The Light for Which Many Have Died

Memorial Day 2025

I always return to Memorial Day not only as a moment of remembrance, but as a reminder of responsibility. If you’ve read my earlier reflections—on the quiet lessons of cemeteries, the fraying threads of our civic fabric, or the unfinished work we inherit as citizens—you know I believe history isn’t just something we study; it’s something we carry. Memorial Day, especially, asks us to slow down and shoulder that burden. It’s not only about honoring the fallen, but about asking what we owe them—what kind of country we are building in their absence, and whether we are prepared to defend the ideals they died for with our words, our votes, and our daily lives.

There is a quiet place in the heart of Philadelphia, bracketed by trees and hemmed in by the rhythm of the city. Washington Square—once a burial ground, then a grazing field, later a parade ground—holds beneath its grass the remains of thousands of unnamed soldiers who fought for the fragile, radical idea of American independence.

They lie there still, without headstones, without certainty, but not without honor.

Their tomb is marked by a flame and a carved warning, both solemn and illuminating:

"Freedom is a light for which many men have died in darkness."

That line has settled in my head this year. It feels like a whisper from the past, growing louder as the headlines grow noisier.

These men died in obscurity, in suffering, in the confusion and chaos of a war that had not yet produced a nation. They died not for a flag or a president or a party, but for an idea—half-born, fragile, and still unproven: that people could govern themselves.

They did not live to see if it would work. They gave their lives for a future they could not claim, only imagine.

We are that future.

And the question we must ask this Memorial Day is not merely, “Do we remember them?” but rather, “Are we worthy of them?”

Because freedom’s light still burns—but it flickers.

In recent months, I’ve felt it dim in the distance, dulled by cynicism, selfishness, and a national attention span grown brittle. We argue more than we understand. We scroll more than we serve. We mock before we mourn. And too often, we confuse personal grievance with public virtue.

We’ve come to treat democracy as a spectator sport. We tally wins and losses like baseball box scores, forgetting that self-government was never meant to be a game—let alone a blood sport.

But history doesn’t unfold by accident. It is written by hands like ours—in ballot booths and classrooms, in boardrooms and around kitchen tables. The soldiers in Washington Square died without knowing who would take up the work. That task was left to us.

George Washington, in his 1796 Farewell Address, reminded the country:

“The independence and liberty you possess are the work of joint councils and joint efforts of common dangers, sufferings, and success.”

It was true then. It remains true now.

So this Memorial Day, we are called not only to decorate graves, but to defend ideals. To honor the dead not just with flags and flowers, but with action—with civic learning, civil dialogue, and a renewed belief that our shared work is still unfinished and still worth doing.

Because if freedom is a light, then we must be its keepers.

And if others have died in darkness to bring us this light, let us not extinguish it with our indifference. Let us carry it forward—however imperfectly, however urgently—so that future generations might look back and say:

They remembered.

They were worthy.

Washing Clothes, Reading History, and Rethinking the Constitution (REVIEW)

The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution, 1783–1789
by Joseph J. Ellis

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

When I moved cross-country from Boise to Syracuse, I expected a few inconveniences—unpacking chaos, unfamiliar grocery stores, and adjusting to a colder, wetter climate. But I didn’t anticipate being without a washer and dryer for the first time in years. My appliances, loyal veterans of countless laundry days, were sitting in a storage unit across town. Which is how I found myself at the local laundromat one Saturday, armed with a basket of dirty clothes and a faint sense of nostalgia.

After jockeying for a dryer and realizing I’d forgotten both my Bounce sheets and my earbuds (rookie mistake), I did what any self-respecting person without a podcast would do: I wandered around the laundromat. That’s when I stumbled upon a weathered Little Free Library tucked beside the soda machine. Most of the offerings were exactly what you’d expect—Go Dog Go!, a few romance novels missing their covers, and Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul. But sandwiched between them was something unexpected: The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution by Joseph J. Ellis. I didn’t know if this was divine intervention or just a misplaced donation from a very patriotic cat lover, but I grabbed it. And as the spin cycle hummed behind me, I found myself drawn into a story about revolution, reinvention, and the stubborn art of keeping a country from falling apart.

In The Quartet, Ellis turns his considerable talents to the underexplored period between the end of the Revolutionary War and the ratification of the U.S. Constitution—a stretch of time often glossed over in high school textbooks. His thesis is simple but profound: that the true founding of the United States as a unified nation happened not in 1776, but between 1783 and 1789. And it wasn’t the result of some grand inevitability, but of the determined efforts of four key figures—George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay—who understood that liberty without structure was a recipe for collapse.

