right to observe authority without becoming its target. It includes the right not to be threatened, exploited, confined, or erased—and the right to speak freely, worship freely, and to have a home that remains a refuge rather than a checkpoint.

None of this is abstract. None of it lives safely in textbooks or court opinions. It unfolds in real time—often within hours: a traffic stop at dusk, a crowd forming, a knock before sunrise, a decision made quickly by someone with power and limited restraint. At that speed, there is no meaningful pause, no appeal, no rewind. Due process—the idea that power must justify itself before it harms—only protects people if it exists before force is applied, not afterward. If this feels distant or exaggerated, it is usually because it has not yet arrived at one’s own door.

These are not rights granted by government, nor privileges extended for good behavior. They exist prior to government—whether understood as gifts of God, products of nature, or the result of generations of hard-won human progress. We entrust them to the state for one narrow purpose: protection. When that order is reversed, what remains may look like order, but it is not law.

It is force, borrowing the language of authority.

I began by describing how difficult January felt for me—personally, professionally, and emotionally. But those struggles, real as they were, pale in comparison to January of 1945, when Auschwitz was liberated and survival itself depended on the refusal to give in, even when the body was failing and the future uncertain. Remembering that contrast doesn’t diminish present concerns; it sharpens them. It reminds me that perspective matters, that endurance has a history, and that resolve—then as now—often begins with a single, quiet decision: not today.

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Sleepless in Savannah

I didn’t sleep well last night. Perhaps it was the low-grade anxiety that comes from traveling during a major weather event, the kind where every departure board looks like a crime scene. Maybe it was the neck pain, still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who keeps promising, “I’ll be gone tomorrow.” Perhaps it was the realization that three beers is now officially one beer too many when you’re not 23—or even pretending to be. Or perhaps it was the unmistakable sense that my hotel room and I had very different ideas about acceptable living conditions.

Perhaps it was something else.

Perhaps it was the conversation I overheard at the hotel bar, where three extremely drunk, mostly younger people were conducting what appeared to be a peer-reviewed symposium on the modern dating landscape and which apps deliver the strongest romantic return on investment. (Important disclosure: none of them were married, but all spoke with the calm authority of seasoned divorce attorneys who had seen things.)

I can’t control what happens in the world. I can barely control what happens before my first cup of coffee. But I can control how I respond to it. Which is why I’ve chosen not to unload my thoughts on social media—that gleaming coliseum of reasoned debate where everyone listens carefully, nobody interrupts, and no one is sharpening a digital pitchfork while waiting for their turn to speak.

There’s a reason I’ve connected with people on social media, but I can’t think of a single friend I have because they voted a certain way. That feels important.

For the most part, I don’t think my social media friends are inherently good or evil. Do they post dumb things? Absolutely, but who am I to judge? My dog has her own Instagram account—@sdgingerdoodle—and it is, without question, the most consistently joyful and least controversial thing in my feed. You should probably follow it, if only to restore your faith in the internet.

Which brings me back to the hotel bar. To be clear—and I want this on the record—I AM NOT IN THE DATING MARKET and haven’t been for many years. That may be why dating apps confuse me the way TikTok confuses my parents. Back in the prehistoric era of my youth, dating involved something radical: talking. Face-to-face. Sometimes—often—alcohol was involved, but there were no algorithms, no swipes, and no carefully curated versions of yourself that mysteriously enjoyed hiking.

You walked up to someone and said, “Hey. You’re cute. I like you. Want to go on a date?” Frequently, the answer was “No.” When that happened, I licked my wounds, questioned my entire identity, wondered if I should’ve worn the other shirt, and moved on. It was brutal. It was inefficient. And yet, somehow, humanity endured.

Eventually, through a combination of persistence, timing, and luck that bordered on divine intervention, I got the girl. We’ve been married almost 25 years now. No app required. Just conversation, shared space, and the quiet miracle of two people choosing each other again and again.

So why couldn’t I sleep?

I think it’s because we’re disconnected. I think social media, for all its conveniences, has a way of sanding down real human interaction until it’s flat, loud, and oddly lonely. I think we’re better when we talk to each other—actually talk—where autocorrect can’t rescue us and we have to look someone in the eye and live with what we say.

So here’s my modest proposal: let’s talk. Meet in the town square or the coffee shop. Pick up the phone. Check in. Be human. Care a little more than feels comfortable. In short, stop being assholes to each other.

So I end with this message – Love everyone. Even Packer or Buckeye fans.

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Cold Hard Facts

There is a strong argument for keeping certain things to yourself. This is probably one of those things. Unfortunately, I may soon be in public wearing medical equipment, which tends to raise questions and invite speculation. Rather than let the driveway control the narrative, or pretend it didn’t know exactly what it was doing, here is what happened.

Friday morning, as I was leaving my house to walk the dog, I was attacked. Not by an animal. Not by another human. By ice. In my own driveway. A place I had crossed hundreds of times safely. No warning. No sound. No dramatic buildup. The last clear thought I remember having was wondering whether the driveway might be slippery. That thought turned out to be the prologue. When I regained consciousness—flat on my back, staring at the sky, with a dog hovering over me like a very judgmental witness—I felt comfortable ruling the surface hostile.

Out of an abundance of caution, and at my wife’s direct and non-negotiable order, I went to the local hospital. On the drive there—where my wife also works—she decided to run a neurological exam. The questions were unfair and oddly personal: when were we married, where were we married, when is her birthday, and, in what felt like an advanced interrogation technique, what is the password to our financial accounts.

Because my injury did not involve a gunshot, a stroke, or a heart attack—and because I walked in under my own power—the hospital staff responded with polite professionalism mixed with the unmistakable vibe of let’s see what this turns into. This was reasonable.

After a short wait—which, in medical terms, is often measured in hours rather than minutes—I was invited to check in. Check-in involved a weigh-in, an IV “just in case,” and a full panel of vitals: blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels. All of this felt slightly unfair given that I had not yet taken my medication and had recently been tackled by frozen precipitation. At one point, I believe they also asked my body to “relax,” which suggested a touching but misplaced optimism.

Then came the questions, which demonstrated that my wife—though well-intentioned—was still very much an amateur. After the battery of questions, the staff turned to her and asked whether she had noticed any personality changes. She said I was more irritable than usual. This answer was delivered efficiently, confidently, and without hesitation. It is now, presumably, part of my permanent medical record.

After a CT scan and an MRI, it was confirmed that I had indeed “bonked” the back of my head. Medical terminology has a way of minimizing the unsettling. I did not break my neck—which aligned with my own independent research—but I did sprain it. I am now in a cervical collar, which sends a clear message about fragility, gravity, and the quiet power of ice.

