Blog Archives
Yesterday was a great day.
After working with a gentleman for about six months—almost exactly the amount of time since my wife passed—we received notification that the VA had granted him a 60% disability rating.
For him, this was a giant win.
He served two tours in the Marine Corps and is a Desert Shield/Desert Storm veteran. One period of his service unfortunately ended with a bad conduct discharge after some things happened while he was young and going through a divorce. But he also had an honorable period of service, and that mattered.
He had tried three times before to receive VA disability compensation. He had worked with VSOs, but from what I could see, nobody had really looked deeply enough at his entire military history or separated the different periods of his service to determine what conditions could legitimately be connected to his honorable service.
He was referred to me by a retired Navy captain who had known him since they were Junior ROTC kids. Now, decades later, this Marine had served his country, lived with the consequences of that service, battled cancer and other medical problems, and still had never received the benefits he had earned.
So we went to work.
I used the same process I use with everyone: slow down, build the timeline, look at where they served, what they did, what happened to them, what they were exposed to, and what conditions followed them home. Then claim what the evidence supports.
Yesterday, he got his answer: 60%.
That means meaningful tax-free monthly compensation and access to additional VA benefits that can make a real difference in his life.
And I have to tell you, this one felt particularly good.
The last six months have also been some of the hardest months of my own life. I am learning how to live after losing my wife. I don’t think you ever really “recover” from something like that. You learn how to carry it. You find reasons to get up, reasons to keep moving, and hopefully reasons to continue being useful to somebody else.
Yesterday was one of those reasons.
Helping this Marine finally receive recognition for conditions connected to his service reminded me why I continue doing this work.
I hope someone reading this who has been putting off filing a VA disability claim—or who filed before and gave up—will reconsider.
I often describe VA disability compensation simply as workers’ compensation for service members. If military service injured you, made you sick, or caused a condition that continues affecting you today, there is no shame in asking the government to honor that obligation.
You don’t have to exaggerate anything.
You don’t have to claim something that isn’t true.
You just have to do the work, document your story, and advocate for yourself.
Sometimes you may need someone beside you to help you do it.
Yesterday reminded me how thankful I am that, at this point in my own life, I get to be that person for somebody else.
The Torch Has Been Passed
I did not think this day could come. Even after my son raised his right hand, a part of me never truly believed I would one day watch him become an active duty service member.
I recently hung a Blue Star Service Flag in my window. It is a daily reminder that the next generation continues to answer our nation’s call, accepting personal risk for a higher calling.
As a young boy, I knew I was meant to serve. Throughout my Army career, I rarely thought about the danger. The mission always came first. It wasn’t until I was saying goodbye to my own children before deployments that I began to understand where the real burden was carried.
Today, I see that burden through different eyes.
I used to reassure my family by saying it was more dangerous driving to the base in Atlanta than serving in the area of operations or on a forward operating base. At the time, I believed it. It was easy to say because I was the one going.
It is different when it is your son.
Modern warfare is different with these drones. But Information is still limited, uncertainty is constant, and the waiting can be relentless. Yet one truth has never changed: the hardest part of military service is often carried by the families who remain behind.
I have always been proud to serve my country.
Today, I am equally proud—and humbled—to be the father of someone who has chosen to do the same.
The torch has been passed. My prayers now travel with him, his wife, and every family waiting faithfully at home.
When the Ramps Found Their Next Home
Yesterday was a good day.
My neighbor is a Vietnam veteran. Neuropathy has slowly been taking its toll on his legs and lower back, and lately he’s been falling more often. While talking with his daughter, who cares for him, she mentioned they wished they had a safer way to get down the front steps.
“Hold on a second,” I said.
I walked across to my garage and brought back the two ramps for Sherri. Within minutes, we had them secured to their front steps. Just like that, they had a safer way for him to get in and out of his home.
It made me think.
It took us nearly a year to realize how much we truly needed those ramps. When you’re caring for someone with an incurable illness, watching them slowly lose their mobility, your mind is consumed by the next appointment, the next medication, the next crisis. Something as seemingly simple as installing a ramp somehow becomes another impossible decision. Which ramp? What angle? How do you secure it? Will it be safe? None of it feels simple when you’re living under constant pressure.
Yesterday, those hard-earned lessons allowed me to help someone else before it was too late. My neighbor gets to use the ramps while he can still walk with assistance, preserving a little more independence and, hopefully, preventing another fall.
I know Sherri loved this.
Even though she’s no longer here, her kindness continues to reach people she’ll never meet. Those ramps once carried her safely home. Now they’re helping a veteran like her father do the same.
Maybe that’s one of the quiet gifts of love. It doesn’t end when a life ends. It simply finds another person who needs it.
Yesterday wasn’t just about a couple of aluminum ramps.
It was another reminder that Sherri is still making the world a little better—through the people she changed, the lessons she taught, and the love she left behind.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
