I Took the Long Way

Ep 8: Fine. I'm Getting Old - Signs of Aging Nobody Warns You About

I had to size up my jeans last week. One inch. Thirty-plus years at the same size -- through the Army, through my 30s, through everything -- and then one day the number changed. That's when I started paying attention to everything else I'd been quietly ignoring. The iPhone text size bumped up. Spotify new releases full of names I don't recognize -- so I closed it and went back to Jurassic 5, ATCQ, and Rage Against the Machine. Pro athletes who look like they should still be doing homework. Eyebrows and nose hairs doing their own thing. Crow's feet showing up when I laugh -- years of smiling, showing wear and tear like a used keyboard. An all-black wardrobe because matching colors stopped feeling worth the energy. Then the body started keeping score. Belly fat that moved in and ignored eviction notices. A metabolism on a long flight still adjusting to the time zone. A hard goodbye to steakhouses -- Mastros, Lawry's, all of it. Gone. Replaced by a big salad at the work catered lunch that, honestly, kinda tastes good now. But somewhere in the middle of all that, something else shifted too. Career status, news cycles, pop culture -- all of it just quietly fell away. What moved in instead: my wife, my daughter, faith and community, the long game. The things that actually matter. I also heard something recently I haven't been able to shake -- that as kids, we watch our parents grow up without knowing it. I'm the parent now. And I think a lot about what my daughter is going to remember about this chapter of her dad. The body is slowing down. The focus sharpened. I don't think that's a coincidence. I Took the Long Way is a personal storytelling podcast about faith, family, identity, and figuring it out the long way. New episodes on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and wherever you listen.

Ep 7: 26.2 - The LA Marathon, a Bum Knee, and Why I'm Running It Again at 50+

I am not built like a runner. Skinny doesn't mean fit -- ask the Army PT test I failed at nineteen in front of everyone at boot camp. That failure filed itself somewhere in the back of my brain and did not let go. What followed was years of proving something to myself -- running twice a day in the Arizona heat during interrogation training, still smoking half a pack of cigarettes a day, somehow getting faster anyway. I broke twelve minutes on that two-mile run and immediately threw up at the finish line. It felt incredible. But marathons didn't happen until my 40s. My 20s and 30s were a different chapter entirely -- one that involved losing my license twice and riding a bike everywhere in LA because that was the consequence. I didn't understand marathoners back then. I thought they were running from something. I was wrong. In March 2018, I stood at Dodger Stadium with twenty thousand other people and ran 26.2 miles to Santa Monica. I saw an older man with thirty LA Marathon finish dates printed on the back of his t-shirt and thought -- that's the most boss thing I've ever seen in a parking lot. I trained alone, at night, through the streets of West LA. I almost got hit by cars more times than I can count. And then mile 20 happened. I'd been holding onto it for miles -- knowing they'd be there. My wife and daughter, on the sidewalk near our old street, holding a sign they made together. Cheering for their husband. Their dad. A middle-aged guy running 26.2 miles for no practical reason. I was wearing sunglasses. I am so glad I was wearing sunglasses. I ran five marathons total -- four LA, one San Francisco on a knee that was already talking to me. The knee eventually won. Four years passed. A lot happened in those four years: faith, sobriety, a new life slowly coming into focus. Now I'm lacing back up. March 2027. LA Marathon. I'll be 52 by race day. And when I cross that finish line -- they'll be there on the sidewalk. I already know it.

Ep 6: The Night I Almost Didn't Hear It — On Drinking, Fatherhood, and Finally Deciding

A Wednesday night Korean BBQ dinner with old friends. Drinks that kept coming. A server who quietly mentioned she'd been sober for a year — and a table that kept going anyway. By Thursday morning, I was hungover, calling in sick, and my daughter walked in and said — matter-of-factly, like she was checking the weather — "you drank too much." She's twelve. And she's said it before. That's what finally moved me. Not a dramatic bottom. Not a crisis. Just a kid who's been quietly filing things away — and a dad who finally looked at what she'd been keeping. This episode is about the week that followed: the text I sent my wife on Good Friday, the afternoon alone with a decision I wasn't sure I'd keep, and the Easter Sunday sermon that landed like a dagger in a packed room where nobody around me had any idea why. I didn't go looking for a turning point. It found me at a BBQ joint on a Tuesday night. I Took the Long Way is a personal storytelling podcast about faith, fatherhood, identity, and the long road to figuring it out.

Ep 5: The Toilet - The Day I Used the Backyard Instead of the Bathroom

I was eight years old, home alone, and the toilet had a history. I knew what it was capable of. And when the rumbles in the jungle arrived, I did what any reasonable kid would do — I grabbed the Charmin and I went outside. This is a story about being a latchkey kid, making calls with no manual and no backup, and what happens when the wind picks up right after you think you've handled something. It's also about what my parents did when they came home and found the evidence scattered across the backyard — and why that moment taught me something about self-reliance that I'm still carrying as a dad. No experts. No advice. Just a story about a broken toilet, a bad decision, and the inheritance nobody talks about — the one where you figure it out with whatever's in front of you, and that turns out to be enough. I Took the Long Way is a personal storytelling podcast about life, detours, and somehow still being here to talk about it.

Ep 4: Five Jumps — What Airborne School Taught Me About Fear

I was nineteen years old, fresh out of basic training, and I had just volunteered for Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia — because I thought it would be cool. That was the whole reason. No deeper thesis. Just a kid who wanted wings on his chest. What followed was three weeks of Georgia summer heat, mosquitoes that had no fear of me, sand pits, combat boots, and a Sergeant Airborne who made sure you never walked anywhere. And then Jump Week — five jumps, real stakes, and a Major who froze at the door and got kicked out by a Sergeant Airborne before I ever had a chance to think too hard about what I was about to do. I'm still afraid of heights. I was afraid then. I jumped anyway. Five times. I hit the ground wrong once and fell over like a tree. I got back up and got back in line. At the end of it, they pressed Airborne wings directly into my chest — no backing, just pin through fabric and skin. Blood wings. And then I got my orders. Non-airborne post. Those five jumps were the first and last jumps of my military career. In airborne culture, they have a name for that: five jump chump. Which is accurate. But the jumps still happened. The fear was real. Nobody can take that back. Not even the Army. This episode is about what courage actually looks like when the ending isn't perfect and the fear never leaves.