I have been told to take it easy and to avoid complex thinking until my brain fully heals. This feels less like short-term medical advice and more like a long-term warning.

I should end by thanking my wife, whose compassion, patience, and steady presence have carried me through this with far more grace than I deserve. She has been unfailingly supportive, calm when I could not be, and generous with both care and restraint—except, of course, for the comment about my irritability, which has been entirely forgiven.

The dog, meanwhile, remains unconvinced. She watches me closely, tilts her head from time to time, and appears to believe that my collar is essentially the same as hers. In her mind, this confirms that I am ready for a walk. Healing is fine—but the schedule still matters.

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2025 Competitive, Not Complete

My 2025 looked a lot like the Minnesota Vikings. It began, as always, with hope—an early victory that made you believe this could be the start of something. Then came the injuries, the false starts, the failures, and the quiet realization that planning and execution were still passing each other in the hallway without speaking. By late October, hope had slipped into despair. But then December arrived, and despair softened back into hope—what is known as fake spring. In the end, the record will land just above or just below .500, exactly where uncertainty likes to live.

That’s how 2025 felt for me. There were real successes—moments that mattered, progress worth acknowledging, things I’m genuinely proud of. But there were also stretches when momentum stalled, when intention didn’t always translate into follow-through, and inaction led to failure. 

So 2025 was neither disastrous nor satisfying. A very Minnesota Viking outcome—competitive but incomplete. A fair grade is probably a 5 out of 10, even with the wins, because consistency matters as much as highlights.

My hope for 2026 isn’t about grand promises or naïve optimism. It’s about clarity—and momentum. 2025 finished strong, which matters more than it sounds. It suggests that improvement wasn’t accidental, that progress is possible when effort and intention finally line up. The goal now is to carry that forward. Decide what matters. Align efforts with intentions. Invest accordingly. Losses can be endured. Wins can be celebrated. What wears you down is ambiguity—and the feeling that being better was always within reach, but never quite seized.

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Gratitude Challenge 2025 Style

In 2025, I skipped the Gratitude Challenge, mainly due to time constraints. Reflecting on a hectic year, I recognize my gratitude for family and the present moment, acknowledging their support despite challenges. As Christmas approaches, I emphasize kindness, reminding us that everyone faces unseen struggles that require patience and grace.

This was the first year since 2020 that I didn’t do the Gratitude Challenge in November. I could offer plenty of reasons, but the truth is simple: I didn’t make the time for it. That’s on me.

A couple of days ago, I read “The Right Attitude to Gratitude” by David Brooks. It prompted me to look back on 2025. It’s been a hectic year — full of unexpected turns, long stretches of stress, and more challenges than I planned for. But even with all of that, there’s a lot to be grateful for.

I’m grateful for my family. Most of what I feel about them ends up in private writing, where it belongs. But they make my life better in every possible way. They push me to be better, to stay grounded, and to remember what truly matters. I’m grateful for the ways they’ve helped me, and for the quiet ways they help others just by being themselves. Too often, I take them for granted and they become the brunt of my frustrations. I hope to reduce — if not stop — that going forward.

I’m also grateful to be living here and now. When you step back and look at the sweep of human history, you realize how fortunate we are. Things aren’t perfect, but they are better than they’ve been for most of human existence. That perspective doesn’t erase the hard parts, but it does put them in context.

As we move into the Christmas season, I keep coming back to one simple reminder: be kind. Everyone is carrying something — stress, grief, uncertainty, hope — and most of it we never see. A little patience and a little grace go a long way.

No Gratitude Challenge this November. Just a moment to acknowledge what’s good, and to carry that forward.

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2000

The pandemic feels like a lifetime ago, and yet I can tell you exactly how long it has been: 2,000 days. I know this not because of science, or history, or the passage of time, but because on March 1, 2020, I started a streak.

A walking streak.

Every single day since then—through shutdowns and reopenings, through new jobs, new routines, travel, stress, exhaustion, weather that felt like it was designed to break me—I have walked at least 10,000 steps.

Two thousand days.

I didn’t set out to do this. At the beginning, it was something to do during the pandemic. It also protected my sanity. Walking was the chance to get out of the house and leave everything else behind. Ten thousand steps a day had long been the baseline, ever since I started wearing a fitness tracker. Twenty-two thousand steps was the dream. (For reference, that’s about ten miles a day, or the equivalent of pacing nervously during a seven-hour baseball game.)

The first year was easy. I averaged nearly 22,000 steps per day. The second was manageable, still averaging nearly 20,000 steps per day. But the last three were harder. I changed careers. Time shrank. The joy of the walk, once as natural as breathing, sometimes felt like another appointment on an already crowded calendar.

Quick aside here: if you’ve never experienced the low-grade panic of watching your fitness tracker show 9,976 steps at 11:57 p.m., you haven’t lived. That’s when you find yourself walking in pajama pants around the kitchen island like a lunatic, praying the neighbors can’t see through the window.

What kept me going? Partly, the dog. (She doesn’t negotiate. She knows when it’s walk time, and if I try to skip, she looks at me like I just canceled Christmas.) Partly, the number itself. The bigger the streak grew, the harder it was to let it go. You don’t walk 1,732 consecutive days just to stop there.

And now we’re at 2,000.

I should say this: I am impressed with myself. I don’t usually say things like that, but persistence deserves a little horn-tooting. If I can string together 2,000 days of anything—walking, writing, flossing—maybe I’m not as undisciplined as I sometimes think.

Of course, streaks end. Technology fails. Bodies get sick. Life interrupts. At some point, a day will come when the step counter doesn’t make it to 10,000, and I’ll have to deal with it.

But not yet.

The next goal is December 30, 2025—Day 2,131. If you’re a baseball fan, you know why. (That’s the number Cal Ripken Jr. reached when he passed Lou Gehrig in consecutive games played. If you’re not a fan, know this: it’s persistence at a mythical scale.) After that, the big one: 2,633 days, when Ripken’s streak itself comes into view on or about February 6, 2027.

Will I make it to 2,633? I don’t know. The streak doesn’t give me the same joy it once did, and some days it feels like one more box to check. But every morning, the dog is there, stretching in anticipation, eyes pathetically pleading. And every morning, I lace up my shoes.

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Unforgettable Moments

When I was growing up, my mother drove Chevrolet station wagons. They had wood paneling on the sides, vinyl seats that could burn your legs on hot summer days, and an 8-track player. We had a limited selection of 8-track tapes stored in a faux alligator skin box. One of my favorite tapes was “I Got Lucky” by Elvis Presley. I enjoyed listening to it while we drove around town or went on road trips. Truth be told, it was one of his worst albums, but I loved it.

