Madison—

If I could leave you just one sentence about who I am, it would be this:

I am human. I make mistakes, and when I see them, I do my best to correct them and grow.

That sounds simple.

It took me a long time to live it.

For too many years, I tried to be something else:

invincible provider unbreakable man all‑knowing dad

The problem with those roles is that they don’t leave room for reality.

And reality is messy.

I have yelled when I should have listened.

I have numbed out when I should have sat with my pain.

I have made decisions from fear and exhaustion instead of wisdom.

You saw some of that.

You lived some of that.

So if you ever sit with these words wondering whether your father was a good man or a bad man, I need you to know: the answer was never that simple.

I was a human man.

And I am trying, even now, to become a better one.

The world is finally catching up to this truth

The world you’re growing into is changing in ways mine didn’t.

Men are starting to admit they’re not okay. In 2025, searches for “therapy for men” and “how to talk about mental health” have jumped—proof that a lot of us are done with the old “man up and shut up” script. 

At the same time, people are redefining what a “good life” even means. Wellness isn’t just six‑pack abs anymore; it’s holistic:

your body your mind your bank account your relationships and your spiritual life

all recognized as parts of one system. 

That’s exactly where I find myself now:

Learning to see life as multidimensional and putting effort, every day, into growing my health, my wealth, and my spiritual connection—not for appearances, but for sanity.

It’s late in my story, but it’s not too late to change how the story ends.

Health: the body that carried my mistakes and my love

For a long time, I treated my body like a mule: something to load up and push until it collapsed.

Accident recovery.

Oilfield shifts.

Sleepless nights.

Stress buried under more work and more caffeine.

The research is clear now—fathers who neglect their health don’t just hurt themselves; they shape their kids’ futures in ways they’ll never fully see. 

If I could go back, I’d start taking my health seriously much earlier—not out of vanity, but out of love for you. A healthier father is a calmer father. A calmer father is less likely to bleed his unprocessed pain onto the people he cares about most.

These days, working on my health looks less like a dramatic “before and after” and more like small, stubborn decisions:

moving my body even when I’m tired eating in ways that don’t wreck my tomorrow sleeping like my life depends on it—because it does

I can’t undo the wear and tear. But I can honor the body that survived for both of us.

Wealth: not just money, but stability

When I say I want to grow in “wealth,” I don’t mean flexing.

I mean stability.

I’ve lived the side of money where everything feels fragile—career collapses, starting over with nothing, long rotations in dangerous work just to keep the lights on. That instability seeps into everything: marriages, parenting, mental health.

The world is obsessed with getting rich quick. I’ve done enough damage to know that what matters more—for a dad, and for any family—is the kind of wealth that quietly holds:

a consistent income built on integrity a buffer for emergencies a plan that doesn’t depend on miracles

I want you to know that as I write this, I’m doing my best to build that kind of wealth—not just for me, but as part of the answer to a question you might someday ask:

“Did my dad ever really get his life together?”

I won’t claim perfection.

But I can say this: I’m not gambling with my future anymore. I’m building it.

Spirit: the part that finally learned self‑compassion

The biggest shift for me lately has been spiritual.

Not in a flashy, hyper‑religious way—more in a quiet, daily way:

talking to God more honestly sitting in silence long enough to hear my own heart walking outside and letting a sunrise or a still lake or drifting clouds remind me that life is bigger than my failures

I’ve learned something from the research that I’ve felt in my own bones: people who practice spirituality and self‑compassion—real kindness toward themselves—tend to have more stable mental health, better emotional regulation, and a stronger sense of purpose. 

For most of my life, I tried to change by hating myself into being better.

It didn’t work.

Now, when I mess up, I try a different approach:

I tell the truth. I apologize where I need to. I ask what the next right step is. And I refuse to call myself garbage, even when I’m disappointed.

That’s not letting myself off the hook. That’s giving myself enough dignity to actually grow.

I hope you learn self‑compassion sooner than I did. It will save you years.

The man I hope you see, if you ever look back

You may never read this.

If you do, it might be years from now, when life has taken you places I can’t see.

By then, you may have heard versions of who I was—from family, from your own memories, from the silence between us.

Some of those versions will be true.

Some will be missing pieces.

Some may be kinder or harsher than reality.

Here is the version I hope you’ll make room for:

Your father was human.

He made real mistakes with real consequences.

He hurt and was hurt.

He loved you fiercely, even when he didn’t know how to show it perfectly.

And when he finally saw the patterns clearly, he didn’t just say “sorry”—

he started changing his health, his wealth, and his spirit, one day at a time.

In the same worn journal that birthed the pages of Mountains, Monsters, and Mercy, I write these commitments down—not just as promises to you, but as daily instructions to myself.

If you ever flip through those pages, I hope what you see between the lines is this:

“My dad was more than his mistakes.

And he did everything he could, in the time he had, to grow.”

I love you, Madison.

Enough to admit I’m human.

Enough to keep correcting course.

Enough to build a life, one day at a time, that I’m not ashamed to leave behind.

Dad