Category: Reflections

Twists and Turns

It’s an adventure.

That’s what my aunt said, as my father and I sat at her kitchen table.

My car was out in the driveway, loaded with as many of my possessions that could possibly fit inside it. My father and I were heading halfway across the country to Texas, where I was set to start a job as a TV news producer. And we’d stopped at my aunt’s house near the start of our journey.

This whole endeavor was hard to fathom. Sure, plenty of people have set out for greener pastures somewhere across our fair land over the years. But not in our family.

That’s why my aunt called the whole endeavor an adventure. The word evoked an expectation that my foray to Texas would be short on time and long on memories.

As I sat at that kitchen table, I didn’t disagree with my auut. How could I?

After all, I had no idea what lay in front of me. I’d never been to the city I was moving to. I’d had no real career experience or adulthood experience. Add it all up, and it was hard to envision my move as anything more than temporary.

And yet, I never made that return trek by my aunt’s house, with my belongings in the back of my car. Instead, I made Texas my home for good.

That TV job? It’s long gone. And yet, I remain.

It might have seemed like an adventure at the start. But I ended up finding what I didn’t know I was looking for under the Lone Star flag.

Never again.

Those words were on my mind as I walked away from the finish line on a sunny fall morning.

I’d just medaled in a state championship cross-country meet, finishing in the Top 25 of the final race of my freshman year. But I was tired.

I was done with sweating through late afternoon workouts. I was done with sore legs and side stitches. I was done with my gray New Balance 880’s, which could never be as stylish as a pair of Nikes.

I quit the cross-country team that day. There would be no more running for me.

And for a good decade or so, I stayed true to that prognostication.

But gradually, I came back around.

I started by running 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week after I lifted weights. Soon, I took the workout outdoors, running a mile on the road. And eventually, I convinced myself to sign up for a 5K.

It wasn’t pretty.

My medal-winning form from high school was a distant memory. I lumbered along for a couple of miles until I started seeing green flashes and hyperventilating. I had to stop for a couple of minutes to catch my breath before struggling my way to the finish line.

I was humbled by this ordeal and determined not to repeat it. But the scars of my cross-country days still festered. So, I kept doing what I had done before — running a mile or two after lifting weights. I entered a few more 5K races and did marginally better — making it to the finish line in one go. But my abilities were nothing to write home about.

Then, a global pandemic shut my neighborhood gym. Lifting weights was now impossible; running outside was my only option for exercise. So, I started running slightly longer distances more often.

It didn’t take long for me to notice the difference. I was stronger. I was faster.

But I was also bored.

And so, when an opportunity about for me to join a local running club, I didn’t hesitate.

My first run with the club was a 10-miler on a hot summer morning. I’d never ran that far in my life, but I managed to stick with the group the entire time. And, to my surprise, I enjoyed the experience.

Pretty soon, I was running with the group three times a week, putting more miles on my legs than ever before. And these efforts paid dividends.

I started medaling in races, putting up times I would have found unfathomable a year earlier. This inspired me to start a training regimen, which made me even faster.

Now, I’m signing up for half marathons all over the country. I’m spending a big chunk of my salary on workout gear. And I’m dreaming of the day when I can toe the line in the New York City Marathon.

I never could have imagined that putting one foot in front of another would get me so far.

These outcomes I’ve lived — they’re far different than anything I would have imagined back in my aunt’s kitchen.

They weren’t on the script. And yet, they’re now an indelible part of who I am.

What did I miss back then? Was I too young, too stupid, too naïve to anticipate what was around the bend?

Hardly.

Truth be told, there was no way I could have known what life would have in store for me. No matter how straight a course I’d chart for my future, there were always bound to be some twists and turns along the way.

Embracing those twists and turns is critical. For some of the greatest joys in life involve what you don’t see coming. Appreciation needn’t stem from anticipation.

Yet, even as I write these words — seeing their reflection in my own narrative — I struggle to adhere to them.

For I am predisposed to seek control. To chart a path for myself and follow that path to a T.

I struggle to leave things as they are. To sit still and let the waves crash over me. To allow the twists and turns to catch me off-guard.

This means my gratification is delayed. I can only experience the joy of the unexpected after the panic of being thrown off-course has dissipated.

It’s been like this for me for decades. But it needn’t be this way forever.

So, I’m adding a twist and turn of my own. Instead of charting my future, I’m simply committing to living my values. And I’m letting the chips fall where they may.

Life happens on its own terms. It’s about time I embrace the beauty in that.

Wide Open

The horse was slender. Scrawny even.

A sandstone-colored coat of hair wrapped tightly around the equine’s ribs, causing me to nickname it Arizona.

Secretariat this was not. But I wasn’t in Kentucky either.

My encounter with Arizona took place down in Chile some years back. I was studying abroad there, and my cohort was on a horseback riding excursion.

I had saddled up a few times in my youth. But never for a whole day. So, I was already nervous before I was assigned the runt of the litter.

The journey began as expected. I spurred Arizona on, and the horse barely budged. The others in my cohort — high atop their stately steeds — laughed at our impunity as they rode ahead down the trail.

But all this movement seemed to inspire Arizona. Suddenly, we were speeding across dusty plains and up sand dunes. I could hear the wind rushing by my face as we galivanted along. Each stride sent me out of the saddle, the momentum threatening to launch me into orbit. I gripped onto the reins for dear life to keep that from happening.

As this all played out, I experienced a range of emotions. I felt exhilarated. I felt terrified. But most of all, I felt free.

As we wound our way through the Chilean countryside, across beaches and up abandoned railroad tracks, I started to dread the ride’s impending end. I wasn’t worried about dismounting from Arizona — I’d already done that when we’d stopped for lunch — but I was filled with dread about returning to the hustle and bustle of civilization.

I wanted to keep living my life wide open.

It’s been more than a decade now since that experience. And I haven’t gone horseback riding since then.

Even so, my life has been transformed. Ever since that day, I indeed have been chasing the wide open.

I cover lots of ground in my day-to-day. Whether I’m exercising, taking care of errands, or just relaxing, I tend not to confine myself.

For many, this might seem normal. But such a pattern goes against my raising.

I grew up in the Northeast, where a tradition of strength in numbers is notable. Space is famously at a premium in that part of America, and this feeds prominently into the regional culture.

While I grew up in a nice suburban home with a backyard, many of my friends lived in apartments. And my grandparents resided in a rowhouse so narrow that you could bounce a ball of each of the walls they shared with neighbors on a single throw.

Such arrangements were not unusual. In Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, many don’t commute downtown for work or entertainment. Instead, they live in close proximity to those options — trading space for prestige.

This pattern mirrors that of Europe. In London, Paris, and Rome, prominent residents have centrally located apartments, with the less affluent living further afield. And much like those cities across the pond, citizens of those Northeastern metro areas rely on city parks for their outdoor space.

Still, such a setup flies in the face of the broader American experience. Our nation was built upon principles of land ownership and mobility, and much of the country follows in that tradition.

