We love to trade audacious stories. Locking our keys in the car. That bizarre ER visit. The time we didn’t quite make it to the restroom. A breakup that left us reeling. Everybody loves a good story. And almost always, someone jumps in with a better version — funnier, messier, more outrageous. It’s not malicious. It’s just how we bond. Story becomes sport. Emotion becomes anecdote. It’s like a friendly game of “can you top this?” and most of us are eager to play.

But there is one particular type of story that elicits a completely different response. A collective groan of deep empathy. Humans immediately become more human. Emotions spike.

Mention the loss of a pet, and the atmosphere changes on the spot. No one rushes in to one-up. There’s no competition. No punchline waiting to land. Just silence. A breath. A softening. And maybe, a story shared in return — not to compare, but to join you there. Humans being better humans.

Because if you’ve never lost a pet, you can sit in the circle, but you don’t quite speak the language. There’s a knowing — quiet, unmistakable absence — that lives only in those who have said goodbye to a soul who never spoke a word, yet understood everything.

It’s not just grief. It’s not even just love. It’s the ache of losing the one who met you exactly as you were. Who curled beside you in the dark parts of your story. Who celebrated your joy without envy and held your sadness without fear.

Pet love is unconditional — not because it lacks depth, but because it’s pure. They don’t need your success. They don’t care if you’re articulate, impressive, or evolved. They only want your presence. And when we give them that, they give us everything.

So, when they leave, it crushes us. Because they take with them a kind of love we rarely find in this life.

And we grieve not just the pet, but the version of ourselves we could be with them — unguarded, adored, and enough. We instinctively know these things about ourselves but struggle to embrace them — until they come along. Then they remind us every day.

But pets don’t just love us. They endure. They become living markers of time — quiet companions to all the milestones we barely had time to process in the moment.

We bring them home when the kids are old enough to care for something soft and breathing. They are there for the first days of school and first heartbreaks. For laughter echoing from bedrooms and muddy cleats at the door. They watch from the hallway as we snap photos for prom, homecoming, graduation.

They curl with us on the couch when the world feels too loud. They are there for the holidays and there for the divorce. They sat by the fire when we lost our mom or dad to cancer, and they protected us at night when they sensed a shadow or the ever-threatening squirrel.

They were there when we brought home our newborn, pacing nervously outside the nursery, learning to share the love. They licked tears from our cheeks when the diagnosis came. They lay at our feet through job losses, relocations, the pandemic, and all the quiet Tuesday nights that didn’t make life’s highlight reel.

They celebrated with us when we said yes and mourned beside us when we said goodbye. They waited by the door through surgeries — of the body, and of the soul. They stood witness as children grew taller, as we grew grayer, and as love reshaped itself again and again.

And they never asked for anything but presence. A warm kiss. A walk in the fading light. A place to rest, beside us.

Then one day, the kids leave. Not in anger or distance — but because that’s what growing up means. Except they don’t take the dog. Or the cat. Or the memories. Those stay behind. With us.

And suddenly, it’s the parents who walk the old familiar paths. The pet — older now, slower — still waits by the door. Still listening for laughter. Still follows you from room to room like a living memory that breathes.

They seem just as disoriented as we are in the quiet house. Pacing at first, searching for the sound of footsteps that no longer return. They tilt their heads at closed bedroom doors, noses pressed against the wood, waiting. They look to us for answers we can’t quite give — and when we have no words, they seem to understand anyway.

They adjust with us. Grieve with us. They sit in the stillness not to fix it, but to bear witness. To offer their soft, steady presence as we all learn what home sounds and feels like now.

And here’s the part that undoes us: We are not just caring for them at the end. They’re caring for us. They know we are hurting as the house gets more and more quiet as each kid leaves.

They know our grief before we name it. They sense our silence. They hear the ache in our footsteps.

And they do what they’ve always done.
They stay.
They love.
They hold space until the very last moment — as if to say: You are not alone.

And then… the day comes. The one you’ve quietly dreaded for months, maybe years. The vet appointment. The ‘goodbye’. The shaking hands and tear-stained fur. You whisper ‘thank yous’ that no language is worthy of. You stay until the last breath. Because how could you not? They stayed beside you for everything.

And yet — somehow — even after death they stay. Even then.

Because especially after they’re gone, they follow you. Not with footsteps this time, but with memory. With scent. With the way your hand still reaches for a leash that isn’t there. They’re in the empty patch of sunlight on the floor. In the sound your heart makes when you open the door to a quiet house. In the way certain grief doesn’t fade — it just softens into presence.

Years later, I still feel my beagle, Riggs. Not as pain. Not as loss. But as presence. A warmth that moves from room to room with me. A love that shaped my children, held my sadness, and quietly let me carry its spirit into every ordinary day.

