Now it’s my kids.

Twenty-five. Twenty-three. Twenty-one. All standing at that awkward, unsteady edge of adulthood, trying to figure out who they are and where they’re going. Watching it stresses me out more than I care to admit. I want clarity for them. Stability. Forward momentum. A clean, sensible path.

And yet.

When I look back on my own early twenties, I was an absolute mess.

I was figuring it out in real time, making dumb mistakes, second-guessing everything, and thinking every decision was permanent when none of them were. And somehow, that period—the confusion, the uncertainty, the chaos—is one of the most fondly remembered stretches of my life.

I want that for my kids. Not the suffering, exactly—but the right kind of struggle. The post-college figuring-it-out years. Eating way too much cheap ramen and taking jobs that aren’t great but teach you something anyway—making choices that feel huge but turn out to be stepping stones.

After college, I lived at home and worked a truly crap job while studying for the LSAT. Then I moved into the city, went to law school, watched a lot of Mystery Science Theater 3000, drank martinis, and dated a girl who was all sorts of wrong for me. I hung out with Dave—who went to a different law school but whom I’d met at that awful job—and we stumbled our way through our twenties together.

Then there was the same wrong girl, but also weekends golfing with coworkers, wandering through shops in Wrigleyville, and what I now recognize as one small adventure after another. At the time, it didn’t feel magical. It felt uncertain. Unsettled. But looking back, it feels cinematic—like a live-action Richard Linklater movie where nothing much happens except life itself.

I don’t want to deny my kids that. I don’t want to rush them past the messy middle just because it makes me anxious. I want to be mindful—more mindful than my own parents probably were—that this phase isn’t fun while you’re in it, but it becomes meaningful with time.

So I’m here. To support them. To worry quietly. To trust the process even when it makes me uncomfortable.

And I’m also here to keep making memories of my own.

For most of my life, I’ve been able to look at whatever stage I was in and say, This is the best one yet. Somewhere along the way, I lost that perspective. I don’t want to stay stuck there.

My kids are becoming who they’re meant to be. I’m still becoming who I’m meant to be too.

I need to get back to believing that this—right now—is still the best chapter yet.

The other day, my oldest friend—the one I met in kindergarten, went through primary and secondary school with, and then roomed with in college—turned 60.

That stopped me cold.

It’s blowing my mind, in a good way. I can’t believe we’re that old. (To be fair, I don’t turn 60 for another three months, but let’s not split hairs.) Sixty sounds… ancient. And yet it doesn’t feel ancient at all.

It feels like yesterday we were in high school. Even more so, college. My best friend is still my college roommate, and even though I’ve known him for 41 years—holy cow—it still feels like I met him last week. Time compresses like that when the connection sticks.

Every morning I wake up next to the perfect woman for me. Maybe not everyone’s cup of tea, but absolutely mine. It blows my mind that we’ve been married for 27 years and together for 29 (or something like that—I honestly don’t know the exact math anymore). I remember our first date like it just happened. The details are still there, sharp and clear, while entire decades somehow evaporated.

So much life fits between those moments. Kindergarten with Jim. College with Bob. Law school shenanigans and everything after with Dave. So many good times. Plenty of stressful times too—but somehow, looking back, they’re all remembered with fondness. Even the hard parts have softened.

As I settle into what feels like the last part of the third quarter, I’m trying to appreciate that it’s still the third quarter. It’s not late in the fourth. I know the clock can speed up without warning—any day, some doctor could tell me it’s cancer—but for now, I’m here. Aware. Amazed.

I’m not sure where this post is going, other than to say I’m stunned that I’m 59, don’t feel much older than my mid-20s, and have been incredibly lucky. Blessed, really. With friendships that lasted, love that deepened, and a life that turned out far better than I had any right to expect.

If I died tomorrow, I’d be happy.

I got more than I deserved.

It’s great to be alive.

Today’s good came from memories—specifically the silly or unexpectedly fond ones that pop up and tug you back to another version of yourself.

The first hit while I was watching a movie at work. Someone slammed down a phone to end a call, and I felt an immediate wave of nostalgia. I was never the “angry hang-up” type, but there was something satisfying about physically slamming a receiver onto a cradle. It had weight. It had oomph. People today will never know the catharsis of hanging up with authority. Now it’s just… tapping a red circle. Very civilized. Very boring.

