Category Archives: Situational
Understanding Anticipatory Grief as a Caregiver
I’ve spent a lifetime wearing uniforms — first in the military, then in business — but no uniform could have prepared me for the one I wear now: caregiver.
My wife is still here. She still smiles. Still laughs. Still says “I love you” with the same strength that got her through childbirth without a scream and once drove a screwdriver bit through her hand with nothing more than a calm “ouch.” But even with all that strength, I know what’s coming. And somewhere along the way, I realized I was already grieving.
It wasn’t denial that kept me from seeing it; I saw every scan, every new medication, every tear. It wasn’t anger that overwhelmed me, though I’ve certainly felt flashes of frustration — at broken systems, unanswered prayers, and my own helplessness. It was something quieter. Slower. A gradual ache of knowing that the woman I love is slipping away in pieces.
That’s what anticipatory grief is — mourning someone while they’re still alive. It’s showing up with love and purpose even as the shadows grow longer. It’s grieving not just the final goodbye, but the thousands of little ones along the way: the goodbye to traveling together, to her independence, to her baking and cooking in the kitchen.
I’ve come to understand that the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — aren’t a straight road. They’re more like a roundabout we circle again and again. And while Kübler-Ross introduced them to describe how patients face terminal illness, caregivers like me feel them too — just in advance.
Right now, I live somewhere between acceptance and heartbreak. I’ve accepted what’s coming. But each day, I still fight to create joy, dignity, and presence. We watch movies in the car so she doesn’t have to get out. We eat takeout in the bed because she cant sit at the table. I hold her hand not just in sickness, but in the holy weight of being here — now.
If you’re walking this road too, know that grief doesn’t wait for death. And love doesn’t wait for perfection. You are doing holy work, even when your hands feel empty.
Let yourself grieve. But also — let yourself love, fiercely, while there’s still time.
The Truth About Insurance Delays in Medical Equipment Access
Imagine this: your loved one has just been admitted to a rehabilitation hospital. She has limited mobility, use of only one hand, and is in critical need of a powered wheelchair to regain a sliver of independence. The medical team sees the need clearly. The rehab team jumps into action—generating a physician’s statement of need, identifying a qualified vendor, and aligning care planning around the use of this essential device.You would think the next step is straightforward—insurance approves, device is delivered, and your loved one can begin her recovery journey with dignity.
Wrong.
The insurance company’s response? “It will take a minimum of 60 days to process.” That’s 45 days after the patient is discharged—leaving her bed-bound or reliant on round-the-clock support in the meantime. If you want the device sooner, it’s available—but only if you can pay the full cost upfront, out of pocket.Luckily, I had just enough space on a credit card—$2,200—and I bought the chair myself. Within hours, it was delivered. The result? My wife, who was at risk of becoming isolated in her own home, regained some independence. We then submitted all the paperwork for reimbursement through the approved process—yes, still by fax in 2025. The insurance company now has 75 days to decide whether the benefit will be honored.And what if they do approve it? After deductibles, co-pays, and co-insurance calculations, they’ll only reimburse less than 50% of the total cost.This experience was frustrating, disheartening—and honestly, a little scary. What happens to people who don’t have a credit card? Who can’t float the cost while waiting months for reimbursement? Are they just expected to sit, lay, and suffer in silence?—The Business Rules Are Broken. Health insurance providers often tout their “support” for necessary medical equipment. But their business rules are built for denial, delay, and discouragement:Delays in processing—even with a signed medical necessity letter.Reimbursement after the fact, not timely fulfillment.Inadequate coverage—only partial payments after all the math. And yet, the market has made it possible to buy a power chair on the same day. The disconnect is glaring: it’s not a matter of availability, it’s a matter of access.
—Final Thoughts: This post isn’t about venting. It’s a call to advocate for change. Durable medical equipment (DME) is not a luxury—it’s a lifeline. Yet current insurance practices treat it like an optional convenience.If you’re a caregiver, patient, or family member going through this system, I see you.
If you’re a policymaker or insurance executive reading this, I urge you—align the policy to the people. Because right now, too many are being left behind.—If you’ve faced similar challenges or want to share resources that have helped you navigate the DME approval process, please share them in the comments. We need to amplify these stories and stand together for better healthcare access.
