I’ve had a hard time writing this blog post — harder than any of the others — mostly because this week has been rough. I’m on my last week of radiation, just two treatments left. More specifically, only 2,481 minutes until I can head back to Austin. I’ve been counting, obviously.

But now that I’m this close to the end, my body has decided to remind me who’s really in charge. I’ve started showing signs of what I’m calling radiation sickness. I don’t think that’s the official medical term, but it sounds like something out of an Andy Weir book, which makes it sound a little more sci-fi and a little less miserable — so I’m sticking with it.

In reality, it’s more like the inside of my body has a permanent sunburn. That probably sounds dramatic, but that’s the only way I can describe it. It hurts to move, to sit, to do much of anything. I’ve tried to keep these blogs mostly positive, and there’s been plenty of good stuff to mention — my buddy Dave and his son came to Austin for Formula 1, then John came down from Dallas the next weekend for a great Texas game, and I even had a sip of Old Forester 2025 Birthday Bourbon that was absolutely amazing.

But this week, it’s been hard to keep up the optimism. I know this will pass — I’m hopeful it’ll happen quickly once radiation wraps up — but right now, it just sucks. I’ve been proud of how I’ve handled things up to this point, but when this new pain kicked in, I found myself asking God why.

I don’t always get answers to questions like that — at least not in ways that are obvious to someone like me. But every once in a while, I get what feels like a modern-day version of a burning bush moment (that’s an Old Testament reference, for the record).

On Sunday, I was talking to a buddy from church who’s always been a bit more spiritually dialed in than I am — and who’s been through his own share of hard seasons. He said something that really stuck:

“Maybe sometimes God puts us in shitty situations because someone else going through something worse needs someone good to get through theirs.”

I don’t know if that’s true in my case or not, but it hit me. He might’ve stolen that from Judah Smith, who’s a pastor we both like, or maybe it’s a line from a Macklemore song — I’m not sure and don’t really care. It makes sense either way.

And maybe that’s part of the point of this whole thing — that it’s not always about what we’re going through, but how we handle it while we’re in it. So instead of sitting here feeling sorry for myself, I’m going to get my sunburned-insides self up, stop whining, and go walk around Houston on this unexpectedly cool October d

This week was mostly uneventful—right up until Thursday night.

I’m now through the fourth of five weeks of radiation, which feels great to say. Up until then, I’d been getting through treatment relatively smoothly, outside of sleeping like garbage because of the awful bed in my Airbnb. It’s corporate housing, so I get why it’s not luxurious, but good God does it make long stays miserable.

You know a bed is bad when even your fat, lazy corgi refuses to sleep on it. Tugboat’s been back in Austin for a little over two weeks now, living his best life, probably rolling around on soft carpet and pretending I never existed. The traitorous little loaf of bread with legs will not be pleased when I return next Friday.

Anyway, as I was saying before the bed and corgi rant, things were fine until Thursday. Since I can’t work out like I’d prefer, I’ve been walking in the evenings with a weight vest to feel somewhat human again. That night, I decided to walk to a salad place I’d driven past earlier in the week, on my way to get what were—without question—the worst soup dumplings in all of Houston. Maybe all of Texas. But that’s a story for another time.

So, I threw on my weight vest and started walking through Rice Village, this bougie pocket of Houston where the lawns are surgically trimmed and the houses look like the kind you’d see in an episode of Beverly Hills, 90210—yeah, I know, that’s an old-school throwback reference, but it fits. Big, shiny, and a little too perfect to feel real.

I figured it was about four miles round trip. Turns out I’m terrible at measuring distance—it was closer to eight. At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal. But after I picked up my salad and started the walk home, my stomach started to hurt. Just slightly at first.

I’ll try to say this politely: I hadn’t had to empty my ostomy bag in two days, which should have been a red flag. Infer what you will. About a mile into the walk back, the pain went from “slight discomfort” to “holy hell I’m dying,” and I was sweating way more than the Houston humidity could justify. Right about then, the bag decided to fill—and I was still nearly two miles from my Airbnb.

I foolishly trudged on. From time to time, I’d pass an older couple walking their dog, and I’d try to manage a polite “Evening,” even though I was hunched over in pain, drenched in sweat, and clutching a brown paper bag that could’ve easily contained a suspicious amount of drugs. If I’d seen me, I’d have assumed I was a crackhead.

Honestly, in that last mile, if someone had offered me crack, I might’ve taken it just to dull the pain. It felt like someone was inflating a balloon lined with shards of glass inside my intestine.

