Blog Archives
Racing to Help Others
This was LOUJSWZ Inc.’s first promotion supporting Miles to Go, a local nonprofit helping people experiencing homelessness throughout Orange County.
What a great feeling it was to give back—not only by supporting such a worthwhile organization, but also by helping others participate in the race and contribute to an important cause. Seeing our community come together reminded me that even a small company can make a meaningful difference.
I am especially grateful to my clients. The work we do together provides the resources that allow LOUJSWZ Inc. to support organizations like Miles to Go. By trusting us to help improve their lives and businesses, our clients also help us give back and lift others toward a better place.
This race represented more than crossing a finish line. It was about community, gratitude, and putting our values into action.
Thank you to Miles to Go, every participant and volunteer, and especially our clients for helping make this possible. This may have been our first promotion supporting a charitable organization, but it will not be our last.
At LOUJSWZ Inc., success means more when it helps someone else succeed.
Area Beautification
In 1988, I arrived at basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Our command sergeant major—a tough, larger-than-life woman in what was then an overwhelmingly male environment—made an immediate impression on me. She was known to put her hand inside a toilet to make sure it had actually been cleaned. That tells you about everything you need to know.
One day, she stood in front of the formation and called out, “Are there any farmers out there? Any farmers?”
She wasn’t looking for agricultural advice. She wanted soldiers for her area beautification program.
I wasn’t selected, but for some strange reason, I always wanted to be part of it. In the Army back then, “area beautification” could mean painting rocks, picking up cigarette butts, pulling weeds or even cutting grass with scissors. Some of it seemed ridiculous, but there was a lesson behind it: take pride in where you live and work. Make your small piece of the world cleaner, more organized and better than you found it.
Apparently, that lesson stayed with me.
Recently, a woman I have known for seven years was promoted to lead the organization where I exercise. She was a friend of my wife, Sherri, and she also helped train my daughter. I wanted to recognize her promotion, but I didn’t want to simply give her a gift card or something that would soon be forgotten. I wanted to do something she could see every morning when she arrived at work.
So I finally joined the area beautification program—only about 38 years late.
I made a plan and spent about an hour and a half cleaning and improving the area in front of the building. I even created a small version of the organization’s symbol, hoping to add a little esprit de corps.
While I worked, several people stopped to tell me how nice it looked and how much they appreciated what I was doing. I didn’t explain the reason. I was simply cleaning up an area and making it a little more welcoming.
Leadership lessons often appear in the smallest actions. Leading by example does not always require a title, recognition or financial reward. Sometimes leadership is simply noticing something that could be better—and taking responsibility for making it better.
More importantly, the gesture made her feel appreciated. It brought people together, strengthened our sense of community and made the place we share a little more special.
And I felt pretty good about it too.
I guess that command sergeant major knew what she was doing after all.
Don’t Leave a Service Member Behind: Empowering Veterans to Navigate VA Disability Benefits
Most of my veteran clients come to me the old-fashioned way: through referrals and word of mouth.
I am not currently accredited by the Department of Veterans Affairs, although I began that process nearly three years ago. About a year ago, the VA contacted me to ask if I was still interested. I told them absolutely. Since then, I have been waiting to hear back.
In the meantime, veterans continue to need help.
Recently, a veteran over the age of 50 was referred to me. He was rated at 60% disability but was afraid to file any additional claims because he had heard a common myth: “If I ask for more, the VA will take away what I already have.”
After reviewing his file, we discovered that a bilateral condition had never been properly claimed. The issue wasn’t that he was asking for something new—the original rating simply wasn’t correct.
Within two weeks, his rating increased from 60% to 80%.
We then identified several secondary conditions that were directly related to his service-connected disabilities. Within two months, his rating increased again to 90%.
But the most important part of this story is not the rating increase.
Throughout the process, I taught him how the VA disability system works. I explained evidence requirements, secondary conditions, effective dates, and how to build a strong claim.
Armed with that knowledge, he continued the process himself.
Today, he has achieved the correct rating of 100%.
That is success.
Not because I helped him. Because he learned how to help himself.
The Numbers Tell the Story
There are approximately 6 million veterans who have never been evaluated for VA disability compensation. Many left military service before programs such as the Benefits Delivery at Discharge (BDD) process became common.
At the same time, there are only about 2,000 accredited Veterans Service Officers (VSOs) across the country.
Let’s do the math.
Assume:
- A compensation claim review takes an average of 135 days (midpoint between 120 and 150 days).
- A VSO works 40 hours per week.
- A VSO works 50 weeks per year.
Even if every VSO could somehow manage one complete compensation review every 135 days, the system could only process about 5,400 veterans per year nationwide.
At that rate, it would take more than 1,100 years to review 6 million veterans.