Pills, Pills, and More Pills: The Hidden Burden of Complex Caregiving
One of the most overwhelming challenges in being a caregiver to a loved one with complex health needs is managing medications. It’s not just about handing over a pillbox. It’s navigating a labyrinth of prescriptions from multiple providers—some within the same healthcare system, others outside it, and even some who are technically in the system but don’t have credentials to see each other’s records. The result? A fragmented network of well-meaning professionals relying on the patient or caregiver to connect the dots.
Every outpatient visit starts with the same question: “Are you still taking…?” And if your loved one isn’t completely lucid or you’re not fully dialed in 24/7, the answer might not be accurate. That’s when the real risk begins. Medications get missed, taken at the wrong time, or worse—interact dangerously. Even with tools like MyChart and pharmacy alerts, medication management for multi-disciplinary patients is a full-time job that demands vigilance and coordination.
Thankfully, my wife has what many don’t: an extended family care team. Her sister—a brilliant organizer—maintains a shared medication log with active and retired prescriptions. Her cousin, a provider based in California, monitors her records through MyChart and flags potential issues or treatment recommendations. Their support has been nothing short of lifesaving.
As her primary caregiver, I also leaned into my background in healthcare and team leadership. I applied principles I once used to support the care for wounded or sick soldiers returning from Iraq at Fort Moore (then Fort Benning), where we built systems but more importantly had people to prevent our service members from getting lost in the shuffle. It’s painful to see that the civilian system still struggles with the same problem.
Where is the care manager? Aren’t they the quarterback? I once asked that question myself—only to be told their panel included 250 complex cases. No human can meaningfully manage that many lives. It was a sobering reminder that “the system” is overloaded, and for those without advocates, the consequences can be tragic.
Having a palliative care physician onboard has been critical. Contrary to common perception, they don’t just deal with end-of-life care. They focus on quality of life—managing pain, coordinating care, and yes, reconciling all those pills. My wife currently has more than 10 providers involved in her care. That number doesn’t include staff, specialists, or the relentless demands of insurance approvals.
Medication management isn’t glamorous, but it’s a battlefield—and like all battlefields, it requires a team, a plan, and an unwavering commitment to the person you’re fighting for. I bring my military mindset to this mission every day. And while I can’t stop the tide of prescriptions or the systemic gaps in care, I can make sure my wife never faces them alone.
The Art of Caregiving: Strategies for Support
“You have to go for a walk. Take a hot shower. Make sure you hit the rack every night early. I mean like 2000 hours at the latest. Every day is just like the military. You’re preparing for the next day.”
That’s what my buddy—another veteran who recently lost his wife to pancreatic cancer—told me. It stuck. Not because it was profound (although it is), but because it was familiar. It’s the kind of advice you’d hear before a deployment. Only now the mission is different. It’s longer. Harder in ways I never expected. And it’s personal.
My wife Sherri is currently watching a movie in our EV, having lunch with our fur babies. It’s a simple solution to a hard problem: it spares her the pain of getting out of the car, into the electric wheelchair, into the house—only to turn around and do it all again in 35 minutes. During that time, my sister-in-law (who’s been a godsend) and I tag-teamed lunch prep, charged the chair, rotated the laundry, and coaxed our teenager into eating something besides cereal. That’s the rhythm. That’s the operation.
It’s funny how much this mirrors the military. In downtime, you prep for the next mission. That’s what caregiving is: a constant cycle of readiness. Because when your loved one is in pain, even helping them move can feel like a landmine of unintended harm. You don’t get to wing it. You plan, prep, adapt, and repeat.
And here’s the kicker: you can’t pour from an empty canteen.
My friend reminded me—like a good NCO would—that I need rest. That I need to recoup. That doing “me time” isn’t selfish; it’s strategic. And yet it’s one of the hardest things to do. How do you step away when the person you love is hurting? But if you don’t, you break down. And when you’re broken, you’re no good to them.
For me, that “me time” is Orange Theory Fitness. It’s more than a workout—it’s my decompression chamber. The people there know my story. They don’t flinch when I show up in a weird mood or vent a little too hard. They get it. It’s a release valve.
But caregiving can’t be done alone. It requires an extended care circle, and let me tell you—building that after the crisis hits is like trying to patch the roof in a thunderstorm. As JFK said, “Fix the roof when the sun is shining.” He wasn’t wrong. Having my sister-in-law here has changed everything. And when she’s not, our neighborhood friends step up in ways that humble me. They’re part of the circle now. I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t make you weak—it lets people love you in real, tangible ways.
