At life's threshold, light and shadow meet, Yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows, a delicate beat. Each moment a spark, a fleeting glimpse, A fragment of eternity, where past and future kiss. Yesterdays, a whispered promise, a memory kept, A whispered wisdom, in the silence, softly slept. The echoes of what was, they shape our core, Like weathered stone, our hearts forevermore. The shadows of yesterday, they whisper low, "Learn from the past, and let your spirit grow." Todays, a luminous threshold, where choices unfold, A moment to step forward, young and old. The present, a gift, a chance to create, A time to dream, to leap, to participate. The pulse of today, it beats with vibrant life, A rhythm of now, where love and courage thrive. Tomorrows, a horizon, radiant and wide, A canvas of possibilities, where dreams reside. The future, a mystery, yet to be revealed, A chapter unwritten, waiting to be sealed. The whispers of tomorrow, they call us near, "Step into the unknown, and banish every fear." At this luminous threshold, we weave our path, A tapestry of moments, where choices birth. Yesterdays inform, todays ignite, Tomorrows inspire, and we take flight. The threads of time, they intertwine, A delicate balance, of heart and mind. For in this weave of yesterdays, todays and tomorrows, Lies the fabric of our destiny, our triumphs, and our sorrows. Let yesterday's lessons guide your way, Let today's actions shape a brighter day. And as tomorrow's dawn breaks, be bold, For at the luminous threshold, your story's being told. -###- Poem’s Breakdown Themes: 1. Time and its dimensions: The poem explores the interconnectedness of past (yesterdays), present (todays), and future (tomorrows), highlighting their impact on human experience. 2. Personal growth and transformation: The speaker emphasizes learning from the past, embracing the present, and stepping into the unknown future. 3. Empowerment and choice: The poem encourages readers to take control of their journey, making choices that shape their destiny.

I don’t know how to thrive. I know how to survive. I know how to wake up tired and still get out of bed. How to swallow doubt with coffee and call it discipline. I know how to keep moving when standing still feels dangerous. How to keep my hands busy so my mind doesn’t wander to places it knows too well. Most days I feel like an impostor— like someone is going to tap my shoulder and tell me I’ve stayed too long, that I don’t belong in the rooms I worked so hard to enter. I show up anyway. I show up for my kids even when fear rides shotgun. I show up for my wife even when I don’t recognize the man in the mirror. I’ve learned how to carry weight without letting it show, how to look steady while everything inside me is bracing for impact. People talk about thriving like it’s a destination— like one day you just arrive and everything finally clicks. But I live in the in-between. The gray space. The season where you’re not drowning, but you’re not breathing easy either. I don’t chase happiness. I chase stability. I chase enough strength to make it through today without borrowing trouble from tomorrow. Maybe thriving comes later. Maybe it doesn’t. For now, surviving means staying. It means choosing not to disappear. It means loving the people in front of me even when I’m not sure how to love myself yet. And if that’s all I can do today— then today, that’s enough.

Love your 😊vulnerability... In life’s tougher moments, vulnerability becomes a quiet act of courage.

I loved being the guy whose name got yelled across the room the second the door swung open— not because I was important, but because I belonged. Behind that bar I wasn’t hiding from the world, I was holding it still for a minute. Whatever storm people walked in with got set down next to their coat. Bills, breakups, bad bosses— none of it mattered once the glass hit the wood. I lived in the now like it was a religion. “It’s only money,” I’d laugh, “I’ll make more tomorrow.” No mortgage. No benefits packet. No quiet panic about whether I was doing life right. I wasn’t worried about the future because the present was loud and laughing and asking for another round. Yeah— I probably shaved years off my life one shift drink at a time. But I don’t regret it. Not for a second. I was free. Truly free. Not the kind that builds something lasting, but the kind that teaches you who you are without the weight. I learned how to stand my ground with my back against a bar rail. Learned my hands were steadier and my spine stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. I watched friends lose themselves— some slowly, some all at once— to substances that promised escape and collected souls instead. I learned that my pain was real but not the worst in the room. That people carry histories heavier than mine and still find a way to laugh at midnight. And in the Virgin Islands, for the first time, I learned what it feels like to be the minority to be seen differently before I ever opened my mouth. That lesson stayed with me. It still does. The service industry didn’t just pay my rent— it rewired my perspective. Showed me that life isn’t made special by what you stack up or lock away. It’s made special by who knows your name, who notices when you’re gone, who raises a glass with you when nothing else makes sense. I left that life eventually. Had to. Freedom without roots can’t last forever. But for a while— man, I lived wide open. And I carry those nights with me, not as regrets,

Sherri loved with everything she had. No filters. No fear of being too much. She loved the way children love— all in, right now, with no thought for later or what it might cost. And wherever she went, her smile arrived first. In Monroe City, Missouri, that smile became familiar— not famous, exactly, but known. Expected. Missed when it wasn’t there. Most mornings she rode her tricycle to the workshop, pedaling steady, slowing down for waves, for names, for anyone who needed to be seen that day. That smile made sure no one was invisible. On Friday nights, it glowed under stadium lights. High-school football was sacred— every snap mattered, every cheer came from a place that only knew how to believe. She found love too. A boyfriend. The man of her dreams. They talked football, laughed easy, stood side by side— proof that joy doesn’t ask permission or explanations. Some nights, she’d ride down to the beer joint— that’s what she called it— and take the mic for karaoke. No nerves. No shame. Just her voice, that smile, and a room better for having heard it. The hardest love was watching her say goodbye to her mother. We drove her to see Grandma one last time up in Iowa. At first, she didn’t understand. Then she did. And when it hit her, it hit all at once— pure, unguarded, devastating. Like watching a child realize the world had changed forever. After Grandma was gone, I worried about Sherri. I didn’t know how she would carry on. Didn’t realize she wasn’t alone at all. What I didn’t see then was a whole town quietly taking care of her— watching for her tricycle, saving her seat, cheering a little louder because she was there. When time grew short, we chose joy. We went to Branson. One last hurrah. Fall at Silver Dollar City— cool air, hills that tested tired legs, lights glowing after dark like the world itself was showing up for her. She was sick. She was cold. My brother and I took turns pushing her wheelchair up and down those hills— and never once complained.