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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
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In September 2019, a seizure revealed a lime-sized meningioma pressed against my hippocampus—the part of the brain that governs memory and language. The doctors said it was benign, but benign didn’t mean harmless. Surgery removed the tumor, and three days later I opened my eyes to a new reality. I could walk, I could talk, but when I looked at my wife, her name was gone. I called her Precious—the only word I could find. A failure of memory, yet perhaps the truest name of all. Recovery has been less cure than re-calibration. Memory gaps are frequent. Conversations vanish. I had to relearn how to write, letter by halting letter. My days are scaffold by alarms, notes, and calendars. When people ask how I am, I don’t list symptoms or struggles. I simply say, “Seven Degrees Left of Center.” It’s not an answer—it’s who I’ve become. |
| This year, I will show up as I am, not as I think I should be. That sentence surprised me when it landed. Not because it sounds profound, but because it feels usable. It also arrived before my coffee finished brewing, which is usually when my best ideas show up and my judgment has not. Over the past year, I practiced showing up to write every day. That wasn’t a goal I set. It wasn’t a resolution or a productivity challenge. It was just something I started doing. Some days the words came easily. Some days they didn’t. Some days I stared at the screen wondering who approved me to be in charge of sentences. Still, I showed up. Writing taught me something I didn’t expect. Showing up isn’t about motivation or feeling ready. It’s about presence. Sitting in the chair. Opening the document. Letting the day be what it is and participating anyway. That idea sits at the heart of Seven Degrees Left of Center. I don’t live at true north anymore. I live slightly off. Memory drifts. Focus wobbles. Some days the compass spins before it settles. But being a little left of center doesn’t mean being lost. It just means adjusting and continuing on. Standing at the edge of a new year, I’m realizing that practice doesn’t need to stay confined to writing. What would it look like to show up the same way with people? To conversations. To daily tasks. To the small obligations I tend to postpone while waiting to feel more like the person I think I should be. What would it look like to show up to myself with the same patience I give the page? Not fixing. Not improving. Not reinventing. Just showing up. Slightly off center. Still present. I don’t need a new version of myself for the year ahead. I don’t need clarity before action or confidence before presence. I already know how to do this. I’ve been practicing it quietly all along. So this isn’t a resolution. It’s a continuation. In 2026, I’ll show up as I am, not as I think I should be. Seven degrees left of center. And let that be enough. |
| January 2025 started with me irritating my wife. Not subtly. Not artistically. Just… efficiently. I wrote about it the next day, after she said the thing we were both thinking: “I miss the old you.” I admitted I missed him too, which is awkward when you can’t clearly remember who that guy was. That was January 9th. "I miss him too"  Today is December 29th. And I got a guitar for Christmas. So what changed? The fog didn’t magically lift. I still forget conversations. I still label photos. I still lean on AI to help untangle my thoughts into readable sentences. The brain damage didn’t get the memo about personal growth. But something shifted anyway. I stopped waiting to be “fixed” before trying new things. The guitar isn’t therapy. It’s not recovery equipment. It’s just something I wanted to learn. Brain injury or not. Ramona and I also learned to say the hard things sooner, before they explode. That January moment taught us something. We’re better at honesty now, even when it’s uncomfortable. And maybe I finally accepted that I live about seven degrees left of center. Same position. Different attitude. It turns out it’s not a flaw, just… a perspective. Writing this blog publicly did something unexpected too. It gave me witnesses. When I forget what happened yesterday, you remember. When I can’t see progress, the posts stack up and show me I’m not starting over every morning. You’ve been holding continuity I can’t always hold myself. Also, writing for actual humans makes me show up. Even on foggy days. Especially on foggy days. Accountability is sneaky like that. Here’s what I learned this year: recovery isn’t linear, but growth doesn’t have to wait for recovery to finish. I can get better at living with brain damage even if the brain damage stays the same. The guitar taught me that. Learning something new with a broken memory just means different strategies. It still counts. So thank you, if you’ve read even one of these posts. You’ve been part of this whether you meant to be or not. I don’t know what 2026 holds. Probably more fog. Definitely more moments of standing in the kitchen wondering why I’m there. But also more coffee. More writing. More awkward guitar practice. More life lived a little left of center. The difference a year makes isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just showing up again. The guitar is still leaning against my coffee chair. Tomorrow morning, I might actually open the case. |