On June 21, 1977, Elvis performed a concert in my hometown, marking the first event held at the brand-new civic center. This was my first concert (not counting elementary school Christmas concerts). Though it was a long time ago, my memories of that evening are still vivid. The excitement in the building before the concert was palpable. When the lights dimmed and “Also sprach Zarathustra” started playing, I knew we were in for an amazing show.

When Elvis walked onto the stage, the lightbulbs began popping, accompanied by the screams of excited women. I will never forget those screams. It was evident that Elvis was larger than life. He delivered a tremendous show before walking off the stage. Less than two months later, we were all shocked by his sudden death. In the fall of 1977, we gathered around our television to watch the Elvis In Concert CBS Special, which featured the same concert.

That night in June 1977 had a profound impact on me. I fell in love with the music of Elvis Presley. My first cassette tape purchase was “Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii via Satellite.” I must have listened to that tape a thousand times, and I can still sing most of the songs from memory.

In the years since the concert, many people have commented that it wasn’t Elvis Presley’s best performance. In fact, it wasn’t. He was significantly heavier than in earlier parts of his career and forgot many lyrics, often slurring his words. When I compare the concert I attended to other performances I’ve seen, it’s clear that I didn’t witness his finest work. However, even at his worst, his performance was still remarkable.

I still have my ticket stub from that concert, tucked away. It’s a simple piece of paper, but each time I see it, I’m transported back to that night. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve held onto it all these years, but perhaps it’s because some moments in life are so impactful that we want to preserve them forever.

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Reflections on Another Year

It’s complicated. It’s Father’s Day. My father wasn’t the father I wanted him to be; however, given how things have turned out, it appears he was the father I needed.

It’s complicated. Twenty-nine years ago today, my mother called to tell me that my father had suffered another heart attack and didn’t survive. It was a Saturday, and the next day was Father’s Day. his sudden death is one of the saddest days of my life.

It’s complicated. As critical as I was of my father while growing up, on this day when we celebrate fathers, I am reminded of how challenging it is to be a parent. You are constantly trying to make the best decisions, but you often fail. I love my sons more than anything in the world. I haven’t been perfect, but I have always loved them.

It’s complicated. An elected official was assassinated yesterday, marking the seventh such incident in the last 50 years. There is a suspect and it appears he was targeting several other elected officials. Meanwhile, the president celebrated his birthday with a grand military parade, something I have never witnessed in my lifetime across the country. There were mostly peaceful protests taking place. The country is deeply divided.

It’s complicated. Birthdays should be a celebration—a time to reflect on all that is good in our lives. Over the past year, I have used social media to acknowledge birthdays. Each day, I start by checking Facebook for birthday announcements. For those who share their birthdays, I make sure to send them a heartfelt birthday message.

I also take a moment to reflect on how I know each person, why they remain friends on Facebook, and the joy we have brought to each other’s lives. My friends come from various places, with diverse interests, differing political views, and various professions. While I may have favorites among them, taking the time to think about each friend is a nice way to start my day and often reminds me of many wonderful memories.

I also remember friends who are no longer with us but are still on Facebook. I believe that if we dedicate time to remember and celebrate these connections, it enriches our lives.

It’s a bittersweet day for me—today marks my birthday, Father’s Day, and the anniversary of my dad’s passing. It’s a lot to process. So, let’s take a moment to do something special today to brighten the world around us. Reach out to the people you love; they might be facing their own complexities. You never know how your words of kindness can make a difference. Life is complicated.



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6/9/72

Some numbers stick with you. For me, they are 6/9/1972, a date, and 238, the number of deaths.

On June 9, 1972, in western South Dakota, it started to rain. My only memory of that evening is standing outside under our covered front entryway while my father smoked. As I watched him, I noticed that the raindrops were the biggest I had ever seen. When I mentioned this to my dad, he suggested we go back inside because it was bedtime.

On the evening of June 9, 1972, our family went to bed early. When we awoke the next morning, we were unaware of the tragic events that had occurred overnight. Persistent clouds over the Black Hills resulted in severe flash flooding that devastated the Rapid City area. By the morning of June 10, there were 238 fatalities, and more than 1,300 homes had been destroyed.

My father was a medical doctor in our community. That morning, my mother received a call from the hospital asking if my dad would be coming into work. She was surprised by the question because she was unaware of what had happened. The hospital explained that there had been a severe storm that caused significant damage, and his services were urgently needed.

In the days, weeks, months, and years following the flood, I began to hear more stories. I learned about a classmate and friend who lost his father and two brothers, one of whom was never found. I heard about a friend of my sister’s who survived in an air pocket inside a submerged vehicle while her brothers slowly succumbed. I listened to the accounts of the screams that echoed during the disaster. I witnessed the devastation firsthand.

Our house and family were on high ground, so we were safe from the flooding. However, some friends of ours lost everything and had to stay with us until they could find a new place to live. My preschool was destroyed. While I’m not sure, I believe my father’s office was flooded but did not sustain permanent damage.

It has been over 50 years, but I still vividly remember many events from the time of the flood. Growing up, I encountered haunting reminders of the devastation: driveways where homes once stood, streets that are now vacant and abandoned, and buildings bearing the names of those who perished. Many of these reminders are still visible today if you know where to look (see picture at top of steps from a house washed away in the flood still present). Ironically, much of this is located along a beautiful greenway and bike trail that were created in the aftermath of the destruction.

In recent years, on this anniversary, I have taken the time to read through a list of the names of those who lost their lives. I reflect on friends who were affected by the flood and how suddenly life can change. This reminds me of what Marcus Aurelius wrote over 2000 years ago: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say, and think.” Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2, Section 11.

This is dedicated to all who were affected by the 1972 flood but more specifically to Shirley, Steve, Sarah, Andy, Lisa, Mike, and JoAnn.

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Life Events

Throughout my professional career, I have consistently advised adults to establish an estate plan. A well-crafted estate plan helps prevent family conflicts, reduce taxes and expenses, and provides clear guidance on how assets should be distributed. I also recommend that individuals review and update their estate plans after significant life events, such as a death, birth, marriage, or divorce. After this past weekend, I am adding college graduation to that list of important events.

This past weekend, our youngest child graduated from university, and I couldn’t be prouder of him. Watching him grow and mature over the last four years has been incredibly rewarding. As I observed friends, family, and others interacting during this significant occasion, I found myself reflecting on a few key points.