I finally had to stop about three blocks from my Airbnb. I sat on the retaining wall of some rich person’s perfectly manicured lawn, and after a few minutes of misery, I threw up all over their flower bed. Thankfully, it was dark enough that no one saw. For a brief second, I considered just lying down on the sidewalk and letting fate take the wheel, but some tiny sliver of common sense told me to keep moving.

When I finally made it back, I didn’t eat the salad. I did, however, spend an absurd amount of time in the bathroom cleaning myself in ways I didn’t know were possible—and wondering if the best way to clean the bathroom afterward was with sulfuric acid or fire. Cooler heads prevailed when I realized that a) I don’t know where to buy sulfuric acid, and b) arson probably violates the Airbnb terms of service.

Other than that little detour through hell, the week was fine. I made another trip to H-E-B—round two of grocery shopping with an ostomy bag—and thankfully didn’t have to murder any bell peppers this time. I’d just applied a new bag that morning, so I figured I was tempting fate, but I love H-E-B too much to stay away.

People keep asking if Houston is growing on me. And while I don’t want to shit on any friends who used to live here (or still do), if Houston is growing on me, it’s an unwanted growth—kind of like the cancer I already have.

The thing that really gets me is the road system. It feels like a city planner handed a crayon and a placemat to a toddler, watched them scribble all over it, and then said, “Perfect. Let’s build it exactly like this.” Somehow it takes thirty minutes to go three miles for a coffee at 11 a.m., and also thirty minutes to go three miles at 5 p.m. I don’t know how you achieve that kind of consistency.

That said, Houston does have redeeming qualities. The people are kind, and the food is incredible—if you take the time to look. I did not do that when I Googled “closest soup dumplings,” which is how I ended up with frozen-Trader-Joe’s-quality bao. In hindsight, that might explain the Thursday night disaster.

But as usual, I don’t like to end on a low note. Right now, I’m sitting at a fantastic coffee shop called The BlackMill, drinking a Mexican mocha latte and eating a biscuit that deserves its own love song.

I’ve found a few great biscuit spots here, but none better than The Breakfast Klub. Partly because TJ, the manager, is the most welcoming human I’ve ever met—but mostly because they just do Southern breakfast right. Biscuits and gravy, chicken and waffles, crispy bacon—it’s all perfect.

That morning, I ended up talking with three women celebrating a birthday. They noticed my pink, sparkly toenails (I’d just had them done for Poppy that morning) and, understandably, thought I was a bit off—seems to be a theme for this post. But once I told them the Poppy story, they softened, and before long, we were laughing about the perks of getting older. They drank mimosas; I sadly stuck with water.

It was one of those random, human moments that sticks with you. And thinking back on it now, I guess Houston is growing on me a little. I still think the roads are a crime against humanity, but the food, the people, and the unexpected kindness make it harder to hate.

By Friday, I wrapped up my third week of radiation. Two more to go. So far, no major side effects—which, given everything, feels like a quiet victory.

People keep asking what radiation is like. The truth? It’s not that exciting. Every morning, I make my way to the east side of MD Anderson and head down into the basement. Down there is a maze of tunnels that make IKEA look organized. I’ve gotten lost more times than I’d like to admit. The only difference is that IKEA rewards you with Swedish meatballs at the end, and MD Anderson doesn’t.

The treatment itself is short—fifteen minutes total. Eight minutes of radiation, seven minutes of setup. I have three tattoos: one on each hip and one a few inches below my belly button. They help the team line up the machine precisely each time. So there I am, lying on a cold metal table, pants half-down, while a giant machine rotates around me, zapping me with invisible beams of radiation right at my tramp stamp tattoos. If you’re picturing an alien abduction scene, you’re not far off.

At least they let me choose the music. I usually go with Zach Bryan. By 7:15 a.m., I’m done for the day—free to rest, think, or just be bored.

I’ve been lucky. My radiation has been easy so far, and I don’t take that lightly. I don’t know why I’ve been spared the worst of it, but I try to use that grace to pay attention to others who are having a harder time. Sometimes people are open to conversation; sometimes they just want to sit in silence. Either way, I get it.

But Thursday was different. I met a woman and her 5-year-old daughter, Poppy. Poppy is fighting kidney cancer. She’d lost her hair and looked exhausted. Her mom mentioned to a nurse that Poppy had gotten her nails painted before coming in.