| I got a guitar for Christmas. It’s leaning against the wall near my coffee chair, which means every morning it watches me write. The coffee helps. The guitar just waits. For a long time, my focus has been on relearning. Recovering. Getting back what the tumor took away. Words, routines, rhythms. Writing became my way back in. Show up every day. Pour the coffee. Do the work. Even when it’s messy. That journey became Seven Degrees Left of Center. A book about navigating life when the compass doesn’t quite point where it used to. But the guitar is asking a different question. Not: Can I relearn? But: Can I learn something new? That feels bigger than a Christmas gift. Learning guitar right now is awkward. My fingers don’t listen. The chords sound like they’re still negotiating whether they want to exist. Progress is subtle enough to be questionable. Which, oddly, feels familiar. Writing taught me that showing up matters more than sounding good. That coffee and five honest minutes count. That consistency isn’t flashy; it’s quiet and stubborn. So here’s what I’m wondering, seven degrees left of center: If I can show up to write every day, can I show up to play? If my brain can rebuild, can it also expand? If so much energy has gone into reclaiming what was lost, is it finally time to grow into something new? I don’t know the answers yet. But tomorrow morning, I’ll pour the coffee. I’ll write. And then I might open the guitar case. That feels like progress, not backward, not recovery, but forward. |
| Merry Christmas. There is a different kind of quiet this morning. It isn’t just that the house is still. The world itself feels paused. Most everything is shut down. People are home. Roads are empty. The constant background hum has fallen away, and without it, the quiet feels intentional. Chosen. For Christians, this quiet holds a deeper meaning. The Savior’s birth was not silent forever. It was announced. First by the cry of a newborn breaking the stillness in a manger. A sound as ordinary and human as it gets. Then, according to the story, by the heavens themselves. Angels speaking into the night, declaring peace, not to kings or crowds, but to shepherds keeping watch. The quiet was broken, but not by power. By life. By breath. By a voice small enough to be held. That contrast matters. Silence giving way to a baby’s cry. Earth answering heaven. The extraordinary arriving through the most ordinary sound in the world. There is another layer to this morning too, one that does not depend on belief. This quiet feels like a collective choice. A rare pause where we agree, even briefly, to stop striving. To be where we are. To let peace take up space. For one day, the noise recedes, and we remember that rest, connection, and kindness are not luxuries. They are necessary. The coffee is hot. Light moves slowly across the room. Nothing is demanding attention yet. Soon enough, the world will start up again. It always does. But for this moment, we sit in the after-echo of silence and song, of stillness and voice. Whether you hear this day as sacred story, shared tradition, or simply a human pause for peace, the wish is the same. Merry Christmas. May it be gentle, and may it be shared. |
| It is Christmas Eve and the coffee is brewing. The house is quiet, but not empty. There is a difference. Quiet can hold a lot. My kids are grown now. They are with their own children today, doing the work of Christmas that once belonged to me. Wrapping presents late. Answering early morning questions. Making sure the magic lands where it is supposed to. That makes today a good day. A deeply good one. Even if it comes with a little ache. At sixty, I have learned that you can hold joy and missing at the same time. One of the strange side effects of memory loss is that holidays blur. Birthdays, Thanksgivings, Christmas mornings. Many of them are simply gone. Not faded. Gone. I do not miss those individual days because I cannot reach them. I miss the idea of them. The shape of them. The knowledge that they mattered. This morning, though, one Christmas keeps tapping on my shoulder. 