Serendipity
There are moments in life that feel accidental at first glance, but later settle into your heart as something much deeper. Moments where friendship, love, timing, grief, and grace all quietly intersect in a way that cannot simply be explained away as coincidence.
This past week, I took my first trip in four years without the overwhelming dread or guilt of leaving my wife behind. That alone felt strange to me. For years, every decision, every outing, every mile traveled carried the weight of caregiving and concern. Even moments that should have been joyful often carried an undercurrent of worry.
But this trip was different.
I traveled to Charleston to attend the graduation of the son of one of my classmates from our alma mater. It was a wonderful celebration filled with memories, laughter, and the strange realization that time continues to move forward whether we are ready for it or not. I stayed with another longtime classmate who still works at the school, and for a few days, I was surrounded by nearly forty years of friendship and shared history.
The morning after the celebration, I woke early and sat having coffee with my friend’s wife, someone I have also known for nearly four decades. We spoke quietly in that way people do in the early morning, before the world fully wakes up.
She shared how they had recently moved her parents from Maine to live near them in an independent living facility. Her father suffers from Alzheimer’s, and her mother from dementia. We talked about the difficult reality families face when navigating those diseases.
One of the strange truths about Alzheimer’s is that, as horrible as it is, there is often a somewhat defined progression. Dementia, however, can be incredibly broad and unpredictable. Symptoms vary wildly. Behaviors change suddenly. Good days and difficult days arrive without warning. For families who have never walked through it before, it can be exhausting, confusing, heartbreaking, and frustrating all at once.
Even after only a couple of months, I could already see the emotional toll it was taking on her.
She explained how her mother had insisted on hip surgery because she believed it would improve her quality of life, but instead, it had left her nearly immobile.
And immediately, my mind went to Sherri’s scooter.
For months, it had been sitting quietly in Sherri’s office gathering dust. A bright pink mobility scooter that no one else could ever possibly mistake for their own.
Of course it was pink.
Sherri insisted on pink.
Not just any pink scooter either. I had to drive more than one hundred miles to find one because she refused to settle for anything less than the exact shade she wanted to match her love of Lilly Pulitzer colors and style. Then she decorated it herself. She made a Lilly Pulitzer-style cover for the back seat, and because she was so tiny, we even added a piece of pink foam so her feet could comfortably reach the pedal.
That scooter was unmistakably hers.
As my friend’s wife spoke, I realized that the scooter sitting unused in Orlando could suddenly become something meaningful again.
I told her, “I have something that can help.”
It is amazing how easy it is nowadays to move something across the country. There truly is an app for everything. Within a short period of time, I found a kind gentleman willing to transport the scooter from Orlando to Charleston the very next day.
And just like that, Sherri’s little pink scooter was headed north to help another family carrying a burden of love and caregiving.
I sat there afterward thinking about how strange and beautiful life can sometimes be.
What are the odds that I would finally take my first trip away?
What are the odds that this conversation would happen over early morning coffee?
What are the odds that a scooter sitting unused for months would suddenly become exactly what another family needed?
Some people call that coincidence.
I do not.
I believe there are moments of divine intervention woven quietly into our lives. Moments where love continues moving long after someone is gone. Moments where friendship creates opportunities for compassion. Moments where grief transforms into purpose.
Serendipity is a funny thing. It often arrives carrying both sorrow and joy at the same time.
What touched me most was realizing that even now, Sherri is still helping people.
Even now, her kindness, personality, style, stubbornness, humor, and love are still moving through the world in tangible ways. A pink scooter decorated by her own hands is now going to reduce the burden on another daughter caring for her parents.
And honestly, I think that would make Sherri smile.
Life can be unbelievably difficult. Illness, loss, aging, caregiving, and grief all remind us how fragile we really are. But friendship, love, and compassion remind us that none of us were ever meant to carry those burdens alone.
Sometimes the greatest acts of grace are not the massive miracles.
Sometimes they are simply a cup of coffee, an old friendship, a heartfelt conversation, and a pink scooter finding its next purpose exactly when it is needed most.
When I think of Sherri,
The first thing I think about is her aura. Sherri had a golden aura, like a sunrise—quiet, calm, and bright, full of promise.
