Month: June 2025

Why Me?

The trouble started with a milkshake.

I was out at a diner with my best friend, passing the time as 17-year-olds do.

But less than a minute after I’d gulped down the mixture of milk and ice cream, I was in the restroom in distress.

I ultimately righted the ship and made my way back to the diner booth. But as my friend checked in on how I was doing, I recalled that the last milkshake I’d consumed had led to a similar outcome.

That incident had seemed like a one-off. But now, I sensed it was a start of a trend.

Maybe I’m allergic to dairy, I mused.

After a few doctor’s consultations and an experimental diet, I got the diagnosis: Severe lactose intolerance.

I was going to need to take milkshakes off the menu. And pizza. And sub sandwiches with melted provolone.

Or perhaps not.

You see, there was a supplement called Lactaid on the market that promised to help afflicted souls like me. It helped to break down the lactose in dairy products. And it quickly became part of my life.

Day after day, I would carry packets of Lactaid pills in my wallet or pants pockets. I’d swallow one at the start of each meal and then consume the same dairy-filled delicacies I’d always enjoyed.

But after about five years of this, the magic wore off. Even with the assistance of Lactaid, I found myself distressed by dairy. I had to give it all up, cold turkey.

I was devastated.

These days, dairy-free diets are all the rage. And a ton of dairy substitutes have hit the market.

People can sip a latte, devour pizza, or enjoy an ice cream like dessert without ever ingesting something that originated from a cow’s udder.

But back when I went dairy-free, the landscape looked quite different. Just about every restaurant dish seemed to be coated in milk, cheese, or butter. And most of the times that my employer offered a group lunch, it consisted of pizza.

It didn’t help that I was making this dietary change in Texas, where queso and cream gravy are practically cornerstones of the five food groups. But regardless, I was low on options and high on angst.

I’d grown up on dairy delicacies. I knew what I was missing out on. And it was tearing me apart.

Why me? I’d muse, as I went with a second-rate choice off the menu, just to avoid getting sick.

Why me? I’d muse, as I threw away a takeout order that had been tainted with cheese, against my explicit instructions.

Why me? I’d muse as I went hungry during a group lunch because there was nothing safe for me to chow down on.

It was miserable in those early days. But I eventually shifted my tune.

This was my lot in life, I reminded myself. No good would come from complaining about it.

That lactose intolerance diagnosis was one of the first big setbacks in my life. But it was far from the last.

Over the ensuing years, I’ve been saddled with multiple injuries, ailments, and undesirable circumstances. These issues have generally struck without warning, leading to sudden incapacitation.

As I’ve worked through the hurdles of shifted routines, canceled plans, and impaired function, I’ve often been tempted to ask Why me?

After all, I know exactly what I was missing out on, each time. And that makes the pill even harder to swallow.

But I only allow myself to mope like this for a fleeting moment. For I have learned to shift the narrative.

Yes, I’ve convinced myself that these are not setbacks to rue. Instead, they’re experiences to tout.

They’re a part of my story. And it’s my duty to tell that tale well.

Imagining life without a dairy sensitivity might seem convenient. But that condition has led me to be more organized and thoughtful about what I put in my body. And that focus on wellness has undoubtedly made me healthier today that I’d otherwise have been.

Imagining a scenario where I didn’t require ankle surgery sounds idyllic. But without that ordeal, I wouldn’t have learned what I was made of. I wouldn’t have understood the challenges of life with a disability. And I wouldn’t have felt the sweet satisfaction of getting my range of motion back.

Imagining a world where I didn’t get cut from the baseball team, laid off from my job, or passed over for another – all of that sounds dreamy. But without those setbacks, I likely wouldn’t have built up the grit that defines my present-day success.

The dairy sensitivity, the ankle procedure, all the other hardships I’ve endured – they’re a part of who I am now. I’ve come to embrace that fact.

Causes have effects. And I have better things to do than question them.

As I write this, I’m battling a bit of a health issue.

I won’t get into specifics here about my new affliction. But I will say that this issue came out of the blue, is relatively uncommon, and has forced some changes to my daily life.