I studied The Federalist Papers and read Ketcham's The Anti-Federalist Papers and the Constitutional Convention Debates in college and have always considered myself fairly well-versed in the mechanics of the Constitutional Convention. I’ve even referenced Publius more than once in polite conversation—much to the confusion (and occasional concern) of friends. Yet what struck me most about Ellis’s narrative was how fresh and human the story felt. His account offered something different: a real sense of the urgency, messiness, and sheer improbability of what Washington, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay managed to pull off. These weren’t just abstract ideas being batted around in Philadelphia meeting rooms; these were strategic gambles, emotional appeals, and backroom compromises aimed at coaxing a fragmented confederation into becoming something that could survive.

Ellis presents these men not as marble-carved heroes, but as complex, occasionally conflicted individuals grappling with the chaos of post-war America. Washington’s quiet gravitas and personal restraint become political tools in their own right. Hamilton’s financial savvy and rhetorical firepower give backbone to the argument for federal authority. Madison, the book’s intellectual workhorse, emerges as a master strategist—crafting the Virginia Plan, writing the Federalist Papers, and shaping the very structure of the Constitution. And Jay, often the most overlooked of the four, plays a crucial role in diplomacy and consensus-building, bringing legitimacy to the process through his experience and careful words.

What’s most striking is how much of their work feels urgently relevant today. As I read Ellis’s account of political gridlock, fragile alliances, and public mistrust of centralized power, I couldn’t help but think about our current political climate. The rhetoric may be flashier now, and the internet has certainly raised the volume, but the underlying tensions—between state and federal power, between populism and pragmatism, between ideology and governance—remain stubbornly familiar. Ellis reminds us that our system was never designed for ease. It was built for negotiation, compromise, and above all, balance:

In the long run—and this was probably Madison’s most creative insight—the multiple ambiguities embedded in the Constitution made it an inherently “living” document. For it was designed not to offer clear answers…but instead to provide a political arena in which arguments about those contested issues could continue in a deliberate fashion. (Ellis, p.174) 

This idea—that the Constitution was never meant to be a static rulebook but a dynamic framework for ongoing debate—feels particularly resonant now, when so many of our most pressing challenges hinge on interpretation, intent, and the willingness to engage across divides.

The brilliance of The Quartet lies in its clarity. Ellis peels away the mythology surrounding the Constitution’s creation and exposes the deliberate, often messy reality underneath. This was not a moment of national consensus; it was a hard-fought campaign by a determined minority who believed the American experiment needed stronger scaffolding if it was to survive. The Articles of Confederation, noble in their idealism, had left the country vulnerable—economically unstable, diplomatically weak, and internally fragmented. These four men saw what others feared to admit: that revolution was not the end of the story, but the beginning of a new and equally complicated chapter.

Ellis walks us through the Philadelphia Convention, the state ratification battles, and the artful persuasion that made unity possible. He brings a historian’s rigor to the narrative but writes with the accessibility of someone who wants his work to be read on park benches, in coffee shops—and yes, even in laundromats. His focus on character-driven storytelling makes the political feel personal, which is a good reminder that it always has been.

Reading The Quartet while navigating a personal transition gave me a deeper appreciation for the kind of collective work that goes into building anything lasting—be it a new home, a new community, or a functioning republic. Moving to a new city, starting over in many ways, I found a surprising kinship in the story of four men trying to knit together a fledgling country from a patchwork of states that didn’t always like or trust each other. It reminded me that reinvention takes vision, patience, and a willingness to wrestle with uncomfortable truths.

In the end, The Quartet is a book about second chances—not just for the country, but for the idea of America itself. It challenges us to recognize that founding principles are only as strong as our ability to uphold them. And maybe, as we navigate our own uncertain political era, there’s something comforting in the reminder that we’ve faced this kind of instability before—and that good ideas, backed by hard work and a willingness to compromise, can still win the day.

So if you find a copy in a Little Free Library—or in your local bookstore—pick up The Quartet. It won’t just teach you about history. It might just remind you why it matters.

