1,087 days. 

That’s the total amount of days since I last penned paper for this blog (yes, I am still a guy that handwrites in 2026).

While I feel like I have good reasons why this blog has been completely ignored for 1,087 days, I don’t have one good one to justify why I stopped writing all together.  Writing is a pillar of my being, and doing so keeps me grounded without collapse.  But this doesn’t mean I’ve been face to floor this entire time, it’s actually the complete opposite.  During a handful of moments I was able to get a few ideas down, but only enough to formulate particles that eventually fluttered away with the wind.  I stopped dead in my tracks each time to tend to this girl who, rightfully so, is always looking to fulfill her constantly evolving, long list of needs.

Truth be told, I need her just as much.



642 days.

That’s the total amount of days since I became a father to my daughter, Autumn Jem (yes, my wife and I named her after the 80’s animated series Jem and the Holograms).

Case and point, I just stopped for a long moment because Autumn wanted to write on her dry erase board, and she needs me to carry her while she does so.  But just like her, I’m not skipping this writing session this time.  We’re going to see this one through today.

In the 445 days prior to her birth were a lot of soul searching with my wife and I after several failed fertility rounds and a debilitating miscarriage.  You would think that in these 445 days I’d have a lot to say – which I did.

Just not a lot of heart to write it.

People will always tell you how harsh it is to navigate these waters, and all the empathy will never make you feel it’s true weight unless it happens to you.  And I could not describe the feeling well enough for anyone else to truly see these endless, sordid knots inside me, so I didn’t bother trying any further than a few words before I let it simmer in pity.

So when I say that Autumn is perfect, it’s pure fact.  I cannot track the endless amounts of biological cogs, levels, and pieces that needed to be in the right place and the right time for her to grace the world with her existence.  And during these last 642 days – this time on the greener side of the grass and a whole lot of my heart behind this – I’ve attempted to find and construct words together to paint this aura of perfection.

Only to reach failure each time.

The energy behind the sentences, statements, sequences lacked the literary cadence to match what I feel being her father. Reading what I wrote felt like listening to a bad cover band of Air Supply (Low Air Supply, if you will.  I’m here until Wednesday).

I would say it’s because I’m not a poet, who are masters in writing about pain, bliss and everything in between.  But I technically have two poems that have been published.  Do I prefer these books remain buried and hidd—yes please.  Am I a good poet?  Absolutely not.

So I rather not chase these rhythms that can never match these Autumn days and nights
And will merely live to the beat of the surf together
After all, father and daughter only has spots for her and I

Maybe, I can be just poetic enough.