Today marks Day 31 of my 130-day writing journey documenting the beauty, grind, and truth of sports and athletics across the country. But today, I’m taking a step back—not from the mission, but from the noise.

This isn’t about stats, scouting reports, or spotlighting the next under-the-radar hooper. Today, it’s about me. About reflection. About finding my breath between the bounce.

Truth is, I’ve been wrestling with something deeper. Writing has become my therapy, my spiritual reset. It’s the one consistent peace I’ve found in the whirlwind of personal challenges. Telling the stories of athletes—young, hungry, often unseen—genuinely brings me joy. It’s how I give others hope. But today, I had to pause and give that same grace to myself.

I’m a husband. A father of four grown children who have blossomed into outstanding individuals navigating their own paths in life. I’ve been blessed beyond measure, especially with a wife who’s stayed beside me through the highs and lows—even when my emotions became hard to carry.

But lately, I’ve been feeling emotionally unstable. Unsteady in ways I never saw coming. There’s no shame in admitting that. Yet in our world—especially as men—we’re told to tough it out, never show weakness, never cry out. That’s a dangerous lie.

Life has thrown curveballs at me recently—words from people I trusted, internal battles I never anticipated. I’ve kept moving, because that’s what I’ve always done. But even the strongest need direction. Even a man who knows better can find himself quietly unraveling inside.

I don’t know if this is depression. I’ve never used that word to describe myself. But I know this: whatever I’m feeling… it’s not healthy. And if I don’t address it, it could cost me more than peace—it could cost me parts of myself I’m not willing to lose.

This isn’t a pity post. It’s a personal letter of truth. It’s me facing myself in the mirror through my words. I’ve found that writing gives me back control. It slows down the chaos. It lets me speak when I don’t know how to talk. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need help.

Let me be real: I don’t believe most of my family has ever read a full article of mine. Not out of spite—just the nature of life. But even in that quiet, I write. Because someone out there might need what I’m saying. Maybe someone else is on the edge, carrying the same emotional load, afraid to say it out loud.

So here I am. Writing through the storm.

I’ve seen stories about athletes stepping away from the game for their mental health. I get it now. The emotional toll is real—even when the outside looks composed. But unlike them, I’m not walking away from writing. It’s saving me. This is my hardwood. This is my game. This is where I compete for peace.

Still, I know I need something more. Spiritual grounding. Emotional support. Guidance. Not handouts—just help. I want to be brought back into alignment with nature, with faith, and with the strength to keep going.

To the older generation of men like me: Don’t be afraid to speak. You’re not soft. You’re human. You might just save someone else by telling your truth.

So yes—this is Day 31 of 130, but it’s also a reminder that behind the box scores and buzzer-beaters, there are real people navigating real pain. I’m one of them. And I believe that, step by step, I’ll find my way.

For now, I keep writing. For clarity. For healing. For hope.

Because just like in sports, sometimes the biggest victories come when you stop playing for the crowd and start playing for your own soul.