Many Americans are used to seeing the nearest fence line at a distance. They’re accustomed to the sounds and smells of nature. They’re enamored with the feel of the open road.

Such sensations terrified me in my youth. In my experience, the vastness was a threat.

I imagined predators attacking me, with no one to come to my aid. I shivered at the thought of facing harsh weather conditions head-on. I developed a prolific fear of the dark.

By the time I saddled up for that horseback ride half a world away, I had moved beyond many of these concerns. I’d grown from a child to a self-assured adolescent. I’d left the cramped Northeast to attend college in Florida. And I’d gotten a better sense of the American way.

Still, I was in irons. I had little sense of where my future would take me.

It ended up taking me to Texas, a place that was seemingly the polar opposite of where I’d grown up.

Indeed, the Lone Star State was seemingly the epicenter of the wide open lifestyle. And I was ready to grab the reins, in pursuit of that same sensation I’d had down in Chile.

This pursuit has been uneven at best. But through all the ups and downs, one thing is certain. I love where I live.

To be clear, I have no ill will for my area of origin or the lifestyle that goes with it. I still have family and friends living in tight quarters there, and they get by just fine.

Still, such environs are not for me. I need space to operate.

By definition, an existential threat touches a central nerve. The nerve of survival.

And the recent pandemic certainly fit the bill.

There was, of course, the existential threat of illness and death. And there was the existential threat of economic strife as the world shut down.

But for me, there was another existential threat associated with all of this. The threat of confinement.

As the pandemic blossomed and the stay-at-home orders proliferated, I thought I was ready. Fear and uncertainty were in the air, and I wanted no part of the virus.

But I grew restless quickly.

The four walls of my home, nice as they were, couldn’t contain me. I knew I was meant to live wide open. And that was true now as much as ever.

So, I acted on my impulses. I opened my front door and went for a run or a long walk every day. That time outdoors provided me more than fresh air. It also gave me peace of mind.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I started thinking of that day back in Chile during these exercise sessions. I pictured the sunshine. I heard the rush of the wind. And I smelled the dust.

Most of all, I tried to get myself back to a place where my soul was carefree. I hoped that would be enough to get me through.

These days, I’m still trying to get back to that feeling. The pandemic’s grip has lightened. But the summer air is thick and my responsibilities are heavy. That wide-open feeling seems to dangle on the horizon, beyond my reach.

Perhaps one day, I’ll saddle up again. Or maybe I’ll find that nirvana in some other fashion.

But until then, I know what I’m chasing.

I’m on the trail of the great wide open. And I won’t rest until I find that feeling again.

The Habit Trap

As I prepared to back out of my parking spot, I was on edge.

Our nation was two months into a blossoming pandemic. Due to virus concerns and stay-at-home orders, I hadn’t been out of my neighborhood much. But on this afternoon, I’d headed to FedEx to ship off some damaged headphones for repairs.

As I returned to my vehicle from that errand, I wasn’t in the best state of mind. But I still needed to get home, so I focused on the task at hand.

I put my SUV in reverse and took my foot on the brake. Then I peered over my left shoulder as the vehicle slowly moved backward. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any cross traffic.

The coast was clear to my left. But before I could look to my right, I felt a dull thud.

I knew immediately what that meant. I’d collided with another vehicle.

I inched my SUV forward and put it in Park. Then I stepped outside to survey the damage.

It turned out that another driver was backing her SUV out of a nearby spot at the same time as I was. Neither one of us could see the other vehicle until it was too late.

The collision happened at a low speed, but there was still damage. My fender was dented in one spot, and it would need to be replaced. Her fender also had a few marks on it.

I checked to see if the other driver was alright. She did the same.

But then, the realities of pandemic life overtook us. We quickly exchanged insurance information and went our separate ways.

On my ride home, I kept replaying the incident in my mind. What could I have done differently to avoid this small calamity?

One answer kept coming to mind. I could have checked my backup camera more closely.

I’d owned my SUV for five years at this point. And yet, I hadn’t quite mastered the art of using the backup camera when I was in reverse.

None of the previous vehicles I’d driven had such technology on board. And that meant I was woefully prepared to use it.

Way back when I was learning to drive, I had been instructed to check my rearview mirror when backing out of a parking spot. I was also taught to check over each shoulder to make sure no cross traffic was in my way.

I had mastered these lessons. And over the years, they became fossilized habits.

Now, there was a backup camera in my vehicle that promised to replace all these arcane practices. The future was here. But I still didn’t fully trust it.

So, I fell back on old habits. I would check the camera for a moment, but then glance over each shoulder to ensure the coast was clear.

I got away with this sequence for years. But now, it had finally caught up with me.

And now, with a damaged fender in tow, my objective was clear. It was time to break with my old driving habits, for once and for all.

Back in 1925, a baseball player named Wally Pipp woke up with a headache.

Instead of manning first base for the New York Yankees, Pipp sat out the game. A young ballplayer named Lou Gehrig manned his position instead.

Pipp never regained his old role. Gehrig went on to play the next 2,130 games at first base for the Yankees, earning the nickname The Iron Horse. The streak only ended when Gehrig retired 14 years later, crippled by a strange ailment that would later bear his name — and claim his life.

The demise of Wally Pipp will forever remain a cautionary tale. But an ill-timed headache wasn’t the only reason Pipp lost his spot for good.

Gehrig had immense talent. His Hall of Fame accolades make that clear.

But Gehrig also had great habits. He prepared himself to play each and every day. He perfected his craft as a hitter and a fielder. And he made no excuses when he faced adversity.

For many years, Gehrig was overshadowed in baseball lore by Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and Hank Aaron. But when I was young, his name came back into the spotlight.

A shortstop on the Baltimore Orioles was set to surpass The Iron Horse’s consecutive games streak. Cal Ripken, Jr. ultimately shattered the record, finishing with 2,632 consecutive games played. And in the process, he displayed the same stellar habits that Gehrig had six decades earlier.

I did not grow up as an Orioles fan, but I had plenty of respect for Ripken. I tried to follow in his and Gehrig’s footsteps, finding productive habits and latching on to them. Such commitments have kept me productive into adulthood.

But adhering to fundamentals is not a panacea. Preparation and discipline are timeless virtues, but the protocols for backing a car out of a parking spot are not.

Indeed, for all we complain about technology, it does drive progress.

The automobile goes faster than any tandem of horses ever could. Computers have transformed businesses in ways our legal pad-wielding predecessors could only dream of. The Internet has provided the world an unprecedented opportunity to connect in real-time.

Adopting these innovations has meant casting off old habits. And yet, as new protocols emerge, I still find myself struggling to adapt to them.

Grappling with novelty makes me feel vulnerable and powerless. So, I fall back on the familiar — even when such actions are fraught with danger.

I call this conundrum The Habit Trap. And all too often, it’s swallowed me whole.

