Madison—

There are "tell-tale signals" that show up in my body long before anything dramatic happens.

Warning lights. Quiet ones.

And lately I've been paying attention—because I'm not interested in learning the hard way again.

I've pushed myself to extremes before. Anxiety and willpower can feel like fuel… until you realize they're burning the engine itself.

Here's what the warning lights look like for me:

First, I start losing focus.

Not "a little distracted."

I mean my attention fractures. I bounce from task to task like a pinball, and somehow I'm working nonstop while accomplishing almost nothing.

Then my cognitive process stumbles.

Things that should be simple suddenly feel like walking through fog. I can't find my way through tasks I normally handle with ease. It's like my brain misplaces the map.

And then the dangerous one:

I start projecting my thoughts and emotions.

I want to open up, but instead of being honest and accountable about the real cause—exhaustion, fear, overwhelm—I start scanning other people for faults. I look for someone to blame because it feels easier than admitting I'm running on empty.

That's the signal that matters most.

Because that's the moment my inner pain tries to become someone else's problem.

And I don't want to live like that. Not anymore.

I've learned—painfully—that stress doesn't just stay in the mind. It bleeds into everything: sleep, attitude, relationships. And with the invisible injury of a TBI in my history, I have to respect the signs. I have to treat my mind and body like they're worth protecting, not like they're disposable tools.

So I'm building a response plan—something simple enough to use when I'm tired:

Stay in my lane. When I focus on what I can control, it reduces my stress load so much that even my worst weeks become manageable. Not easy. Manageable. That matters.

Name the truth before I blame somebody. Before I let frustration point outward, I try to say the real sentence: "I'm overloaded." "I'm worn down." "I'm scared." "I need sleep." Because the moment I tell the truth, projection loses its grip.

Give myself a "celebration" that doesn't require a crowd. This is the new part—and I'm proud of it.

I've decided that I'm worthy of small moments of beauty, even in hard seasons. Even when I'm behind. Even when the world isn't clapping.

So a celebration might look like this:

Taking a slight detour off route to catch a sunset. Pulling over for a summit view. Walking a picture-perfect small town Main Street for ten minutes and letting my nervous system breathe.

It's not indulgence. It's regulation. It's me proving to myself that I can survive without punishing myself.

And Madison… I want you to understand why I'm writing this down.

Because the man I hope you find one day is not the man who "powered through" until he broke.

I hope you find a peaceful and stable man—full of insight and wisdom—who can be a resource to you as you navigate life.

A dad who learned that discipline isn't just working harder.

Discipline is also stopping. Sleeping. Drinking water. Eating like you deserve to live. Telling the truth before you spill your pain onto someone else.

If you ever feel yourself slipping—focus fading, thoughts spiraling, blame rising—please remember this:

You don't have to wait until it's too late to change course.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pull over for beauty and let your body catch up to your life.

I'm trying to do that now.

One warning light at a time. One honest sentence at a time. One sunset at a time.

I love you, Madison.

And I'm building a version of me that knows how to stay alive—inside and out.

Dad