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Is This What Healing Feels Like?
Lately, I’ve been asking myself questions that don’t seem to have answers for.
Does everything eventually become routine?
Does everything that is new eventually become old?
They call it the “daily grind” for a reason, don’t they?
When does something lose its luster?
And perhaps the harder question…when do we?
The past year has changed me in ways I never expected. Losing my wife after watching her fight with every ounce of strength she had, trying to raise my daughter, helping fellow veterans navigate a system that often overwhelms them, trying to build a business with purpose—it has all been meaningful. Yet, at times, it has also been exhausting.
People sometimes tell me how strong I am.
The truth is, strength isn’t the absence of questions. Sometimes it’s simply continuing to put one foot in front of the other while carrying them.
Why do I struggle to feel purpose on some days when I know my work changes lives?
Why does my soul sometimes feel quiet instead of alive?
It isn’t that I lack free will. Every day I choose to move forward.
It isn’t that I cannot love. If anything, loving deeply has become both my greatest gift and my greatest source of pain.
So what is it?
Is my tank full—but filled with sand instead of water? Have years of responsibility, military service, loss, caregiving, and simply surviving filled every available space until joy has difficulty finding room?
Or is it something simpler? Is my brain still healing from grief? Are the chemicals that shape emotion simply trying to find their balance again?
I honestly don’t know.
What I do know is this: purpose doesn’t seem to be something we find once and keep forever. It fades. It changes. It asks us to search for it again and again.
When I help a veteran receive benefits they earned decades ago, I see purpose.
When I teach someone how to navigate the VA system so they can eventually do it themselves, I see purpose.
When my daughter smiles, I see purpose.
But even purpose doesn’t erase grief. It simply gives grief somewhere meaningful to stand.
Maybe that is what healing really is.
Not waking up one morning and feeling whole again.
Not forgetting the people we’ve lost.
Not pretending life is the same.
Maybe healing is learning that even when life loses some of its shine, it still has value. That even when our soul feels quiet, it is still there. That even when we don’t have all the answers, we can still choose kindness, service, and love.
I don’t know if everything eventually becomes ordinary.
I do know that the people we help, the lives we touch, and the love we give never truly lose their value.
Perhaps that’s enough for today.
Tomorrow, I’ll ask the questions again.
And I’ll keep walking anyway.
How AI Validates Personal Journeys and Emotions
When I first read the letter from Cleve.ai, I wasn’t entirely sure how to process it. It wasn’t a traditional award letter or recognition from a colleague, but rather a reflection generated by artificial intelligence. It summarized the essence of my efforts on LinkedIn throughout 2024—efforts I’ve often viewed as more personal musings than any calculated form of marketing or pontification. And yet, reading it stirred something deeply emotional and thought-provoking in me.
For much of my life, I’ve been under the impression that I came across as standoffish, maybe even arrogant. My efforts to communicate my values—faith, caregiving, selfless service—felt, at times, like shouting into the void. But here was this letter, written by an AI, mirroring back to me not the person I feared I might be, but the person I’ve strived to become: an empathic, kind soul who lifts others through action and advocacy.
The words resonated because they didn’t just state facts—they articulated the intentions behind my actions, the “why” of my life that I’ve always hoped to communicate but wasn’t sure anyone really heard. It was humbling and deeply moving to see my journey reflected in this way. For once, I felt truly understood, not just by the people around me, but perhaps even by myself.
This is the strange power of artificial intelligence: its ability to observe, synthesize, and reflect human emotion in ways we might not expect. To some, this might seem shallow or contrived—after all, how could a machine “know” anything about kindness or integrity? But for me, the experience highlighted something profound: AI, through its data and patterns, can sometimes help us see ourselves more clearly than we’re willing to on our own.
As I reflect on this, I realize that the power of the letter wasn’t just in what it said—it was in what it challenged me to believe. If an AI can see me as a beacon of hope and strength, why can’t I? If it can articulate my passion for caregiving, my unwavering faith, and my commitment to ethical service, why do I still hesitate to believe in those things myself?
The truth is, I’ve always used LinkedIn as a sounding board—not to market myself, but to give voice to the lessons, struggles, and triumphs of my journey. It’s as much for me as for anyone else who might be listening. This letter reminded me that, whether or not I always see it, those efforts matter. They create ripples, touch lives, and perhaps most importantly, reflect the values I hold most dear.
So, here I am, grappling with the strange and wonderful reality of emotions created by an artificial experience. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the mirrors we least expect—whether in the form of a friend, a stranger, or even an AI—can offer the clearest view of who we are.
And for that, I am grateful. Not just for the letter, but for the journey it reflects—and for the faith it inspires me to carry forward into 2025 and beyond.