There’s no experience quite like catching the sunrise.

A splash of light emerges from a dark sky. And with it comes a realm of new possibilities.

I’ve considered myself averse to novelty. And yet, I’ve found myself awestruck by the rising sun again and again.

It provides a sense of calm in the wake of uncertainty. It melds the familiarity of habit with the opportunity for improvement. It provides us balance and leaves us feeling whole.

Perhaps I can learn from the example of the sunrise.

For there are ways to wean ourselves off outdated routines. Instead of making a clean break, we can mix the uncomfortable with the familiar.

In my case, this has meant going through my peek-over-the-shoulder routine while my car is still in Park. I’m not going to catch much cross traffic this way — my view is blocked — but I won’t find myself colliding with other vehicles either.

For others stuck in The Habit Trap, the way out might look different. But the details are not what matters here. What’s important is that there is a way out.

We simply need to be strategic, intentional, and open-minded. We need to be willing to move toward a new normal, even if it takes us a little longer to leave the past behind.

If we do this, we can make The Habit Trap history. And we’ll be better for it.

So, let us begin.

Fair To Middlin’

It was a familiar routine.

Every week, as the sun hovered in the western sky, I would board a city bus. When the bus reached the other side of the park, I would disembark and step into the waiting room of a doctor’s office. About an hour later, I’d re-emerge and head home.

This is a normal scene for anyone seeking treatment in the big city, where parking and rush hour traffic are appointment-busting nightmares.

But I didn’t take the bus by choice. I did so by necessity.

I didn’t have a driver’s license, let alone a car. I couldn’t have either of those things.

For I was only 11 years old.

And that bus? It was ferrying me from my school to my therapist.

Looking back now, it all looks so strange. 11-year-olds are usually playing videogames with their friends. They’re enjoying the final days of youthful innocence, before the trials of adolescence kick in.

They generally are not traveling across town by themselves to sit in a plush chair and talk to a shrink.

But I was.

Depression had taken its toll on me, bringing black clouds to sunny days. I was in a funk, and nothing could cheer me up.

I remember thinking that I couldn’t fit into the world and that I was just wasting space by continuing to exist in it. I remember contemplating taking my own life.

And I remember my parents getting me help.

That’s how I ended up making this trek, week-in, and week-out.

But while I knew my mind wasn’t right, I also felt embarrassed about the whole situation. What would my classmates say if they found out? Wouldn’t that revelation just make things worse?

So, I kept the whole routine a secret. I snuck off to the bus stop when no one was looking. And I would duck below the bus windows until it entered the park.

With the city skyline behind me and a canopy of trees in my midst, I could exhale.

Only then would I feel safe.

The early days were touch and go.

Steering a conversation with any 11-year-old — let alone a depressed one — is like herding cats. So, my therapist mostly asked me to talk about my life.

I suppose the idea was to provide me a release. To let the steam escape from the pressure cooker of my mind.

But I was filled with shame. I was ashamed that I sitting in a therapist’s office, while my classmates were off living normal lives.

The shame permeated. It was all I could think about. And so, I made little progress.

At some point, the topic of medication came up. It seemed to be a way out of my quagmire, so I was cautiously optimistic.

My therapist was more guarded. He told me the drugs would make me feel funny, and I needed to be ready for that.

I wasn’t.

I declined the medication and resigned myself to my new pattern of school and therapy.

The sessions eventually became routine — a messed up version of Groundhog’s Day. While I still yearned to be normal, I started to take a measure of solace in the repetition.

But then, things started to change.

I began to realize that I would need to find my own solutions. That I would need to identify the dark clouds on the horizon before they swallowed me whole.

So, I started working at it. I tossed ideas around in my therapy sessions, and I put them into practice. I took control of my emotions, rather than letting them control me.

By the time I was 13, I felt better. I was out of therapy, and I had a better grip on my life.

I tore through middle school and most of high school with a newfound burst of confidence. I tried new things. I made new friends.

But by the time I was 17, I felt those black clouds on the horizon again.

I knew what to do. I sought help.

Things were different this time. For one thing, I had a car. So, I didn’t have to slink away on a city bus to make my therapy sessions.

But beyond that, I had an agenda. I would come to each session full of questions and ideas. I would seek counsel more than treatment. I would aim to cure myself.

It took patience and persistence. But by the time I hit the home stretch of high school, I was out of therapy once again.

I’ve battled bouts of depression on occasion in the years since. But these days, I have the tools to fight through them on my own.

I am patient. I am resilient. And I am willing to be vulnerable.

Such traits have likely saved my life, many times over.

Fair to middlin’.

This phrase has a long legacy in the heartland.

When we’re fair to middlin’, we’re getting by. The outlook might not be the rosiest. But we’re surviving, day by day.

As I’ve navigated the choppy waters of depression throughout the years, I’ve come to embrace this philosophy.

Life might not be a picture-perfect postcard. And I might not be normal. But getting by is fine enough by me.

I’m more at peace than I used to be. And yet, a part of me will always be restless.

For I’m still trying to play detective. I’m still aiming to uncover precisely what sent things south when I was young.

There’s lots of research on both the Autism spectrum and introversion these days — much more than existed when I first encountered depression. I don’t know if these factors led to my issues, but I have my theories.

Still, while the roots of my ailment remain a mystery, my mission is crystal clear.

No longer can I hide my tribulations. There is no shame in sharing my story; on the contrary, the biggest danger is in keeping it silent.

There are others out there who are struggling now, just as I once was. I need to be there for them.

Especially now.

There is a silent epidemic sweeping our nation.

Much like the pathogen that’s turned our lives upside down, this epidemic can’t be seen by the human eye. But it can certainly be felt.

Forced isolation and economic stagnation might slow the spread of a deadly virus. But they also carry a heavy toll.

These practices separate us from two core pillars of society — social connections and breadwinning. When we lose the ability to share with others or earn our keep, we find ourselves lost and without hope. The dark clouds roll in.

There’s been a lot of talk about mental health recently. These have been tough times, and many are looking to make the discomfort go away.

I don’t think everyone discussing mental health concerns is battling depression. But there certainly are many who are.

Yes, some of these people will seek assistance, as I once had. And some will find the strength to claw their way out of the pit of despair, as I once did.

But banking on those outcomes across the board is reckless. There are still many in the throes of depression, who need our help to get out of the rut.

It’s on us to be there for them. It’s on us to listen to them. It’s on us to provide a guiding light.

Now more than ever.

Our mission is clear. Let’s make it happen.

Furry Home Companions

Her name was Zephyr.

She had a disarmingly friendly face, and she was covered in thick grey fur. She loved wagging her tail and laying on the linoleum kitchen floor.

She had a home. Our home.

Zephyr was the family dog, half Bearded Collie and half Samoyed. She was the first pet I ever shared a house with.

OK, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a cat named Purrseus in our home as well. Zephyr thought Purrseus was her puppy. She would endearingly cover him with dog slime, leaving the poor cat looking miserable time and again.

