Have you ever heard the story about the cow and the buffalo when a storm is coming? It’s simple but powerful. Picture this: A cow and a buffalo both sense a storm approaching. The cow starts running away from the storm, trying to escape. But here’s the problem—the storm catches up to the cow, and since it’s still running, it ends up staying in the storm a lot longer. The buffalo does the opposite. It sees the storm, braces itself, and runs straight into it. By charging through, the buffalo gets through the storm faster and comes out on the other side where the sun is shining. When I first heard this, I thought, Wow, this explains so much about life! It made me realize there have been plenty of times when I’ve been the cow, running away from hard things, and times when I’ve been the buffalo, facing things head-on. --My Storm: Addiction For over 20 years, I was stuck in the storm of alcohol addiction. I didn’t even realize I was in it for a long time. I’d try to stop drinking—sometimes for 30 days, sometimes for two months—but then something would come up. A wedding, a party, or just a tough day. And I’d tell myself, I’ll start again tomorrow. But the truth is, every time I ran away from the hard choice, I stayed in the storm longer. It wasn’t until I decided to face it, to become the buffalo, that things started to change. I chose sobriety, and it’s been one of the hardest and best decisions of my life. --Storms at Work I’ve faced storms in other parts of my life too, like in my career. I used to work in the corporate world, climbing the ladder at Home Depot. On paper, everything looked great—I was making good money, I had status, and I was doing well. But inside, I was miserable. I stayed in that job longer than I should have, running away from the hard truth that it wasn’t the right fit for me. Eventually, with my wife’s support, I decided to face the storm. I left that job and stepped into the unknown. That choice led me to work on a ranch for a while, where I reconnected with myself. From there, I joined the family business and got my first taste of entrepreneurship. That decision changed my life, and I’ll always be grateful for it.

Today is December 21st, the Winter Solstice. It’s the shortest day and longest night of the year, a moment that has held significance across time and cultures. For a long time, I misunderstood what this day meant. I used to associate winter with darker days, colder nights, and a sense of heaviness. I dreaded it, convinced it was a season of obstacles. But over the years, especially through my journey of sobriety and personal growth, I’ve shifted my perspective. The solstice isn’t the beginning of darker days. It’s a marker that we’ve made it through the hardest part of the year. The days aren’t getting shorter anymore—they’re getting longer. Every single day from now until June, we gain one minute of sunlight here in Arizona. And let me tell you, living in Arizona, where we get over 300 days of sunshine every year, that extra minute feels like a gift. I used to say I hated winter. The shorter days, the colder nights—it all felt like a loss. But now, I celebrate this time. I’ve learned to look forward to winter because I know brighter days are ahead. It’s a shift in mindset, a reminder that even when things feel heavy, we’re always moving toward the light. It’s funny how, in retrospect, I see that winter isn’t a season of loss. It’s one of gaining—gaining light, gaining clarity, and gaining resilience. Tonight, I’m taking my son out to the desert to celebrate this turning point. We’ll head to Skull Valley, a beautiful spot in Arizona that feels like it’s on the edge of the world. We’ll drive down Contreras Road, a stretch of dirt that takes you into the heart of the desert. No Wi-Fi, no distractions—just open skies, cacti, and the vastness of nature. This time of year, it’s cold enough that the desert creatures—scorpions, snakes, and reptiles—are tucked away. The stars will be out, and tonight, there’s even a full moon. It feels deeply impactful, almost as if the universe is aligning. The synchronicity of the solstice and the full moon feels like a nudge from something greater, reminding us of the cycles of light and dark, of beginnings and endings.

This morning’s journaling session took me somewhere I never expected. I sat down, as I do most days, without much of a plan—just my tea, my notes app, and an open mind. Journaling has become a practice that grounds me. Whether I wake up with racing thoughts or a clear mind, it helps me find balance and focus. Sometimes, I also use 852 Hz frequencies in the background, which I’ve found really set the tone and help me get into the right state. Today, I pulled a reflection card. It invited me to let all perspectives flow, to allow them to rise and fall, to feel them in my body, and to accept what was revealed. Then it asked: Who would I be without this story? That question lingered, and I let it sit. But as I continued journaling, a prompt came to mind: If you could go back in time, what’s the one thing you would change? Without thinking too much about it, I started writing directly to my younger self—the version of me from around seven years old. That version of me was so free, so curious, so adventurous. I hadn’t connected with him in so long, but there he was, as clear as day. I wrote: "I’m sorry." I apologized for muting him for so long, for letting fear and outside voices block our connection to the light. I told him how much I missed his joy, creativity, and sense of wonder. And then I promised: I’m working my way back to you. I’ll bring the joy, the adventure, and the curiosity back. I’ll make us both proud. As I wrote, memories of my childhood in Puerto Rico came flooding back. Back home, we called baseball "Pelota", and it was a huge part of my life. My cousins “primos” and I would ride our bikes through town to find a place to play. We’d "borrow" masking tape and newspaper from my uncle’s body shop to make balls and find sticks and scraps of plywood for bats and strike zones. Those days were pure magic—just kids being kids, creating something out of nothing and enjoying every moment. That version of me felt so alive, so deeply connected to the world.

