The Road Ahead

Mile Markers, Memories, and What Comes Next

Last week, our family packed into the car and set out on a road trip, first to Boise, Idaho, then on to Salt Lake City. On paper, it was about soccer and college tours: Rocco competing at the Far West Regionals, Gio guest-playing for his older brother’s team, and a handful of campus visits along the way. But beneath the itinerary, it was something more.

What began as a family adventure ultimately offered a glimpse of where the four of us are headed in the years to come.

In the car, between gas stops and driver changes, the shift was palpable. We’re still very much in it as a family, sharing meals, stories, and hotel rooms, but the dynamic is changing.

I embrace every moment these two get to share the field. This one was pretty special.

I could feel it. The boys are growing more independent by the day. We’ve always worked to give them a voice, but now that voice carries more conviction, more clarity. They’re making choices with less input from us.

More than anything, this trip felt like a mile marker. One of those rare pauses in the chaos where you can actually sense how fast life is moving, and how close we are to a whole new chapter.

The first leg of our trip landed us in Boise, ID. Anchored by the US Youth Soccer Farwest Regional Tournament. Rocco’s team had qualified. Gio was invited to guest play. While they shared the field together during the high school season, this was the first time they competed on the same club team. A rare opportunity to see them together on a bigger stage, in a much different setting.

Gio didn’t get many minutes; he was playing up two age groups. But that wasn’t the point. Seeing them on the field together, hearing them dissect the games on the way home, and hearing Rocco encourage Gio, telling him that he’s good enough to be there, provided such a feeling of pride for Sarah and me. This was a shared moment they’ll always remember. And a subtle reminder to all of us that the seasons are changing.

We all scoffed at Uber on this trip and used scooters as our primary form of transportation.

Off the field, the boys and their teammates rented Lime scooters and took off to explore all that downtown Boise has to offer. While it caught us a bit off guard, Sarah and I felt an odd

sense of peace. Perhaps it was the calm feeling we got from the city. Or perhaps it was us recognizing that somewhere along the way, they had become more prepared than we had realized.

From Boise, we made our way to Salt Lake City, Utah.

The official reason was college visits, but for me, it meant something more.

Two years ago, I spent two months just down the road from where we toured campuses, navigating the most difficult season of my life. I had checked myself into an outpatient treatment facility, buried in depression, worn down by grief, burnout, and years of emotional exhaustion. I spent those weeks unraveling the patterns I’d ignored for too long. It was raw, humbling work. But it saved me.

Coming back this time, driving familiar streets, hiking in Big Cottonwood Canyon, visiting old landmarks, I carried something different. A quiet sense of peace. A lightness that can only follow the heavy lifting of true healing.

We took a short hike around Silver Lake at Brighton Ski Resort, hoping to spot some moose. No moose, but lot's of memoires.

Yes, there was some nostalgia. Yes, there was relief. But more than anything, I felt a deep sense of pride.

.

Because this time, I wasn’t here to survive. I was here with my family. Laughing. Exploring. Feeling grounded. And even though I didn’t narrate every moment or explain every memory, I think they felt the difference, too.

Healing doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a process. And while I’m still in it, being back here reminded me how far I’ve come, and how far I might never have gone without that painful, necessary pause two summers ago, and the work I’ve put in since.

This wasn’t just another stop on the road. It was a reckoning. A reminder of the man I was… and the man I’m working every day to become.

Driving out of Salt Lake, something clicked.

I realized this trip wasn’t just a return to a place I once leaned on to survive, it was a reminder of why I did the work in the first place. So I could be here. With them. Present for the late-night laughs, the college tours, the small but sacred moments of watching my sons

Westminster University rolled out the red carpet. I'm not sure if this is where he'll end up, but he loved it.

become themselves. Watching Rocco light up at a campus that felt like a fit. Watching Gio test his independence on a scooter downtown. Feeling Sarah’s hand in mine as we navigated it all, not as someone trying to hold it together, but as someone finally whole enough to really show up.

The trip home, while long and exhausting, offered time for reflection. Somewhere out in the vast expanse of Eastern Oregon, mile after mile of high desert and wide sky, I found myself deep in thought. Not about the tournament or the campuses, but about time. How fast it’s moving. How far we’ve come. And how close we are to the next big shift.

This trip gave us a glimpse of both what was and what’s coming. Rocco, stepping into his future. Gio, not far behind, both of them quietly carving their own paths with a steady, unshakable confidence. And Sarah and I, still very much in it, but starting to feel the edges of the nest loosen.

It hit me then: these moments, cramped hotel rooms, gas station snacks, scooter rides through unfamiliar cities, they’re not just detours or transitions. They are the road. The highway system to our future. These are the mile markers we’ll return to when the house grows quiet and the boys are off chasing their own adventures.

We’re not quite ready for the next chapter. But we can feel it coming.

The boys are becoming young men. And as they grow, we’re being asked to grow alongside them.

For now, though, we’re still here. Still together. Still writing our story.

And more than anything, that’s what I’ll carry with me from this trip. Not the scores or the sights, but the feeling of us, still in motion, still showing up, still choosing each other.

Not because we have to, but because we get to.

And maybe that’s what matters most: not the miles behind us or the turns ahead, but the moments we share in between.