The Ex4mined L1fe

If Vol. 2 proved anything, it’s that I had a hard time turning down a dare. Vol. 3? This is where I stopped waiting for dares… and started creating my own problems. Because somewhere between moving into the dorms and pretending to be a responsible college student, I developed a very specific set of skills. None of them was on a syllabus. None of them earned credit hours. All of them were extremely memorable. Let’s start with what I’ll call “advanced entry techniques.” Most people used doors. I preferred windows. Second floor, narrow ledges, questionable footing—it didn’t matter. If I wanted to visit someone, I wasn’t knocking. I was scaling the outside of the building like a budget version of something between a cat burglar and a bad decision. Looking back, one misstep and this story ends very differently. At the time? Just another day that ended in Y. Then there was the fine art of “pennying” people into their dorm rooms. For the uninitiated, you wedge pennies into the door...

Yesterday I shared a story that unlocked a memory from the late ’70s—one that earned me a grounding that, at the time, felt like a life sentence. Before we go any further, a quick clarification for the record: My sister Debbie Sturgill (KCMO)… not to be confused with my other sister, Deborah Sturgill (Kentucky). With a setup like that, I never really had a shot at a quiet life. Back then, we had one family phone. One. Shared. No caller ID, no cell phones—just a coiled cord, limited privacy, and unlimited opportunity for bad decisions. My sister was deep into her Tiger Beat phase—crushing on Leif Garrett and every other feathered-hair heartthrob smiling off those glossy pages. Meanwhile, SuperQ 104 out of KCMO was running a promotion: win a date with Leif Garrett. Naturally… I chose chaos. Enter my co-conspirator, Jeff Waechter—a man who had been perfecting his “DJ voice” like it was a full-time job. “Helloooo, it’s Johnny Rock ‘N Roland…” on repeat, whether anyone asked f...

  I was born in 1962. My formative years stretched from the mid-60s through my graduation from high school in 1980—a window of time that, looking back, feels both simpler and fuller.  Not better. Not worse. Just… different in ways that are getting harder to explain to anyone who didn’t live it. What we had back then wasn’t much by today’s standards—but somehow, it was enough. When Less Wasn’t a Problem.   We didn’t have everything. We had what we had. We had one phone in the house, usually attached to a wall, with a cord that could only stretch so far before someone yelled, “Hang it up!” We had a handful of TV channels, and if you missed something, you missed it. No rewind. No streaming. No second chances. Honestly? We weren’t inside much anyway. We were outside playing baseball or kickball in the yard all day long. Not on screens. Not in organized leagues. Just pickup games where the rules were… flexible, depending on who was winning. There was pushing, shoving, ar...

It got ridiculous this weekend.  I’m sitting there, already a little on edge, trying to track something simple— who are the Chiefs taking in the seventh round? Not a life-altering question, not a philosophical deep dive… just a thread I wanted to pull. And instead?  Talking heads.  More talking heads. Endless loops of speculation dressed up like insight—breaking down arm length like it’s sacred scripture, debating hand size like it’s a personality trait, circling the same narratives until they’re worn thin.  They weren't even talking about the Chiefs ; they were still debating the arm length of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' first-round  draft, three flipping days later!  Arm Length!?! It’s noise masquerading as knowledge. I didn’t need a panel. I didn’t need a debate. I didn’t need a former player squinting at a telestrator. I just wanted the pick. And somewhere in that frustration, another question bubbled up: When did the NFL Draft become… t...

The past few days, apparently, I’ve been living I nto the Woods,  and not subtly. Somewhere along the way, my writing turned into trees, roots, forests… the full arborist starter pack. And now I’ve officially been labeled a bur oak . Which, to be clear, feels less like a compliment and more like something a doctor prescribes ointment for. I didn’t audition for this role. But here we are. At first, I laughed it off. It felt… aggressively kind. Maybe even a little suspicious. Because when someone starts describing you as “deep-rooted,” “steady,” and “built to last,” it’s hard not to hear, “Hang in there, your peak is coming in a few decades.” But like most things I can’t immediately dismiss, I sat with it. Here’s what I learned about a bur oak: it grows slowly. Really slow. The kind of slow that doesn’t impress anyone at first. It puts its energy into roots before you ever see much above ground. It’s sturdy, weathered, not particularly flashy, but over time, it becomes...