View all my reviews

"That Would Be Great"

Bridging Generations at Work with Pop Culture—and a Movie Lunch

There’s a moment in every professional’s life when they drop a perfectly timed pop culture reference into a meeting… and it lands with a thud. Blank stares. Polite smiles. Someone typing under the table (probably Googling what you just said). That moment happened to me for what felt like the hundredth time when I made a crack about a TPS report and “channeling my inner Lumbergh.” Crickets. That’s when I realized: my pop culture isn’t their pop culture.

Like many professionals of my generation, I’ve carried certain cultural touchstones with me throughout my career. One of my most well-worn references has long been the 1999 cult classic Office Space. It’s a workplace satire so spot-on, it almost feels like a documentary. Over the years, I’ve sprinkled quotes from it into emails, used it to lighten the mood in tense meetings, and joked about smashing a temperamental printer à la the movie’s infamous slo-mo baseball bat scene.

But my team—filled with bright, capable, mostly Millennial and Gen Z colleagues—often didn’t follow. To them, Office Space is a vaguely familiar title, a meme source at best, not the formative workplace gospel it was for Gen X and older Millennials. They didn’t know about flair. They’d never met Milton. They certainly didn’t grasp the life-affirming joy of a good case of “not gonna work here anymore.”

After yet another one of my Office Space references fell flat, one of my managers offered a helpful—and slightly daring—suggestion: why not turn one of our monthly team meetings into a lunch gathering and screen the movie? I decided it was time. We scheduled a (long) lunch hour, invited everyone to brown bag it, and turned our conference room into a makeshift movie theater. No slides, no updates, no agendas—just some popcorn, shared laughs, and 90 minutes of pure late-’90s corporate catharsis. It was a simple shift, but it created space for something we didn’t know we needed: a communal pause, a cultural reset, and a little bit of fun in the middle of a workday.

And something unexpected happened.

They loved it. They laughed. They exchanged “ohhhh, now I get it” glances during scenes they’d heard me reference countless times. More importantly, it became a shared experience. We started speaking the same language—not just mine, not just theirs, but something in between. It broke down barriers. Suddenly, jokes landed. Google Chat channels lit up with GIFs of Lumbergh and his coffee mug. We even started referring to standard daily and weekly reports as “TPS” reports.

But beyond the inside jokes, it created a subtle but powerful shift. We found common ground in a place none of us expected: a 25-year-old movie about cubicle life. It sparked conversations about how workplaces have changed (and how much they haven’t), what autonomy and burnout look like across generations, and how humor can be a survival tool in any era of work.

I don’t expect Office Space to become a required part of onboarding. And I still make a conscious effort to engage with the pop culture that resonates with my team today (yes, I know who Olivia Rodrigo is, and no, I don’t fully get TikTok). But sharing that piece of my own cultural foundation helped me show up as a more human version of “the boss.” And it helped my team see me as more than just the person who schedules meetings and signs off on budgets.

Pop culture can be a bridge—but only if we’re willing to build it together.

Not long after our movie lunch, I made the decision to step away from my role and begin a new chapter in my career. Even with that change on the horizon, I was grateful for the chance to create one more meaningful moment with my team. Watching them laugh, connect, and rally together reminded me of what’s most enduring in any workplace: relationships, shared experiences, and the small moments that bring people closer.

So if you're ever tempted to reference an old movie or a band you think “everyone” knows, pause for a moment. Better yet, invite your team to share in the experience. You might just find that a little bit of nostalgia—served with popcorn—can go a long way in building trust, camaraderie, and even a few inside jokes that live on long after you’ve moved on.

And if they still don’t get it?

Well, at least you tried. And that would be grreeeeat.

Review

Office Space
directed by Mike Judge

My rating 4½ of 5 stars

In the grand pantheon of movies about work, Office Space exists in a perfect little cubicle of its own—one where fluorescent lights hum, printers jam for sport, and the scent of burnt coffee hovers permanently in the breakroom. Directed by Mike Judge (yes, the Beavis and Butt-Head guy, but stay with me), this 1999 sleeper hit manages to turn the beige banality of office life into something surreal, absurd, and ultimately cathartic. The premise is simple: a burned-out programmer starts ignoring all the rules and somehow gets promoted for it. But beneath that surface-level rebellion lies a sharp, weirdly comforting look at how modern work quietly gnaws away at the soul.