And maybe that’s what makes it so devastating — and so beautiful. It’s not just that pets love us. It’s that they become part of the story…and somehow, even after they leave, they keep telling it with us.

So, we started with stories. The ones we share to laugh, to connect, to keep the conversation alive. But some stories don’t need to be topped. They need to be held.

The story of losing a pet is one of those.

Because when someone speaks of the dog they loved, or the cat who saved them, or the companion who stayed through it all, we don’t try to outdo them. We sit back, soften and listen.

These stories don’t ask for applause. They ask for connection. They inspire love, comforting, presence — all the things we learned from our pets in the first place.

And maybe that’s their final gift: That even in their absence, they teach us how to be better humans. How to care. How to be with each other in the quiet, sacred spaces where love never really leaves.

And maybe, just maybe, the ones who never really leave are the ones who taught us how to stay.

We often speak of the unconscious mind as a vault for pain — a deep, dark storage unit where trauma, shame, and unresolved sorrows lie coiled like sleeping serpents. And it’s true: the mind tucks away what we aren’t ready to feel. But what if it also hides what we weren’t yet ready to receive? What if, buried beneath the wounds, there are moments of unspeakable beauty — too tender, too overwhelming, too sacred for the nervous system to hold at the time of its happening? What if our unconscious is not just a graveyard of survival, but a cathedral of forgotten joy, pleasure, safety, wonder — waiting patiently for us to return and remember?

We spend so much time digging for our damage that we too often forget to ask what else might be buried there. The unconscious isn’t only where pain hides — it’s also where beauty retreats when the recipient isn’t ready to hold it. A flash of joy too radiant to absorb. A moment of safety so pure it felt like heaven, and thus unrecognizable. A childhood gaze filled with unconditional love that delighted the mind and awakened the body. A feeling of connection, of being completely seen, that flooded us faster than we could accept.

And so — those moments, those transcendent memories — they didn’t disappear. They were tucked away gently by the soul, marked “open later,” and sealed in the quietest corners of our inner world.

We don’t just repress trauma. We also repress ecstasy. Tenderness. The holiness of moments we couldn’t yet name as sacred.

Sometimes, I catch glimpses — slivers of unfathomable beauty — that feel deeper than the actual moment unfolding in front of me should. Too rich for the ordinary reality I’m in, but too real to dismiss. A song lyric that hits with impossible precision. The scent of pine or honeysuckle on a quiet walk, stirring something familiar and ancient just beneath my skin. A face I swear I’ve known in some past, warm with recognition yet untethered to memory. Not a stranger, but someone I may have forgotten — and not in the mind, but rather in the soul.

There’s a kind of joy that rises in these moments — unexpected, holy, undeniably mine. Sometimes it’s the full moon, sometimes Christmas morning, sometimes it’s the way beach sand holds the sun’s heat while waves whisper at the shoreline. Other times it’s the crackle of an outdoor fire in summer, or the way silence wraps around me like an old friend.

These moments shouldn’t be so emotionally charged. But they are. I suspect they are actually clues. Fragments. Sacred echoes of something I once knew but couldn’t hold.

When the emotion outpaces the experience itself, I know it’s not the moment I’m reacting to. It’s the memory. The unconscious beauty rising to be remembered.

I think of sweet moments like one recent night at Disney World, standing on the dark, windswept Polynesian Beach with my son, Mark. It was 38 degrees, with sideways rain and a brutal wind that emptied the beach of every guest but us. My wife and fellow adventure seeker, Marilyn, and our grandsons had retreated to shelter minutes into the Magic Kingdom fireworks show, but my son and I stayed — soaked, freezing, watching a show we couldn’t even see. Clouds devoured the sky. The familiar music hauntingly played through speakers. The lights and fireworks flickered behind the fog.

He yelled over the storm, “Dad, do you want to head in?”

And I said, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

And we stood there — just the two of us — for twenty minutes, shoulder to shoulder in the storm. It was like being blind, but with every other sense turned way up. We didn’t watch the fireworks. We felt them.

And in that moment, something surged up from my unconscious — an emotional response, too tender, too deep for the weather or the show to explain. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t logic. It was a spark of memory, a knowing that this moment meant everything. That something sacred had arrived — not through sight, but through presence.

An Invitation to Remember

If we believe the unconscious holds only wounds and darkness, we will explore it with fear and caution. But if we can also imagine it as a keeper of sacred memory — light that arrived too early — then we can approach it with reverence, curiosity, and grace.

We don’t have to dig exclusively for trauma to experience personal growth. We can also sit in silence and let the joy rise. We can revisit a childhood memory, a long-forgotten toy or book, a moment of inexplicable peace — and instead of brushing it off, we can let it speak.

Ask yourself gently:
What have I forgotten that once made me feel whole?
What emotion has outpaced its context?
What if my soul tucked away joy for safekeeping… and now it’s time to bring it home?

