I made it through another one

January 18, 2026

I tried to write this yesterday but I couldn’t get my fingers to move over the keys.

Yesterday. 1.17.2026.

I wanted to do a lot of things yesterday, but I spent most of the day locked into quiet introspection instead.

What did I want to do?

Eat a can of Armour chili.

Go bowling.

Listen to “Whip It” by Devo, “Devil with a Blue Dress On” by Mitch Ryder, “Baby Likes to Rock It” by The Tractors, “Trashy Women” by Confederate Railroad and “Go Rest High on that Mountain” by Vince Gill.

Watch some golf on TV.

I wanted to do the things that remind me of my dad, but I didn’t do any of them. Why? Because eating Armour chili would not agree with my system; going bowling isn’t allowed a week after the surgery I just had; listening to those songs would have likely made me cry; and watching golf on TV isn’t in season. At first, I felt badly about not doing these things, but then I realized I don’t have to do any of them to think of my dad, who died on 1.17.2002. Twenty-four years ago.

There are two things I have a hard time wrapping my head around when I think about the 24 years:

1.        My dad was 54 when he died. That is how old I am now.

2.        In just six years, he will have been gone the same number of years he was alive as my dad on earth – 30 years. Each day after 1.17.2032 means he will have been gone longer than he was alive as my dad.

That’s a lot to process.

I know I made a list of things I wanted to do yesterday, but there is one other thing I wish I could do even more – tell him I understand. Tell him I know he had a disease. Tell him I know he wouldn’t have chosen the disease and all that came with it if he had truly been given a choice. Tell him I am sorry for the times I put distance between us. Tell him he wasn’t alone. Tell him he was loved. Tell him I wasn’t ashamed. Tell him help was out there despite it being really hard to find in a small town that long ago.

But, I can’t. I’ve made peace with this, but I do wish there was a way for him to know. Maybe he does. I believe I’ll get to tell him one day. Until then, I’ll continue letting families know they are not alone. Honoring my dad is the other reason I do what I do because I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and neither did he.

Once my book is published, you’ll be able to read more about my dad. For now, I made it through another 1.17.