Ron Livingston plays Peter Gibbons, a man so beaten down by memos, traffic, and middle management that even his therapist gives up on him (okay, technically it’s a hypnotherapist who dies mid-session, but you get the idea). I’ve liked Livingston ever since he showed up in HBO’s Band of Brothers as Captain Lewis Nixon—a performance layered with understated depth and a heavy pour of scotch. He played Nixon like a guy who’s seen too much and says too little, which—now that I think of it—isn’t a bad description of Peter Gibbons either. In Office Space, Livingston’s dry delivery and quiet exasperation make him the perfect everyman for a world where showing up five minutes late can trigger a full-scale HR intervention. He’s not flashy, and that’s exactly why he works—both as a character and as a stand-in for all of us who’ve ever contemplated setting our inboxes on fire.

Which brings me to the true villain of this movie: the report. Specifically, the TPS report, with its mandatory cover sheet and the looming specter of a passive-aggressive follow-up from eight different managers. The absurdity of this detail struck a familiar chord with me—and probably will for anyone who’s spent time navigating a sea of weekly status updates, productivity dashboards, or systems that require a password change every 11 days. I once wrote about my nostalgia for green-bar paper and fixed-pitch fonts on this very blog (here, for the curious). There was something wonderfully simple about those old-school reports—clunky, yes, but they didn’t pretend to be anything they weren’t. Today’s reports? They’re like soulless performance art, and Office Space captures that disconnect beautifully. It’s not just that the bureaucracy is overbearing—it’s that it’s completely detached from the reality of the work itself. And when Peter decides to opt out, it feels, for a brief, glorious moment, like he’s achieved workplace nirvana.

Of course, no discussion of Office Space would be complete without Milton—the stapler-obsessed, softly mumbling tragic hero played to perfection by Stephen Root. Or the Bobs, those interchangeable consultants with MBA smugness and bad intentions. Or the printer, whose ultimate fate remains one of the most satisfying acts of vigilante justice ever captured on film. Judge populates this universe with characters so exaggerated they shouldn’t feel real, but somehow do. Maybe because we’ve met them. Maybe because we’ve been them.

Office Space didn’t set the box office on fire in 1999, but it’s lived a rich second life as a cult favorite—passed around on DVD, quoted in breakrooms, referenced whenever someone mentions “flair” with a straight face. It’s a satire that’s both deeply specific and weirdly timeless. Corporate culture has evolved (sort of), but the core truth remains: people want their work to mean something, or at the very least, not to actively erode their will to live.

In short, if you’ve ever wanted to do a slow-motion beatdown of a malfunctioning printer in a field while Still by Geto Boys plays in the background, this one’s for you.

Theodore and Taylor

The Bride & Groom

Tonight, we come together to celebrate a truly special occasion—the love and commitment of two remarkable people: my son Ted, and his beautiful fiancée, Taylor. As we gather for this rehearsal dinner, I’m overwhelmed with joy and gratitude.

I’m deeply thankful to the Kewleys for raising such a wonderful daughter, and for the warmth and kindness with which they’ve welcomed Ted into their family—as if he were their own. I’m also grateful to Ted’s mom, Amy, for helping raise a young man who has become not only compassionate and full of integrity, but someone capable of loving with his whole heart. And I’m thankful to all of you—family and friends—for being here to honor and support Ted and Taylor, not just tonight or tomorrow, but throughout the beautiful life they’ll build together.

From the moment Ted introduced Taylor to our family, it was clear she was someone special. Her warmth, grace, kindness, and unshakable patience have brightened our lives in ways we never imagined.

As a proud parent, I could tell you countless stories of watching Ted on the baseball field—like his first Little League hit (an RBI triple off Nate Rousey—I still remember Nate cried…), his first home run the next season, or his no-hitter in high school followed by a championship-clinching homer at Arcadia. Later, I watched him pitch the final innings of his college career at LMU during the WCC tournament—moments that filled me with pride.

And there are stories off the field, too. Like the time Amy and I were summoned to the principal’s office in sixth grade—his teacher had accused him of plagiarism. I was indignant—I knew he didn’t plagiarize because I was the one who edited the paper. Unfortunately, I’d used a word that wasn’t yet in his vocabulary. Lesson learned—for both of us!

When Ted decided to move to the East Coast, we spent a memorable week driving across the country—visiting national parks, battlefields, museums, and catching a Cubs game. I’ll always treasure that time. But what stood out most was how eager he was to get to the destination—because Taylor was waiting.

Through all of life’s highs and lows, I was never concerned about Ted finding his way. But that didn’t stop me from worrying all the same. He came to New York without a job or a clear plan—but with Taylor in his heart. That’s when I realized she wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was something more.