Even if we assume far greater efficiency, the reality remains the same:
There are far more veterans needing assistance than there are professionals available to help them.
The Solution: Veteran Helping Veteran
We cannot solve this challenge by relying solely on VSOs, attorneys, claims agents, or consultants.
We must empower veterans.
Every veteran who learns how the system works should help another veteran.
Every veteran who successfully navigates the process should teach someone else.
Every veteran who receives benefits they earned should encourage a fellow service member to get evaluated.
The goal is not dependence.
The goal is education.
The goal is confidence.
The goal is ensuring that every veteran understands the benefits they earned through their service.
The veteran in this story did exactly that. He overcame fear, learned the process, achieved the correct rating, and is now in a position to help others.
That is how we create a force multiplier.
One veteran helping another.
Then another.
Then another.
Because at the end of the day, we all swore an oath to leave no one behind.
That principle should not end when military service does.
Don’t leave a service member behind. Help them get the benefits they earned. Teach them how the process works. Empower them to help the next veteran.
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.
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.
The Front Lines of Cancer
Yesterday, we reached acceptance. Not surrender — not quitting — but an understanding: this cancer is incurable. It continues to spread slowly, like a snake coiling itself around its prey.
And yet, in the middle of it all, there is beauty.
Our youngest is in high school now. She wakes up on her own, gets ready, eats breakfast. She is excited about life. She’s playing lacrosse, wants to go to practice, wants to do well in school. It’s such a good time.
The other night, my wife told her that she wanted her to have her wedding ring. Tears came, but then laughter too, as our daughter said it was too small for her finger. Somehow, the moment turned to a joke about making it into a “grill” for our dog with the terrible underbite. This is life and love — sorrow and laughter tangled together.
This weekend, our oldest came home. She’s about to start graduate school after years of working. She asked her mother, “Are you going to die?” My wife, steady as ever, said: “I will — but I don’t intend to do it soon. You need to go to graduate school and live your life. This is your dream. Keep going.” Then she gave her the diamond pendant we had made from her mother’s stone. They cried for hours.
One of our sons is getting married in October and then heading into the military. We already have our plane tickets and hotel. No setbacks. We will be there. We’ve become experts in travel planning and stress mitigation, as Sherri can only manage about two hours of chair time a day. No setbacks — we so want to be there.
And then there’s our granddaughter. Just 18 months old, already going down slides. We watched the video of her laughing all the way, and it filled us with joy.
It is a wonderful time.
That might sound strange to say, but it’s true. In these trying days, every moment of laughter, every milestone, every piece of ordinary life feels even more precious. The weight of suffering sharpens the beauty of joy. And when you know that time is short, you hold tighter to the moments that matter most.
Every morning, I bring her breakfast in bed
Every morning, I bring her breakfast in bed. Whatever she wants—peanut butter on a waffle, an apple, crispy bacon, a bowl of raisin bran, sous ve eggs—I make it. Most days, she’ll stick to the same thing for days, even weeks. It’s a small thing, but it’s the least I can do for all she endures.
She can’t walk anymore. The electric wheelchair gives her about an hour and a half of mobility before the pain forces her to lie down. The cancer has spread to her bones. Yet, somehow, she still smiles. She still refuses to give up.
Breakfast has always been my favorite meal. Now its much more than that, its a check in with a smile still here.
Two Hours for a Shower—And a Lifetime of Love
Today it took two hours to help my wife, take a shower in our own home.
Two hours of lifting and moving, of prepping and adjusting.
Unhooking her IV.
Unwrapping layers of dressings and wound care.
Lining the shower with towels and placing the chair just right.
Washing her hair, combing it gently.
Finding clothes that work for a body in pain.
Changing the linens, warming the room, preparing her toothbrush—preloaded with toothpaste because her hands don’t work anymore.
Two hours of effort.
For 30 minutes of normalcy.
For 10 minutes of comfort.
For one more moment of feeling clean and human.
And then back to bed, with the “bear hugger” blowing warm air to keep her body from freezing. Her body can’t regulate temperature anymore.
She smiled when it was over.
But she’s tired.
I’m tired.
And tomorrow… she faces her third surgery in just 60 days.
We had held on to hope that she could go on the family trip to Japan—something she’s been dreaming of for a year. But this new surgery means she’ll stay behind, once again watching life from the sidelines of recovery.
That’s what cancer does. That’s what infection does. That’s what caregiving is.
It takes things—quietly, relentlessly.
It takes time, energy, tears, sleep, plans, dreams, vacations, strength.
But we keep giving. Because love gives.
I won’t give up hope.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not on her.
She’s still here. Still smiling through it. Still fighting. Still loving us in her own quiet way.
So we’ll keep going.
One day at a time.
One shower at a time.
One breath at a time.
Because this is what love looks like when it’s on the battlefield.