The second memory arrived courtesy of an algorithm. YouTube recommended a tutorial series for a video game I barely played—but it transported me straight back to the COVID shutdown, when I spent two months skiing in Utah.

The first month I lived in this great little apartment that overlooked a mountain. End of the block, trailhead right there. On days I didn’t ski, I hiked or biked the trails. I had a nook where I could sit, read, and stare out at the ridgeline. I downloaded that video game and messed with it a little—not much, but enough that it’s braided into the memory of that view, that quiet. I also remembered the Thursday “live” online trivia nights with Bob and Sheila. Something small, but I miss that.

The second month I stayed somewhere less charming—no mountain view—, but it was attached to a coffee shop, which was its own kind of cozy. I’d teach in the mornings, then drive twenty minutes to Snowbasin, where by 12:30 I’d be clipping into my skis. Weekday skiing meant no lift lines. I’d ride down the mountain and ski straight onto the next chair. That kind of solitude-in-motion stays with you.

These were good memories, and I hope I make more like them—not all as goofy as landline-phone theatrics, but still. I’m at the point in life where I look back and think things were better when I was growing up in the ’70s and ’80s. The 90s and early 2000s weren’t bad either.  To be fair to myself, I’ve been able to appreciate and enjoy every stage of my life, though the 50-59 age group has been a lot more challenging.  Still, I’m sure when I’m 70 (if I can hold out), I’ll look back fondly on now, too.

Today, the good was remembered. And being grateful, I’ve had moments worth remembering.

It’s great to be alive.

The last two days, going to work has felt like a chore. I’m over it. Walking into that building has taken more effort than I like to admit, and finding something “good” during the school day hasn’t come naturally. Some days the well feels dry.

But the good for today wasn’t at work.
It was coming home.

Home is peaceful right now. My wife, the pets, the familiar calm of the evening settling in. I’d say the kids, but they’re out of the house these days—though two will be back for a month over Christmas, and that will bring its own kind of good chaos.

Tonight we have ASL lessons early, but after that? We’ll have time. Time to read by the fire, or watch a Christmas rom-com, or play a game. Nothing flashy, nothing huge—just the kind of quiet, comfortable evenings I live for.

After-work nights are where the day finally exhales.
That’s the good for today.

It’s great to be alive.

If I’m being honest, I tend to lean negative. It’s not that I walk around gloomy or cynical, but my brain has a talent for cataloguing what’s wrong, what’s broken, what’s irritating, and what’s disappointing. I even gratitude-journal every morning, and while that helps, I’ve realized I want something that comes after the day has happened—a way to end it on a note that reminds me there is still good everywhere if I pay attention.

So: a new project. “Something Good Every Day.”
Every evening I’ll write about one thing—something I saw, heard, read, or experienced—that was simply good. Not profound, not life-changing, not a solution to the world’s problems. Just something human, something hopeful, something that cuts through the noise.

The idea came to me right before we left for Thanksgiving break. I was walking down the street and saw two friends saying goodbye on the sidewalk. They had clearly just had breakfast or coffee together. They hugged, laughed, wished each other a warm Thanksgiving, and split off in opposite directions still smiling. That tiny moment stuck with me. In a world that feels like an endless scroll of Tumblr-drama, “going no-contact” announcements, and performative takes about everything under the sun, there are people out there who simply live their lives and enjoy each other. It lifted me more than it had any right to.

And then today’s “good” arrived while I was walking the dog.

Two houses down, a kid shot across the sidewalk on a sled like he was at the top of Vail. His dad had shoveled only half the front steps; the other half he had packed down into a tiny makeshift hill. Same with the sidewalk. Near the curb, he built a little snow ramp to stop the kids—not reckless, just thoughtful, and honestly kind of genius. The two kids were having the time of their lives sledding down those stairs. You could tell, even from down the street, that this would be one of those childhood memories that sticks forever.

Meanwhile, the four boys next door were all bundled up, playing in the snow, while their dad loaded them into the sled for a trip to Cricket Hill. Two dads, two sets of kids, a cold afternoon turned into something warm. Memories being made. Screens nowhere in sight. And maybe, just maybe, giving mom a well-deserved break.

That’s today’s good.

If I can find one moment like that each day—something simple, something real—I think it might tilt my perspective a little. Or at least remind me that the world isn’t as bleak as the algorithm wants me to believe.

It’s great to be alive.