Finding Hope

  I used to love looking at the stars. Not Hollywood stars — although, fine, some of them are enjoyable to observe. (Especially if they have British accents. If a man says anything in a London accent, Erin is gone. James McAvoy? Over. I may as well fade into the wallpaper and start paying rent there.) I mean the real stars. The ones overhead. The ones that don’t care about red carpets or Rotten Tomatoes scores because they’ve been burning for billions of years just to show off and remind us: You are tiny. And also miraculous. Deal with it. When I was a kid, I learned about stars the old-fashioned way: Encyclopedias. Not Wikipedia. Not Google. I’m talking burgundy-and-blue hardcovers that weighed the same as a small refrigerator. We didn’t have the whole set, of course — we were a “grab bag of random letters” family. But we had So–Sz. And So–Sz was my sacred text. Some letters got a whole book (M, S). Some letters had to share like siblings forced into the same bedro...

  Tattoos I have over twenty-five tattoos. Which sounds impressive until you remember that in the 80s and early 90's, tattoos weren’t trendy accessories. They weren’t tiny infinity symbols behind your ear or your Grandma’s dainty rose on her ankle. Back then, tattoos were… a statement. My first one was thirty-five years ago. I went to a place I knew nothing about, told no one, and came home four hours later unable to move my arm. It felt like a swarm of bees was throwing a rave on my skin, and I thought: Weird. I love this. I chose my Irish family coat of arms. At eighteen, nothing felt more important than my last name, my heritage, my story. (Now? I’d probably pick a coffee cup. Growth looks different at different ages.) I came home reeking of rubbing alcohol, with a bandage the size of a beach towel on my skinny arm. My parents reacted in stereo: one in shock, the other in tears. Not exactly the triumphant reveal I had imagined. Still, I knew: this was the start. My skin wou...

C onfession: My favorite sound in the entire universe… is geese honking. Yes. Geese. Honking. Like rusty bicycle horns. Like a trumpet played by someone with a head cold. Like a clown car had a baby with a foghorn. It’s not soothing. It’s not “spa music.” It’s not what calm people listen to while lying on yoga bolsters made of ethically sourced buckwheat. But still— I love it. Most people hear geese and think: chaos, poop, lawsuits waiting to happen. And honestly? Fair. A goose will chase a grown adult across a public park with the confidence of someone who has never paid taxes and never will. But when I hear geese? I think one thing: Magic. When I’m out walking and I hear them overhead, I freeze. Every time. Like a five-year-old who just saw Santa in the wild. I tilt my head back like a confused meerkat. I watch the little flying V make its way across the sky. And I stay there—absolutely still—until the whole flock passes. Respect, after all. And winter honks? Those are elite. Hall o...

  Eye of the Needle E ver hear the phrase “the eye of the needle”? I had. Lots of times. But I never really got it. I thought it was like the “eye of the storm,” or the “evil eye,” or maybe “eye of the tiger”- you know, inspirational, terrifying, or both. Turns out, it’s none of those. Turns out…it’s a gate. Every morning I walk my two dogs into the woods. There’s a big metal gate blocking the path- probably to keep nitwits from doing donuts or hosting unsanctioned monster truck rallies. To the right, there’s a tiny entrance. Tight. If I didn’t lose some weight, I’d be stuck like a sausage in a Tupperware lid. I could walk around, but poison ivy is basically a welcoming committee. So I hold my breath, suck in my gut, let the dogs go first, and shimmy through. It’s humbling. Exhausting. And teaches you something instantly: you cannot bring all your crap with you. No backpacks of grudges, no overpacked ambitions, no emotional luggage. Just you. And maybe your phone, because some thin...

  Mr. Mom O ver the past year, I have become a better person. Which sounds very noble until you realize it mostly happened because life bulldozed me into a corner and said: Evolve or implode. When life throws you a curveball, a slider, and a fastball all at the same time, you either become the best or worst version of yourself. I’m relieved to report- ask my wife and kids if you need receipts- that I’m becoming the best, or at least the most authentic version. And somehow, authenticity looks a lot like Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom. Except this is the 2025 reboot. And spoiler alert: it’s much less glamorous than the movies and involves way more laundry detergent. I have become a professional dog-walker. A barista on retainer for Erin. A breakfast chef who can flip pancakes without breaking a sweat (or a pan). I vacuum like a ninja, fold laundry like a Jedi, and clean dishes like a man auditioning for sainthood. Honestly, I should have my own YouTube channel at this point: Zen and ...

Hate is Heavy  I ’m convinced every single one of us will die with at least one person who absolutely hates us. Not “mildly annoyed.” Not “unsubscribed from our newsletter.” Not even “meh.” I mean hates . Like- if Netflix made a documentary about your downfall, they’d host a watch party with themed snacks. (Probably chips shaped like your face, dipped in salsa with glee.) Some people don’t just want to see you stumble. They want to see you stumble, face-plant, roll 300 feet down the hill, and get hit by a bus at the bottom.  And I used to obsess over it. Where does that level of loathing come from? Don’t they get tired? Don’t they need a snack? I can’t even hold a plank for thirty seconds, but some folks hold resentment poses for decades. Incredible core strength. I’ve had people who strongly disliked me. My daughter Sadie would call it “I’m not a fan of,” but she usually says that about beets, not humans. I read once that people hate you for three reasons: They see yo...

  Wooden Tulips T he first time I was ever really afraid- the kind of afraid that makes your body cold from the inside out- was the night Sadie was born. She was supposed to come on Valentine’s Day. Of course she didn’t. Sadie and Erin are both stubborn, so naturally she showed up early. I remember kissing Erin’s forehead, paper hearts taped to the hospital window, me rehearsing the one job I’d been assigned: cut the cord. I was ready to nail it. Dad of the Year. Opening scene. Cue applause. And then- she was here. Tiny cries, a flurry of nurses, scissors in my hand, cord cut, done. Erin was drifting in and out from the C-section meds, crying, laughing, floating. I was waiting to hold our baby. Our brand-new everything. And then a nurse leaned in. Whispered. “I’m sorry. I think your baby has Down Syndrome.” That was the first thing anyone said about my daughter. Not “She’s beautiful.” Not “Congratulations.” Just: I’m sorry. I didn’t even know what that meant yet. How could she k...