If you’ve followed this blog, you know I usually have my toenails painted too. It started as a joke, but it’s become a kind of quiet rebellion—a small, colorful reminder that there’s still room for joy, even in hard things.

So I went over, introduced myself, asked about her toenails, and then kicked off my shoes to show her mine—light blue, Frozen style. Hers were sparkly pink. She looked at my toes for a few seconds, then burst into laughter, hopping out of her wheelchair for a closer look.

It was a small, simple moment, but it lit up the room. For a few seconds, she wasn’t a kid in treatment—she was just a kid laughing at some guy’s painted toes.

The next morning, I ran into them again in the waiting room. Poppy grinned and pointed at her toes, then at mine. I pointed back and smiled. That’s when her mom told me that the day before—when she’d laughed—was the first time she’d heard Poppy laugh since losing her hair.

That stopped me.

It was the first time I truly felt like I was paying forward some of the kindness so many people have shown me—through calls, walks, and quiet support (if you are reading this, you are one of those people).

Thursday ended up being the best day of treatment I’ve had.

I probably won’t see Poppy again—her next treatment isn’t until after I’m finished and back in Austin—but tomorrow, I’m getting my toenails painted sparkly pink anyway. Just in case I get lucky enough to see her one more time.

The bell peppers didn’t survive.

Apparently, that’s an acceptable casualty when your ostomy bag decides to give up on life in the middle of an H-E-B. I didn’t know this until my phone started lighting up with sympathetic (and surprisingly funny) messages from friends. Turns out, people have opinions about how to handle a grocery-store bag explosion.

That day went straight to hell, so I did the responsible thing and made an appointment at the Ostomy Center for the following morning. When I showed up, the nurses — who are always absurdly kind — looked at me like they were trying to figure out if this was a bad rerun. One of them finally said, “Didn’t we just see you last week?”

Yes. Yes, you did.

I started listing my problems, one by one, and as I spoke I could see their faces shift between horror, amusement, and the kind of confusion that makes people blink twice before responding. Eventually, we all reached the same conclusion: either I was the problem, or radiation and chemo had melted whatever part of my brain controls common sense. Honestly, it could be either. Or both.

After I told them the whole embarrassing saga, they decided my situation wasn’t a big deal and immediately jumped into solution mode — which, for the record, was both comforting and terrifying. (Foreshadowing.)

If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said goodbye to dignity. At this point, dignity is a luxury item — like a vacation home or a working metabolism. So I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself lying on a hospital table with my stoma (which, if you’re new here, is the medical term for stomach butthole) on full display while a nurse removed the old bag and started cleaning the area.

Reading that doesn’t sound that bad, right? Still gross, but manageable. Except for when the stoma decides to “work” mid-cleaning — and the nurse reacts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, I’m silently begging for divine intervention. Something quick and painless. Maybe a tiny, hyper-targeted meteor strike that only hits me and spares everyone else. Anything, really.

But no — the stomach butthole just kept doing its thing while I stared at the ceiling, wondering where exactly my life had gone wrong. Eventually, the nurse cleaned up and started walking me through some “new solutions” that might keep the bag from falling off again.

Her first idea? Caulk. Yes, you read that right — actual caulk. The kind used to seal toilets to sewer pipes. Nothing says self-esteem like hearing the phrase “you and your toilet have similar sealing needs.”

I watched as she pulled out a syringe, filled it with this medical-grade plumber’s putty, and carefully applied it around my stoma before pressing the new bag down. She held it there for three minutes to make sure it sealed — and the entire time, she tried to make small talk. Normally, I’d be all in for small talk. But at that moment, my brain was blaring the Super Mario Bros. theme on repeat. I couldn’t focus on a single word she said. Just “doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo” echoing in my skull while this poor woman politely pretended I wasn’t a human plumbing project.

When the plumber’s caulk was set, she introduced me to Phase Two: the giant plastic shield. It’s basically an extra ring that goes around the bag’s adhesive seal, like armor plating for your abdomen. The original seal is maybe four inches wide — this thing felt like it covered half my torso. Manufacturers could easily just make the bag this size to begin with, but apparently, that would make too much sense. So there I was, lying on the table, half praying for that tiny meteor strike right to my head only, while being fitted with what looked like a futuristic Tupperware lid over my stomach.

In case you want to visualize this masterpiece of modern engineering, here’s what I’m talking about — the Convex Ostomy Bag and those lovely Barrier Strips that go with it. They sound innocent enough — but in the moment, they feel like industrial-strength punishment. Still, I have to admit: it’s working. It’s been a full day since installation, and everything’s holding steady. No leaks, no disasters. I’ll take the win.