But while Purrseus merely tolerated my presence, Zephyr enjoyed it. She remained calm, even as she found herself in the crosshairs of my youthful energy. She never snapped at me, even when I would yank on her fur as a small child.

Later on, when my sister was a toddler, she would ride on Zephyr’s back, like a horse. This wasn’t any dog’s idea of fun, but Zephyr was a good sport nonetheless.

As winter approached, Zephyr was in her element. As my sister and I would make snowmen in the backyard, the dog would gleefully bound through the snow around us.

It wasn’t all rosy. Zephyr would occasionally get herself into trouble, getting sprayed by a skunk or bitten by an unruly German Shepherd. When visitors came through the front door, she would nearly bowl them over with excitement.

But generally, my memories of Zephyr give me the warm fuzzies. Right up until the end.

The end was on a warm summer day. My grandfather was at the house, watching my sister and me while my parents were out and about. He could tell that something was wrong when Zephyr didn’t greet him with enthusiasm like she normally did.

We found her in a corner of the living room. Her nose was warm and she was breathing heavily.

We rushed Zephyr to the animal hospital, where the veterinarians diagnosed her with an enlarged heart. She never made it home.

I was 9 years old at the time, and it was the first time I’d experienced loss. Seeing the struggle my sister and I were going through, my parents held a funeral for Zephyr in our backyard. We scattered her ashes amongst the flowerbeds. My grandfather even wrote a eulogy for our beloved pet.

Zephyr was gone. But she was certainly not forgotten.

The next several months were surreal.

When we opened the front door, no one came to greet us. The leash and the food bowl were stowed away. And my grandparents didn’t stay at the house to dog sit when we went out of town.

It all seemed odd. And yet, I wasn’t quite ready to fill the void.

Getting another pet seemed out of the question to me. It would be a sign that our dearly departed Bearded Collie/Samoyed mix wasn’t so special after all.

But I was one of four people in my household. And the other three couldn’t bear the sight of a quiet home.

So, we watched the Westminster Dog Show and quickly found ourselves enamored with Border Collies. We connected with a rescue organization and adopted Nellie.

Nellie was about a year old when we brought her home. But that first year of her life had been traumatic. She had been abused and abandoned. Animal services workers eventually found her wandering the streets near the airport.

She was still pretty traumatized in those first weeks with us. Border collies are normally an energetic breed. But Nellie would cower under the kitchen table whenever visitors came by. And we had to be extra vigilant when a door was open, in case she made a run for it.

But gradually, Nellie emerged from her shell. She started herding my sister around the yard by nipping at her heels. And it wasn’t long before Nellie was barking at cats, chasing squirrels and playing with tennis balls.

Nellie was a willful dog, and that sometimes rubbed me the wrong way. I was approaching adolescence, and I didn’t have the skills to properly engage with her. I yelled at that dog more times than she deserved — so much so that she soon avoided me.

But I learned the error of my ways and started treating Nellie better. I prepared her food and gave her far more kindness and attention.

Not long after my turnabout, I went off to college. But when I returned for holidays and semester breaks — Nellie was there to greet me. And that filled my heart.

I had come full circle.

Eventually, my college days wound down. When I graduated without a job offer in the wings, I moved back to my childhood home for a bit. My parents and sister went on vacation to Europe, and I was tasked with watching the dog.

For the next several weeks, my routine was simple. Wake up, fill Nellie’s food and water bowls, take her for a walk and apply for news jobs in faraway cities.

It was a stressful time. But the dog made good company.

And yet, I could tell something was different. Nellie moved slower than usual. And sometimes she would struggle to jump onto my parents’ bed, where she slept in their absence.

Nellie didn’t have all that long left. And I knew it.

I ultimately did accept a job offer during that time. And once my parents returned, I prepared to move to Texas to start my new life.

On the day I left town, I spent some extra time saying goodbye to Nellie. For I was certain I wouldn’t see her again.

No, my family pleaded. Don’t say that!

But it was true.

By the time I returned to visit a year later, Nellie was gone.

After Nellie passed, I wondered if things would be different for our family.

I was living thousands of miles away, and my sister was off in college. My parents had a busy lifestyle, and I figured they might just keep the house to themselves for a while.

Boy, was I wrong.

About a year after Nellie passed, my parents brought home a puppy named Juno. An Irish Jack Russell terrier, Juno’s far smaller than the family’s two previous dogs. And from the start, she was energetic, excitable and photogenic.

Juno is the first of the family’s dogs who wasn’t also my pet. So it was hard for me to miss some major changes in my parents’ behavior.

For one thing, they made a concerted effort to make sure the puppy could travel. My grandparents were getting older, and my parents didn’t want to hire a pet sitter every time they left town. The dog would have to be mobile.

But beyond the logistics, something else seemed out of sorts. Instead of asserting a sense of reserved affection, my parents seemed to treat Juno like a small child. They spoke to her in voices I hadn’t heard since my sister was young. They put toys and dog beds in every room. And they sent me dozens of puppy pictures.

I couldn’t quite figure out why my parents were acting this way. Was this a reversion to earlier years in the house, as they stared down life as empty nesters? Were they longing for grandchildren and doting on the dog as a distraction? Had Juno’s cuteness simply disarmed them, wiping away two decades of dog ownership habits?

From afar, I oscillated between these three theories, never quite sure which one fit best. But before I could solve the puzzle, everything changed.

About four years after adopting Juno, my parents sold my childhood home. They, the dog, my sister and my grandmother moved into an apartment in the big city.

My parents were no longer empty nesters, and there were 100 different things to distract their attention from the dog.

And yet, they doted on Juno even more than before. They found creative ways to take her around town. And they planned dog-friendly excursions outside of the city.

By now, it was clear to me this behavior wasn’t a reaction. It was who my parents were. It was a side of them that had been there all along — but one that they hadn’t previously embraced.

And so, I let go of my discomfort. I embraced the stream of dog photos. I asked about Juno on our weekly phone calls. I went on late night walks with my father and her whenever I visited.

It took me a while. But I finally got it.

I don’t own any pets.

I’m too much of a neat freak to deal with pet hair. I don’t like picking up animal droppings. And I don’t want to have to go through the hassle of finding a sitter every time I leave town.

But growing up with furry home companions has left an indelible mark on my life. I’ve learned patience and practiced responsibility. I’ve found kinship and purpose. I’ve encountered the heights of joy and the depths of grief.

That is something truly special. But it needn’t be unique.

We can learn from the dogs and cats that are so prevalent in our lives. Whether we are taking care of our own pets or crossing paths with those of our neighbors, we can cherish that special bond between humans and animals. And we can heed the valuable life lessons such a connection brings.

I miss Zephyr and Nellie. And I miss Juno as well during my long stretches away from her. But I will always cherish my time with them, and its effect on me.

That is a gift without comparison.

Five

It started with a tremble, and a rush.