The first time I saw her in person was on our first date. It was at Seasons 52 on the perimeter in North Atlanta. I was sitting at the bar eagerly awaiting to finally meet her.
When I turned and saw her, I was struck by her refined, elegant presence and her physical beauty. I felt her aura immediately. I knew in that instant through her smile that there was something extraordinary about her. Yes, she was physically beautiful, but it was always so much more than that.
Long before I saw her face, I had already come to know her character through months of writing to each other through emails as we seemed so busy with life to meet. She had strength, depth, and a goodness that shined from within. I had read it in every email she wrote and this aura I felt proved it.
Her life shaped the strength that all of us came to admire. Born in Vietnam during the war in a U.S Army Hospital. She was raised in a family that through all the setbacks they never gave up on each other. Losing both of her parents in tragic accidents at a young age, she still rose above every hardship. She worked full time, cared for her siblings, and earned both her undergraduate and graduate degrees paying for her schooling herself. She never bragged about any of it as that wasn’t Sherri. She was a woman of action not words. Extraordinary in every way, yet humble enough to rarely speak of herself.
Sherri was the most patient person I have ever known, and when I say patient, I mean years, hell she was married to me. She saw the good in people even when others could not. She listened beyond words. That was one of her greatest gifts. No matter the country, culture, or language, people felt her kindness, her serenity, and her goodness. Animals felt it too. Every creature we had, naturally found their way to her. She made every living thing feel safe but she was also tough.
She was very tough, but always fair. That fairness is why she rose in positions at State Farm, where she led hundreds by her daily example of servant leadership. I still smile thinking about a day in Las Vegas working for State Farm. She was handling an accident claim for Andre the Giant. I think we all have heard of him but if you haven’t, he was a world-famous professional wrestler that stood 7 foot 10 and weighed 500 pounds. His Rolls-Royce had been hit, and he was furious that the rental car did not match the kind of vehicle he was used to driving. He demanded to come into the office and deal with her face-to-face. That poor fellow had no idea who he was dealing with. Our Sherri, never intimidated by anyone, calmly handled the situation and sent him on his way satisfied, I assume with a regular car that he was due. That was her—steady, fearless, fair, and always in command without ever raising her voice. She was strong without ever making a person feel small.
She had vision in everything she did—whether it was leadership, fashion, family, or the way she could see the ripple effects of decisions four and five levels deep. I used to say if I had known Sherri when I first came into the military, I would have been a four-star general, because she had that rare ability to bring people together and lead them without ever needing the title. She was the matriarch of our family.
I relied on her so much. To smooth things, I roughed up. To make it all better for us all. Everyone asked her without knowing to do that for them. She was our Sage. She just made us better.
In the hardest chapter of her life and her life was hard; she showed us all what true strength and love looked like.
I do not think you can fully understand her character until you understand what she endured in her final years. The pain she carried, the stoicism she showed, the way she kept smiling even in the most horrific moments and through it all she was still thinking and doing for others.
When her body was gone, she endured for her family to be here for as long as she could; she never never gave up. In the middle of her own suffering, she gave counsel from the bed side and listened to all of her friends and family while telling them everything would be ok. For the last year she could not walk, Her mouth was disfigured from the malignancies. She suffered six broken bones from the pressure, eleven hospital stays and surgeries, every movement was painful but she was always smiling. The last picture I have of her was with a Reese’s peanut butter cup and her smile the day before she died.
Sherri was my Briar Rose, my partner, my example of grace, toughness, fairness, beauty, and vision. She had a way of making people feel seen, heard, and loved.
Her life was not only beautiful in how she lived it, but in how she lifted every one of us around her.
And though her physical presence is gone, her aura—the same golden aura I felt the first time I saw her—still rises with us
and will always rise with us every new day.
May she rest in peace.
What is planted in love is rarely lost.
After the freeze, I posted a question on “Nextdoor” about our Kent Mango trees. I asked; are they beyond saving? They were so badly burned in the bitter frost even though I covered them and wet them. A gentlemen posted a response to cut them to the stump and they might grow back.
