Madison—

In my life on the road, there is one predictable trigger for bad decisions: hunger with no plan.

I’ve spent too many nights driving past midnight with nothing but fast food wrappers in the seat beside me and a headache pounding behind my eyes. I told myself I was too busy to make better choices, too tired to stop at a grocery store, too broke to care. The truth is, I didn’t think I deserved anything better. When the IRS or work pressures or loneliness kicked up, I let everything else go—including my own basic care.

So here’s the plan I’m making now, and I’m writing it to you because someday you might wonder if your dad ever learned how to care for himself.

Make a list and buy ahead. I’m taking an afternoon to walk through a grocery store with a basket and a clear mind. I’m looking for foods that travel well: nuts, peanut butter, whole‑grain crackers, dried fruit, decent protein bars. I’m checking the dates and making sure they’ll last. Keep it stocked. I’m putting a small bin in the truck—no more “I’ll grab something next time.” When I leave the house, the bin goes with me, full. Drink real water. As ridiculous as it sounds, bringing my own water (even alkaline water) keeps me from buying sugary drinks that send my mood swinging.

The truth is, most of my bad food choices happen when I don’t have good options at arm’s reach. Planning feels like love when you’re tired.

But there’s another hunger I need to admit—one that a handful of almonds doesn’t fix.

For weeks at a time, I’m alone behind a steering wheel. Everyone has their own life. I get that. But days of nothing but the highway and the radio start to erode me. My mind begins inventing stories: “They don’t care,” “You’re forgotten,” “Why even try?” That’s when I lash out, send salty texts, go quiet without explanation. No one knows what’s behind it but me, and even I don’t always realise what’s happening until it’s too late.

So here’s my other promise:

Tell them I’m lonely. When I feel myself slipping, I’ll reach out and say it plainly: “Hey, it’s been a rough week and I could use a real conversation.” Accept small gestures. A text isn’t a phone call, but it’s still connection. I’ll learn to appreciate the ways my friends do show up instead of focusing on how they don’t. Stop punishing myself by staying silent. That inner dialogue—that loop of “no one cares”—loses its power when I speak it out loud to someone who loves me.

I know my friends care. I also know they can’t read my mind when I’m spiralling. It’s my job to give them a chance to meet me in the middle. Asking for a call isn’t weakness; it’s a decision to stay sane.

I want you to know this, Madison: A big part of why I’m doing this work is so you’ll have an honest record of who your dad was becoming when he didn’t have to perform for anyone.

If you ever read this, I hope you see a man who learned that caring for himself—both his body and his heart—wasn’t indulgent, it was necessary. I hope you see someone who stopped expecting others to guess what he needed and started saying it out loud. And I hope, if you ever find yourself alone for long stretches, you’ll remember that your worth has nothing to do with whether you can tough it out without help.

I love you, Madison.

Enough to buy nuts.

Enough to ask for help.

Enough to believe that the man you see when you read these words is someone you’ll be proud to know someday.

Dad