It was October 2015, and I was about to put myself out there in a way I never had before.

I had set up a website. And now, I was ready to post my first article there, for all the world to see.

Well, not entirely ready.

I knew that once I hit Publish, there would be no turning back. Anyone could read my words. And my sense of anonymity would be gone.

That might not seem like a big deal to many. But for me, it would be a watershed moment. And I wasn’t about to rush into it.

So, I checked the site to make sure everything was perfect. I took a deep breath. And with a tremble of anticipation and a rush of adrenaline, I clicked that Publish button.

My first article on Words of the West was titled I Am Not Perfect. It was a raw ode to my own imperfection. More poetry than anything of substance.

Publishing it felt like a big first step. But that step only matters if there are more to follow.

So, I sat down that night and committed to a schedule. I’d write a new article each week moving forward, no matter what.

I’d like to say that decision changed everything. But it didn’t. At least not initially.

Indeed, there was more art than wisdom in the articles that followed. My writing remained short and punchy. Easily read and easily forgotten.

It wasn’t until my sixth article that I really wrote anything of note — Darkness In The Light, my firsthand account of the 9/11 attacks. The words flowed from my mind to my fingers and on to the keyboard. And as they did, the emotions spilled out of me.

Experiences like this were why I had taken the leap to create Words of the West. This article was something I had longed to share with the world for years. Now, I finally had the platform — and the courage — to give this story the light of day.

This was the type of writing I needed to replicate. This was my North Star.

But, there are only so many profound, emotional experiences in my life. Turning them into articles week in and week out would be an untenable challenge.

And so, less than two months into my venture, I found myself at a crossroads.

As I determined what to do next, I thought of the renowned marketing guru Seth Godin. Seth maintains a daily blog, and he has posted something fresh there each day for a number of years. Some are more profound than others. But they are there, every day.

Seth is a teacher at heart, and he is open with his writing process. Much of his modus operandi comes down to three words: Ship your work.

In other words, stick to your schedule. The doing is more important than the perfecting.

This advice was all I needed to move forward. I leaned in, and let the articles flow.

At first, this seemed like a step back. The articles that directly followed Darkness In The Light were the same vanilla material that had existed before it.

But eventually, the writing got lengthier. It got stronger. It got more nuanced.

Over time, I found my voice.

This article is coming to you exactly five years after I Am Not Perfect first appeared on this website. It is the 262nd piece of writing I am sharing with you — all in consecutive weeks.

That’s quite the streak. One that I’ve kept going despite a number of disruptions in my life over those 262 weeks.

I persevered because the streak matters. Words of the West matters. You, my dear readers, matter.

On tough weeks, you keep me motivated. On good ones, you keep me inspired. And that motivation, that inspiration — it’s what keeps me going.

The engine is always churning. There are always more thoughts to be shared. There is always more that can be written.

The words I write might not always be finely polished. The thoughts I share might not always be agreeable.

They’re raw and they’re real. And collectively, they matter.

Yes, these five years of articles are more than the conglomeration of 262 narratives. They’re the first segment of a long and fulfilling journey.

It’s fitting that I speak of journeys as Words of the West turns five.

For not long after I turned five, my family went on our first journey.

One summer day, my parents buckled my sister and I into the back seat of a sedan. They loaded the car with supplies. And they steered the car toward Maine.

Over the next few weeks, we would explore lighthouses along jagged coastlines. We would hike in the serene wilderness Acadia National Park. We would eat copious amounts of lobster. And we would camp under the stars.

Decades later, I still remember this trip in vivid detail. But the journey that came before it — the early years of my life — the memories of that are a lot blurrier.

This is understandable.

Our brains are still developing in our infancy and toddlerhood. We spend that time soaking up experience like a sponge.

It’s only after we build that database that our memory becomes sticky. Only then do we have a frame of reference to build off of.

Perhaps the same principle applies to Words of the West. After all, the world has seen a dizzying array of change over the past half-decade — from social unrest to environmental disasters to a pandemic-fueled recession. These shifts have permanently transformed us, altering our frame of reference.

Recounting all this might seem distressing. Yet, I find a strange comfort in this theory.

For it shows that everything is a work in progress — both the author’s work and the reader’s perspective. It shows that we all have room to grow. And it shows that there is still a mission to follow.

It’s my great privilege to continue that mission. And it’s my great honor to have you along for the ride.

Here’s to all that lies ahead.

All For Naught

We toiled away in the hot sun.

Our task was to build a sandcastle. And as the salty air clung to our skin and the sea breeze lingered, my sister and I were hard at work.

We would fill buckets with coarse sand. Then, we’d return to the build site and invert the buckets, molding that packed sand into a series of turrets and exterior walls.

It was an amateur operation, to be sure. But for a couple of kids under the age of 8, it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.

My father watched us intently. He was the one who had given us our marching orders, and he was also overseeing the construction.

My father was fully qualified for the job. He didn’t have an engineering degree. But he did have a habit of fixing sink drains and rehanging picture frames whenever we visited friends and family.

The hosts wouldn’t ask my father to fix these issues. Instead, he’d insist on doing so. For it ate at him to see something askew.

Given his background, my father wasn’t going to let his kids build some flimsy sandcastle. So, when he instructed us to build a moat around the castle, we went all in. It wasn’t long before the modest castle was surrounded by a ditch so wide, it might as well have been a Bayou.

When it was complete, I stood and admired our masterpiece.

This creation will endure, I thought. It will still be standing tomorrow.

But as I envisioned all this, I felt seawater crash into my legs.

A rouge wave had invaded our moat. And just like that, our castle was gone.

My experience on that day was not unique.

Beachgoing kids the world over have similar stories to tell. Heck, the Ocean Swallows Sandcastle tale is practically a rite of passage for anyone who’s spent their summers under a sea breeze.

I was stunned at first, but I quickly got over the ordeal. There were plenty of other beach activities to take part in.

And yet, I’ve never quite forgotten the experience. Or what it stood for.

As I saw my sand creation wash away, I learned firsthand that there is no way to guard against chance. We can follow all the right procedures and still have our creations swiped from us. Our hard work can be all for naught.

That’s a difficult pill to swallow for anyone. But as we get older, the gut punch feels especially poignant.

After all, the longer the road back, the harder it is to reboot.

Fall seven times. Stand up eight.

This is an old Japanese proverb. One that Converse turned into a shoe commercial featuring basketball superstar Dwyane Wade.

This proverb resonates because it’s relatable. Many of us have been knocked down in our lives. But we’ve still found a way to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and keep going.

Yes, resilience is a hallmark of American culture. We root for the underdogs, embrace adversity and openly share the challenges we overcome.

I’m not sure whether this zeal comes from our rugged past or our love of narrative. Either way, most American success stories seem to come in the face of resistance.

Still, these stories gloss over a critical detail. The fall we endure is relatively minor, while the climb from the depths is more sustained.