Later, when they visited me in California over Father’s Day weekend, I had the chance to really get to know Taylor. Ted, in his infinite wisdom, decided to take one of his groomsmen, Max, to the U.S. Open at Torrey Pines… on Father’s Day. He brought me back a button that read, “My son went to the U.S. Open on Father’s Day and all I got was this button…” But the truth is, he gave me something even better: time with Taylor. And in that time, I saw firsthand what a thoughtful, genuine, and extraordinary young woman she is—and how lucky Ted is to have found someone so special.

As I look at Ted and Taylor together, I’m reminded of love’s power to transform our lives. Their story is a testament to what it means to find not only a partner, but a soulmate—a confidante, a best friend.

Tomorrow, you’ll exchange vows and begin the incredible journey of marriage. As you do, remember to savor each moment, stand beside each other through life’s inevitable ups and downs, and never lose sight of the magic that brought you together. May your love deepen with each passing day, and may you always find comfort, strength, and joy in each other’s arms.

So tonight, let’s celebrate the love that Ted and Taylor share, and the light they bring to all of us. Let’s raise a glass to the beautiful journey ahead.

To Ted and Taylor—may your marriage be filled with laughter, joy, and endless adventure. May you build a life rich in love, understanding, and shared dreams.

Please join me in a toast:

Here’s to a lifetime of happiness, to love that never fades, and to the beginning of forever.

Cheers!

Long Journeys Begin with a Single Step

Every long journey begins with a single step—and for me, that step led to the starting line of the Robie Creek Half Marathon. Ever since moving to Boise, I’d heard whispers about the Race. Colleagues at work, neighbors—anyone who learned I enjoyed trail running—would ask, “Have you run Robie?”

Because of the race’s popularity, bibs are notoriously hard to come by. Registration opens on Presidents' Day in February, and they’re usually gone by the end of the day. Eager to test my limits, I woke up early on February 20 and secured my spot in this iconic event. At the time, I knew I was taking a risk: I was still recovering from a broken ankle I’d injured over Thanksgiving weekend. Little did I know, this race would not only push my physical boundaries but also teach me lasting lessons about resilience and determination.

The Race to Robie Creek

The Race to Robie Creek Half Marathon is renowned for its breathtaking views, challenging hills, and vibrant atmosphere. It is not for the faint-hearted and has earned the nickname "The Toughest Race in the Northwest." As a first-time racer attempting a distance over 10K (6.2 miles) and nursing a hurt ankle, I knew the journey ahead would be anything but easy.

The race begins at Fort Boise Park, situated at an elevation of approximately 2,725 feet. From there, runners embark on a grueling 8.5-mile ascent up Rocky Canyon Road, culminating at Aldape Summit, which stands at 4,797 feet. This climb involves an elevation gain of about 2,100 feet, testing even the most seasoned runners. After reaching the summit, the course descends approximately 1,700 feet over the remaining 4.6 miles to the finish line at Robie Creek Campground. 

The terrain transitions from paved roads in the initial miles to dirt roads as runners approach the summit, offering a mix of urban and rugged landscapes. The race is known for its unpredictable weather conditions, with possibilities ranging from sun and heat to rain and snow, adding another layer of challenge.

Organized by the Rocky Canyon Sail Toads, the event has a rich history dating back to its inaugural run in 1975. Over the years, it has grown in popularity, often selling out within minutes of registration opening. The race not only tests physical endurance but also fosters a strong sense of community, with volunteers and spectators providing unwavering support throughout the course. 

Preparation and Pre-Race Optimism

Looking back, I wish I could say I trained smart: balanced rest and recovery, consulted with a physical therapist, and followed a structured program. But I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I began walking in March to strengthen my ankle and added short, relatively flat runs in early April. I thought I was ready. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize attempting such a demanding course without proper preparation was a mistake.

Race Day Arrives

Climbing Rocky Canyon
to Aldape Summit

On race morning, I stood among thousands of enthusiastic runners at the starting line, an eager energy pulsing through the crowd—and through me. The atmosphere was electric—charged with camaraderie, purpose, and nerves. Music blared from speakers, volunteers offered last-minute encouragement, and colorful costumes—some serious, some silly—added to the festive chaos. It felt less like a race and more like a community celebration, though the looming mountain reminded me of the task ahead.