This new ailment seems a lot like my dairy sensitivity. And yet, its effects are a bit harder to sidestep.

This whole situation is ripe for the why me question once again. A perfect storm of buzzard’s luck and isolating consequences have rocked me to the core. The sentiment of injustice has hit me from all angles.

And yet, despite the barrage of pills and the lingering discomfort and the cloud of uncertainty, I’m blocking out the siren song of woe. I’m keeping my head out of the sand.

For what’s done is done. There’s no good in re-litigating the flukes of the past.

My mission now is to determine what this affliction means moving forward. For my life, and for how I recount it.

Solving that puzzle brings clarity to the chaos. It defangs the spiral of despair. It builds a sense of purpose in a time of confusion.

I could use some more of that. Frankly, we all could.

And so, down the path I go. Looking into the fog ahead. And leaving why me in the dust behind.

I’m confident that tradeoff will prove worthwhile.

The Reverse Totem Pole

Wanna see something cool?

How could I say no to an offer like that?

I was 6 years old, and recess at school had grown tiresome. My friend and I had been in the same sequence of pantomiming GI Joe on the jungle gym for days. Something cool sounded much better.

My friend led me to a back corner of the recess yard. There, at the top of the hill, lay some old tires.

Where did these come from, I asked.

My friend shrugged.

Doesn’t matter, he said, as he set one upright. But look at what you can do with them!

He gave the tire a push, and we watched it roll down the hill. The tire picked up speed, hurtling out of control before it finally tipped over near the bottom of the slope.

I was awestruck. But my friend was already on to the next adventure. In fact, by the time I looked back at him, he’d already stood up another tire.

Pick up that one, he commanded, pointing to another tire a few paces from my feet. We’ll race.

Moments later, we were sending both tires down the hill simultaneously. Mine had a strong start, but it began to wobble midway down the slope. My friend’s tire made it down the hill first.

We headed down the hill to collect the tires. Then we pushed them back up to the top of the slope to race again. And again. And again – until the teacher called us back into the classroom.

Recess was over.

That evening at the dinner table, the tire race was all I could talk about.

I was obsessed with our recess activity. It was so much cooler than all the stuff I did in class. I wished that I could just roll tires down the hill all day long.

Well, you can’t, my mother replied. What you’re learning in school is important.

I groaned.

It’s just so boring. And it seems so pointless.

My parent chuckled uneasily. How were they to explain to a 6-year-old that his life would eventually be full of requisite monotony?

It had only been a few months since they’d broken the bad news to me that I would not, in fact, be getting my driver’s license as a 6th birthday present. The law wouldn’t allow for that until I was 16, they explained to me, as the joy evaporated from my face.

They didn’t want to burst my bubble like that again. So, they let me down easy.

Well, maybe tomorrow will be less boring. And hey, the tires should still be there at recess.

I think about the boy I was a lot these days.

I was naïve, sure. Naïve enough to consider recess tire races to be a worthwhile pastime.

But I also knew there was a chasm I needed to cross. A chasm of experience.

I couldn’t do all the things my parents did. Drink beer. Stay up late. Go to a fancy office with computers and rolling chairs and vending machines stocked with Coca-Cola and M&Ms.

I wanted to see what I was missing out on.

Yes, I was just like that Tom Hanks character in the movie Big. I yearned for everything all at once. Even if the laws of anatomy made that wholly impossible.

After all, our brains take years to develop. Our bones take decades to fuse together. And the firsthand experiences that help guide our decision making are more a slow trickle than a rushing waterfall.

But unlike Tom Hanks’ character, I didn’t blast through the divide. I didn’t wake up one day as a boy in a man’s body, doomed to suffer through the misadventures that time warp entailed.

Instead, I accepted the advice of my parents and my teachers. There were some things I’d need to learn with time. There was much I’d need to wait for.

So, I did.

I stopped dreaming of racing tires all day long. I dedicated myself to my studies in the classroom. And I remained inquisitive outside of it.