I hesitated for a month or two. I first cut the leaves, then the branches, then finally all the way to the stump. It’s been a month or two now, maybe even three.
I have lost track of time since Sherri has passed. I had given up on the two little Kent Mango trees. Her favorite variety. It took me months to find them for her.
Lo and behold, they’ve come back.
Sherri’s gone now.
I planted these trees for her. She did get to see them and they did even bloom once, but the frost killed them. But did it really? Like Sherri, they’re still here..
Like Sherri, everything she touched, is still here, still growing, still shining.
Her physical presence was touched by something so cruel and final, and yet what she planted in this world—through love, service, grace, banana bread, courage, family, and the way she made people feel seen—did not die with the frost. It remained in the roots of everyone she loved.
It will always be.
The Missing Millions: Why So Many Veterans Still Lack Disability Ratings
In the United States today, a significant portion of the veteran population remains without a service-connected disability rating—even though many receive ongoing care from the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA). This gap affects millions and stems from long-standing structural issues and common misunderstandings.
How Many Veterans Are Unrated?
Recent federal data shows:
17.8 million veterans currently live in the U.S.
Only 5.2 million (about 30%) have a service-connected disability rating.
That leaves roughly 12.5 million veterans without a rating, including an estimated 6 million who separated before disability assessments became part of the mandatory out-processing process.
Before the mid-1990s and early 2000s reforms, the DoD did not require a disability evaluation as part of separation or retirement. Millions of veterans left service with no assessment and never filed later simply because the process was unclear or unknown.
Two VA Systems — and They Don’t Communicate
A critical fact many veterans do not know:
VA Healthcare and VA Disability Compensation are completely separate systems.
Receiving VA medical care does not create or update a disability rating.
Diagnoses, imaging, or treatment inside VA healthcare records are not reviewed for disability compensation unless a veteran files a claim.
No condition—primary or secondary—moves into the disability system automatically.
Many veterans assume that being treated for chronic pain, orthopedic injuries, sleep issues, or mental health conditions means their disability file is being updated. It isn’t. Only a formal claim triggers review.
The Impact on Veterans
Millions of veterans who never filed a claim at all.
Veterans with worsening conditions who never requested rating increases.
VA healthcare patients with serious diagnoses that were never evaluated for service-connection.
Missed compensation, lost benefits, and reduced access to programs tied to rating thresholds.
A single misconception—“VA healthcare updates my disability rating”—can cost a veteran years of deserved benefits.
What Every Veteran Should Do Now
To ensure disability benefits reflect current health conditions, veterans should:
1. Review their conditions regularly
Check for new diagnoses, worsening symptoms, or secondary conditions.
2. File new or supplemental claims
Use VA.gov, mail, or accredited submission channels to request evaluation.
3. Understand the system
VA healthcare records do not update disability ratings. A claim must be submitted.
4. Track secondary conditions
Issues like sleep apnea, depression, migraines, radiculopathy, GERD, or joint degeneration often stem from service-connected primaries.
Veterans who separated before mandatory disability evaluations around 2010 are especially vulnerable because many were never informed of the modern process.
Closing the Gap
With only ~30% of veterans holding a disability rating—and millions eligible but unrated—awareness is essential. Understanding that VA healthcare and VA disability compensation operate independently is the first step toward ensuring every veteran receives the benefits they earned through service.
Need Help Understanding Your Claim Path?
If you or a veteran you know is unsure about eligibility, secondary conditions, or how to properly file, guidance is available. Filing a claim is not automatic—but it can be straightforward when you understand the rules and requirements.
A Journey to Acceptance: My Eye-Opening Experience with Medical Marijuana
I was born and raised in Miami, Florida — in the middle of chaos and change. The city I grew up in during the 70s and 80s was a powder keg of race riots, refugees, and drugs. Miami was overrun — and that’s putting it kindly. Cocaine, marijuana, and the war on drugs were everywhere.
I never touched any of it. Not once.
It was a badge of honor, a personal vow. My father was a judge, and I took pride in the discipline that kept me away from substances that, to me, represented weakness and failure. I saw alcohol as adult, social, and controlled. Marijuana? That was for the lost.
