The Ex4mined L1fe

Yesterday, with the help of Gemini, I curated a playlist featuring some of my favorite songs spanning the 1970s to the early 2000s. The usual suspects made the cut: Dave Matthews Band, Al Stewart, Joe Jackson, Van Morrison, Joe Cocker, Jackson Browne, Paul Simon, Gerry Rafferty, and Jim Croce. You get the drift: soulful, storytelling-driven music that’s aged like fine wine. Curious, I asked the AI who else might belong in this musical circle. Without hesitation, it suggested Cat Stevens. That name stirred something in me. For years, I had a personal ban on the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens, who converted to Islam in 1977 and took the name Yusuf Islam. He was allegedly linked to the fatwa calling for harm against author Salman Rushdie, following the publication of The Satanic Verses . That association deeply troubled me. How could someone who wrote and sang “Peace Train” publicly support violence against a writer exercising free speech? Out of confusion, hurt, and, if I’m ...

As the years stack up—and brothers, am I feeling those years—I’ve noticed a shift in how I think about what I want versus what I need. When I was younger, the list of “wants” felt endless: new gadgets, new clothes, new toys, new milestones. But with age, I’ve come to realize that many of those wants wouldn’t actually improve my life—or anyone else’s, for that matter. When I reflect on wants versus needs, my mind drifts to a haunting line from Glen Campbell’s Wichita Lineman: “I need you more than I want you, and I want you for all time.” Every time I hear that, goosebumps. It nails the difference between fleeting desires and soul-level necessity. And speaking of age, I’ve started to think of life like a gas tank. The first half? Smooth sailing, plenty of mileage, lots of road ahead. The second half? That needle drops at an alarming rate, and every mile feels like it’s burning faster than the one before. That reality sharpens my focus: What do I really need, and what’s just a distractio...

Random thoughts have a way of ambushing me. They don’t knock politely; they ricochet around my head until I give them a place to land. Writing is my way of clearing the mental clutter — of turning noise into something that might, just maybe, spark a conversation. These days, my process is a team sport. After I wrestle my first draft onto the page, I call in my colleagues — Grammarly, Gemini, and yes, even Copilot to help me polish the rough edges. This isn’t new for me. Back in high school, my newspaper moderator would toss me an unabridged dictionary and demand proof that my word choices actually existed. (They usually did. Usually.) Fast forward a few decades, and I’m still handing over rough drafts — whether it was my weekly “Friday Notes” for parents and teachers or today’s blog posts to someone with a red pen and a gleam in their eye. My longtime editor had a particular talent for circling my words like a hawk spotting prey. The smug look said it all: This is going to be fun! For ...

A young boy once asked his father why he always seemed to overpay when buying from small vendors or those struggling to make ends meet. The father smiled and said, “Son, that’s easy. It’s called   Charity with Dignity . You can help people who need a break in life while still honoring the value of their work. It’s about lifting others up without making them feel small.” This simple exchange carries a profound truth: generosity doesn’t have to be loud or grand. It can be quiet, respectful, and deeply human. In another touching moment, a father was seen in a video asking a neighbor for a couple of spoons of sugar to finish baking a birthday cake. When he returned home, his son asked, “Dad, why did you borrow sugar? We have plenty.” The father replied, “Our neighbors don’t have all the resources we do. If I borrow something small from them now, they might feel more comfortable asking for help when they truly need it. It’s about building trust through simple acts.” These stories echo a...

I came across something recently that really made me pause. It was one of those “wow, I needed to hear that” moments. It talked about how much lighter life feels when we stop carrying around all the stuff that weighs us down,  especially worry. Let’s be honest: worry feels like we’re doing something worthwhile. It's as if we’re solving problems just by thinking about them nonstop. But really? It’s like sitting in a rocking chair; lots of movement, zero progress. Most of the things we stress over either don’t matter as much as we think or they’re entirely out of our control. So I started thinking about the kinds of worries I could let go of, and maybe you can too. Here are 12 things we could stop stressing about starting today:      What strangers think – They don’t know your story. Don’t give them free rent in your head. Past mistakes – You’re not the same person you were back then. Learn from it and move on. Stuff you can’t control – Be like Elsa, Let it go.  H...