A couple of days ago, I was clearing out my basement. You know, the kind of place where memories collect alongside the clutter. I was crawling through the space with a friend, pulling out boxes, deciding what to sell, and generally trying to reclaim some order. It’s a space I’ve been in countless times, but this time, something hit differently. Amidst the clutter, on top of a beam I pass by every time I walk in and out, there it was—a bottle of rum. This wasn’t just any bottle. It had been sitting there since my 40th birthday, a gift I once would’ve considered perfect. Back then, it would’ve been polished off in no time. I wasn’t much of a rum drinker—it gave me headaches from hell—but I always had my methods. Beer was my thing, and I had it down to a science. A six-pack of IPAs? That was my sweet spot. Two or three beers, and I’d hit that buzz I was chasing. Looking back now, it’s easy to see that I was an alcoholic. But at the time, I didn’t think of myself that way. I wasn’t drinking in the morning. I wasn’t out of control. At least, that’s what I told myself. But the truth was in the patterns I didn’t want to admit. When I went to the store, I’d only buy a six-pack because I thought maybe one day I’d quit. I told myself that stocking up would mean admitting I had a problem. Yet, every other day, I was back at the store, buying another six-pack. I could’ve saved a fortune buying in bulk at Costco, but there was something about keeping the illusion alive—that I was in control. And it wasn’t just any beer. Light beer wouldn’t do the trick because my addiction wasn’t just to drinking—it was to the buzz. IPAs were my go-to. They were trendy on the West Coast, where I live, and they delivered the buzz quickly without the next-day hangover. I had it all figured out—or so I thought. But here’s the thing about addiction: it’s not just about what you’re drinking or how much. It’s about how it starts to shape your life. I found myself hoping my kids didn’t have any extracurricular activities in the evening so I could start drinking earlier. I didn’t want to be the dad with alcohol in his system driving kids around. But let’s be honest—I walked a fine line.

This morning, as I drove my son to soccer practice, I was struck by a wave of gratitude and reflection. The sun was just rising, painting the Arizona sky in hues of gold and pink—one of the things I know I’ll miss most about this state. Arizona’s sunrises and sunsets are unparalleled, and this morning, they felt especially meaningful. We were driving down Fain Road, a stretch of open land with breathtaking views of the landscape—cows grazing, antelopes roaming, and hawks soaring in the sky. It’s a road I’ve driven countless times, yet today, it felt different. Knowing that my family is relocating soon, I realized how much I’ll miss this drive. It’s not just the beauty of the land; it’s the memories tied to it. Twice a week, I make this trip with my son. We spend hours on the road, talking, laughing, or simply sitting in comfortable silence. These drives have become a cornerstone of our relationship. They’re a mix of everything—quiet reflection, deep conversations about life, and silly moments that make us both laugh. I look over at him, now 13 years old, and I’m amazed by how much he’s grown. He’s not just growing taller—he’s growing emotionally, mentally, and as a leader. He’s developing his mental fitness, emotional intelligence, and his skills as a soccer player. Recently, he set a goal for himself: to earn the position of striker on his team. It wasn’t handed to him; he worked hard for it. And not only did he achieve that goal, but he also earned the role of team captain. Watching him step into this leadership role fills me with pride. The reason we’ll be relocating soon is because of how much he’s thriving. He’s been invited to join a soccer academy, and as a result, we’ll be moving closer to his training facilities. While I’m thrilled for this next step in his journey, it will mean fewer long drives like this one. The drives will be shorter, and the routines will change, but I know the connection we’ve built on these trips will remain. As I reflect on this, I think about how often we take the everyday moments for granted until we realize they’re about to change. Sometimes, it’s only when we’re on the brink of losing something that we truly see its value. These drives, this time with my son, are priceless.