Messages To Madison

Madison—

If I could sit in the stands for any version of my younger self, I know exactly what I’d say.

I wouldn’t give him advice.

I wouldn’t critique his performance.

I’d just lean over, bump his shoulder, and say:

“I’m proud of you.”

Because no one ever did.

“You may never run again.”

After the car accident, the doctors told me I might not be able to run again.

They said it would be at least a year before I could even ride a bicycle.

That hit me harder than I let on.

So much of how I saw myself was wrapped up in physical and athletic things. I’d just run a 50K ultra trail marathon three months before the wreck—no real training, just sheer stubbornness. To this day I’m still honestly shocked I finished it.

That was around the same time David Goggins ran his first ultra. I remember thinking, “Guys like him and guys like me, we’re built to push through.”

So when they said “You might never run again,” part of me refused to believe it.

But another part, deep down, knew there was a real chance they were right.

And that terrified me.

Every step hurt. Every walk felt like a reminder of what I’d lost and might never get back.

The day I outran the forecast

Fast forward three or four years.

A friend and I were going to run a 5K with a big singles running group we met with on Mondays. That group was more than just exercise for me—it was my way to get even a little social interaction during a season when I didn’t have much of it.

My goal for the race was simple: when the gun went off, I’d sprint just long enough to get ahead of the walkers and the slow starters, then settle into an easy pace.

The gun fired.

I took off.

The pack took off.

I remember thinking, “Man, this race is no joke. These people are moving.”

What I didn’t realize was that I hadn’t just beaten the walkers—I’d accidentally lined up with the very front runners.

When I hit the first mile marker, I glanced at my watch.

4:50.

Under five minutes.

I had never run a sub‑five‑minute mile in my life. On anyone’s day, that’s a great mile.

I also knew there was no way I was holding that pace for long. I felt every second of that first mile in the rest of the race.

But I kept going.

I pushed through the hurt.

I crossed the finish line 12th out of about 750 people.

In my age group, the competition was brutal. I only placed 4th, so there was no medal, no podium moment.

But inside?

It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

The doctors’ words—“you may never run again”—were still echoing somewhere. That race was my answer.

Even if no one else knew what it meant, I did.

Learning what love actually looks like

Lately, I’ve been learning that the same pattern shows up in my emotional life.

I go through seasons of isolation—long drives, ten‑hour workdays, holidays spent alone, birthdays on the road, Thanksgiving sick and quarantined when I was supposed to finally be home.

Without realizing it, that kind of isolation starts to erode me.

From the bottom of that valley, everything looks different.

My brain starts telling me:

“No one cares.” “No one shows up.” “No one loves me the way I need.”

But often, the truth is: they are loving me—just not in the exact way I’m craving in that moment.

One of my closest friends, Emily, has always supported me. She checks in, sends texts, encourages me. She just doesn’t like talking on the phone.

When I’ve gone weeks barely hearing another human voice, what I want more than anything is a long phone call. So my hurt brain says, “She doesn’t care. If she did, she would call.”

But that’s not reality.

That’s valley‑vision.

When I slow down, talk to her, and actually explain how I feel—while also reminding myself that my feelings aren’t the whole truth—my perspective shifts. I can see that she is there, in her own way.

Brunch, pedicures, and “two love days”

Recently, a group of my friends posted a picture of themselves in Cowboys cheerleader outfits, dressed up and having fun. I commented, “Damn, I need to quit missing everything.”

They teased back that they hardly remember what I even look like anymore.

One of those friends and I had planned to do brunch together last time I was home. Life happened. We both ended up standing each other up—not out of disrespect, but because we were both mentally fried, not in a place to be around people even though we wanted to see each other.

We’d also talked about doing a brunch and pedicure day:

mimosas, a glass of wine, feet in the water, just relaxing and laughing and feeling human again.

For a long time, the old version of me would’ve said, “Pedicures aren’t manly.”

Now?

If I can afford it, I’ll happily go get one, even by myself. It’s part of learning to treat myself like someone worth taking care of.

When I brought up that brunch and pedicure plan again, several other friends chimed in wanting to be part of it.

That’s when it hit me:

I’m usually home 10–12 days at a time. I need at least two love days in that window.

One day is for me—a self‑love day.

Gym. Good food. Maybe a pedicure or a hike. Time to decompress and refill.

The other is with people I care about—a love day where I actually show up, in person, to spend time with them. No disappearing, no assuming they should read my mind.

Because when I go long stretches without that, the disconnect doesn’t just hurt me. It weighs on them too. And then my pain tries to twist it into a story where they’re the ones failing me.

Meeting people halfway

The truth is, I’ve often wanted everyone in my circle to come save me.

To reach into my darkness, drag me out, fix the loneliness.

But that’s not their job.

Their job is to love me in the ways they can.

My job is to meet them in the middle.

To answer the text.

To follow through on brunch.

To show up for pedicure day.

To remember that real love doesn’t always look like a movie scene—it often looks like busy, tired people still making space for you in the midst of their own storms.

I’m learning to see that.

I’m learning to be grateful for it.

I’m learning to be proud of myself not just for what my body can do in a race, but for how I show up for myself and for the people who actually care.

If you ever read this, Madison, I hope you see a few things:

Your dad was told he might never run again and he ran anyway. He spent years trying to prove his worth through physical achievements, but he’s slowly learning that real strength is also emotional: owning his needs, valuing his friends, and letting people love him. He’s practicing self‑love and shared love—two “love days” at a time—so he doesn’t turn into a man who blames everyone else for a loneliness he helped create.

Most of all, I hope you know this:

Even without a medal, even without a crowd, I’m learning to look at myself and say the words I never heard:

“I’m proud of you.”

And I’m proud of the possibility that one day, if you ever let me stand in your crowd, I’ll already know how to say those words to you too.

I love you, Madison.

Dad