There is light in you, waiting patiently.
You don’t need to manufacture it.
You only need to remember.

A Personal Reflection

For years, I’ve been taught — and I’ve practiced — that when pain arises from the unconscious, I should pause. Observe. Witness it like a scene from a movie. And in doing, I learn to reshape my well-rehearsed and tired reactions. To reclaim myself. To heal the pain that’s shaped me from the shadows.

But no one has ever told me this could work in reverse. No one ever said, “The joy is there too.” That beauty also rises unannounced. That peace shows up disguised as déjà vu. That forgotten wonder flickers through tears you can’t explain while watching snow fall or smelling something sacred from a memory you don’t quite have or tracing the curve of a handwritten note-still echoing that someone once touched this. For me.

But of course. Why wouldn’t the unconscious hold both?

In a universe wired for balance, the deepest part of us must carry both the ache and the awe. Not just darkness to be unraveled, but light that’s been waiting patiently to be reclaimed.

Maybe the path to wholeness isn’t about choosing one or the other. Maybe it’s about letting them rise together — and learning to accept both.

There is light buried in you. And it has never stopped humming your name.

A Note of Gratitude
Every quarter, I sit with two dear friends — soul companions, really. We settle in for hours, wandering through life’s wide terrain: emotions, fears, joys, losses, longings, laughter. And in one of those sacred conversations, as we traced the lines between the conscious, subconscious, and unconscious mind, something unexpected happened.

We were walking through pain — gently, collectively — and then a question surged up and interrupted everything like a holy wave:
What if the unconscious doesn’t only hold the dark?

It stopped me mid-sentence. It was allowed to rearrange the room. And it stuck with me.

This piece is simply me trying to process that one stunning question.

To my beloved friends — you know who you are — thank you for creating a space where the conversation is always allowed to go wherever it needs to. Without judgment. Without shame. Just presence.

It is truly sacred time when we are together. And this writing would not exist without it.

The Light Beneath was originally published in The Taoist Online on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Baseball is romantic.

Not the candlelight and roses kind of romantic — but the kind that lives in sun-warmed bleachers and the leather scent of an old glove and the smell of fresh cut grass. The kind passed down like a family heirloom, stitched together by memories, tradition, and something harder to name. This weekend, that romance comes full circle for me in a way I could never have scripted.

My son, Todd, was just promoted to the Major Leagues.

After ten dedicated years as the Head Sports Turf Superintendent for the Aberdeen Ironbirds — Class A affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles — Todd got the call. The Baltimore Orioles have named him Assistant Sports Turf Superintendent at Camden Yards. The Big Leagues.

It’s a career achievement, no question. But for me, it’s more than a job change. It’s the echo of generations.

One of my earliest lifetime memories is of my Grandpa Marfio handing me his well-worn Baltimore Orioles cap when I was five or six years old. I didn’t even know who the Orioles were at the time — but I remember the scent of his cologne in that hat. It never seemed to fade. That hat held something sacred. I fell in love with the Orioles because Grandpa loved them. His devotion to the team was contagious. He passed it on without saying a word. Boog. Brooks. Palmer. Frank. Grich. I grew to love them all.

Grandpa taught me how to play the game. He pitched to me every time I visited. And even though I was left-handed, he taught me to bat right-handed because that was what he knew to pass down to me. He never got to see me play varsity ball for my high school. He passed just a few weeks before my first game. But I carried him onto the field with me every time I put on my glove. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of warm summer nights watching the Triple-A Tidewater Tides at Met Park in Norfolk, VA. Minor league baseball. The lights. The rhythm. The slow poetry of the game.

And then came college baseball and Marilyn. I was fortunate enough to play in college.

She wasn’t a groupie — but she did love baseball. And she just happened to live twenty minutes north of Baltimore. A city with orange and black in its veins. We fell in love, got married, and in 1990, we welcomed our firstborn: Todd.

On a warm night that June, we took Todd to his very first Orioles game at old Memorial Stadium. He was just a baby, but I knew it was time to pass along the tradition that was handed to me so beautifully. And wouldn’t you know it — the Oriole Bird came into the crowd, scooped up Todd, and carried him onto the field for the National Anthem. I watched in awe as the Bird took him into the dugout, where a few players smiled and poked him in the tummy — including Cal Ripken.

Yes, that Cal Ripken.

Years later, Cal would become the owner of the Aberdeen Ironbirds — the very team where Todd would begin his turf management career. You can’t make this stuff up.