Today I showed up in a silky golf shirt, a Callaway jacket, and a hat from the SSP Golf Tournament Committee. The chorus was immediate: “We didn’t know you were a golfer!” I’m not. I just liked the shirt, the jacket fit, and honestly, I had bed head! It’s not the first time my outfit has raised eyebrows. Sometimes I throw on a hoodie from a previous school where I worked, only to be met with: “Do you like that school better than ours?” or even “You can’t wear that here.” It reminded me of my college days. When I transferred to Missouri State from St. Mary’s University in San Antonio, I proudly wore my Kappa Sigma Greek colors. Frat row scoffed: “We don’t recognize those colors here.” Their pushback didn’t stop me; it only inspired me to help start a new fraternity chapter in Springfield. Go back a little further, and I’m in junior high. My best friend once got mad at me because I wore athletic tape on my football socks outside of practice. He thought I was showing off. Truth was,...

  I’ve been wrestling with a question: can someone really be holier than thou while still living by the bro code ? Here’s why I ask. After spitting in a tube for Ancestry, I discovered my biological father — the man I was told had died was alive. He has siblings, too, including a man I found on Facebook. I messaged him: Do you have a brother named xyz? “Yes, sir, I do.” That might make me your nephew. “Son, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Then he disconnected online from me. Minutes later, he called his brother, my father, and said, “We might have some trouble brewing.” Trouble? For asking about the family? That’s when the “bro code” hit me. Some bonds of silence and loyalty seem to override honesty — even faith. But should they? Both men are Christian preachers, willing to tell me when I fall short morally. Those in their circles don’t hesitate to condemn Catholics, either, the Church, the Pope, the whole enchilada. And yet, we all claim the same Father, ...

My good friends Gemini, Siri, and I had a round robin on this topic. You’d think that after working predominantly with women for the last 40 years, I could’ve winged this without consultants. But midlife is tricky terrain, and sometimes, even seasoned travelers need a guide. The midlife crisis is one of those cultural clichés we all recognize. For men, the script is familiar: buy a red sports car, suddenly care a lot about your hairline, maybe flirt with someone who wasn’t alive when you learned to drive stick. It’s dramatic, visible, and often expensive. For women, the midlife crisis tends to look different — quieter, subtler, and sometimes infinitely more satisfying. Instead of revving engines, it’s about revving personal growth: changing careers, picking up hobbies left behind in youth, or finally taking that long-postponed solo trip. She might not post a picture with a convertible, but she might proudly share a ceramic bowl she made in a pottery class she never thought she had time...

There comes a point in many men's lives when the signs of a midlife crisis start appearing, with the persistence of unwanted spam emails. When you hit your late 40s, mid-50s, or even early 60s, society seems to announce: "It's time for your midlife crisis!" Cue the flashy convertible with the top down, the (Rudy Giuliani-inspired) hair dye in unnaturally youthful shades, and maybe even a fling with someone who wasn’t even alive when you were still figuring out your locker combination. It's as if a concierge is handing you a pamphlet that reads: "Welcome to Midlife! Please choose your indulgence: Option A: Sports Car. Option B: Hairline Revival. Option C: Awkward Dating Apps." I stumbled upon an AI-generated script and thought: Really? Is this all midlife has to offer? Do I really need a little red Corvette (sorry, Prince) to feel alive, or a twenty-something partner to validate my existence? Admittedly, I did find myself browsing scooters at South Side...