First, I was struck by the importance relationships that were formed over these years. Second, I was reminded of how quickly time passes; it feels like just yesterday when we dropped him off at school. Lastly, I was reminded of the importance of higher education.

My university years were quite a while ago, but many of the relationships I formed during that time still play a significant role in my life today. Watching my son interact with his friends and their families brings a smile to my face; they are wonderful people. As the graduates transition to the next phase of their lives, I hope they continue to nurture their relationships, even as they scatter across the country.

As I write this blog post from my now-quiet empty nest, I can hardly wrap my head around how swiftly time has passed. It feels like just yesterday we were dropping him off at his freshman dorm, filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. His brief visits home during breaks often left me wishing for just a little more time together, and our trips to his university town were far too few. Yet, here I am, in a surprising twist, sending him a checklist to gear up for moving out of his apartment and into a house of his own. How did we get here so fast?

As a former university professor, I have attended numerous graduation ceremonies. While many share similar elements, my son’s graduation truly reaffirmed the importance of higher education. In recent years, higher education has faced significant scrutiny, and in some cases, this criticism is warranted.

As a student, my university required every student to take a capstone course centered around the essential question, “How then shall we live?” This course encouraged us to explore, connect, and discuss what we had learned throughout our time at the university. My simple takeaway, both then and now, is that higher education serves at least three important functions.

First, it develops and expands our knowledge base. Second, it cultivates essential soft skills, including critical thinking, adaptability, time management, commitment, and improved communication. Lastly, and most importantly, it highlights the importance of building and engaging in a strong community.

What resonated with me was the vital role that universities play in fostering community. A good university gathers a diverse array of individuals—each with their own backgrounds, perspectives, and aspirations—and creates an environment where collaboration and growth can flourish. This sentiment was articulated by both the president of the university and the commencement speaker, who emphasized the importance of this collective journey. They encouraged us to recognize our shared responsibility in using our unique talents and experiences to contribute positively to the world.

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2025 New Beginnings

I have chosen themes to drive my aspirations for the year in recent years. One of my aspirations this year is to learn more about paintings.

In recent years, I’ve been fortunate enough to immerse myself in some of the most stunning artwork the world has to offer. Each piece captivates and inspires me, yet I often find myself puzzled. What exactly elevates Van Gogh’s iconic sunflowers above my son’s colorful creations (see below)? The mystery of art continues to intrigue me!

Priceless

In my inform my appreciation for art, I recently picked up a daily art calendar. My aim is to carve out a little time each day to observe and learn something new about the world of creativity.

Kicking off this artistic journey, I’m excited to share the January 1 selection: The Oy Valley, a piece by Alexej von Jawlensky from 1912. What grabbed my attention first were the vivid pastel colors. Although it beautifully captures a valley in Germany, it instantly transported me back to a hike I took in the breathtaking landscapes of Scotland (see below picture). It’s amazing how art can evoke such personal memories!

Puntland Hills, Scotland

Below is what ChatGPT can tell me about the painting.

Alexej von Jawlensky (1864–1941) was a key figure in the Expressionist movement, known for his use of vivid colors and spiritualized abstraction. The Oy Valley, painted in 1912, reflects Jawlensky’s fascination with landscapes as a means of expressing inner emotions rather than replicating nature.

This particular painting is characterized by:

1. Dynamic Composition: The scene features a mountainous landscape rendered in bold, angular forms that suggest the natural contours of the valley while emphasizing emotional intensity over realism.

2. Vivid Color Palette: Jawlensky employs a spectrum of bright, saturated colors—reds, purples, greens, and blues—to create a striking, almost otherworldly atmosphere. The color contrasts are meant to evoke a sense of awe and spiritual transcendence.

3. Expressionist Techniques: The brushstrokes are bold and textured, lending the painting an energetic, almost raw quality. Rather than detailed realism, Jawlensky focuses on the essence and emotional resonance of the scene.

4. Symbolic Undertones: Jawlensky believed color had a spiritual power. In this work, the interplay of light and shadow, alongside the vibrant hues, suggests a symbolic representation of the divine presence in nature.

During the period this was created, Jawlensky was closely associated with Der Blaue Reiter (The Blue Rider), an avant-garde group that sought to explore spiritual themes through modern art. This painting exemplifies his contribution to that movement and his desire to transcend the physical world through expressive art.

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2024 – Time to Review

In “40 Chances: Finding Hope in a Hungry World,” Howard G. Buffett shares his personal journey of using his wealth and influence to combat global hunger and poverty. Drawing from his experiences as a farmer and philanthropist, Buffett reflects on the 40 opportunities—referred to as “chances”—that a person has in their lifetime to create a meaningful impact. Essentially, each chance represents a year or a growing season.

The title and premise of the book are particularly impactful, highlighting the limited nature of our opportunities. Regardless of whether we analyze our chances over years, months, weeks, or days, it is essential to recognize that we are afforded a finite number of opportunities in life. This understanding encourages me to make the most of every moment.

As we near the end of the year, I find myself reflecting on my year. This time signifies both closure and the promise of new beginnings. Over the couple of days, I will review my goals and aspirations for 2024. While I have celebrated some victories, there have also been moments when I fell short. When January 1st arrives, I plan to take the time not only to dream but also to set purposeful goals for 2025. Here’s to the new opportunities that lie ahead!

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Day 31 Gratitude Challenge – Bonus Day

After 30 days, the sun sets on the 2024 Gratitude Challenge. After a month of daily writing, I’ve noticed a shift in my focus and attitude. While I haven’t eliminated all negative thoughts, I have managed to reduce them. I now spend more time reflecting on what I have rather than what I lack. It reminds me of that scene from It’s a Wonderful Life when Clarence says:

“You see, George, you’ve really had a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?”

A few years ago, my wife and I invited each family member to choose a charity for a $100 donation. The only requirement was that they write two paragraphs detailing why they selected that specific charity. On Christmas Eve, as we gathered together, we presented each charity and shared the heartfelt reasons behind our choices, celebrating the impact we could make together. My family doesn’t know this yet, but I’m planning on doing that again this year. 

Mark your calendars for Tuesday, December 3, 2024—it’s National Giving Day! I’m excited to challenge all of you to support a charity that resonates with your heart. Whether big or small, every contribution makes a difference, so let’s spread the generosity far and wide!

As part of this special day, I’d love for anyone considering a Christmas gift for me to think about giving instead to a charity. Share your choice and why it matters to you on social media—let’s inspire each other and make a positive impact together!

Many worthy charities exist at local, regional, national, and international levels. Here are my top five. I might explain why in a future post.