For most of my life, I never questioned that belief.
But life has a way of testing the walls we build around our certainty.
When my wife’s illness began to take over our nights, sleep became hard. She was in constant pain, and nothing — not the pills, not the prescriptions, not the endless “next options” — brought her relief without a cost. Then one night, she tried a simple gummy. She slept through the night.
That experience made me aware — painfully so — of my own hypocrisy. While she found healing through a plant I had long dismissed, I was numbing myself each night with alcohol — not to enjoy, but to stop feeling, to force sleep. I told myself it was normal, acceptable, even earned. But it wasn’t helping.
It wasn’t until I was helping a client — a veteran — through her VA disability claim that the truth caught up with me. She confided in me about her fear of admitting she used marijuana to manage anxiety and sleep. I told her what I believed: that she shouldn’t be ashamed, that seeking help isn’t weakness, and that medical care, when legal and responsible, is private and protected.
Then it hit me like a mirror.
How could I coach her toward honesty and healing while denying myself the same?
That same day, I called my wife’s physician, scheduled an appointment, and applied for my medical marijuana card. Since then, I take a gummy every night. I sleep. I think more clearly. I drink less. I feel present.
My view has changed completely — not because of politics or persuasion, but because of experience. What I once called weakness, I now see as wisdom. The real weakness was refusing to see past my own judgment.
In Florida, medical marijuana has been lawful since 2016. But for me, it only became personal when life humbled me enough to listen.
The more I experience life, the more I understand that nothing truly changes until we become aware. Awareness brings empathy, and empathy brings wisdom. And wisdom — I’ve learned — is not the privilege of youth, but the product of life lived honestly.
How to Add Evidence to Your VA Disability Claim
I have been getting the title of the this alot.
Yes, you can add evidence to a VA disability claim after it has been submitted, as long as the claim is still open (not yet decided). Great example, is you decide to have a provider complete the VAs DBQ as your medical evidence is limited and it was after you already pressed submit. Some claims take several months so you shouldn’t worry about not submitting it.
Here are your options depending on the stage of your claim:
✅ If the claim is still in progress (Pending / Under Review):
You can submit additional evidence directly via:
- VA.gov (log in → go to your claim → “Upload documents”) Only method I recommend
- Mail to: Department of Veterans Affairs
Claims Intake Center
PO Box 4444
Janesville, WI 53547-4444
(Use a VA Form 21-4138 or 20-10210 to explain what you’re submitting) - Fax: 844-531-7818 (for domestic) or 248-524-4260 (international)
- Mail to: Department of Veterans Affairs
Be sure to include:
- Your VA file number or SSN
- The specific claim it relates to
- A clear description of what the evidence is and why it’s relevant
If a decision has already been made: (you got your claim letter back from the VA)
You cannot just “add” evidence—you’ll need to take one of these steps:
| Scenario | Action | Form |
|---|---|---|
| You’re still within the 1-year appeal window | File a Supplemental Claim | VA Form 20-0995. do it online and your lay letters don’t have to be on the official form |
| You think a clear error was made | File a Higher-Level Review | VA Form 20-0996 do it online and your lay letters don’t have to be on the official form |
| You want a hearing with a judge (last last resort) | File a Board Appeal (18 months!) | VA Form 10182 do it online and your lay letters don’t have to be on the official form |
In all three cases, you can submit new evidence (except during Higher-Level Review, where no new evidence is allowed).
Hope this helps folks out there!
What will my life be like in 3 years?
I dare not answer the question.
That was my first response when someone asked where I see myself in three years. Without hesitation, fear stepped in — not fear of failure, but fear of imagining life beyond now. Beyond her.
Yesterday, my wife finalized her cremation plans. I’ve done this before — for my sister, for my father. Each time, it became a necessary transaction. Paperwork, signatures, polite condolences exchanged over a table that felt too small for the weight in the room. The funeral director came to the house. We completed the forms. She paid for her services. Efficient. Respectful. Businesslike.
It’s best to do this before it happens, they say — so there’s one less thing to cause anxiety and pain.
But is that really true? Or is it that I just didn’t want to do this again?