From the start, I reminded myself of my only goal: to finish. I settled into a steady, conservative pace, resisting the temptation to chase the faster runners surging ahead. The rhythm of my footsteps became a kind of meditation—each stride a quiet promise to listen to my body, especially my recovering ankle. I paid close attention to the terrain, adjusting with each incline and curve, grateful for each mile that passed without too much pain. Around me, conversations sparked between strangers, cheers erupted from roadside supporters, and the scent of sunscreen and determination hung in the air. I wasn’t racing anyone but doubt...

Pushing Through the Pain

The initial miles were manageable, but as the course climbed into the foothills, the elevation began to test me. My ankle throbbed more each step, and staying focused became a mental challenge.

Though I never seriously considered quitting, I did wonder whether the pain would eventually force me to stop. The cheers from spectators and fellow runners helped tremendously. The natural beauty surrounding the course also served as motivation to keep moving forward.

The Power of Community

One of the most uplifting parts of the Robie experience was the community support. Strangers offered high-fives, encouragement, and even refreshments. As we passed through a foothill neighborhood, parents brought their kids out to cheer, blow horns, hand out orange slices, and offer hose showers. One family was barbecuing hamburgers and even offered me one.

Around mile 8, where the course steepens before Aldape Summit, a runner noticed I was struggling. They offered a few kind words and handed me a Honey Stinger chew. I hadn’t planned to stop, but the gesture—and the sugar—lifted my spirits and fueled my climb.

A late-season storm had blanketed the summit and descent in several inches of snow. By the time I reached the top, the trail was a slick mess of slush and mud. I slipped and fell more than once. Finally, I sat on the trail’s edge to put on my Yaktrax. Another runner stopped to check that I was okay. Despite my weak ankle and growing exhaustion, these moments of kindness reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

A Milestone Achievement

I had assumed the downhill stretch would be easier—that I’d make up some time. What no one tells you is that the post-summit descent is even steeper than the climb. My ankle still hurt, but now my knee was screaming, too.

For the first time, I genuinely questioned whether I’d finish. The issue wasn’t mental resolve—it was the physical pain. Was I doing long-term damage? I didn’t want to quit, but I knew I couldn’t keep running. I chose to walk the steepest sections.

Because I had missed training from Thanksgiving to March and had skipped physical therapy, walking seemed like the safest call. As others passed me, I felt a tug of competitiveness and occasionally jogged—but the downhill grade punished every stride.

Eventually, the slope eased, and I was able to pick up my pace again. As I neared the final stretch, I passed a spectator dressed like a biblical prophet holding a sign: “The End is Near!” I laughed through the pain, carried forward by a mix of fatigue and pride.

Crossing the finish line, I was overwhelmed with emotion. The Robie Creek Half Marathon had pushed me to my physical and mental edge—and I had made it.

Lessons Learned

Running Robie on an injured ankle taught me more than I ever anticipated:

• Perseverance: Progress doesn’t require speed—only forward motion. One step at a time can get you to the finish line.
• Mind Over Matter: A positive attitude is powerful, but it isn’t a substitute for preparation. I deceived myself into thinking I could tough it out—and I paid for that. Still, mental strength helped me endure.
• Community Support: The kindness of strangers—runners and spectators alike—carried me when my own strength faltered. Being part of something bigger than myself made all the difference.

Conclusion

My first Robie Creek Half Marathon was far more than a race—it was a test of resilience, grit, and spirit. Completing it on an injured ankle, with limited training, reinforced a lesson I’ll carry for life: with the right mindset and support, we can endure more than we think—even when our plans fall apart.

Whether you're a seasoned runner or considering your first race, I encourage you to embrace the challenge. The path may be steep, but the view—and the victory—are worth every step.

I’ll be back next year, hopefully better trained and less injured. This time, I’ll bring the lessons I learned with me—about preparation, patience, and the importance of listening to my body. But I’ll also return with the same spirit of determination, ready to take on the mountain again. Because while the finish line marked the end of one journey, it also sparked the beginning of another.

The Middle Seat: On Liberty & Responsibility

There’s a particular kind of discomfort that comes from sitting in the middle seat on a long flight. Wedged between two strangers—one hogging the armrest, the other nodding off on your shoulder—you’re denied both the view of the window and the freedom of the aisle.. You’re stuck. But you’re also, quite literally, in the middle of everything.

That’s where I’ve found myself lately—not on a plane (even if every seat feels like a middle seat today), but in the broader sense of American life. In the middle. Again.