Dakotabilities

LifeScape

Michael J Fox Foundation

Heifer International 

Promising Futures Funds

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Day 30 Gratitude Challenge

Today is the final day of November and the gratitude challenge. I would be remiss if I didn’t spend time expressing gratitude for the most important person in my life.

Every day, I start and finish with a heart full of gratitude for my wife. She is my equal, my anchor, and my greatest ally. Her intellect, empathy, compassion, and unwavering support are at the center of my life. She is an amazing mother to our sons.

She embraces my quirks, even when I drive her a bit mad. Despite the little frustrations, I know at the end of the day, our love for each other shines through. I cherish her for exactly who she is, just as she does for me.

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Day 29 – Gratitude Challenge

Yesterday turned out to be a fantastic day for several reasons. First and foremost, it was a holiday, which meant I could escape the usual hustle and bustle of work life. There’s something refreshing about having a day entirely to yourself, free from obligations and deadlines.

Moreover, I had the opportunity to spend the day with family. We engaged in activities that we enjoy. Being surrounded by loved ones while doing things that I genuinely enjoy made the day even more special.

I am so grateful for my two sons. They bring so much joy, love, and purpose to my life. Watching them grow into kind adults fills me with pride. They are thriving in their own ways, and it’s inspiring to see them find their paths in life. They teach me patience, kindness, and the value of laughter. I feel lucky to be their parent and to share in their journey. My heart is full, and I am thankful for them every day.

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Day 28 Gratitude Challenge

Today, families all across the United States come together to celebrate a cherished tradition: Thanksgiving. It is our national day of gratitude.

As I reflect on past Thanksgivings, I am reminded of those I experienced in my youth. During those times, our family would join with another unrelated family to create one large family for the day. It was such a wonderful time.

In recent years, my small family has come together at a local country club to celebrate Thanksgiving with an incredible meal. While we may not have had any leftovers to take home, the time we spent together filled with gratitude and warmth was truly what mattered most. It’s always heartening to cherish these moments as a family.

Take some time to reflect on Thanksgiving and the traditions that come with it. This holiday is about celebrating what we have. There is a danger in focusing on what we lack or envying what others possess. Instead, be grateful for what you do have.

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Day 27 Gratitude Challenge

As we approach the final days of this gratitude challenge, I want to engage in a deeper reflection on those who matter most in my life. It’s too easy to take those closest to us for granted, and sometimes we forget to express our appreciation for them.

About this time of year six years ago, our youngest child began relentlessly nagging us about getting a dog. At first, I brushed off his enthusiastic pleas, convinced that with time he would lose interest and the conversation would fade away. However, I dramatically underestimated the sheer tenacity of my child, whose determination to welcome a furry friend into our home only grew stronger with each passing day. Ultimately, we decided to get a dog, and we have been happy ever since.

Today, I am grateful for my current pet and all my beloved pets over the years. My dog’s enthusiasm when I return home is heartwarming; her joy is infectious. It’s incredibly touching to witness her genuine happiness at our reunion. Her vibrant personality and unconditional love have brought so much joy and warmth into our lives, making every moment more meaningful.

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Day 26 Gratitude Challenge

One of the remarkable aspects of our country and this moment in history is the incredible abundance of travel opportunities. Whether it’s a weekend escape to Minneapolis or Omaha, or a longer adventure to the United Kingdom or France, travel enriches our lives in countless ways.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, approximately 80 million Americans are set to embark on their travels. Travel can often seem daunting, especially with the hustle and bustle of crowded airports and busy highways. Yet, once we arrive at our destination and reunite with friends and family, the journey transforms into a rewarding experience. The anticipation and joy of celebrating together far outweigh any initial inconveniences.

I feel fortunate to have traveled around the United States, the United Kingdom, and other unique places! Each adventure is a chance for me to learn and grow. Today, I’m incredibly thankful for the ability to explore new places and the technology that makes it all possible!

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Day 25 Gratitude Challenge

Yesterday, I focused on what is good about where I live (and have lived). I noticed several things, both new and old, in my city. I thought about some of my favorite aspects of my hometown.

As I was enjoying a savory crepe in one of my favorite local restaurants, I came up with the idea for today’s challenge. Although I’m not a foodie, I truly enjoy food that excites my palate. I may not always articulate the ingredients, but I appreciate flavors that tantalize my taste buds.

Get ready for fun challenge! Today, we’re diving into gratitude by celebrating your top five favorite restaurants! Whether they’re local gems, hidden treasures from afar, or beloved spots that have sadly closed their doors, it’s time to reflect on the culinary experiences that have left a lasting impression. And here’s the twist – for bonus points, share a description of each choice, revealing what made these places unforgettable on your gastronomic journey. Let the delicious reminiscing begin!

MB Haskett – I’ve been a regular at this charming little restaurant for several years now, and it has become one of my favorite spots. They offer a delightful variety of meals throughout the day, serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner, though interestingly, I have yet to experience their dinner menu. What I love most about this establishment is its cozy, inviting atmosphere. The quaint decor and intimate setting remind me of the small, local eateries I’ve encountered during my travels in London, where each visit feels personal. The restaurant prides itself on using all-natural ingredients, which truly elevates the flavors of each dish, making every bite a delicious experience.

Another aspect that sets this place apart is its unique menu; nearly every item is crafted in a way that you simply can’t find elsewhere in the area. Whether it’s a creative twist on a classic or an entirely original dish, each menu offering sparks curiosity and excitement. Lastly, the staff here is exceptional. They are always warm and welcoming, making you feel right at home from the moment you step through the door. It’s this combination of lovely ambiance, quality food, and friendly service that keeps me coming back, even if I’ve yet to try dinner.

Santini is a delightful hidden gem nestled just a short stroll from Victoria Station in London. I first discovered it years ago thanks to a recommendation from a hotel concierge, and it has since become a favorite. Tucked away a block from the bustling main street, the restaurant exudes a charming yet sophisticated ambiance that invites you to unwind.

The culinary offerings are exceptional, with a diverse menu that never fails to impress. Each dish is expertly prepared, showcasing fresh ingredients and creative flavors that keep us coming back for more. Complementing the food is an impressive wine selection, perfectly curated to enhance every meal. The attentive service consistently adds to the experience, making each visit feel special.Every time we dine at Santini, we find ourselves indulging far more than we initially intended, unable to resist the temptation of dessert or an extra course. Its proximity to Buckingham Palace means you might just spot a member of the royal family enjoying a meal, adding an unparalleled touch of excitement to this already enchanting dining experience.