On April 21st, 2025, Todd signed his agreement with the Orioles. Exactly nine years to the day from when he was first invited to work a few games with the grounds crew at Camden Yards. That’s how baseball works — on its own time, with its own rhythm, quietly stitching lives together in ways you don’t see until you look back.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Three of my sons played baseball while growing up. Another served as a sports turf manager for Penn State baseball before joining Todd with the Ironbirds last year. Now, my grandsons play Little League and my granddaughter plays softball. The next generation is stepping into the batter’s box, just like the ones before. Dirt-stained pants, sunflower seeds, laughter under stadium lights — our family’s soundtrack plays on.

Baseball is indeed romantic.

The IronBirds gave Todd a beautiful pregame sendoff. It wasn’t a bro hug — it was a full embrace that held fifteen years of memories. In that moment, I didn’t see a grown man and a mascot. I saw a little boy being honored for the love he poured into the game. Sometimes, the hardest part isn’t the ninth inning — it’s walking off the field knowing your heart will always live somewhere between the lines.

It’s passed down in the form of ball caps and cologne and stadium lights. In babies held on the field and fathers who watch from the stands. Some dreams take decades to grow — but when they bloom, the air changes, the past exhales, and something sacred takes root in the soul.

Now, my son works for the Orioles.
And Grandpa — somewhere — I know you’re smiling.

I was driving the other day — nothing urgent, just moving along — and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the trees that lined the road. Hundreds of beautiful trees.

Then it struck me: that’s a lot of trees. And yet — none of them were the same.

Some were tall and reaching, others were squat and defiant. There were proud oaks, stoic pines, maple trees with outstretched limbs like dancers. Their leaves, though all called “leaves,” were wildly different — shapes, sizes, textures, and shades of green that even Crayola wouldn’t attempt to name.

Their roots were different, too. Some dig deep and wide, some twist, some spread shallow and fast. Some trees need sun. Others thrive in the shadows.

And their needs varied as well. No two trees need the exact same nutrients or physical environment to thrive.

And yet — none of them are confused.
None of them apologize for what they are.
None of them try to be something else.

We see these trees and instinctively understand: They’re different, but they belong together. They’re not supposed to be the same. And they make the world more beautiful because of their differences.

And then a thought occurred to me — why can’t I see people that same way?

Why is it that when it comes to humans, our differences so often divide us?
Skin tones, languages, beliefs, preferences, orientations, neurotypes.
I label, I separate, I rank. I ask people — subtly or outright — to become more like me, to blend, to conform, to make me comfortable. I don’t intend to do this — but I do.

But I’ve never asked a pine tree to be an oak.
Why would I?

I don’t look at a weeping willow and tell it to stand up straighter.
I don’t walk through a forest and feel threatened by its variety.
I don’t accuse the sycamore of being a bit over the top.
I don’t tell the spruce to try harder to be majestic.

I just… let them be.

I let them exist.

And in that existence, they create a living mosaic — one that moves me without asking for anything in return.

I can’t be the only one who does this based on a brief unscientific survey of social media comments. I wonder if “I” is “we” in this case. Let’s assume so.

So, what if we saw each other this way? What if we walked through life like we walked through a forest — in awe of our differences, rather than afraid of it?

What if we stopped asking each other to bend into shapes we were never meant to hold?

Maybe the most human thing we can do… is to remember how to love like a tree: Rooted in self, reaching toward Light, never ashamed to be exactly what we were designed to be.

And maybe — just maybe — the world doesn’t need more sameness. Maybe it needs more forests.

Author’s Note:
This piece grew from a simple roadside observation — and from a growing belief in my heart: That diversity isn’t a flaw in the human experience. It’s the masterpiece. Just as we never ask a pine tree to become an oak, maybe it’s time we stopped asking people to become what they are not. May we learn to walk through the human forest with reverence, awe, and a deep sense of belonging — for ourselves and for each other.

We Never Ask a Pine Tree to Be an Oak was originally published in The Taoist Online on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I have an odd confession.
I’m a parking lot stalker.

Not in the creepy way — 
In the watching humanity unfold way.
The burger in one hand, empathy in the other way.
I sometimes sit in my car, in some cracked lot outside a store,
and let the world move around me. And just watch.
Quiet. Undisturbed. Present.

Most days there are mundane — 
people walking to grocery carts, scrolling phones,
looking both ways without thinking.
But sometimes — 
sometimes — I see something that splits me open.

A car pulls in.
It waits.
The driver doesn’t leave.
They’re not there to shop. They’re waiting.

Minutes pass.
Then another car pulls in,
slows beside the first, and parks.

And then…
A door opens.
A child steps out — backpack hanging low, hair tousled by love or maybe grief.
They move to the other car,
and what happens next isn’t just a hand-off —

It’s a passing of hearts.

The parent left behind breathes through the ache.
Maybe they smile. Maybe they wave. Maybe they cry when the window rolls up.
The parent receiving smiles too wide. Hugs too long.
They don’t say it, but it’s written in their posture:

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry we live like this.”

“Let’s make this weekend soft.”