There was one more thing — a belt. Apparently, the bag has little clips on the sides where you can attach a thin elastic strap for “extra support.” Which is a polite way of saying, “Here’s one more thing to make you feel ridiculous.” I wore it for about 45 minutes before deciding it was unnecessary. Also, it made me look like I was wearing a medical cummerbund. Not a good look.

All jokes aside, the nurses at MD Anderson are unbelievable. I don’t think people realize how much light they bring into some of the darkest moments of other people’s lives. It’s not just the nurses I see for treatment, either. I met another nurse at the dog park before heading back to Austin — a really sweet blonde Asian woman who works in a completely different cancer unit and also has diabetes. We ended up talking for a long time about books, food, stupid diabetes, and even stupider cancer. She had the same humor and kindness that all the nurses there seem to share. It’s uncanny — like they’re all built from the same combination of compassion and resilience that most people only aspire to.

Honestly, they’re a big part of why I can still laugh about all this. If they didn’t approach their jobs with so much empathy and lightness, these stories would be a lot darker to tell.

So here we are — 24 hours post–plumber’s caulk installation, no leaks in sight, and a tiny flicker of optimism returning. Tomorrow I’ll see if this new contraption can survive a workout. I’ve been slacking, and it’s time to move again.

It’s weird, but days like this — the messy, humiliating, absurd ones — have a way of making me grateful. Grateful for the people who show up with humor instead of pity. Grateful that my body, despite everything, is still trying. Grateful that somehow, through all of it, I can still laugh.

Because when life turns into plumbing, sometimes the only thing left to do is grab the caulk and keep going.

Today was one of those rare days where everything just fell apart. Not in a dramatic, world-ending way — just in the quiet, human way where frustration piles up until you crack.

Now that I’ve had some distance from what was, let’s be honest, a full-blown breakdown, I’m grateful to God that I’ve made it this far without losing it sooner. But today, God must’ve thought, “Let’s see what happens if…” — and I didn’t exactly rise to the moment with grace or humor.

The morning actually started fine. I walked over to my radiation appointment, only to find out it was being held in a different building because my regular room was down for maintenance. The new room wasn’t far, but it did mean a three-block walk through Houston’s early morning heat and the kind of humidity that feels like you’re swimming instead of walking. By the time I got there, I looked like I’d walked a mile underwater.

Normally, that wouldn’t matter much — except for the small, inconvenient detail that I currently have an ostomy bag attached to my stomach butt hole (and yes, that’s what it is, and we’re just going to call it what it is). These things don’t love heat or sweat, which makes living in Houston a challenge and working out again at home an unsolved mystery.

Thankfully, it held through radiation, mostly because I wear this “stealth belt” under my shirt— a name that’s far cooler than the product itself. It’s meant to make the bag less visible, but all it really does is make me feel like I’m going to a formal event in a medical cumberbund.

Still, I made it through. I should’ve taken that as my win for the day and called it there. But no…

A couple hours later, I went to a new coffee shop called Pavon, trying to relax with a book. It was one of those perfectly curated Houston cafés — all marble counters and soft jazz — except for a group of women holding court at the next table, talking loudly enough to fill the room. Normally, that would’ve annoyed me, but today their noise was actually a blessing: it covered the occasional gurgle from my ostomy bag, which was acting up a bit. Nothing major, just…active.

What I didn’t realize was that “active” was the early warning sign for “about to fail catastrophically.”

So naturally, instead of heading home, I decided to stop at H-E-B. Because why not add public risk to the equation? Sometimes my own stupid decision-making astounds me.

You can probably see where this is going. Somewhere in the cracker aisle, I felt the adhesive starting to give way — right as the smell hit. I froze, clutching the bag against my stomach with one hand and steering my cart with the other, praying I could get to checkout before total disaster. I didn’t care who I ran over at that point.

By some miracle, I made it through the line, grabbed my groceries, and made it to the car before the bag fully surrendered. And that’s about when I did too.

The truth is, this wasn’t just about one bad day. I’d been working with an ostomy nurse the week before at MD Anderson to try a new convex bag that was supposed to hold better than the flat ones. When she applied it, it lasted three full days. When I did it myself, the first lasted eight hours, the second one hour, and today’s barely made it eight again. I’m doing everything I’m told — cleaning properly, prepping the skin, applying the seal just right — and yet it keeps failing.