I gave myself a runway for growth – from the innocence of boyhood through the wilds of adolescence and on to the bumpy ride of adulthood.

As I climbed the Totem Pole, I never lost sight of the journey. Each etched notch that my hands gripped onto had a sense of accomplishment to it. Both for myself and for those who would follow behind me.

Or so I thought.

I’m now a seasoned adult.

By now, I’ve experienced much of what my parents once had. Well, with one exception.

I don’t have any children of my own. But many of my friends do.

Some are around the age I was when I ranged around the recess yard looking for tires to race. Others are a bit younger.

But all of them are wiser than I was at their age.

You see, children of this era have technology in their hands before they’re out of diapers. They can play games on their tablets, stream shows on their TVs, or take selfies with their parents’ smartphones.

Such a setup opens a world of opportunities – at lightning speed.

Kids can learn to write web code before they reach middle school. They can play with Artificial Intelligence before they get their driver’s license. They have many of the tools to thrive in adulthood at their disposal right now.

Some of those tools will take time to harness, of course. As that famous line from the movie Spiderman goes: With great power comes great responsibility.

But make no mistake. The path ahead for the next generation is far different than the one I followed.

I’ve gradually come to terms with this reality. I’ve accepted that while I will always be the elder, that won’t necessarily make me the teacher.

Indeed, I might be better served looking at the Totem Pole in reverse. In seeing what I can learn from those who stand where I once did, but with infinitely more knowledge at their disposal.

I’ll be better for this shift in perspective. We all will be.

If only we dare to take the leap of faith.

I’m ready and willing. Are you?

Karma’s False Promise

Why is this guy on my tail?

My father’s voice conveyed equal parts concern and annoyance.

We were cruising down the Florida Turnpike somewhere south of Orlando in a Nissan 350Z rental. Orange groves were flying by us on the sides of the highway as we traveled well over the posted speed limit.

And yet, no matter how fast we went, a Jeep was effectively on our rear fender. The Jeep’s driver was practically demanding us to go even faster. He was threatening to run us off the road.

Finally, the driver decided to leave us alone. The Jeep cut into the next lane and passed our rental sports car. As it did, my father and I glanced into the vehicle, trying to put a face to what had menaced us.

The speed demon looked no older than 20. Neither did his passengers.

College kids, my dad remarked. Figures.

I felt a bit conflicted by my father’s agitation. I was a senior in high school and would soon be a college kid myself. I was all about having fun and playing loose with the rules.

But this seemed excessive and dangerous. I got where my father was coming from.

No longer fearing for our safety, we let the conversation drift to a new topic.

But about 15 miles down the road, we saw some flashing lights up ahead. We slowed to the speed limit as the Florida Highway Patrol cruiser came into view on the shoulder.

Just ahead of the cruiser, the Jeep that had pestered us was now at a standstill. A state trooper was leaning into the open driver’s side window, likely to hand out a speeding ticket.

My father smiled.

Karma, he remarked to me, Karma.

Do the right thing.

That mantra has been lived rent free in the back of my mind for years.

Whenever the temptation has arisen to act inappropriately, those four words have emerged. And I’ve maintained proper decorum.

Many have complimented me on this trait over the years. But I’ve always demurred.

I’ve given credit to my parents for how they raised me. Or I’ve explained that I didn’t have the heart to stray from the righteous path.

But neither of those explanations are quite correct.

Indeed, it’s that experience on the Florida Turnpike that has defined my actions to date. Seeing karma delivered so swiftly on that highway that day I was meaningful.

I was convinced that those who did the right thing would enjoy the sunshine of good fortune. And those who did the wrong thing would meet swift justice.

How wrong I was.

Nearly a decade later – and 300 miles up the road – a college student was getting national attention.

Jameis Winston was a freshman quarterback for Florida State University. In his first season of college football, Winston led the Seminoles to an undefeated season and a national championship. Along the way, he claimed the coveted Heisman Trophy as the sport’s top player.

As I saw this all unfold, I seethed.