This narrative pattern fits with literary tradition. As >Kurt Vonnegut once said, people want to see the hero go from average to well above average.

We can stomach the idea of our hero falling into a hole. That stumble is just a character-building detour on our way to glory.

But the concept of a hero plummeting off a cliff? The prospect of building something up just to lose it all? That makes us queasy.

And yet, that’s the scenario we all too often face.

Like many writers, I am an introvert.

I once took an assessment for my job. On it, I scored 96 out of 100 for introversion. It was a mark that would make a hermit blush.

I embrace solitude. I am not afraid of silence.

Yet, my independent streak has its limits. I’ve lived more than a thousand miles away from my family for my entire adult life. And throughout that time, I’ve come to recognize how important it is to rely on others.

So, I’ve embraced the world beyond my door. I’ve expanded my circle of influence, making friends and gaining connections along the way. And I’ve taken some volunteer leadership positions — including the local chapter presidency for my alma mater.

I fortified my castle, stepping well out of my comfort zone to build a life the younger me would have found unfathomable. I was reaching my pinnacle. I had it all.

And then, it was taken away.

Much like that rouge wave at the beach, a deadly virus came out of nowhere to disrupt reality. It forced all of us to cut off social interactions, cancel events and avoid travel.

The initial shock proved tolerable. But as weeks turned into months, I started to see all the progress I’d made over a decade washed away.

Suddenly, I was fighting to hang on to friendships. I was parting with time-honored traditions. And I was losing my touch as a leader.

The virus hadn’t taken my life or my livelihood. But it had taken nearly everything else.

All the progress I had made over years was now all for naught.

It can be hard to reckon with the truth. To see all you’ve built dropped and scattered like the aftermath of a Jenga game.

And yet, this is the situation I found myself in, under the shadow of the virus.

I wasn’t alone.

Many of us have had something ripped from us in this ordeal. Some have lost a way of life or a sense of community. Others have lost loved ones or careers.

Coming to terms with such a loss is challenging enough. But we must also face the prospect of moving forward. Of starting that long climb back, without time and energy on our side.

We must consider all that progress that was stripped from us. Was all that effort worthwhile? Is heartbreak inevitable?

These are tough questions to face. But face them we must.

I don’t have all the answers. Heck, I am struggling with this as much as anyone.

And yet, I am hopeful.

I am hopeful that my will to plow forward will carry me. I am hopeful my desire to build from the ruins will endure. And I am hopeful that chance will be on my side this time.

Maybe hope is enough to sustain us. Maybe not. But I’m counting on it, as much as anyone.

For without hope, all is truly for naught. And that’s a state of mind we can all do without.

Generous Indulgence

We pulled up to the bakery in a 1985 Toyota Corolla. A boxy, tan sedan with a stick shift transmission and seat belts that only went over the passengers’ laps.

It was the ultimate nondescript 1980s car. But this was the early 1990s, so it was even more obscure.

We all got out of the car — my grandmother, my younger sister and I. And as we walked to the bakery door, my grandmother gave us a friendly warning.

Now remember, kids, she said. Don’t let grandma get a Danish, cause they make grandma fat.

Instructions in hand, we walked inside. My sister chose a rainbow cookie from the display case, while I selected a black and white cookie.

For the uninitiated, a black and white cookie is basically heaven in a baked good. It’s made of cake filling and topped with hardened chocolate and vanilla icing. And as a child, I was obsessed with them.

I was salivating, imagining the taste of that sugary goodness, when I heard my grandmother’s voice calling out to the bakery associate.

And one Danish, please.

My sister and I turned to my grandmother, horrified.

Grandma, no! we called out in unison. You told us not to let you get a Danish!

My grandmother smiled back at us. I know, but they’re so good! I can’t resist.

Over the years, this pattern would play out over and over on our trips to the bakery. In fact, it soon became a running joke between my sister and I. Grandma’s going to tell us not to let her get the Danish, but still order it anyway.

This scene was my grandmother in a nutshell. Determined, yet indulgent.

 

My grandmother always had a sweet tooth. My sister and I would stay at her house about one weekend a month, sleeping on in our mother’s childhood room.

When we woke up in the morning, our grandmother would serve us Entenmann’s donuts — chocolate iced goodies stuffed with cake filling. She stored them in the refrigerator, which made them delightfully crisp as we took our first bite.

It was a decidedly unhealthy way to start the day. But my grandmother didn’t care. The smiles on our faces made it all worthwhile.

For dessert, we’d all have ice cream — even if the sugar kept us up past an acceptable bedtime. My grandmother loved ice cream. So it only seemed sensible to her that we’d be allowed to have it too.

These were only a few of the ways she spoiled us. She would also get us gifts and let us watch our favorite movies on VHS tapes over and over again. Her reward for all this generosity was the sheer joy in our faces.

And yet, these seemingly small gestures were far from empty for her. They represented fulfilled dreams.

I’ve written a lot before about my grandfather. My mother’s father was a World War II veteran, a renowned storyteller, and one of my heroes. Black and white photos of him in his Navy uniform adorn my home, and I continually feel his presence in my life.

But my grandmother has shaped my life as profoundly as my grandfather did. And in a roundabout way, I’ve helped define her legacy as well.

My grandmother was raised in Brooklyn during the Great Depression. The youngest of three children in an impoverished family, she didn’t have much growing up. But she did have grand aspirations for herself.

My grandmother did well in school and went on to get both undergraduate and graduate degrees. She worked for some time as a phone operator, connecting lines for phone calls in the days before automatic dialing. But she ultimately spent decades as a speech therapist in the New York City Public School system.

Even as I share this fact, I can’t help but chuckle. For my grandmother had a thick New York accent, and a knack for mispronouncing things. On trips to the zoo, my father would make fun of how she pronounced the name for a certain type of buffalo. 

It’s bison, he would say. Not Bye-sawn.

Nevertheless, my grandmother did well in the role over the years.

Still, my grandmother’s greatest passion was not her work. It was her family. My mother, my sister and I represented her direct legacy — particularly when it came to education. She knew of the doors that education provided her, and wanted us to realize similar opportunities.

We never lost sight of that fact. We couldn’t.

When my mother earned her doctorate, she treated the achievement as if it was my grandmother’s as much as her own. And when my sister and I earned our undergraduate degrees, my grandmother traveled all the way to Miami and Chicago, respectively, to cheer us across the finish line.

After all those indulgences we received, it felt great to indulge her. To see the sheer joy on her face.

Several years ago, my parents and my grandmother took a trip Dallas. My grandfather had recently passed away. And while his loss was still raw, it gave my grandmother a chance to visit me in Texas — which she had hoped to do for years.

As we walked down a sun splashed sidewalk next to the Dallas Museum of Art, my grandmother implored me to continue my education.

I had toyed with the idea of going to graduate school for years. But I didn’t want to quit my job to do so. And the prospect of joining a professional program — working by day and taking classes in the evening — seemed too daunting. So, I kept delaying, and delaying, and delaying.