This might be the closest I have ever come to literally seeing pain. Not expressions of pain or signs of pain — but pain itself. In full view.

And behind it all — beneath custody calendars, legal agreements, and therapists’ notes — 
two people who once shared a dream
now share a responsibility
through the fractured lens of a courtroom past.

We call them “broken families.”
But I don’t see it that way.

I see resilience, in transit.
I see parents trying — God, trying — to hold it together with duct tape and grace.
I see brave attempts at peace from people who once warred with each other.
I see children learning what love looks like when it shows up anyway.

No, it’s not easy.
It’s not what anyone planned.
But it’s not broken.
It’s just… different. And it can be quite beautiful and healing.

And I want to say this — if you’re one of them:

To the mom who squeezes goodbye and pretends it doesn’t hurt — 
I see you.

To the dad who smiles like everything’s fine when it isn’t — 
I see you.

To the parents who meet in parking lots and try,
despite history, despite heartbreak,
to keep their children from carrying the weight of their choices — 
I honor you.

You are not broken.
You are not a failure.
You are not invisible.

You are a forest regrowing.
You are love, split into shifts.
You are doing something impossibly hard — and still showing up.

And maybe one day — 
those children, grown and whole,
will look back and say:

“They didn’t always get it right… but they never stopped loving me.”

Author’s Note:
I wrote this piece after spending quiet moments observing the simple, profound hand-offs between parents in everyday parking lots. These exchanges are often invisible to the world but deeply sacred to the people living them. This is not a story about brokenness — it’s a story about perseverance, love in transit, and the unseen acts of courage parents make every single day. If you are one of them: I see you. You are not broken. You are beautiful.

German-American poet and novelist Charles Bukowski once wrote, “The seats are empty. The theater is dark. Why do you keep acting?”

Have you ever ask yourself that question? Why am I still acting? After all these years. After all the self-medication with a strong drink or religion — why am I still acting? After all the pain. The humiliation. The suffering. Why am I still acting? After all the money has been made and spent and all the weight has been gained or lost — why?

The seats are empty. No one is even watching.

The theater is dark. Even if someone was there, they can’t see me.

Why am I still acting?

I recently attended a high school musical — no, not that one. Zach Efron was nowhere to be found. Aside from there being no Wildcats, one other notable difference was this was a junior high school musical. Loads of 6th, 7th, and 8th graders giving it their all.

As I watched the production unfold, I forgot I was watching 12, 13, and 14-year-olds performing. They were so natural and comfortable on stage that losing awareness of their tenuous teenage place in this world was easy. So how does a cast of 50+ middle schoolers create magic on a stage with a shoestring budget and all the anxieties that accompany being a teenager these days?

First off, theater kids are different. In a world that demands conformity of thought, dress, and lifestyle, these kids often cut against the societal grain. They can be eccentric, dramatic, moody, and usually viewed as outsiders by those who worship the center or normalcy. Theater kids tend to live on the outer edges and care for those who do not fit in. They understand the importance of acceptance, and acceptance becomes the norm during the difficult weeks of rehearsals and their three live performances .

But then the show ended. The lights faded following the final curtain call and wild applause from an adoring audience.

Now what? Soon, the seats would be empty. The theater would be dark once more. Would the performers go on acting?

We learn early on that society loves and applauds our learned and perfected personas. The Greek word for a persona is “stage mask.” Our personas are what we desire for the world to see in us. Our “stage masks” are part of our mirage. Our personas are not necessarily evil. They just are not always true. In many ways, our masks protect us. They keep us safe from harsh realities. They tend to act like armor. Not bad. Just not real and in most cases not needed.

But the world loves a good persona. And people do not hesitate to heap praise and recognition on a beautiful stage mask, which takes years of rehearsal to craft and develop into perfection.

Then the crowd leaves, and the lights go out. Now what? Do we still act? Or do we remove our masks and do the hard work of becoming authentic? Do we continue to play a role written in a script by others? Each of us gets to make that decision every day. So why do I keep acting? I’ll tell you why — because I’m scared.

I’m afraid I’m not enough. I fear I will live and die and never leave any noteworthy mark. I worry that when I’m gone — it will be as if I was never here. So I act. I carry on. I refuse to go out quietly. I don’t care if the seats are empty. Curse the darkness. I will act! I will act until I can’t anymore. What about you? Why do act?

However, eventually, the seats really will literally be empty. The theater will actually be dark. In fact, I sense this reality more and more every day as I age. These days, I sit with myself and struggle to set my mask aside, even for a few minutes daily. I try. I attempt to stop the acting. You see, there’s no crowd. It’s just me and God. The Creator and the created. It gets dark. For the first time, however, I’m finding brilliant new colors and new depth and dimensions in my theater, which has no one in its seats and no lights. I’m not sure but I believe this is what the experts call peace.