I’ve spent most of my adult life there—ideologically, emotionally, and professionally. Generationally, I’m a “cusper”—born at the tail end of the Baby Boom but raised with the ethos of Gen X. I remember rotary phones and dial-up internet, but I carry a smartphone that unlocks with my face. I grew up with Walter Cronkite and now scroll through newsfeeds that refresh every 30 seconds. I was taught to write thank-you notes by hand, and now I send emojis to express condolences. I’ve seen the world change—fast—and I’m still trying to figure out how to change with it without losing myself in the process.

That same “middle seat” has defined my professional life as well. I’ve built a career as a translator—bridging the gap between fundraising practitioners and the data professionals who support them. I’ve helped frontline fundraisers understand that data isn’t just a report—it’s a story waiting to be told. And I’ve helped programmers understand that “donor intent” isn’t just a field in a CRM—it’s a relationship. My job, more often than not, is to listen to both sides and say, “Here’s what I think they’re trying to say.” It’s not glamorous. It’s not headline-making. But it’s necessary.

Just as I’ve played translator in my career, I’ve also tried to translate—within myself—the often competing values of liberty and responsibility. I came of age with a healthy skepticism of government overreach, a belief in individual liberty, and a deep respect for personal responsibility. Libertarian ideals made sense to me: less interference, more autonomy, and a general wariness of anyone who claimed to know what was best for everyone else.

But some moments test even the most practiced middle-seaters. And for me, that moment came with the arrival of the COVID-19 vaccines.

As vaccines began to roll out last year, I found myself in a strange place. I believe in science. I trust the data. I want to protect my family (my oldest daughter is an ER doctor, after all), my neighbors, and the most vulnerable among us. I also believe in bodily autonomy and the right to make personal medical decisions without coercion. I can’t ignore the reality that public health isn’t just personal—it’s collective.

That’s the tension of the middle seat.

A few weeks after my "booster" dose, I had a long phone call with a dear friend—someone I’ve known for years, someone I trust and admire. She told me, gently but firmly, that she and her family would not be getting vaccinated.

She asked, so I told her the reasons I decided to get vaccinated. Because of my work, because I believe in the science and the data, because I want to protect the people I love. I told her that I made the decision not because I was mandated to do so, but because I truly believe that doing so is for the collective good.

She shared her concerns about the speed of development, about long-term effects, about what she saw as government overreach. She spoke with conviction, and I listened—really listened—because that’s what I do. I heard the fear in her voice. I heard the protectiveness. I heard the love. And in that love, I heard the echo of my own concerns—quiet, but present.

And still, I couldn’t find the middle ground.

That was new for me. Unsettling. I’ve made a life out of standing in the space between opposing views and building bridges. But this time, the gap felt too wide. I couldn’t meet her halfway—not because I didn’t want to, but because the stakes felt too high. Because this wasn’t just a difference of opinion—it was a difference in how we understood risk, responsibility, and reality itself.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to change her mind. I set the phone down with a heaviness I couldn’t shake.. Not because we disagreed, but because I realized that sometimes, the middle seat doesn’t offer a clear view. Sometimes, it’s just a place where you sit quietly, holding on to the armrests, hoping the turbulence passes.

It’s not easy.

Because the middle seat, uncomfortable as it is, gives you a unique vantage point. You see both sides. You hear both conversations. You learn to navigate tension, to mediate, to hold space for complexity. You learn that progress doesn’t always come from shouting the loudest, but from listening the longest.

In civic life, the middle seat is often dismissed as indecision or weakness. But I think it’s where the real work happens. It’s where compromise is forged, where empathy is tested, where democracy either stretches or snaps. It’s where we ask hard questions without easy answers. Where we resist the pull of extremes and try, however imperfectly, to hold the center.

And yes, it’s exhausting.

But it’s also hopeful.

Because I still believe that liberty and responsibility are not opposites—they’re partners. This isn’t a new tension—it’s embedded in the fabric of our democracy, from the Constitutional Convention to the civil rights movement. 

I haven’t come to this belief easily. I wrestled with it. I read. I listened. I asked questions. And in the end, I chose to roll up my sleeve—not because I was told to, but because I believe in doing my part. Because I believe that freedom isn’t just about what we’re allowed to do—it’s about what we choose to do for each other.

So here’s to the middle-seaters—the bridge-builders, the skeptics who still believe. We may not have the best view or the most legroom, but maybe that vantage point is exactly what the world needs right now.