Because the truth is, no matter how many times I’ve faced loss, I still don’t know how to prepare for it. I can manage logistics, but not emotions. I can sign the papers, but not the permission slip to move forward.
When I think about the future — traveling, my children, my new grandbaby — I feel guilty. There’s a horrible tension between the yearning to be free and the desperate wish for this stage of life to never end. How do you reconcile wanting relief and wanting permanence at the same time?
Maybe that’s what being human really is — living inside the contradiction.
We spend our lives trying to control time, plan for tomorrow, build systems, write goals. But life keeps reminding us it doesn’t belong to us. It moves with or without our consent.
Three years from now, I don’t know where I’ll be. Maybe I’ll be standing somewhere new, lighter but not the same. Maybe I’ll still wake up some mornings expecting to hear her voice. Maybe I’ll finally find a kind of peace in the not-knowing.
Because the truth is, none of us can control life. We can only honor it
Where will I be in 3 years…..
It Takes a Village: The Realities of End-of-Life Care
Yesterday was one of the hardest days yet. My wife, Sherri, whispered that she wished for death. Her pain was unbearable, even through layers of medication. Her bed sore reopened, two abscesses formed in her mouth, and the ache from her brittle bones and unhealed surgical site—after eight surgeries, two wound vacuums, and countless antibiotics—was relentless.
We took her to the dentist, who could do little more than write a referral to an oral surgeon. In that moment, I realized what Sherri already knew: sometimes, the course of care no longer offers a path worth taking. The procedures, the pain, the waiting—none promise comfort or meaningful recovery.
Yet, it takes a village. Her sister, her cousin, and her circle of friends have become our lifeline. Their presence gives her strength. She lights up when they visit, laughs, and feels alive again. But the cost is steep—those moments of joy are followed by hours of exhaustion and pain. Now, every visit, every appointment must be weighed against what it will take from her.
I see couples in the hospital—older than us—one sick, one trying to navigate the maze of care while barely able to support themselves. Too often, they end up alone in nursing homes, fading quietly. I’m grateful I’m still strong enough to help Sherri, even if I know there will be a toll later.
End-of-life care isn’t about heroics or procedures—it’s about presence. It’s about conserving what’s left of the body’s strength and surrounding the spirit with love. The truth is, medical science can extend life, but only community—family, faith, and friendship—can make it worth living.
When Love Meets the Machine
Day eight of what was supposed to be a three-day stay.
That sentence alone tells you everything about the state of modern healthcare.
As the disease progresses, it creates complications. Those complications summon specialists—each skilled, each confident, each siloed. They gather to form what they call a “care team,” but to the family it feels more like a committee meeting in slow motion.
Every decision takes time.
Every delay steals time.
Consensus becomes a currency that the patient can no longer afford to spend.
To them, this is process.
To us, it is life slipping away.
I find myself fighting thoughts I wish I didn’t have—the kind that whisper that the longer they keep her, the more they bill. That every new consult means another code, another line item, another form. I hate thinking that way. But when you’ve seen the system from the inside, you know how profit hides behind protocol.
Now, her body bears the evidence of the wait—bedsores, failed IVs, and pain so sharp it carves through every ounce of composure. Even the specialists with ultrasound guidance can’t find a vein. The solution: another procedure, another trip to the OR for a Hickman line. More anesthesia. More risk. More time.
And through it all, one question hangs in the air like a prayer caught in the static of bureaucracy: Can she just come home?
But to come home requires insurance approval, a signature in a portal, a code entered correctly. Somewhere between the nurse’s station and the insurance carrier, humanity gets lost. They don’t see her tears or hear her moans—they see a “case.” A “chart.” A “treatment plan.” While we watch the clock, waiting for Dilaudid that’s overdue and for someone—anyone—to notice that time is the one thing she doesn’t have.
This is what it feels like when love collides with a machine.
Compassionate Leadership in Consulting
Stability & Trust: Reflecting reliability and strength (rooted in veteran service).
Warmth & Compassion: Illuminating your human-centered, service-first orientation.
Professionalism & Clarity: Emphasizing structured, results-driven consulting.
Personal Touch: Highlighting individualized support and leadership.