I’m doing my best to stop acting and start living just because it is my privilege to do so. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go fully maskless in this world, but that is okay because there are empty seats and a dark theater that has become my new sanctuary. It’s mystical, magical, and mine.

I left the theater that night and wondered how the kids felt after the show. As the seats emptied and the lights were turned off — I wondered about their makeup and masks and how long they would keep their stage personas on display. I contemplated if they would keep acting.

I smiled because I knew the answer — of course, they would act. And they will continue to act until they can’t anymore. When that day finally comes, they will become fully alive and truly fearless. And they will leave their mark. Their legacies will be formed.

Their mask will be set aside in a dark corner until someone else comes along and picks it up and tries it on . Suddenly, the seats will be occupied for more performances, and the lights will shine brightly once more. And the acting will begin again.

The Seats are Empty and the Theater is Dark was originally published in The Taoist Online on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

One year ago today, I literally stood in my hallway and shared my grief surrounding this moment featured in the picture above. Raw emotions, no filters, and no care about what anyone might think about how I felt. It was deeply personal, and yet many felt a connection to this short yet emotionally transparent moment. So, I thought I would share again.

For the first time since December of 1990, we don’t have any of our kids in our house. This picture is our upstairs Hallway that connected us all. It was always bustling and active — especially around bedtime. But tonight, it is quiet. The rooms are empty. I just stood and listened and can confirm it is, indeed, very quiet.

But not completely empty, I suppose. Even though no one is in the Hallway, or the bathroom, or the bedrooms, this Hallway is crowded with priceless memories that are so thick one might swear the boys never left.

I love this Hallway because of where it led me. It led me to the four most incredible young men I’ve ever known. It led me to constant laughter and occasional tears. It led me to essential conversations and tight hugs.

And now this Hallway leads me to memories of all those nights we thought would never end. But they did end. And now, we will try to find a new normal even though we don’t want a new normal. We want our boys back. But for now, we will find our way through and cling to the memories of nights in this Hallway.

The Hallway is quiet tonight. My heart hurts.

My wife and I had taken our youngest, Jake, to Penn State to work at their athletic complex. It was a great opportunity for him that would take him 3 hours away. And it left us alone in a house that was once filled with four boys, a dog and hamster named Darius. They were all gone.

Jake has since come home from his assignment and we are thrilled to have him back in our house. He will leave again one day, but for now we embrace every moment with him.

Marilyn and I did quite well alone together. She’s my best friend and we are intentional about connecting and doing hard work now so when we are left alone the next time — we are prepared. This may have been a six-month trial period, but we know what lies ahead. As long as we have each other — we are good. Better than good. We are never alone and always found.

The Quiet Hallway was originally published in The Taoist Online on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am not a big fan of giving regrets a chance to shape my life. That said, God knows I’ve made enough mistakes to fill the average Major League Baseball stadium a few times over.

Recently, as I drove past a youth baseball field, memories flooded back to when I coached the sport. I coached at the rec level and travel level. I coached tournament teams and had the honor of coaching high school baseball for half a decade.

I have always taken a good deal of pride in how I coached and the ways I was able to help boys grow into solid young men. However, it has never occurred to me that I might have had a hole in my game.

A few days ago, I saw one of my former players on LinkedIn and barely recognized him. These little guys grow up. He was a friendly kid but not one who was considered one of the better players. But there he was — a solid young man doing his best to make it in the world. It was then that something profound hit me.

A lightbulb turned on, and when I allowed myself some time to process what that light illuminated — here is where I landed.

I was a dynamic coach for the kids who were the better players. The highly skilled players who knew they would be in the lineup every night loved playing for me. I was their kind of coach. But what about the kids who batted eighth or ninth or sat on the bench most of the year? What kind of coach was I to them?

Full confession — I believe I failed those kids. Those who needed the most got the least. Kids placed in my care found reinforcement of what they had already discovered on their own; they weren’t quite good enough. They would get my leftovers in terms of time and commitment.

And now, I deal with the regret of a blown opportunity to reach those kids more meaningfully. One of these kids had a seriously sick sibling. Every minute of every day that must have hurt. Another dealt with the pain and agony of parental divorce. Some just struggled with their confidence and self-image. So much so that one player even took his own life, and I missed every sign because my focus was more heavily on the elite players. Yeah — I wear that reality because it’s true. I should have known. But I chose not to invest in a skinny backup player who battled internal demons that eventually convinced him that this world wasn’t worth the fight.

I’m reminded of this truth every time I hear the song ‘Why’ by Rascal Flatts. Here are a few lyrics.

Now in my mind I keep you frozen as a seventeen year old. Roundin’ third to score the winning run

You always played with passion no matter what the game. When you took the stage you shined just like the sun

Oh why, that’s what I keep askin’. Was there anything I could have said or done

Oh I, had no clue you were masking a troubled soul, God only knows what went wrong, and why you’d leave the stage in the middle of a song.

