Early Tuesday morning. Sitting in the dentist chair, I stared blankly out onto the parking lot, only to then notice the bustling traffic on nearby U.S. 276. It was at that moment when the nice dental hygienist asked if a date and time in mid-September 2025 would be ideal for my next teeth cleaning.  

I turned 40 years old today.

This morning, I awoke in the guest bedroom of my parents’ farmhouse in my native North Country of Upstate New York. It was 12 degrees outside with a frigid breeze, the sun shining brightly. I rolled over and looked out the second-story window onto a backyard blanketed in snow, each flake sparkling. 

Yesterday was a rough one. Real rough. She moved out the last of her things from my apartment, formerly “our apartment.” She’d already signed a lease for a new spot across town. And she seemed genuinely excited to see what this next chapter of her life will look like in the coming weeks, months and years. 

It’s Friday. Late morning. And I’ve just completed my fourth online therapy session in four weeks. Another hour of purging my heart and soul of what bothers the former and latter. Another moment and interaction to reflect on what I was just asked about.

I’m not doing well. And it feels oddly good to say just that, whether it be to family, friends, strangers or you readers alike. I haven’t felt good in a long time. Truth be told, I can’t remember when the I began to feel this way.

Dec. 31, 2024, marked the ninth anniversary of my “running streak.” Since Dec. 31, 2015, I’ve run every single day. The standard is to complete at least a mile to qualify as a run, with most of my jogs hovering around three miles. 

Christmas Eve. With the sun fading behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, the sky transitioning into bright pink, purple and orange, I found myself quietly jogging the four-mile path around Lake Junaluska. Nobody around me, the air quickly gets cold during sunset. Dozens of Canada geese roaming the walking trails and shoreline, with many more either swimming or in-flight nearby. 

Last Thursday evening was a pure and present justification of why music (especially when performed live) has such an extremely deep and intricately intrinsic (and lifelong) hold on my heart and soul. 

Sunday. Late morning. I’m awakened by the sounds of a curious dog in my upstairs neighbor’s apartment. He’s a sweet pitbull mix. Always running around the yard, happily barking at the knowns and unknowns of this big ol’ world outside of his second story window. 

It was quiet, so damn quiet. Wednesday evening. Myself flying solo, exiting Interstate 240, merging onto Patton Avenue and rolling into the heart of downtown Asheville. No traffic. No cars. No people. It was odd.