There’s something beautiful about how people show up when you let them. It reaffirms your faith in humanity, even on the hardest days. And if you’re lucky—like I am—you see that caregiving, as hard as it is, is also a sacred kind of service. One where love, not rank, leads the charge.
So here’s what I’ll leave you with:
Build your circle when the skies are clear.
Rest like it’s your responsibility—because it is.
And never underestimate the power of kindness, sweat equity, and a hot shower.
Because when it’s raining, all of that matters more than you’ll ever know.
“Holding On: A Caregiver’s Reflection on Love, Loss, and Living in the Now”
My wife came home today.
After nearly a month that felt like a lifetime—through the emergency room, the operating room, recovery, and finally a rehabilitation hospital—she is back, sitting at the kitchen table with our daughter and her sister. They’re talking about summer camp. It sounds so normal. It looks so beautiful. And yet, nothing about this is normal.
She has four broken bones—fragile from cancer that has metastasized into her bones. She cries now, often. More than I’ve ever seen in all the years we’ve been together. Her voice is quiet. Barely audible sometimes. She has only her hands now to guide her through the world, needing an automated wheelchair that still hasn’t arrived because insurance bureaucracy doesn’t move at the speed of human need.
I was ready to buy one. But she said, “No. We’ll wait.” And so we do. Because this is her journey. And while everything in me wants to fix it—to make it easier, faster, better—I know what she needs most is for me to walk beside her, not ahead.
This is not my first time walking this path. I’ve been here before. With my sister. With my father. But knowing the route doesn’t make it easier. It just makes the heartbreak familiar.
Yet she continues to defy the odds. She is part of the 3% who’ve made it this far. A walking miracle. A living lesson in endurance. So we stay grateful. We stay hopeful. We keep our chins up—not just for her, but for ourselves and everyone around us.
Caregiving is the quiet battlefield. You fight fatigue, frustration, and the aching helplessness of watching someone you love suffer. You become nurse, advocate, counselor, and spiritual anchor—all while trying to remember who you are.
But caregiving also sharpens your vision. You begin to see what matters.
It’s the sound of her voice, barely above a whisper, joining in a conversation at the table.
It’s the laughter that somehow still finds its way into our home.
It’s the love that survives even the most brutal storms.
We often think of time as a currency, but when you’re a caregiver, you realize it’s far more precious than money. It is sacred. It is fleeting. It is everything.
So if you’re reading this in the middle of your own storm, hold on. Don’t just wait for the clouds to pass—find the grace in the moments in between. Because even in the darkest stretches, there is light. Sometimes it’s a whisper. Sometimes it’s a smile. Sometimes it’s just sitting quietly at the kitchen table with the ones you love.
Hold onto that.
The Joy of Collecting: Finding Meaning in Everyday Treasures
I’ve always collected things—medals, pennies, shark teeth, rocks, golf balls, even tire valve caps. Some of these were intentional, others accidental. But all of them, in their own way, represent little victories and moments of peace.
Just the other night, I went on a walk after dinner, a habit more about unwinding than fitness. I came back with five golf balls. Five. That might not seem like a lot to some people, but for someone who’s spent a lifetime collecting, five of anything in one outing is a haul. It got me thinking—not about golf balls, but about collecting, and more curiously, why I do it.
Let me start with this: I’ve begun using lost golf balls as my own personal economic indicator. A kind of SWAG (scientific wild-ass guess). I know it’s a stretch, but hear me out—if people are out playing golf in the middle of the week and losing $20 sleeves of balls without a second thought, then someone out there is doing alright. I’m no fan of trickle-down economics, but the existence of a well-funded slice of the population still swinging away gives me a small sense of hope that the world hasn’t completely unraveled. Still, that’s not why I walk. I walk to escape that kind of thinking.
This post isn’t about economics. It’s about collecting.
My father used to collect pennies he found on walks. Before that, as a boy, he collected stamps. I picked up the penny habit from him, and at one point, my collection was medals—military ones. Now? It’s golf balls, and teeth from long-dead sharks. And that’s the distinction I want to make. Stamps and medals feel like hobbies. You go out, you pay money, you build your collection. But to me, collecting has always been about the hunt—the unplanned, unscheduled discovery. The moment you spot something unexpected glinting in the grass or poking out from the sand. That’s collecting.
There’s real joy in that moment—when you pause, bend down, and confirm that yes, it’s a golf ball or a shark tooth or some little artifact the world left behind. It feels like you’ve won something. Like you’re seeing what others overlook. It might sound like a stretch, but in those moments I feel capable, even special.