CoV Edina has quickly become a beloved destination for both my wife and me during our trips to the Twin Cities. Nestled next to one of our preferred hotels, its convenient location adds to its appeal. The restaurant prides itself on using fresh, natural ingredients, elevating familiar menu offerings to a higher standard that sets it apart from typical dining experiences. The atmosphere is enhanced by a charming nautical theme, creating a delightful ambiance that enriches each meal and makes every visit feel special.

The Associates, conveniently located near our home, has become our favorite dining spot. At first glance, it appears to be just a casual bar, often overlooked by passersby. Inside, the atmosphere is simple, with a dull concrete floor and unremarkable seating that lacks flair. However, what it may lack in decor, it more than makes up for with its culinary offerings. We’ve enjoyed countless meals there, and each one has been nothing short of exceptional. The menu boasts an impressive variety of choices, ranging from comforting classics to creative dishes, and they often feature a delightful special that adds excitement to our visits. No matter what we choose, we’ve never left disappointed.

Starfish Laguna – Another gem recommended by the hotel concierge, this restaurant truly surpasses all expectations. Nestled within a quaint strip mall off the bustling Pacific Coast Highway, its unpretentious storefront initially had us questioning whether the concierge was playing a prank on us. However, as soon as we stepped inside, any doubts melted away.

The interior is a vibrant tapestry of design, where black, turquoise, and gold interweave to create a striking visual experience that is both unique and thought-provoking. The fabrics drape elegantly, while the walls, floors, and ceilings are adorned with bold hues that command attention without overwhelming the senses. Wire pendant lights dangle artfully overhead, casting intricate shadows, while palm fans and smoked mirrors contribute to a sense of movement and depth within the space.

When it comes to the cuisine, the restaurant offers a delightful fusion of Asian flavors that draws inspiration from the culinary traditions of China, Thailand, Vietnam, and Indonesia. Each dish is a harmonious blend of influences, crafted to tantalize the taste buds and leave a lasting impression.

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Day 24

Traveling has always been a passion of mine. There’s something magical about exploring new places and immersing myself in diverse cultures. I find great joy in chatting with locals, and hearing their perspectives is fascinating. Often, they highlight the challenges and downsides of their surroundings, which contrasts my own experience. For me, every destination holds beauty and positivity, waiting to be cherished.

It is ironic that when I describe the places I’ve lived, I often focus on the challenges and downsides. The reality is that there are good things and bad things no matter where you live. There are many good things about where I live and where I grew up.

I grew up in the Black Hills of South Dakota, a stunningly beautiful area. The people I grew up with were truly outstanding. My current hometown also has many positive attributes. There are several beautiful parks where residents can walk and enjoy nature. We have excellent restaurants and many good people living here.

Today, take a moment to look around you. Notice the positive things happening, and list three things for which you are grateful.

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Day 23 Gratitude Challenge

Yesterday, a friend sent me several pictures of my brothers that I had never seen before. I posted one on social media and attached another to this post. I’ve written about my brothers previously, as they have impacted my life immeasurably.

Since it is the weekend, I will keep this simple. I am grateful for my brothers.

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Day 22 Gratitude Challenge

It’s Friday, and the weekend has arrived. We have journeyed through three weeks of gratitude. Today is a perfect moment to reflect. What has unfolded over the past three weeks? Have you sensed any transformations?

Today marks an exciting moment in our challenge—it’s wildcard day! This is your opportunity to reflect on and express gratitude for three things in your life. Whether it’s a particular person, a cherished memory, or anything else that brings you joy, take a moment to appreciate those unique aspects that truly make a difference. Let’s celebrate what matters most to us!

You’ll be excited to know that you’ll soon have the chance to earn bonus points by jotting down these three things and sharing them with others. Here are my three!

  • I am grateful for the chance to explore nature and its beauty in the public parks both where I live and where I visit.
  • I am grateful to live in a country that values and protects freedom: the freedom to vote, work, and travel.
  • When it comes to travel, I’m grateful for the opportunities it brings. Whether it’s a weekend getaway, a short domestic vacation, or an international excursion, I appreciate these adventures.

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Day 21 Gratitude Challenge

I often get asked about the pictures I attach to my posts. The most common question is whether I took the picture, followed by inquiries about where and when it was taken.

Most of the pictures I take are from my daily life, vacations, or sporting events. I have loved photography for many years. I was fortunate to have parents who supported this passion and never questioned the costs associated with developing photos. Similarly, when I decided to pursue photography again a few years ago, my spouse was very supportive and even gifted me a camera for Christmas.

I have four different cameras, including my mobile phone. Each camera serves a unique purpose and is used in a specific way. It’s an expensive hobby, but it brings me a great deal of joy.

Hobbies are important because they enrich our lives in various ways, contributing to our mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Here are a few key reasons:

  • Stress Relief
  • Personal Growth and Skills Development
  • Social Connections
  • Boosting Mental Health
  • Encouraging Balance

Today, take a moment to appreciate your hobbies and the people who support you in pursuing them.

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Day 20 Gratitude Challenge

The picture at the top of this post was taken on March 1, 2020. On that day, the Augustana Vikings suffered a heartbreaking loss in the conference tournament. It also marked the beginning of my incredible streak. Since then, I have logged at least 10,000 steps for 1,725 consecutive days, which is equivalent to 4 years, 8 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days.

Maintaining this streak hasn’t always been easy, and in recent months, I’ve questioned whether it’s worth continuing. Despite facing illness and challenging weather, my commitment has never wavered. Most days, I complete about half of my steps either by walking outside with my dog or indoors on a treadmill.

Throughout this journey, I’ve lost a significant amount of weight, improved my medical lab results, and enhanced my overall health. Achieving a streak like this requires both luck and willpower. I am proud of my accomplishment and will continue this streak for as long as I can.

Good health is often taken for granted until it’s lost. While your health may not be perfect, if you can read this, you have your sight, which is a valuable gift. There is much in life that is beyond our control, yet every day we make countless choices about how we care for our bodies. Today, treat your body well by drinking more water, eating nutritious foods, taking deep breaths, and incorporating physical activity into your routine. Additionally, consider tonight as an opportunity to give yourself the gift of more sleep. Create calming bedtime routines to help relax your mind.

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Day 19 Gratitude Challenge – The Picture

Four years ago, as I was completing the first gratitude challenge, I made two posts in Facebook.

One was about gratitude see below. I think these words are still applicable.

Today we are to consider the challenges we have faced in our lives. What can I find to be grateful for for in those challenges. While there are many examples, there is a present challenge that exists. How to survive during a pandemic. The present challenge requires me to view the world through a different lens and focus on what matters. I have intentionally tried to direct my energy toward things that matter. I am grateful that the pandemic has caused me to look at an approach life differently.