  In the second half of my life, I’ve come to embrace something that was always part of me—my Hispanic heritage. For years, I didn’t fully acknowledge the richness of my roots, even while living and working near San Antonio. That chapter is behind me now. Today, I stand proudly as a descendant of Aztec blood, honoring the legacy of my family and culture. I’ve taken intentional steps to reflect that pride—hyphenating my last name to include my mother’s maiden name, Medellín-Sturgill, and adopting my baptismal and confirmation names in Spanish. “Guillermo” for William was easy. “Darrel” has no Spanish equivalent, so I simply say:  Mi nombre es Darrel . And my everyday name, Gregorio—affectionately “Goyo”—connects me to a broader tradition of names that carry meaning and history. This journey hasn’t been about correcting the past, but about living more fully into who I am today. I hope my story encourages others to explore and celebrate their own heritage, whatever it may be. Our...

  There’s a moment in  Ted Lasso —Season 1, Episode 2—that’s stuck with me ever since I first heard it. Ted turns to a discouraged Sam and says,  “You know what the happiest animal on Earth is? A goldfish. Know why? It’s got a ten-second memory. Be a goldfish.” Simple. Profound. And oddly inspirational. “Be a goldfish” is such a powerful phrase—short, quirky, and wise. It’s about resilience, emotional agility, and the ability to move forward without dragging yesterday’s baggage into today. Why a goldfish? Because it forgets quickly. It doesn’t dwell. It doesn’t have a meltdown. It just swims. What does that mean for us?   It means we can choose to release the sting of a mistake, the weight of a bad day, or the awkwardness of a misstep—and move forward with grace. I’ve been thinking about that lately—especially as I embark on my own quirky challenge: drinking 30 cups of RYZE mushroom coffee. Yes, mushroom coffee. The kind that tastes like someone scoped a forest floor...

Not every story (post) gets an audience. But every story changes the person who tells it. This is mine.  There’s a phrase in  1 Corinthians  that I never can quite remember exactly, something like,  " words that eyes will never see or songs that ears will never hear ".  It is meant to capture the tragedy of art that never finds an audience. Lately, I’ve been feeling the same. I’ve been pouring my soul into a blog, technically visible to anyone, yet it feels like it’s floating in a void. I post. I share. I promote on social media. And still… silence. Last night, I even showed my latest post to my wife. She glanced at it, maybe read a few lines, then set it aside without comment. I’m not upset with her, life is busy, and not everyone connects with the same things, but it was a quiet reminder that sometimes the people closest to us aren’t our audience. So I’ve been wondering: maybe this blog isn’t for “them” at all. Perhaps it’s for me.  Maybe it’s my mental h...

Even I’m amazed at how a single thought can wedge itself in my mind—refusing to let go, refusing to just be . Last night, I finished reading Dan Brown’s Origin . Near the end, a line struck me like lightning: “Love is not a finite emotion. We don't only have so much to share. Our hearts create love as we need it.” — Dan Brown That simple passage unraveled a thread of reflection. Why do some people believe love should be rationed or held back? Why do others feel they aren’t worthy of it? The idea that love is limited—that it must be earned, measured, or deserved—is a myth that quietly shapes how we live and connect. This morning, on my drive to school, the first few songs that played were all about love. So, in classic Greg fashion, I asked my girlfriend Siri: “How many songs have the word ‘Love’ in the title?” Her answer? Essentially endless. Since 2020 alone, 365 songs with love in the title have landed on top 100 charts. Love has inspired artists for generations. Just co...

Nearly two decades ago, I retired my WordPress blog, An Examined Life. Back then, I thought I had said all I needed to say. Life moved on, responsibilities piled up, and the idea of blogging again felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. These days, I’m so busy I sometimes have to schedule bathroom breaks just to survive the day. So why start again? Why give The Ex4mined L1fe a shot? Because writing is therapeutic. It’s how I keep the thoughts bouncing between my ears from ricocheting endlessly. Whether on paper or screen, journaling helps me process, reflect, and release. In the not-so-distant past, I went through a series of traumatic events—personally and professionally—that shook me to my core. One of the hardest chapters was closing a proud parish school that had nearly reached its 200th anniversary. We had to find new homes for almost 200 children and two dozen staff members. No matter how solid you are as a leader, no one walks away from that unscathed. And just before that, the wo...