Every kid had a story — even the elite ones. But I was more interested in the results. The wins and losses took precedence. Somehow, that felt okay in the moment. I failed these kids, and for whatever reason, it took a decade to figure that out.

There was good — lots of good. But there were also lots of missed opportunities to help the kids who struggled. I failed them, and I regret that.

Today, I lead folks in corporate America. And some are better performers than others. It’s easy to focus on those at the top of the leaderboard. But I’m starting to believe that authentic leadership is essential, especially when it comes to supporting struggling individuals. Can I help? Can I take the time to listen? Really listen — not just listen to check off a box. Can I encourage and cheer on those who need a lift? Or should I cut my losses and move on to someone else? Leaving that person with another failure and more challenging days.

Or do I double down on the “winners” and ensure they get my energy or attention? I don’t think this is an either/or construct. Maybe the answer lies in the idea that each one of these people is human. And their value isn’t determined by their place in the batting order or on a sales leaderboard. They are fellow humans. And that’s enough to give them sufficient value to care deeply for each one. No exceptions.

There’s an old saying that goes like this; “we are all just walking each other home”.

Even those in the back of the crowd.

Especially those in the back of the crowd.

Never give up on folks. And never leave anyone behind. No exceptions.

Moving Beyond Regret was originally published in The Taoist Online on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

At a time when college athletics feels like it’s going off the rails and succumbing to everything that is unattractive about capitalism, this story comes along unexpectedly.

The University of Idaho’s men’s basketball team recently wrapped up a lackluster 11 — 21 season in the Big Sky Conference with no postseason invites. Their season was over, and it was time to move on to other things — like classes or education or academic activities too often not associated with March Madness. I know I sound like an old fart — but stay with me for a second.

I am unsure of the details or how this next part of the story developed. Something extraordinary happened during the opening round of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. The #13 seed Yale Bulldogs were playing the #4 seed Auburn Tigers. This was a classic first-round mismatch in which Yale had virtually no chance of winning.

For reasons unknown, Yale could not fly their pep band across the country to Spokane, WA, for what would surely be a single game, so the Bulldogs would not have that basic level of support during the contest against Auburn. Now, let’s be honest. Yale could afford it, but let’s assume the band members needed to be in class and couldn’t afford time away. It’s doubtful, but in the absence of fact — I’ll go with that.

The facts of what actually happened will likely unfold in the media in the coming days — but for now, I know that Yale mysteriously had a band playing their fight song in the stands as they battled Auburn from the mighty SEC conference. There they were. A group of college-age musicians jamming and cheering on Yale like they meant it.

Back to the University of Idaho. The 29-member ensemble playing their hearts out in the arena that night was the Idaho Vandals band wearing Yale t-shirts. Band director Spencer Martin and his band of Vandals traveled 90 minutes to perform so that Yale players would not be deprived of having some level of support or hearing their school’s song played throughout the game. Idaho had no reason to be there other than to support the overmatched Yale basketball team.

Idaho’s band traveling to support Yale is unique in today’s economics with the vast cost cuts enacted, especially in the Arts. The investment of time alone was a gift from Idaho to Yale. Most of these Idaho band members stood zero chance of ever playing in an NCAA tournament setting as their team is near the bottom of a conference not known to be a basketball powerhouse.

But for one day, these kids were kings and queens. And they were Ivy Leaguers. I wonder how many of the 29-member band applied to attend an Ivy League school but were told they didn’t qualify. But for a game — they made it to both the Dance and the Ivy League. Their blue shirts with the classic Y on the front is not what made them winners. No. That was what was pounding beneath the blue shirts with the classic Y on the front. Their hearts. Their passion for life. Their compassion for a team without a band. Their desire to sacrifice time and energy to support a group of players they never met before.

Yale was a 13 seed. It had no band. They had a tough draw versus Auburn, a five-hour flight, three hours of time zone changes, and little chance to advance. But they won 78 — 76 and became one of the Cinderella stories of the tournament. A single act of kindness can go a long way. Twenty-nine acts of kindness can make you an Ivy Leaguer for a day and help turn a bunch of kids from Connecticut into a fairy tale story for a weekend in Spokane, WA.

Note to self — do much more of this in life. Make more magic than enemies. Share gifts generously. Support the underdog more often. Sacrifice deeply for others.

This is the human spirit. No matter what they tell us — this is what we were made for.

One Shining Moment…cue the music.

In the fall of 1974, I was a month or so shy of my 9th birthday. I played football for a team called the Crossroads Scrappers. Youth sports weren’t what they are today, but they were still fairly intense.