Turns out, there’s science to back that up. Psychologists have long studied the drive to collect. Some say it’s tied to our ancestral instincts—early humans were gatherers, after all. Others say collecting brings order to chaos, structure to a fast-moving world. According to researchers, collecting can also provide a sense of control, personal identity, even legacy. But more than that, when we find something—especially something unexpected—our brain releases a hit of dopamine. The same reward chemical that fires when we eat good food, laugh, or fall in love. So yes, spotting a golf ball in the grass isn’t just coincidence—it’s chemically rewarding. No wonder I keep looking.
In those moments, I’m not thinking about work, or stress, or the headlines. I’m just walking. And collecting. And somehow, connecting to the people who came before me—my dad and his pennies, the long-lost owner of the golf ball, even the shark whose tooth found its way into my palm.
Collecting, for me, isn’t about things. It’s about finding meaning in the everyday. It’s about knowing that even in a world spinning out of control, there are still small, lost treasures waiting to be found.
The Life-Saving Power of Blood Donation
There are moments in life that transcend coincidence—moments that remind us of the deep interconnection between people, acts of service, and the enduring power of compassion. My wife and I recently experienced one of those moments firsthand.For years, we’ve both been regular blood donors. It was never about recognition or reward—it was simply the right thing to do. We believed in it. We knew that a single pint of blood could mean the difference between life and death for someone we might never meet. What we never imagined was how this quiet act of giving would one day come full circle in our own lives.Over 30 years ago, I required an emergency blood transfusion after surgery. I had been discharged from the hospital, only to collapse at home from undetected internal bleeding. As my strength faded and my consciousness waned, two pints of blood were administered, and within minutes, I felt myself come back to life. I will never forget that sensation—the sudden clarity, the renewed energy, the overwhelming gratitude for whoever had made that donation.Fast forward to the present: my wife is fighting cancer with a strength that humbles me every day. Recently, her care team determined she needed a blood transfusion. I told her what I had experienced—that maybe she, too, would feel the same miraculous lift. And she did. That night, she slept peacefully. Her color improved. Her energy returned. It was an almost immediate renewal of life.In that moment, all the years we spent donating blood felt like a sacred thread—woven into a story we could never have predicted. One act of generosity can become someone else’s lifeline. And sometimes, that “someone” is the person you love most in the world.Blood is more than a clinical fluid—it’s a vessel of hope, a symbol of our shared humanity. Donating blood is not just a medical gesture; it’s a profound act of connection. When we give, we’re not only offering a piece of ourselves—we’re becoming part of a legacy of compassion that could touch lives in ways we may never see.I encourage everyone reading this to consider becoming a donor. You may never know whose life you’ll save—but one day, that life might just be someone you love.
Embracing Change: Life Lessons from a Soldier’s Past
Earlier today, I was tagged in a photo on social media—a group shot taken in December 2002 during our 70D STX training, just months before the Iraq invasion. My first reaction was surprise, followed quickly by a flood of memories. No smartphones. MySpace was still the king of connection. I was in uniform, standing tall, trying to wear my best “war face.” I even had hair back then.
At that moment in time, my personal life was uncertain. I was recently divorced, unsure of where I’d live, and even more uncertain of what I’d be doing professionally. All I knew was that I wanted to stay close to my children, even as the Army had me moving in the opposite direction. Everything felt like it was shifting under my feet.
But looking back, I realize something: everything is always shifting. Like water, life never stays in the same place—it’s always in motion. Sometimes slow, sometimes raging, but always flowing. I used to crave control over every aspect of my personal and professional life. And I convinced myself that, at times, I had it. That illusion helped me sleep at night, helped me lead others, helped me believe I was making all the right moves.
Now, with 23 more years of living, learning, and letting go behind me, I’ve come to embrace a different truth: it’s okay not to control everything. In fact, that surrender has helped me grow. It’s made me more accepting of people, setbacks, and life’s curveballs. Some of the biggest disappointments in my life eventually rerouted me to something far better than I had planned.
Today, I’m working through some of the biggest challenges I’ve ever faced—accepting my wife’s ongoing battle with cancer and her limited mobility, navigating the rollercoaster of parenting a teenage daughter, and growing a business that’s rooted in purpose and resilience. I try to take it one day at a time. Like nurturing an oak sapling—you water it a little each day, give it sunlight, protect it during storms. And over time, without you even noticing, it becomes a mighty oak.