Now, my grandmother was calling my bluff.

A business degree would do a lot for you, she mentioned. I won’t be around forever. I’d like to see you get started.

Her words resonated. This wasn’t the playful Don’t let me get a Danish routine. This was serious.

So, at long last, I started the process. I scoped out several local business schools. I took the GMAT. I applied to schools, and I earned acceptance letters.

And a little over a year after our conversation, I started my grad school journey. My grandmother was excited, and that elation kept me going — even as I struggled to return to my old educational routines.

Then, on the first day of my second semester, I learned that my grandmother had died of a heart attack. Suddenly, my mission changed. Getting an MBA was no longer about elevating my career or making my grandmother proud. It was about honoring her legacy.

The next 18 months were as grueling as they were enlightening. But I powered through, a man possessed. And ultimately, I earned my Masters in Business Administration — with high grades to boot.

At the reception following graduation, my parents shared a word with me.

We’re so proud of you, they said. But your grandmother would be so proud of you as well.

I let the words sink in. And as I did, I thought of all I had been given that got me to this moment.

I reminisced about the sweets — the black and white cookies, the Entenmann’s donuts, the ice cream. I remembered all the gifts I’d received — the toys, books and puzzles.

All that generosity had taught me the value of sharing and of giving. And throughout business school, I had tried to pay it forward to my classmates by helping them prepare for tests and assignments.

But most of all, I considered all the time I had with my grandmother. That was the greatest gift of all. And by fulfilling her dreams, I hoped I had made the most of it.

Not long ago, my sister sent me an audio file. It was of all of us — my sister, my parents, my grandmother and myself — sitting around the dining room table, telling stories about my grandfather.

The stories were entertaining, and many of them made my chuckle. But what stood out most was hearing my grandmother’s voice again.

I miss my grandmother.

I miss her kindness. I miss her smile. I even miss her occasional naivete.

All that is gone now. Or is it?

For everywhere I look, my grandmother’s memory abounds. Whenever I pass a bakery window, come across a word she mispronounced or see my diplomas on the wall, it’s as if she’s still here.

Most of all, the principles that my grandmother espoused continue to endure. The value of opportunity. The love of learning. And the indulgence of generosity.

It’s my responsibility to continue spreading those principles. And I plan on doing so for as long as I am able.

Roots and Branches

Where do our origins lie?

It’s a complicated question.

There’s the biblical explanation, with the tales of the Garden of Eden. There’s the scientific explanation, which ties us back to prehistoric Africa. And there’s the literal explanation, which links us with the community where we entered the world.

Each explanation covers one angle of our origins. So, it’s hard to fully dispel any of them.

And yet, none of them truly provide us the satisfaction we desire.

For when we ask this question, we’re looking for a compelling narrative. A story with a cathartic ending.

So, we turn to genealogy kits. To old photographs. To family heirlooms and documents faded by the hands of time.

And we organize it all into a system of roots and branches. Of family trees, tribal allegiances, and cultural identities.

By weaving this yarn, we hope to learn more about our ancestors. But quite often, we’re also seeking to find something within ourselves.

I’m a longtime Texan.

I’ve lived in the Lone Star State for more than a decade, and I’ve felt more at home between the Rio Grande and the Red River than anywhere else.

And yet, I’m not a native Texan. I wasn’t born here, I didn’t grow up here, and I didn’t go to college here.

In fact, prior to moving to Texas, I’d spent my entire life on the eastern seaboard, in a completely different cultural environment.

So, why has Texas felt so familiar to me? Why have I felt so at home here since just about Day 1?

I’ve pondered this question for quite a while. But eventually, the answer became clear: My father.

Now, to be clear, my father’s only connection to Texas is me. He went much of his life without ever setting foot here.

But my father also has ties to the heartland. For he was born in Missouri.

This was as much as matter of circumstance as anything else. When my father was born, my grandfather was attending medical school in the Show-Me State. And my grandparents had no other relatives living west of the Mississippi River at the time. But regardless the context, Missouri is the place where my father spent the earliest months of his life.

My father has no memories of those days. The family moved to Michigan before his second birthday, and then to Pennsylvania before he turned four. My father lived in the Philadelphia area through college, and he’s spent his entire adult life in New York. So, his own narrative — his experiences, memories and perspective — it all has a distinctly Northeastern tilt.

And yet, when I was growing up, my father would occasionally throw out a passing reference to his Missouri origins. He would pronounce it as Miz-OR-uh, just as he claimed the locals do. And occasionally, he’d host our neighbor — a Missouri native — for a barbecue in our backyard. My father and our neighbor would drink beer and talk late into the night about life far from the big city.

I should have recognized how ridiculous this all was — my father waxing poetic about a life he had barely experienced. But I never did.

Instead, I started to view my father’s time in the heartland as part of him. As a story that had been cut off mid-sentence.

And so, when I moved to Texas to work in broadcast television, I viewed it as more than a career decision. It was a chance for me to pick up the narrative my father had started. The narrative of life in the heartland.

Living that narrative was my mission and my purpose. Falling for Texas the way I ultimately did  — that was just gravy.

Yet, even as my life transformed in the best of ways, something was still nagging at me. The  narrative of my father’s origins still felt as open-ended as ever.

Fortunately, it wouldn’t be for long.

On a temperate August afternoon some years ago, I strode up a jet bridge at Lambert International Airport in St. Louis. I was fresh off the plane from Texas, taking my first steps over Missouri soil.

Inside the terminal, my father was waiting for me. His flight from New York had arrived moments earlier. And that meant he could greet me at the gate, instead of baggage claim.

As I looked at my father, a rush of emotions flowed through me.

This was the first time he’d been back in Missouri in 50 years — since that day the family packed up and moved east.

He was a toddler then. Now, he was a middle-aged man with gray in his beard. And here I was, bearing witness to this historic moment.

If my father also felt sentimental about all this, he didn’t say so. In fact, neither of us mentioned much about it the rest of the trip. There was no time for that.

We were slated to visit both St. Louis and Kansas City over the course of that weekend. We had tickets to baseball games in each city, along with plans to visit the Budweiser Brewery, the Gateway Arch and a few other sights. In fact, our schedule was packed so tight that we didn’t even consider taking a dogleg to the town where my father was born.

But even if the reunion tour wasn’t quite as advertised, that first moment still sticks with me. That sensation of arriving in a new place, while somehow feeling as if you’re returning back home.

There was nothing quite like it.

As I look back on all of this, I find myself perplexed.

What drew me to the narrative of my father’s origins? And why haven’t I been able to let that fascination go?

After all, I have no natural affinity for Missouri on its face. I don’t fantasize about Toasted Ravioli. I haven’t read Mark Twain in ages. And the St. Louis Cardinals haven’t stolen my heart — they’ve only broken it.

This dissonance is natural. For I represent the branches in my father’s life story. And those branches are far removed from the roots.