The other post from that day is at the top of this one. When I took that picture and made that post, I was not aware that my life was about to undergo a dramatic transformation.

I looked at that picture and immediately realized that something needed to change. My health and weight were out of control. That day, I started researching options and quietly began my transformation. Ultimately, I lost about 60 pounds but have since gained back around 15 of those. What’s interesting is that I find my current weight unacceptable, even though it is still lower than my original goal.

So, today’s challenge is to be grateful for your challenges and difficulties.

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Day 18 Gratitude Challenge

Today, embrace state of gratitude all day, no matter what comes your way

I often find Mondays more challenging than other days. I enjoy my weekends and feel grateful for the nice weather we had this past weekend, which allowed for long walks outside. However, as we move closer to winter, I realize that the weather may make this more difficult.

I won’t go into detail, but recently, I learned that someone I care deeply about lost their significant other. Although I haven’t always believed this or practiced it, I’ve come to realize that it is during the darkest times that we need gratitude the most.

Today, practice gratitude throughout the day, regardless of the circumstances. Did you know that when you maintain a positive mindset, your brain can be more productive than when you’re in a negative or neutral state? Embracing gratitude can quickly shift you into a positive state of mind. Commit to being grateful, even when facing unexpected, unwelcome, or unpleasant situations. Don’t allow your circumstances to determine your attitude; choose gratitude instead.

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Day 17 2024 Gratitude Challenge

Over the last three days, at least one family member—whether it be my brother, nephew, sister, or grandma—had a birthday. Today marks what would have been my grandmother’s 125th birthday. She lived for 97 years, leaving behind a lasting legacy. Birthdays should be celebrated.

Social media often faces criticism and condemnation for being a source of many societal problems, and much of that criticism is justified. Observing the comments of friends, family, and others before and after the election has been both interesting and disappointing. We can and should strive to do better.

But this post is not about the problems of social media. I choose to disregard and ignore most of the negativity on social media. I prefer to focus on positive aspects. Whether sharing pictures, interesting news articles, thoughtful quotes, or funny thoughts of family, vacations, nature, sporting events, or my dog,

Since my last birthday, I have made a daily effort to wish all Facebook friends a happy birthday. Each day, I take few moments to wish my friends a happy birthday. Additionally, I take a moment to reflect on our connection and express gratitude for these people. It has been a fantastic daily habit.

This post explores the connections between birthdays and social media. I use social media to connect with friends and build positive relationships.

Today, the challenge is to use social media to strengthen relationships and express appreciation, gratitude, and recognition. You might wish your friends a happy birthday or scroll through your list of friends and reflect on wonderful memories. Let’s be grateful for how we are connected.

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Day 16 Gratitude Challenge

Today is a short post. I have many things to be grateful for in my life. Today is a pay-it-forward day. When you pay it forward, you potentially set off a chain reaction of kindness.

Who will you pay it forward to today? Small acts of kindness, whether it’s buying someone a coffee, treating a weary mom with young kids to lunch, or helping someone with their groceries, can create a ripple effect of positivity. Look for opportunities throughout your day to brighten someone else’s experience. Simple gestures, like offering a warm smile, making eye contact with a greeting, or holding the door open, can make a significant difference. Embrace the countless ways to share kindness and inspire others.

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Day 15 Gratitude Challenge

Death is inevitable. It leaves a trail of sorrow for those left behind. There are so many unanswered questions. Yet, one thing is certain . My brother is dead. We buried his remains today. Jason Harris

I wrote the quote above just over four years ago on the day I buried my oldest brother, Jeff. I vividly remember writing those words and can still feel the pain, anger, sadness, and confusion I experienced. I will always remember. I don’t believe you ever forget the pain of losing someone you love so deeply.

The five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—are commonly understood as a sequential journey, often thought to unfold in a specific order. However, since the loss of my brother, I’ve found myself navigating these stages in various sequences and sometimes experiencing them all in one day. Most days, I come to a place of acceptance, though it’s a difficult journey, and I embrace that feeling as best as I can, knowing it’s a part of the healing process. Yet, I often wonder: is it truly possible to fully heal from such a profound loss?

Today marks several significant events. It’s the 15th day of the gratitude challenge, which means we’ve reached the halfway mark. It’s also 10 days past the election. Most importantly, today is my brother’s birthday; he would have been 64.

Today’s challenge invites us to transform a negative experience into a positive reflection. Let’s take a moment to think about those who are no longer with us. It’s natural to feel a mix of emotions, and acknowledging the impact they had on our lives is important. We can hold on to the gratitude for the moments we shared with them, cherishing their memory. Although we may not be able to thank them directly, we can honor their legacy and the positive influence they brought into our lives. This act of remembrance allows us to celebrate the love and lessons they imparted, keeping their spirit alive in our hearts.

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Day 14 2024 Gratitude Challenge

How did the stacking go yesterday? Did you notice anything different? Perhaps you felt more gratitude or had a better attitude? If you read the news, it’s easy to focus on the negative aspects. A key goal of this challenge is to find the good, stay positive, and be grateful.

A significant aspect of this challenge requires you to focus on others rather than just yourself. Today, that changes. What are your strengths? Attached to this post is a photo I took a few weeks ago at a professional tennis event. I have a passion for capturing action shots in sports, particularly in tennis. Some people have mentioned that my pictures are quite good, and I believe this is a talent of mine. I am grateful for the opportunity to take photographs like this.

Take time to reflect and be grateful for the strengths, talents, and gifts you have. Reflecting on the strengths, talents, and gifts that you possess can be a powerful exercise in gratitude. Often, we might overlook our unique qualities, assuming that what comes naturally to us is commonplace.

If you are unsure about your strengths, seek feedback from friends or colleagues; they may see talents in you that you haven’t recognized. By embracing and celebrating these qualities, you’ll be better positioned to leverage them, allowing you to make a more meaningful impact on the world around you.

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Day 13 – 2024 Gratitude Challenge

For the past 12 days, I have challenged readers to embrace gratitude. Gratitude encourages us to focus on the more positive aspects of our world and lives. Below is a list of the challenges completed so far.