By the time I got back to my Airbnb, I was hanging on by a thread. The bag came off, and so did my composure. I lost it. I don’t know why I took it out on my groceries, but the bell peppers took the worst of it. A few other items were harmed in the making of this meltdown, but I’ll fix them before confessing which ones.

Eventually, I just sat down and stared at the mess. I’ll figure this out. I know I will. This won’t be the thing that beats me — but today, it sure as shit did.

And yet, like always, there’s a silver lining somewhere in it. My threshold for embarrassment keeps rising with every mishap. That’s not exactly a superpower I asked for, but I guess life doesn’t really take requests.

Here I am — a little more humbled, a little more human, and needing new bell peppers…

I wrote this on Saturday, but didnt get to post it till today.  

It’s just before noon, and I’m back in Austin—sitting at my favorite casual spot in the city, Sour Duck Market, under the big oak tree canopy and the new green picnic umbrellas they’ve added to give the place a more natural feel (at least in my opinion). There’s a soft, comfortable breeze moving across the patio, and it gives the whole scene a calm, weekend-brunch kind of vibe.

The place is packed, which explains why it’s taking so long for my hipster salad and turmeric Moscow mule to arrive. I’m reading a book called The Flamethrowers—one I’ve been “trying” to finish since moving to Houston. I’m technically not supposed to drink alcohol—the doctors specifically said no bourbon—but since this mule has turmeric in it, it feels healthy. That’s the lie I’m going with today.

I don’t usually describe my surroundings in this much detail, but as I sat here, I realized this was the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time. I hadn’t noticed until now how uncomfortable I’d been in Houston.

Tugboat hated it there. People kept finding new reasons to be scared of him, and he barely wanted to leave the dark confines of the closet except to use the restroom. Neither of us had been sleeping well, probably because the bed in our rental feels like it was salvaged from a condemned motel off some lonely interstate.

If you move even slightly, one of two things happens:

1. The springs squeak so loudly it sounds like a parody of a horror movie, or
2. The headboard—held to the frame by what I think might be Scotch tape—bangs against the wall loud enough to startle both Tugboat and me awake.

Getting even 8–10 minutes of continuous sleep was impossible, especially since I move a lot now thanks to my new exit hole on my stomach. I want to call it a “stomach butthole” because that’s really what it is, but that feels too lowbrow even for me—so “exit hole” it is.

And if you didn’t know, Tugboat does not like being startled awake. I’m fairly sure he was one more loud bang away from figuring out how to use a box cutter on me.

So, we came back to Austin. I needed real sleep, Tugboat needed familiar ground, and honestly, I didn’t want to have to explain to my doctors that the cuts on me weren’t self-inflicted—they were the result of a Corgi’s rage. I doubt they’d have believed that story anyway.

It’s been a while since my last post. At first, I didn’t have much to write about. The headline I’ve buried here—like always—is that radiation is going well. I haven’t had any side effects so far. The doctors keep reminding me that the side effects are cumulative, so if I’m going to experience any, it’ll be toward the end of the month.

Nothing like looking forward to a potential “sunburned butthole” to really make you excited for the end of the month. Still, I’m confident I’ll get through this easily enough. (Knocking on wood.)

The bag on my stomach, though—that’s still the worst part of all this. Nothing, and I mean nothing, about it is okay. It’s leaked multiple times, and when it does, the odor is so bad it makes me gag. Thankfully, it’s only happened in private so far, but the constant fear that it could happen in public keeps my anxiety running high.

If it ever does, I have a contingency plan—but it probably ends with me praying for spontaneous combustion.

Some friends have sent me videos from so-called ostomy influencers. (I’m still not convinced that’s a real thing, but apparently, there are a lot of people claiming that title.) They seem to have two main goals: to either convince me this isn’t that bad, or to make me question if we’re watching the same reality.

One woman proudly announced she’s better off with her bag because now she can poop “stealth-style” in important meetings without anyone knowing. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never once thought, “I wish I didn’t have to leave this staff meeting to poop in private.”

Another person bragged about how much money they’ve saved on toilet paper since getting their bag. Personally, trading toilet paper for an exit hole on your stomach seems like a poor bargain—but hey, everyone’s got their own value system.

I get that these folks are just trying to make the best of a bad situation, but every time I watch one of these videos, all I can think is: YOU ARE A DAMN DIRTY LIAR.

That’s probably the sleep deprivation talking—or maybe the general lack of fun in Houston wearing me down.

