I remember having a frank conversation with a guy I dated a while back about our future, and we both acknowledged that there were hurdles on both sides. His hurdle? He didn’t think I would ever go camping with him. I told him that was probably true. I’ve gone tent camping only twice in my life, one of those times in my parents’ backyard. I borrowed a co-worker’s tent, and my niece and I spent one night in it. She was much younger then and had never been camping before, so we treated it like a trial run for her. I crawled out of that tent the next morning and thought to myself, “I don’t ever need to do that again.”
My mom and I went to Montana in May and stayed at the Clydesdale Outpost. Neither of us had been there before. We decided that if we were going to go all that way, we were at least going to ride one of the beasts. So we signed up for a ride. With all the safety instructions, the reserved time was one hour, but the actual ride was about twenty-five minutes. I’ve ridden plenty of horses in my life, but never a draft horse. Find a wine or bourbon barrel, turn it on its side, climb on, and you’ll have an idea of what it’s like to ride a Clydesdale. I didn’t know my hips, knees, and ankles could point in those kinds of directions. My mom and I both got off our horses and said, “We don’t ever need to do that again.”
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| It was kind of fun while it lasted. Certain body parts said otherwise when we dismounted. |
I was a good little reader this summer and participated in my local library’s summer reading program (it’s not just for children!). For each book you read, you could turn in a ticket with your name on it to be entered into a raffle, up to ten tickets. I read ten books and turned in all my tickets. I ended up being one of the winners and got a pretty generous stash of prizes, one of which was two tickets to Kings Island, one of the amusement parks here in Ohio. The last time I was on a roller coaster was probably 2003, but I particularly remember riding Son of Beast, a wooden roller coaster that doesn’t even exist anymore. The ride was so rough that it felt like my brains were going to rattle right out of my head. And since I have a legitimate problem with my brain, roller coasters are off the grid altogether. When I saw those tickets I knew I wasn’t going to use them because I know I don’t ever need to ride a roller coaster again.
Two months before I was diagnosed, I went to interior Alaska with my aunt, my cousin, and a friend of mine on a trip of a lifetime to see the Northern Lights and celebrate my fortieth birthday early. We stayed at a luxury resort in December, in igloos (not the ice kind!) where we could lie in bed and see the aurora borealis. It was an incredible trip: dogsledding, hanging out with reindeer, a helicopter ride through the White Mountains, and then a six-hour snowmobile trip partially along the Alaska Pipeline and then up into the mountains again. On the bottom, I wore insulated leggings, insulated hiking pants, ski pants, and Carhartt coveralls. On top, I wore an insulated shirt, a fleece jacket, the inner lining of my winter coat, and then the outer portion, with the coveralls on top of that. I had insulated socks and boots rated for minus forty degrees, and another pair of boots the resort provided on top of that, plus two layers of gloves, a neck gaiter, and I don’t even know what to protect my ears and my head. It ended up being minus twenty-something degrees that day. We got back, and I got off that snowmobile and thought, “I don’t ever need to do that again.”
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| I’m second from the left, in case you can’t tell. This is the kind of cold that my family refers to as 'snot-freezing cold.' |
I am a seminary dropout. I took a single class in the fall of 2023, just as a trial run to see if I wanted to pursue another master’s degree. It’s confirmed: I don’t. The class was a survey of the New Testament. I was particularly restless and bored at that time in life, feeling like I was sleepwalking through life. I wrote about it shortly after the diagnosis in early 2024. I thought maybe some more rigorous intellectual input would help ease the boredom. I could have audited the class and done no assignments, but I thought that if this ultimately helped fulfill the vague something I was looking for, I didn’t want the class to be a waste, so I signed up as if it were a traditional class, with writing assignments and all. I don’t even remember what the final paper was, but it felt grueling. I remembered finishing my first master’s sixteen years ago and being reminded of how much I despise academic writing; this paper sealed the deal yet again. I finished that paper and told myself, “I don’t ever want to write another paper again in my life.” For real this time.
I went to see the Christian recording artist Brandon Lake last October for my birthday. I’ve never been much of a concert-goer to begin with—minus Ben Rector, who holds a special place in my heart—but I do enjoy Brandon’s music and decided to go. Thank God the man sitting in front of me was in his sixties, if not seventies, and chose to sit most of the time. One reason I don’t ever want to go to another Ohio State football game is that everybody stands almost the entire game, and I get sick of standing. I’d much rather sit at home and watch the game in a temperature-controlled environment. But especially now, I really struggle in loud environments and places with lots of visual commotion, even in restaurants. I took my noise-canceling headphones, and if I took them out for even one verse of a song, my body would get overwhelmed. My brain literally cannot handle things like that anymore. When I first started going to the new church I’m at, they have multiple overhead fans, and I genuinely thought I might not make it through the service with both the air and visual movement. So I left that concert realizing I don’t ever need to go to another concert again.
I’ve never been much of a drinker—minus amaretto sours, which barely even land in the realm of alcohol. However, I can still appreciate the art form of making things like bourbon without needing to partake. I oddly enjoy touring distilleries, which I’ve done once with my mom and once with my brother. My mom and I went on a tour of a couple of thoroughbred farms down near Lexington and also toured a distillery. We tasted a few of the options, and when I say “tasted,” I mean we basically could have dipped our tongues in the glasses, and it would have been more than enough. It was so appalling to us. We got the giggles so badly, and then my mom cracked a joke about something. The poor bartender was so caught off guard by whatever the joke was that she was in stitches behind the bar and ended up on the floor. I actually got off my barstool to peek over the edge and see if she was okay; she was down there for so long. All of us had tears streaming down our faces. We’d try another kind, as the bartender assured us they were all different—smoother, fuller, or whatever words are used to describe bourbon. My mom and I would try the next option, thinking, “Well, maybe this one will be the one that isn’t so disgusting.” Nope, still disgusting. And then the giggles would start all over again. I went on to tour Buffalo Trace later that fall with one of my brothers. It’s confirmed: I don’t ever need to drink bourbon again.
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| We are hopelessly hilarious bourbon drinkers, serving as each other’s entertainment. |
It’s been liberating to acknowledge not just the items above, but so many other things I’ve spent years minimizing, excusing, or trying to push through, some of which has been informed or deepened by these last two years of navigating a cancer diagnosis and treatment. I read an excerpt from a book years ago that was quite profound. Julia Keller wrote a book called Quitting: A Life Strategy, the Myth of Perseverance—And How the New Science of Giving Up Can Set You Free. In it, she wrote, "Human beings are the only creatures who quit and then stew over it, writing self-flagellating social media posts, confessing doubts to friends over cocktails, calling ourselves names as we stare mournfully in the mirror.”
I’m finding this notion of quitting quite satisfying, realizing there are a lot of things that I don’t ever need to do again. I’d be curious to hear - anything you’ve finally acknowledged you don’t ever need to do again? Maybe your own wisdom will spare me from doing things I don’t ever need to do again.