  • Day 1 – No Complaining – It doesn’t do any good anyway
  • Day 2 – Be grateful for the little things in life
  • Day 3 – Be mindful all-day
  • Day 4 – Reflect on favorite memories
  • Day 5 – Express gratitude to the people who impact your life
  • Day 6 – Write a letter of gratitude to someone who positively impacted your life
  • Day 7 – Resist the urge to buy unnecessary items and consider giving to a charity
  • Day 8 – Smile at yourself and others all-day
  • Day 9 – Focus on what you appreciate in nature
  • Day 10 – Commit an anonymous act of kindness
  • Day 11 – Thank a veteran for their service
  • Day 12 – Ask what is good about your day

Today’s challenge is to combine any two previous challenges. For example, you could merge Day 8 and Day 9 by smiling while appreciating nature. You might also consider smiling all day without complaining. The choice is yours, and any combination is acceptable. The important thing is to spend part of your day focused on gratitude.

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Day 12 -2024 Gratitude Challenge

Yesterday, I had coffee with friends, worked out, shared lunch with them, and watched college soccer (see above picture). It was nice to have a “free” day. I am grateful for everything I did yesterday.

One key element of the gratitude challenge is intentionally shifting your focus toward gratitude and positivity, rather than dwelling on negativity. This approach doesn’t imply that you ignore unpleasant aspects of life; instead, it represents a powerful realignment of your attention. Emphasizing gratitude can significantly enhance your overall outlook.

People often underestimate the impact of the words and phrases we use. Today, I will return to work, and I suspect some people will ask, “How was your weekend?” or “How was your day off from work?” These are well-intended questions that typically elicit basic responses such as, “Fine, thanks! And yours?”

The challenge we face today is to ask better questions and truly listen to the responses. What if we changed the question to, “What’s good today?” This simple shift is likely to elicit interesting replies that could lead to memorable conversations. Asking “What’s good today?” encourages each of us to focus on the positive and share uplifting thoughts. If someone asks how you are today, consider responding with just one word: “Grateful!”

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Day 11 Gratitude Challenge

In 1918, at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, an armistice between the Allied nations and Germany took effect, officially ending what was known as “the war to end all wars.” While World War I officially ended several months later, it sod not end all wars.

My grandfather served in World War I. My father had his service during the Korean War deferred and served during peacetime. Many other relatives of mine have also served in the United States Armed Forces.

I’ve shared this story in the past, but it truly deserves to be told once more. Nearly two decades ago, I found myself in Washington DC with my wife and oldest son on a peaceful Sunday morning. As we wandered down to the new World War II memorial, I was filled with a sense of reverence. Just a short while after our arrival, a bus filled with World War II veterans pulled up. The sight of those 80 plus year old men having come to honor their shared sacrifices, moved me deeply.

As the veterans stepped off the bus, each was given a rose. It was a moving sight to witness many of them gently place the roses at the memorial, choosing spots that clearly held deep personal meaning for them. I took a photo of a gentleman walking slowly with a rose in hand, carefully deciding where to place it. Yet, what is etched in my memory is the poignant image of him and a few others standing together, reluctant to leave, tears in their eyes. The weight of their emotions in that moment was truly powerful.

I will never fully understand this gentleman’s journey during World War II, but my gratitude for his service is unwavering. I also deeply appreciate every veteran who has fought for our freedoms.

Today marks a well-deserved day off for many of us, a moment to relax and recharge. But let’s take a moment to reflect on what this day truly represents. It’s a chance to express our heartfelt gratitude to the brave individuals who have served our country, safeguarding the freedoms we hold dear. Their sacrifices have paved the way for us to enjoy our liberties, and today, let’s honor their commitment and valor.

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2024 Gratitude Challenge – Day 10

Yesterday’s weather might be considered dismal by many—cool and rainy for the better part of the day. But for my dog, it was great. With the right clothing, even a drizzly day can turn into a delightful adventure. While I didn’t get to spend as much time outside as I’d hoped, the moments I did share with my furry friend in the fresh, cool air were truly enjoyable. Sometimes, it’s all about making the most of what nature throws our way.

There is a wonderful patisserie near my office that I love. Occasionally, I sneak over to buy a dozen macarons to share with my co-workers. I enjoy treating others, and while it feels rewarding and delightful, there are times when it feels incomplete. I don’t do this for recognition; I do it to be kind.

Today, the challenge invites you to embrace the joy of anonymous acts of kindness! The possibilities are endless! Consider leaving a thoughtful gift on a friend’s doorstep, lending a helping hand with a neighbor’s outdoor chores, or tackling a task that’s not even yours. You might write a note of encouragement and slip it under someone’s windshield or even treat a stranger to lunch. If anonymity isn’t possible, that’s perfectly fine—just remember, the key is to spread kindness today, no matter how you choose to do it!

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Day 9 – 2024 Gratitude Challenge

Have you had a moment to reflect on your day yesterday? Did you share a smile with someone? How did they respond? Take a moment to ponder these three questions and see what insights they spark.

Nature offers a variety of wonders, from beautiful sunrises to stunning sunsets and starry night skies where you can see the Milky Way. We can even appreciate the beauty in cloud formations and the surrounding landscape. It can be tempting to let the weather—something we cannot control—affect our attitudes, which is within our control. Today’s forecast calls for cloudsm rain and cool temperatures. For many, this is less than ideal. Ultimately, you have the choice to decide whether you will allow the weather or any other external factors to influence your mindset.

The challenge today is to focus on what we appreciate about nature. I have listed several examples above. What do you appreciate about nature?

A second challenge is to combine this with a previous day’s challenge. Try to complete both challenges.

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Day 1 2024 Gratitude Challenge

Get ready for the fourth annual Gratitude Challenge! Today we embark on a transformative journey where each day will bring a new challenge to inspire gratitude. As you participate, take note of the profound effects it has on you and those around you. Consider inviting your family, friends, or coworkers to join you in this enriching experience. Although every person’s journey will be unique, by the end of this challenge, you can anticipate emerging as a better version of yourself—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Exciting times are ahead!

While any time spent in gratitude is valuable, those who actively reflect on and record their feelings of thankfulness will experience the most profound benefits. I encourage you to embark on a daily journaling journey to capture your thoughts.

It’s important to acknowledge the negative things happening around us, but let’s not let them overshadow the positives. All too often, we find ourselves fixating on what’s wrong, and in doing so, we overlook the incredible moments and opportunities for joy that are right in front of us. Embrace the challenge of shifting your focus—your perspective can make all the difference!

Let’s embrace the challenge of day one with strength. It’s hard, if not impossible, to operate in a positive and a negative state at the same time. Don’t believe me? Sit or stand tall, put a big grin on your face, and try to feel unhappy.

For today, embrace a commitment to avoid complaining, whining, and negativity. Choose only positive words to express your emotions. At the end of the day, take a few moments to journal and reflect on how this challenge heightened your awareness of your words. Consider their impact on yourself and others. Did you observe a contrast between the power of positive words and the weight of negative ones?