1992 I do not remember it the way most people remember things. I remember it because there is a video. A VHS tape, slightly grainy, a little crooked, recorded by someone who was more interested in capturing the moment than framing it well. What I remember is not the day itself. What I remember is the recording of the day. In the video, my kids are all under twelve. Perfect ages, as it turns out. Old enough to understand what is happening, young enough to believe it could only happen this way. Their energy fills the room. The kind of energy you do not notice until it is gone. I am there too, of course. Younger. Busier. Less aware of how temporary everything is. I watch myself move through the frame, half distracted, half present, trying to keep things moving while missing the fact that this moment is already complete. It was a good Christmas. I know that because I have evidence. That realization used to bother me. The idea that some of my strongest memories exist only because they were recorded. That what I remember is the tape, not the morning itself. But over time, I have softened toward that truth. The video is still part of me. The feelings it brings up are real. The warmth, the affection, the sense of rightness. Those did not come from the tape. They came from the life I was living. Memory loss does not erase the past. It changes how I access it. This morning, as the coffee finishes brewing, I think about how my children are now standing where I once stood. They are making memories their children will carry forward, whether clearly or imperfectly. Whether through direct recall or through stories, photos, or recordings. That feels like continuity. Not loss. I do not want Christmas 1992 back. I would not trade the present for it. I would not want to rewind the tape and step inside. But I am grateful it exists. Grateful that I can visit it. Grateful that it reminds me that I did the thing I was supposed to do. I raised children who now create Christmas for others. That feels like success, even if the house is quieter now. There is a temptation, when you lose memories, to treat remembering as the goal. To measure yourself by what you can still reach. I am learning that remembering is only one way of knowing a life mattered. Sometimes you know because the next generation is doing fine. Sometimes you know because a room once filled with noise now holds peace. Sometimes you know because an old tape is prof there was joy. The coffee is ready. I pour a cup and sit with it for a while. I do not rush the morning. I do not need to fill the quiet. It is already doing its job. This is a good day. A softer one. A reflective one. And if I can only remember some Christmases through a screen, that is enough. They are still mine. |
| It’s early. Too early. I’m sitting here with coffee, unable to sleep, and I’m feeling something I didn’t expect four years into this new life: lonely. In the Air Force, we had a saying: embrace the suck. Whatever difficult thing you were going through, you acknowledged it was going to be hard and you did it anyway. Basic training. A rough deployment. A terrible assignment. The key was knowing it would end. Six weeks. Twelve months. Two years. There was always a finish line. I’ve been trying to embrace the suck since my brain surgery in 2019. But I’m realizing something this morning. This suck doesn’t end. The brain tumor changed everything permanently. There’s no finish line where I wake up and get my old life back. I used to be a Transportation Coordinator at a Walmart distribution center, managing logistics for stores across three states. Every day brought problems to solve, people who needed me, visible results. Trucks rolled. Deliveries happened. People called to thank me or ask for help. That instant gratification was like a drug. Constant hits of challenge, solution, reward. Now I’m a writer. The work is different. I write for weeks, maybe months, before anyone sees what I’ve made. Maybe they read it. Maybe they respond. Maybe it connects. The reward schedule went from instant to something much longer. I’m still adjusting to that slower burn. This morning feels like detox. The struggle is real. But here’s the part I need to remind myself of. I’m writing. Even on mornings like this, when the loneliness hits hard and the quiet stretches too long, I’m still showing up. I finished a memoir. I have a novel in progress. Writing this post helped. It turned a difficult moment into something usable. Something sharable. Some mornings are just harder than others. This is one of them. But the day isn’t lost. The suck may not end, but I’m learning that it can still be worked with. And for now, that’s enough. I’ll move through it the only way I know how. By writing. |