The Scrappers went 8–0, and we qualified to play in the annual Turkey Bowl. It was quite a thrill to get to play in this game against another great team — the SuperChiefs. For whatever reason, my issues with teams named the Chiefs in any format began early on in life. More on that later.

When we arrived at the field, there was a table with the most glorious thing any kid could imagine. Or at least what I could imagine. Beautiful championship trophies. Participants from the winning team would get a two-tiered trophy that stood at least two feet tall. Glistening in the cold Norfolk, VA sunlight, the marble and gold trophies represented Gridiron’s glory and bragging rights in the city. Or something along those lines.

The game didn’t go exactly as planned, and we ended in a less-than-thrilling 6–6 tie. I have no idea why we didn’t play until a winner was decided, but when the game ended, there was no winner. Come to think of it, there was no loser either.

Fast forward almost 50 years, and I find myself in a gymnasium for the Bel Air youth basketball 5–6 year-old basketball year-end palooza complete with skills competitions and a DJ pumping out SpongeBob tunes and Disney hits. The place was packed as 10 teams competed and were judged on passing, dribbling, and shooting skills.

The room had a beautiful vibe, and it was quite celebratory. I saw lots of parents and grandparents with proud smiles watching their little treasures miss shots, drop passes, and dribble as best they could. It was a party, and the kids were enjoying being the center of attention.

My favorite moment was when the DJ played the Queen classic, We Will Rock You. That song is 47 years old. The parents of these kids had not been born when this song was released in 1977. But there we were — 3 generations deep — clapping along and singing trash talk lyrics along with Freddie Mercury. Music is timeless, and that was an amazing example of how deep it can run.

The mood was a bit different some 50 years earlier on that cold Norfolk football field. There was confusion, and emotions ran high as the trophies waited to go home with somebody — but who? Both teams gathered around the table, gawking at the impressive hardware when the league commissioner approached. Everyone grew quiet as he made the announcement we had all been waiting for. “Good game, guys, and congratulations on winning seasons. But because we did not have a winner, neither team will get trophies for this year’s Turkey Bowl.” No winner. No trophy. Heavy sigh. They packed the trophies and left.

Now back to Bel Air and the 5–6-year-old basketball bash. The competition ended with this announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the judges have tabulated the team scores, and we have a 10-team tie!” And the crowd roared with approval. As did I! 80 kids got their medals and went home feeling like champions.

Now look — I have done my best to maintain a hyper-masculine stance by decrying participation trophies. This is exactly what happened at the Bel Air basketball skills competition. My normal script tells me there should be a winner and a loser. The winner gets the trophy, and the loser, well, get better.

But as I stood and watched the pure joy on the faces of the kids getting much-deserved recognition and a medal, it occurred to me that I’d been wrong. Really, really wrong.

Life is tough. There will be plenty of time for winners and losers. The world is more than willing to remind us that we are too fat, too short, too slow, or that we look funny. The world is cruel, and our incomes and ability to climb the corporate ladder far too often determine our perceived value. From that perspective, a free-market society is neither kind nor caring. Some succeed, while others are left to wonder or even suspend their dreams. Someone will win sales rep of the year, and someone else will lose. These very kids will battle for limited spots on the local varsity high school teams, and most will get cut. Some will get into prestigious colleges, and some will not get to the next level of education. Those days are straight ahead. But not on this day. Everybody won, and for a moment, everyone enjoyed the feeling of being enough.

I’ve never really gotten over that tie in 1974. I wanted the damn trophy. But while I’ve lamented against the decision to not give the Scrappers the trophy (we did have a better overall record), there were kids on the other team that probably needed it more than I did. Some of those kids didn’t have a dad. And some of those kids struggled in school. Some of those kids went home to a house that existed in turmoil and strife. Most of those kids played their last football game that day. It was hard to keep moving up year after year. On that day, 30 kids walked away feeling a bit inadequate. Unintended consequences are consequences, nonetheless.

I guess my point is that, at 58-years-old, I see and feel things differently these days. And I’m prepared to hand over my man card and admit that participation trophies are cool. And appropriate. And valuable. And necessary. And an oasis of hope and excitement for many who will not get much of that in their lives. For one day, they were enough.

The truth is they are enough every day. But the world certainly isn’t going to tell them that. Quite the opposite.

So if I could go back and visit my 8-year-old self on that cold November day, I might say, “Kid, you’re enough. With or without the trophy, you’re enough. Never forget that. Don’t believe anything or anyone who ever tells you anything different. It’s not about the trophy. It’s about your effort and your heart. One day you’ll see.”

No one ever said those words to me. And I deal with that reality every day. But my grandson plodded his way through 5–6 basketball, and on this day he was celebrated along with 80 other kids who need to be reminded early and often in life — they are enough.

And so are you. You really are.

Participation Trophies was originally published in The Taoist Online on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.