I’ve been a commuter my entire life. And I don’t mean twenty minutes down a sleepy road while sipping a latte—I mean real commuting. Mileage. Wear patterns. The slow erosion of the soul. commutes so long that sometimes it had a bathroom break. It started in upstate New York: Bloomingburg to Kingston. Pine Bush to Poughkeepsie. Then Bloomingburg to Hackensack. There was never an “easy” drive. Just traffic, construction, deer, fog, and that one guy who always drove like he had diplomatic immunity. To make a living you had to travel, I used to joke that every county line equaled another Ten thousand dollars in pay When I moved to North Carolina, the pattern didn’t break—it just shifted regions. For years, I went from Mt. Gilead to Fayetteville, then Mt. Gilead to Monroe. Long stretches of road, the same faded billboards, the same gas stations, the same little mental tricks to stay awake during that last stretch home. The best part about driving home from FayetteNam is I could occasi...

I graduated today. No cap, no gown. No champagne pop or emotional slideshow. Just a cheesy little Teams ceremony, a few Little jokes, with the team that went through so much together in short time, and a quiet moment when they said we were done. Cohort training complete. They released us into the wild. So here I am—on the porch, watching the water drop from Jamie Lee’s little waterfall. There’s sunlight on my feet. No Team pings. No breakout rooms. No scripted claim scenarios to run through one more time. I thought I’d feel something bigger. A spark, a fire, some kind of “next chapter” energy. But what I feel instead is stillness—and maybe that’s the point. We’re all so conditioned to chase the next thing. The hustle. The grind. But maybe this little moment—graduated, unplugged, sitting in the sun with a homemade DIY waterfall and a fake diploma—is the actual reward. A couple months ago, after more than a decade away, I started blogging again. Not because I’m building a brand or...

  I’m nearing the end of my formal remote classroom training, and this week I officially did the thing: I settled actual claims. For actual people. For actual damage. From behind a desk in beautiful North Carolina. Somewhere in California, a check is on the way. Same for someone in Las Vegas. And Alabama. And Ohio. Even a claim from Winnemucca, Nevada landed on my screen. Which is how I ended up humming Johnny Cash all day: "I was totin' my pack along the dusty Winnemucca road..."  So I wound up humming Johnny Cash all day, thinking about all the places in that song—Reno, Barstow, San Antoni—places I’ve never been but somehow feel like I have after hearing them loop through my brain for hours. Winnemucca, of course, started it, but by lunch I’d mentally traveled to every dusty town and two-lane highway from the lyrics, like I was on some weird honky-tonk pilgrimage without ever leaving my chair. By mid-afternoon, I wasn’t just totin’ my pack—I was praying for the ea...

There’s a certain kind of quiet glory that doesn’t come from grand triumphs, but from small, consistent wins. Like waking up in a Marriott, shuffling downstairs in today’s fresh shirt, and discovering that the breakfast is not only free for employees of X Corporation—but good . Not just edible. Not just “included.” But worth sitting down for. Let me take you there. Where Business Casual Meets Breakfast Casual This particular Marriott has mastered the tone. The dining area opens just past the modern lobby and its low, clean couches and oddly placed decorative logs. It’s the kind of lobby that makes you feel slightly underdressed, even in a polo. But walk past the little bar and the Starbucks kiosk—yes, an actual Starbucks with real baristas and espresso machines humming like jet engines (it doubles as a bar at night)—and you’ll find a discreet buffet tucked around the corner. The kind of layout that says, “This is free, but we won’t make you feel desperate about it.” There are no loud ...

  You remember those old Love Is... comics? The little cartoon couple with captions like: Love is... sharing an umbrella. Love is... never falling asleep angry. Love is... holding hands forever. Cute stuff. But the longer We are together, the more I realize: real love isn’t always sunshine and roses. Sometimes love is 5 days of chaos — followed by pulling into the airport curb like it’s no big deal. Monday: The Drop-Off It all started on Monday. I had the first flight out of GSO — one of those “set the alarm for a time that starts with a 4” situations. While most of the world was still asleep, Jamie was already up, dressed, and driving me to the airport in the dark. No traffic. No drama. Just: "Text me when you land." Easy, right? That was the last easy part of her week. The Five Days Between While I was off training and eating my way around Chicago, Jamie was home running a full-contact obstacle course. She locked down the entire house, including our own ...

Listen, I don’t usually throw around phrases like "life-changing," but here we are. After years of stubbornly standing in the regular TSA line a couple of times a year with the masses, removing my belt like a hostage, doing the barefoot shuffle while my dignity leaks out onto the cold airport floor, I finally caved.I knew i would be doing some serious traveling. I paid the money. I got TSA PreCheck. And friends, let me tell you: it’s the best $78 I have ever spent in my entire life. I would have happily paid double. Triple, even. This is not an endorsement. This is a full-blown testimonial. Most of the time I'd rather hit myself in the thumb with a hammer than willingly give the government any money, I went three years without buying aa fishing license once The Line That Feels Like a Secret Society The first thing you notice is how calm it is. PreCheck people are different. It’s like we’ve all silently agreed: "We know what we’re doing here. Let’s keep it moving...

You know that thing where you sign up for a new gig, meet a whole new crew of people, and within a few weeks you’re all sitting in a restaurant together like you’ve known each other since third grade? That was this week. One full week in Glenview, Illinois — which is basically Chicago’s well-behaved suburban cousin — doing training, eating too much, and squeezing in just enough adventure to make the flight home feel well-earned. The Accidental Summer Camp Now, let me start by saying I hadn’t spent much time with this team before. I knew names, seen a faces  for a month on Teams, but that was about it. Funny thing about being stuck in a hotel together for a week of classes, though — you start feeling like you’re in adult summer camp. Same people every day, inside jokes start forming, everyone’s half-exhausted and half-slap-happy by midweek, and next thing you know you’re swapping stories over dinner like lifelong friends. It’s a weird but kind of awesome part of this job — these min...