That photo reminded me who I was—and affirmed who I’m becoming. The young soldier I was then would be proud of the man I am now, not because everything turned out perfect, but because I kept showing up. I kept growing. I kept going.
I wonder if anyone in that picture can spot me. Look closely—I’m there, trying to be serious, probably thinking about the mission ahead. That version of me had no idea what was coming. But I’m grateful for him. And I’m even more grateful for who I’ve become.
Winning Proposals for Veteran-Owned Businesses
I just submitted my very first proposal to the State of Florida—and I have to admit, I didn’t think I stood a chance.
This wasn’t some minor RFP. Florida is recompeting its Management Consulting Services Consolidated Schedule, and I chose to compete in Service Category 4: Executive Leadership Development and Customized Training—one of nine powerful categories, all dominated by big-name firms with deep pockets and armies of employees.
But here I am. A veteran, a founder, a team of one, pushing through multiple websites, platforms, registrations, certifications, documents, file formats, and yes—those relentless character count limits—just to be considered viable. To even get a seat at the table.
And I made it.
It was not easy. The process was time-consuming, mentally exhausting, and filled with moments of doubt. But it was also one of the best learning experiences I’ve had as a business owner.
And here’s what I want other small businesses—especially my fellow Veteran-Owned Small Businesses (VOSBs) and Service-Disabled Veteran-Owned Small Businesses (SDVOSBs)—to know:
If you don’t try, you can’t win.
The State of Florida spent over $82 million on management consulting services last year alone. That’s not just a number—it’s an opportunity. One that we, as small, capable, values-driven businesses, can pursue. If you have the right NAICS codes, the right mindset, and the willingness to navigate the process, there’s a real path forward.
Yes, the back-office requirements are real. But compared to the federal government, the state-level procurement process is far more accessible. You don’t need a team of ten compliance officers. You just need to be intentional, organized, and committed to understanding the rules of the game.
I don’t know if I’ll win this one. But I do know this:
- I now understand how the process works.
- I can replicate and refine my submission.
- I’ve proven to myself—and maybe to others—that I belong at the table.
- And I’m ready to bring in some of the most mission-driven leaders I know to serve with excellence.
To anyone else out there feeling like a one-person army going up against giants: keep going.
The journey matters. The learning is real. And your impact—when your moment comes—will be undeniable.
Navigating the Turbulent U.S. Federal Contracting Landscape
Introduction
Over the past several months, the U.S. federal contracting landscape has experienced significant turbulence. The implementation of hiring freezes, early retirements, and spending cuts has led to a slowdown in federal spending, leaving many agencies and contractors in a state of uncertainty. Drawing from firsthand insights from leaders within the IRS, USDA, DoD, VA, and other agencies, this post aims to shed light on the current challenges and potential future of federal contracting.
The Immediate Impact: A Contracting Slowdown
The extension of the federal hiring freeze through July 15, 2025, has had a profound effect on agency operations. Agencies are prohibited from filling vacant positions or creating new ones, with limited exceptions for roles related to national security and public safety . This has resulted in delayed contract awards, project cancellations, and a general hesitancy to initiate new solicitations.
For instance, the Department of Veterans Affairs is reviewing nearly $2 billion in contracts, with some terminations already announced . Similarly, the USDA has frozen funding for numerous grant programs, affecting projects that support farmers, small businesses, and food initiatives .
The Domino Effect on Contractors
The ripple effects of these federal actions are being felt across the contracting community. Many professional services contracts are being terminated, and the average sales cycle for federal contracts—often spanning three years—is being disrupted. Companies that have invested significant resources into shaping and pursuing these contracts now face the risk of sunk costs without the prospect of recouping their investments.
Moreover, the uncertainty surrounding the resumption of normal contracting activities has made strategic planning challenging. With leadership across various agencies unaware of when and how spending will restart, contractors are left in a precarious position, balancing the need to maintain readiness with the financial strain of prolonged inactivity.
A Glimmer of Hope: Long-Term Prospects
Despite the current challenges, there are reasons for cautious optimism. Historically, federal contracting has demonstrated resilience, rebounding after periods of austerity. The U.S. government remains the largest customer in the world, and its need for goods and services is enduring. Once the current constraints are lifted, there is potential for a surge in contracting activity to address backlogs and new priorities.
Note: For the most current information on federal contract opportunities and awards, visit SAM.gov.