And yet, a connection remains. A connection that solely exists because of who my father is and what he means to me.

It matters that the man who raised me, believed in me from day one and challenged me to be my best took his first steps on Missouri soil. That he uttered his first words there. That he breathed in that fresh prairie air, just as I do all these years later.

His roots might not be my roots. But they’re part of my legacy.

So, forget the biblical or scientific explanations. Throw away logic and labels.

I am my father’s son. The heartland will always be where my origins lie.

Lone Star

The building was nondescript.

Single story. Concrete walls. A smooth facade near the roof painted a grayish blue.

It was just like so many shopping centers and strip malls across America.

Only this one wasn’t home to a retail store, a restaurant or a barbershop. Instead, the signage on the façade read Midland County Annex.

I walked through the front door, flanked by my father.

The inside looked like a bank, with several partitioned service counters, a number of security cameras, and a line of waiting customers. The only things missing were the plexiglass and the heavy steel vaults. There were no hordes of cash to protect here.

After a few minutes in line, we found ourselves at a counter across from a clerk named Hannah.

She was young and pretty, with brown eyes and dark hair. And unlike so many people who worked in government offices, she dressed in style.

My father and I explained that I was new in town. I would needed to get my car re-registered. I would also need to get it re-titled.

Hannah mentioned that she was new to the area as well. She had been living in one of the bigger cities across the state — Dallas, Austin, Houston, I can’t remember which — but she had moved west to help take care of an ailing family member. Suddenly the paradox of seeing a young woman like her working in the county annex made perfect sense.

A few minutes later, after exchanging some paperwork and a few personal checks, I walked out of the annex with a registration sticker and two new license plates. The plates read TEXAS across the top.

In the parking lot, my father fastened the new plates to my vehicle and added the new registration sticker.

It was all a mundane, bureaucratic exercise. But that moment, in the parking lot under the blistering heat of the midday sun, was an inflection point in my life.

It was July 9, 2010. And now, I was officially a Texan.

I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.

Those are the words of a bumper sticker that can be found on vehicles across the Lone Star State.

Many have joked that this sticker was made for me. My parents even bought me one.

But truth be told, that statement didn’t apply to me for much of my early years.

I was a suburban kid. Growing up in the Northeast, I had an affinity for the big cities. The knowledge that others were nearby gave me comfort.

When I would go on trips to the country, I would be terrified by the silence and the darkness. I worried that a predator would attack me under the cover of night. Or that I’d be stranded in the wilderness with no one to help me.

In my mind, Texas represented that wilderness. The stereotypes all painted it as vast, rustic and rural. And I wanted no part of that.

But soon enough, things started to change. When I was in middle school, my family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. That vacation led me to fall in love with the southwest.

Then, in college, I shared an off-campus house with a friend from Houston. I visited her over spring break and went to the Houston Rodeo.

I was immediately hooked. I was in awe of how big Houston was, how friendly people were and how amazing all the food was. After that trip — my first ever trip to Texas — the Lone Star State was suddenly on my radar.

I returned to the Lone Star State twice more in the next couple of years. One was a short trip with my father and the other was for student media conference. By the end of that second trip, I started thinking of Texas as a place I might move to after college. But since I was completing a TV journalism degree, I would likely end up wherever the job opportunities led me.

That turned out to be Midland, in the heart of West Texas’ oil country. And now, a mere two months after my graduation, here I was. In the parking lot of the Midland County Annex, with two shiny new license plates on my car.

I was giddy. I was excited. But I had no idea what to expect.

That was probably for the best.

“Some folks look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘Walking’.” – George W. Bush

Texas is a bold place. But if you don’t play your cards right, it can be a lonesome place too.

My early days on the dusty western plains felt desolate. I had an apartment, a TV news job and access to the services I needed. But I didn’t know a soul.

So, I would venture out on my own. I’d try the restaurants in town. I’d lounge by the pool. And I’d go to the ballgame or the rodeo.

Connecting with the culture of my new home was part of my job as a TV journalist. But I was already fond of the cuisine and recreational staples of the region. So, cultural immersion became something of a passion project. It helped me quell the feelings of isolation.

Then, one sweltering summer night, I passed out from dehydration at a Minor League baseball game. I ended up in the Emergency Room across town, getting fluids through an IV.

I had arrived at the hospital in an ambulance. So, once I was discharged, I had to walk 4 miles across town in the middle of the night to retrieve my car and head home.

As I made that walk, I realized the depths of my vulnerability. The ordeal had outlined just how tenuous my connection with my new home was. I felt both obsolete and hopeless.

Fortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. For when my colleagues found out what happened, they quickly exchanged cell phone numbers with me. Don’t ever feel you’re on your own here, they told me. We’re here to help.

Soon enough, I was hitting the town with them, and getting to know the reporters and producers at the other TV stations. Sometimes, we even went on weekend trips to other parts of the state.

After some initial stumbles, I was forming real roots in the area.

I might not have been born or raised in Texas. I might not have experienced the glory of Friday night football games or the pageantry of homecoming as a high school student. I might not have hung out at the local Dairy Queen as a teenager, because there was nothing better to do.

But even absent all of those experiences, I realized then that I had forged a deep connection. It was no longer a formality for me to call myself a Texan. Texas had become an indelible part of me.

Cause no matter how big it storms, I know I can find me a place that’s warm. The sun is shining somewhere in Texas. – Jason Boland

About three years after I first put my Texas plates on my car, I pulled into a parking space in a suburban apartment complex outside Dallas.

I climbed a flight of stairs approached the door of my new apartment. Then I turned the key.

I had made the transition from the plains of oil country to the big city. And, in doing so, I’d started over.

Once again, I was starting over in a place where I only know a scant few people. Once again, I would have to work to set down roots.

But this time, I didn’t have to grapple with what it meant to become a Texan. I already was one.

Even if my zip code had changed, this was still home. Knowing this gave me the confidence to build connections in the newest chapter of my life.

And in recent years, I’ve done just that. I’ve made a new slew of friends in greater Dallas and taken the reins of my university’s local alumni chapter. I’ve also built a marketing career and earned my MBA from a business school in Dallas.

The roots that started out west have solidified during my time in North Texas.

As I write this, I am nearing the 10 year mark as a Texan.

I generally don’t care for milestones, but this one is different.

The world has changed a lot in my first decade in Texas. I moved here in the midst of a recession. Years of prosperity followed. But now, we’re battling another recession — along with an oil bust and a global pandemic.

I’ve changed a lot in the past decade as well. I’m older, wiser and more self-assured now than I was when I first crossed the state line.

But some things haven’t changed. I still love Texas and am committed to making it my home for years to come.

I might not wear my boots quite as often these days. And I might not eat quite as much brisket or Mexican food as I once did. But Texas is still as much a part of me as ever.

I’m looking forward to the next decade here in my slice of heaven. And, God-willing, many more to come.

Texas is home. And I am oh so grateful for that.