| Most mornings start the same way. Coffee first. Then writing. Somewhere between the second sip and the blinking cursor, I may also open an AI tool. None of these write the story for me, but all of them help me show up. Coffee wakes me up. AI helps me think things through. Neither one is required, but both are useful. The important part is knowing who is actually doing the work. That part is still me. I have been thinking about when, and if, AI use needs to be flagged. If I use AI the way I use coffee, to brainstorm, organize thoughts, or talk through a problem, then the final words are still mine. I choose what stays. I revise. I take responsibility. Authorship follows creative control, not keystrokes. There are times when disclosure makes sense. If a platform asks for it, I say so. If a large section comes straight from a tool with little change, I say so. That is not fear or guilt. That is transparency. What I do not do is tag every sentence like it needs a warning label. That would be like footnoting every cup of coffee and explaining which one kept me awake long enough to finish a paragraph. Tools influence the process, not the ownership. In the end, the responsibility stays with me. If something is weak, confusing, or wrong, that is mine to fix. Coffee does not get the blame. AI does not get the credit. The story still belongs to the person who sits down, shows up, and makes the choices. |
| It is six in the morning. The coffee is fresh. That alone feels like a small victory. I am halfway through "Sable's Run" , starting the second half, which means I have crossed an invisible line. Not finished. Not polished. Just far enough in that the story no longer feels theoretical. It exists. It has weight.There is a strange accomplishment in this moment. Not the kind you post about with fireworks or checklists. It is the quiet kind. The kind that sits with you while the house is still asleep and the only sound is the page turning and the coffee cooling beside you. The second half is where stories either hold together or start asking uncomfortable questions. Why am I here. Did I set this up well enough. Am I brave enough to let it end the way it wants to end. This morning, I am not fixing anything. I am not revising myself out of the story. I am just reading. Letting Sable run. Letting the work speak back to me. Maybe that is the accomplishment. Showing up early. Pouring the coffee. And realizing the story carried me this far. |
| I am searching for balance in my day. Retirement gives me long hours that look peaceful at first, but they can fill up fast or slip away without warning. Some mornings I sit down to write and realize I have lost track of time. Other days I drift from room to room and wonder how I managed to do absolutely nothing. Finding the right mix of writing, reading, and simply living has become its own little challenge. Too much writing and my brain starts to feel like wet cement. Too much downtime and I start looking for snacks instead of sentences. Somewhere in the middle is the sweet spot, and that is what I am trying to find. I try to give my day small anchors. A little writing with my first cup of coffee. A bit of reading when the afternoon feels slow. A walk or something simple to remind myself that life exists outside my keyboard. Some days the plan works. Other days I shrug and try again tomorrow. What I am learning is that balance does not arrive on its own. I have to search for it. I have to shape it. Retirement gives me freedom, but I need to give that freedom some structure. When I do, everything feels steadier. The stories come easier. The quiet hours make more sense. I am still searching, but I like the idea that balance is something I can build one day at a time. |
| Today I realized something both funny and a little unsettling. The story I am working on has drifted so far from the outline that I may have revised myself right out of it. The plot wandered. The characters made different choices. The ending I planned quietly packed its bags and left. Now I am standing here asking if this is good or bad. On one hand, it feels strange to lose the path I set. I spent time building that outline. I thought I knew where everything was going. Now the story has a mind of its own. It twists and turns in new ways, and I am left trying to catch up. Part of me wonders if I should pull it back. But here is the truth I am learning. Sometimes the story knows better than I do. When it grows past the outline, it can mean the characters are coming alive. It can mean the world is filling in. It can mean the draft is becoming something real instead of something forced. That is not a bad thing. It is a sign of movement. Of course, it also means I need more coffee and a new set of notes. Every time the story changes direction, I have to rethink the map. My brain complains, but the work gets better. I can see it happening. So is revising myself out of a story good or bad? Maybe it is both. It is confusing, but it is also exciting. It means the story is growing beyond the plan. It means I am not just following the outline. I am discovering something new. And honestly, discovery is one of the best parts of writing. I just need to hang on and see where this new version of the story wants to go. |
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Best wishes for 2026, and do please keep us in your loopy loop 
