Hey Coach

November 19th, 2025:

I have an accountability coach.

Two weeks ago, I had my first session. Two weeks ago, I committed to completing one blog entry before our next meet-up. Two weeks ago, I was certain—absolutely certain—that the spell of procrastination, fear, and self-doubt had been broken. Two weeks ago, I trusted myself enough to hire someone just so I could say, “See? Look what I’ve accomplished!”

And now? With less than 24 hours to go, I have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And, of course… this is nothing new.

For years, since my divorce in 2000, I’ve felt I had something to say — something to share with others. A naïve hope that maybe others could learn from my mistakes, learn from what I’ve learned. But then again, what would make my lived experiences that much more different from the other fifty percent of married couples who’ve gone through the same thing? So, I didn’t write. I didn’t share.

Then years later, when a slowly and progressively confusing neurological condition ended my 25-year career as a children’s singer and storyteller, I thought that this story might be worth sharing. I was no longer able to perform at steady library gigs, school assemblies, fairs, and festivals, and I went from homeowner to renter, foreclosure to bankruptcy, athlete to chair-sitter. Surely, having navigated that, there would be something worth sharing. Something from this experience that might give others hope to not give up. To hang on.

And yet, thanks to all the wonderful books that have already been published—like the ones that have helped me get to where I am now—I thought, why sacrifice one more tree so I can tell my story? Nope. Not necessary. There are plenty of good stories already out there. Save the tree.

Then, the unthinkable — the most gut-wrenching, soul-crippling tragedy that any parent can experience — the death of my oldest child. Like being caught in a tornado, torn apart, and left drifting into pieces, I felt I had been stripped of everything that made me human.  There was nothing left of me that was recognizable.

No words. No stories.

For years, I lived in the place of “no place.” Still alive, but not living. The world of music, playfulness, laughter, and a sense of joy that had once been a part of my life was gone. There was this indescribable feeling of disconnectedness, with one day colliding into the next as if whatever could have been my world was out of reach. So, over time, I began to accept that there would be no rescuing from this grief. No sunlight. No belief that anything could penetrate the dark well of my soul. I would fake what it looked like, I would fake what it felt like, to live again— because that was all I knew. I marked time.

Until one day, I didn’t.

Somewhere between nothing and something, my mind began slowly crawling out of this dense, thick fog that only allowed me to see 2 feet in front of me at any given time. It will take more than this first post to describe the years it took to go from those first deep breaths to where I find myself here. But, find myself here I did, and that’s when I knew it was time. It was time to write. It was time to share the stories that I have been living with for years. And it wasn’t because what I needed to say would be transformative or inspirational for others, it was because what I needed to say was more personal than that.

In The Practice, Seth Godin writes, “If you’re ready to make a difference with your ideas and craft, what are you waiting for? Because we are waiting for you.” It wasn’t until now that I realized—I was waiting for me, too.