I was already an alum of the University of Miami by this point. During my college years, I’d watched holier-than-thou Tim Tebow lead the rival Florida Gators to two championships. Now, the hated Florida State Seminoles had one too. My nightmare was playing out in slow motion.

But the next season, the tide started to turn.

Winston kept getting into trouble. First, he yelled something demeaning to women from the center of campus. Then he was accused of sexual assault in a separate incident. And in the midst of all this, he got caught shoplifting crab legs from a local supermarket.

Meanwhile, on the field, Winston wasn’t as masterful as he’d once been. He had resorted to playing hero ball – tossing the ball up for grabs down the field without checking to see if his receivers were open first. Many times, the opposing team would snag the football instead. That team would then put up points – leaving the Seminoles with big deficits.

I became giddy – even gleeful – as these twin catastrophes enveloped Winston and Florida State. It seemed that karma was around the corner. Order would soon be restored.

And yet, the other shoe never dropped. The Seminoles kept winning football games, earning a bid to the new four team playoff in the process. And Winston avoided any significant consequences for his off the field shenanigans.

Florida State got humiliated in their first playoff game, ending their season. But Winston entered the National Football League draft and got selected first overall. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers gave him a $23 million dollar contract and made him the face of their franchise.

Winston was hardly worth the investment. In five years in Tampa, the team lost 60% of the games he played in. He threw nearly as many interceptions as touchdowns. And the team never sniffed the playoffs, let alone a Super Bowl.

Off the field, the controversies continued. Winston was accused of groping a rideshare driver. And he continued to make zany comments whenever a microphone was placed near him.

Yet, Winston never faced real consequences for any of this. He continued to earn his millions as one of 32 starting quarterbacks in the NFL. When the Buccaneers eventually replaced him with Tom Brady – the game’s greatest signal caller – Winston found spots on teams in New Orleans, Cleveland, and New York. And as time passed, people came to celebrate his shenanigans, rather than simply ignoring them.

Karma wasn’t coming for Jameis Winston. And that meant he had no incentive to do the right thing.

He wasn’t alone.

These days, society seems to be filled with Jameis Winstons.

That’s not to say that there are plenty of people whose occupation is Pro Football Quarterback. Or that there are scores of folks stealing crab legs from local supermarkets.

But from coast to coast, there are plenty of people who do the wrong thing, time and again. And they keep getting away with it.

Karma, it seems, is not the great equalizer I once thought it was. It’s filled with false promise.

This lack of a boogeyman leaves us with a choice.

Do we continue to do the right thing, the decent thing, the selfless thing – even if the universe doesn’t seem to require it? Or do we push the endless bounds of what we can get away with?

Many might choose the second path. But not me.

The memories of that Jeep on the Florida Turnpike are too fresh, even decades later. And beyond that, my sense of right and wrong is too strong.

So, I make sacrifices. I put up with the boorish behavior around me, while refusing to acquiesce to it myself.

I know I might not get rewarded for following this path. And I know that others might not follow in my footsteps.

But I can hope.

I can hope that the shadow of karma isn’t the only motivation people will follow. I can hope that right and wrong still matters.

That hope matters. It’s my North Star.

And I’ll continue to follow it.

On Illumination

As I wandered out into the ocean, I noticed something had changed.

The cool water still felt refreshing. The breakers were still formidable. But there was a contrast to this body of water that hadn’t existed a few hours earlier.

Sunlight was no longer exploding off the whitecaps, preventing me from seeing more than two feet in any direction. Instead, a mosaic of moving water splayed out as far as my eyes could see. A mix of cobalt blue, frothy white, and dark gray.

The tidal pull had something to do with this shift. Earlier, the ocean had enveloped half the beach. But now the tide had gone out. Instead of advancing forward into the waves, I had walked gradually downhill to submerge myself.

But the tides couldn’t explain the refreshed color palette in the sea. That had everything to do with the position of the sun.

Earlier, it had been directly overhead. But now, it was practically positioned behind the beach.

That new angle brought definition to the seascape. Shadows and highlights emerged, forming an elaborate contrast that left me mesmerized.