Yesterday I wondered out loud in blog format: Which version of me would people actually want in their lives?  The high-energy guy was easier to like, but the man I am now is a whole lot more capable of staying present . Younger me was built for attention; current me is built for connection. After sharing some of these thoughts, a friend reached out with a perspective that really made me think. She said: "God changes the tune in our life every once in a while... Knowledge and wisdom change our perceptions of ourselves, and yes, we can grow new branches, but aren’t we the same tree? I owe so much to the foundation I created years ago." I love that image of the tree. It forced me to look at my "younger self" with a little more grace. I wouldn’t trade my roots for anything, even the seasons where they were shallow and still finding their way. Those roots are the reason I'm standing today.  I also think growth changes the  tree's purpose . Same roots, sure—bu...

I’ve been having one of those internal debates again—the kind that usually ends up becoming a blog, whether I planned it or not. It started simply enough.  In my line of work, I meet a lot of people every week. Recently, around the time of First Communion, I met some grandparents I’d somehow never crossed paths with before. At the same time, I’ve been a little less rigid about who I accept on social media, which has opened the door to friends of friends, siblings of friends, and even people I technically knew years ago but never really took the time to get to know. If I’m being honest, that part sits with me.  Because there are people, good people, I probably should’ve been more open to back in high school or college. Not because anything went wrong… but because nothing really went anywhere. The conversations stayed shallow. The connection never had a chance to become anything more. That’s on me.    I’ve grown since then. Slowed down a bit. Softened in the right ...

There are songs I can put on repeat… all day long.   Not just background noise— companions.   I’ve tried to figure out what it is. Is it the melody? The lyrics? Some invisible algorithm that knows me better than I know myself? But the more I listen… the more I think it’s something else.  Because none of these songs are loud.  None of them are trying to impress me.  They just… tell the truth. Take Your Time doesn’t rush—it lingers. Just Once doesn’t shout—it sighs. Landslide doesn’t push—it reflects. Time in a Bottle doesn’t pretend—it aches. S omewhere in between, they all whisper the same thing:  You feel this too, don’t you? There’s love in these songs.   But not the easy kind.  It’s the kind that almost worked.  The kind that still lingers.  The kind you’d fix… if you just had one more chance.  Maybe the kind where, just for a moment, everything slows down enough to feel right, like in Take Your Time , and you realize ...

 You can’t change the people around you.  But you can change the people around you. At first glance, that sounds like something gone wrong on the keyboard. But sit with it for a second—it’s actually where a lot of growth—and a lot of peace—begins. Yesterday, I found myself wrestling with a different idea—the kind of advice we hear all the time: “You’re perfect just the way you are.” If I’m being honest, I don’t think that holds up. Because if we were already everything we’re meant to be, there’d be no need to grow, to stretch, to become more. But somewhere in the middle of that tension, a different message kept showing up. Maybe it was just good timing… or maybe it was the Sirius XM Billy Joel station finding its way back into rotation. Either way, the words stuck:  “I love you just the way you are… don’t go changing to try and please me…” — Billy Joel And that hits differently. It’s not saying, “Stay exactly as you are forever.”  It’s saying, “You don’t have...

Somewhere along the way, a lot of us were told the same thing: “You’re perfect just the way you are.” It sounds good. It feels good. It fits nicely on a coffee mug or a motivational poster. But let’s be real for a second… We’re not. Not even close. We’re imperfect people—flawed, inconsistent, sometimes selfish, sometimes stubborn, sometimes spectacularly wrong. No amount of positive affirmations will rewrite that truth. You know what, that’s not such bad news. That’s life in the Big Eight (Twelve, SEC, or whatever conference we are in this week!). Here’s a deeper truth most people skip over: we were designed this way. Not as a mistake. Not as an oversight; with intentionality. There is something powerful about recognizing your own imperfections. It humbles you. It grounds you. It keeps you from walking around like you’ve got it all figured out, because we don’t. None of us does.  That’s exactly where grace steps in. Grace doesn’t show up because you earned it. Grace shows up be...

  The Three Hardest Things to Say There are three phrases that trip up just about every human being on the planet. Two of them are deeply emotional, soul-level admissions that require humility, vulnerability, and a willingness to admit you’re not the center of the universe. I am sorry. I need help and t he third one?  Is Worcestershire . H onestly… it might be the hardest of the three.  Let’s break this down. 1. “I’m Sorry.” This one should be simple. Two words. That’s it. Not a thesis. Not a courtroom defense. Not a carefully crafted explanation of why you were technically right but emotionally misunderstood. Just: “I’m sorry.”  But no… we dress it up. “I’m sorry if you felt that way.” “I’m sorry but you also…” “I’m sorry you misunderstood me …” Congratulations. You just turned an apology into a TED Talk nobody asked for.  A real apology costs something. It requires you to lay down your pride, admit you were wrong, and resist the ove...