Deathbed Regrets Can’t Be Fucking Fixed
Missing the woman I love has me questioning something far bigger than a few lonely nights. Have I spent so much time chasing professional success and taking care of responsibilities that I've forgotten to cherish the moments right in front of me? I've died three fucking times, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that time isn't guaranteed. Deathbed regrets can't be fucking fixed, and I refuse to waste the life I've been given.
One Fucking Year
One year ago, an evening motorcycle ride left me broken on Cerrillos Road. Broken bones, surgeries, months of rehabilitation, and nights spent crying when nobody was watching. But somewhere in the hardest fucking year of my life, I found love, purpose, and something I hadn't truly possessed before: a sense of my own worth. I'm not grateful for the accident. I'm grateful I survived it.
Put Your Back Into the Fucking Plow
Having a hard life doesn't give you a claim on somebody else's success. I've been broke. I've failed. I've trusted people I shouldn't have trusted. But nobody was coming to save me, so I got back up and kept fucking moving.
Someone in My Corner
I thought this week’s lesson was going to be about surviving a new leadership role, monsoon commutes, and a shitty rear tire. Instead, I walked into the garage and found a clean motorcycle—and another reminder that I don’t have to do this fucking life alone anymore.