To be fair, I probably haven’t seen all sides of Houston. But after ten days, the highlight of my time there was learning that the walking trail I’d been taking Tugboat on was also the place where police found six bodies from a serial killer that week. So yeah… great recommendation.

Now that I’ve gotten all of that off my chest, my salad’s here, my drink’s gone (and it was so good), and I finally feel like myself again.

I’ll head back to Houston tomorrow and start my third week of radiation Monday morning. I decided to leave Tugboat here in Austin for both our sanity. He did a complete 180 the moment we got home—it’s wild how fast a dog can go from depressed to joyful in the time it takes to open a car door.

Honestly, he might’ve pulled out that box cutter if I tried to bring him back to Houston anyway, so it’s for the best.

For now, I’m going to sign off. Texas plays OU in about an hour, and I want to enjoy this little pocket of Austin calm while I can. I’ll try to post more regularly this week.

I’m sitting on the 35th floor of an Airbnb in Houston, earbuds in, Zach Bryan’s Pink Skies running through Spotify, and the city sprawled out beneath me like a quiet map. From up here, it’s calm—peaceful even. The kind of calm that makes you forget the chaos waiting on the ground.

And chaos came quickly.

Tugboat got sick. The Wi-Fi didn’t work for two days. The hospital “forgot” to give me my chemo pills during my first day of radiation. My short-term leave paperwork got botched so my paycheck was delayed. And the crown jewel? On my second morning, walking Tugboat, my ostomy bag finally ruptured and left me strolling home covered in my own…well, use your imagination.

Individually, none of these things would’ve been a dealbreaker. But stacked up in the first 48 hours? It felt like the universe saying, “You thought this was going to be smooth sailing? Ha.” I’d pictured myself coasting through treatment, reading four books, cooking like a pro, brushing up on tech skills, and coming back to Austin in November stronger, smarter, better. Instead, here I was, two days in, feeling like a guy in a slapstick comedy with an exploding prop bag.

And yet—here’s the weird part—I’m grateful. Three days of radiation in, I don’t feel any real side effects. Maybe these small fires are blessings in disguise. Each one has kept me busy enough that I haven’t had time to spiral into the fears I carried with me to Houston: What if the radiation doesn’t work? What if I get really sick? What if it hurts like hell? What if I can’t handle it?

So far, those questions haven’t lived in my head. And if it takes a series of sh*t shows to keep them at bay, I’ll take it.

Before coming here, the biggest weight on my mind wasn’t radiation or chemo—it was the bag. The literal one attached to my stomach. My friend Ramsey, who used to be an ostomy nurse, gave me the crash course in leaks, gas, and blowouts. She made it clinical and funny enough that I felt less like a patient and more like a leaky bicycle tire. Still, the self-consciousness followed me everywhere.

That’s why, when my friend Emily invited me to a movie the night before I left for Houston, I nearly said no. Emily is brilliant, kind, gorgeous—all the adjectives you want in a new friend. But sitting in a small arthouse theater with someone like her while your stomach bag farts on its own schedule? Nightmare fuel.

We went anyway. It was a Leonardo DiCaprio flick, One Battle After Another. Loud soundtrack, constant noise, perfect cover. Two hours in, I was thanking God for the volume. But then came the setup—foreshadowing I should’ve seen from a mile away.

Two hours and fifteen minutes in, the film drops into a dead-silent car chase. And right on cue, my bag decides it’s time to audition for America’s Loudest Sound. In my head, it was a jet engine. In reality, it was probably much smaller. Still, as I shrank in my seat, praying for invisibility, Emily didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t acknowledge it. She gave me exactly what I needed: nothing. And with that, what I thought would be my most humiliating moment became just another story. One more absurd chapter in this whole saga.

That’s been the theme: the disasters I script in my head never play out the way I fear. The ruptured bag, the sick dog, the broken Wi-Fi—none of it has crushed me. If anything, each stumble has been a reminder that this whole thing is survivable. Laughable, even.

So here I am now, earbuds in, Zach Bryan still playing, watching the Houston sun sink into the horizon. Thankful for Emily’s quiet kindness. Thankful for Ramsey’s expertise. Thankful even for Tugboat’s stubborn stomach, because he gets me out walking when I’d otherwise sulk indoors.

It’s not the smooth, quiet trip I imagined—but maybe that’s the point. The chaos, the interruptions, the embarrassments—they’re not detours. They’re the path. And maybe, just maybe, they’re what keep me looking up instead of down.