Illumination means everything.

Many years ago, I went to a Colorado Rockies game with a friend.

Our seats were down the left field line, a few rows from the field. It was prime territory to snag a foul ball, so all the fans around us stayed focused on the game.

But around the fourth inning, our section thinned out considerably. I joked that everyone must have had a hankering for a hot dog at the same time.

Oh, no, my friend replied. They’re heading to the concourse to see the sunset.

It turns out that the Rockies ballpark had a unique feature. Namely, a gap in the left field corner between the hulking upper deck and the massive outfield scoreboard. In this particular corner, the lower concourse was the highest feature in the stadium.

We’d walked by this area on the way to our seats, but I didn’t think twice about it. Sure, you could see the Rocky Mountains from there. But this was Colorado. You could always see the mountains off in the distance.

But now, in the fourth inning, the sun was setting over those same mountains. A rich palette of color was taking center stage in the left field corner. And for many, priorities had changed accordingly.

The ballgame was no longer the main event. The sunset in the distance had become appointment viewing.

Illumination means everything.

To get that view of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains, one only needed to buy a ticket to the Rockies game. And to get that rich view of the ocean in the late afternoon, one only needed to head to a public beach.

But such vistas rarely come so cheaply.

Indeed, most beachfront, lakefront, and mountain views are already accounted for. They’re wrapped up in private property, valued at a premium.

Many finance types have pointed out that these investments are far from worthwhile. Between the purchase price and the insurance bills, they carry a cost that’s far from rational.

For most the day, the naysayers would be right. But then the sun hits that spot in the sky, and the vista beyond the property transforms itself. And it’s as if the wonders of the world are performing to an exclusive audience.

That’s what keeps the whole thing going. That’s why the well-off keep hold of these overpriced properties. And that’s why the rest of us search for a public beach or buy a ticket to a ballgame to do the same.

Illumination means everything.

There’s something fascinating about this whole dynamic.

First off, this setup shatters the whole concept of permanence. Mountains don’t move, and the sea continually stretches to the horizon. But at a certain time of day, it seems like we’re transported to an entirely different place, without moving an inch. The position of the sun can be just that powerful.

And such power cannot be controlled. We can do our best to corner the market on viewpoints. But no money in the world will allow us to view a sunset from the deck at 11 AM, or the rich blue of the ocean on an overcast afternoon. We are captivated by nature’s beauty, but we are powerless to conjure such majesty on our terms.

This whole dynamic defines our existence. And I’d argue that it enriches it as well.

You see, when we yearn for an experience we can’t control, it forces us to level up. We must become masters of patience and prioritization. We must strive to be richer in the illustrative pictures we paint on the canvas, on the page, or through the spoken word.

If the late day sun didn’t bring out such defined colors in the ocean, I wouldn’t have reached into the depths of my writing abilities to convey them. Such efforts only come from captivation, from awe, and from inspiration. Fading light on the water provides that.

And if that sunset view from the Rockies ballpark hadn’t captivated its first viewer just so, they wouldn’t have gone on to share that wonder with their friends and acquaintances. And those friends and acquaintances wouldn’t have gone on to tell their friends and acquaintances. And the fourth inning tradition wouldn’t have come to be.

This is the power of the world’s wonders. Of limited-time engagements. Of all that is too inspiring to be kept to oneself or patently ignored.

Illumination means everything.

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Ferris Bueller wasn’t heading to the beach, catching the sunset, or otherwise capturing nature’s essence when he uttered these lines at the start of the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But we could stand to gain plenty from this advice nonetheless.

Let’s turn off autopilot, remove the blinders, and take note of what’s around us. How it all looks at this moment, and how that vista might differ once this moment has passed.

This activity might seem counterintuitive in an on-demand world. But it fills a gap that modernity has created. A gap that was once filled by wonder.

Let’s bring that attribute back into our lives. Let’s fill our souls with awe. And let’s endeavor to share that feeling with others through any means that best suit us.

We’ll be better for the experience. Those around us will as well.

Illumination means everything.