What If It’s More?
Updated: 7 days ago
Saturday, November 6, 2004
Laughter filled the Fagen family room. Kids in Halloween costumes darted between couches while the Shrek 2 soundtrack echoed through the speakers. Goblins, ghosts, superheroes, all too caught up in the chaos to notice that I—the birthday boy—had slipped away to the garage. Alone.
I was ten, and I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.
The “talk of the town” party was only halfway through, yet I already felt the night ending.
Maybe part of the ache came from having all my little worlds colliding for one night. I didn’t know when I’d have everyone together like that again. The people I loved were still inside, and I missed them already.
Looking back, I think I was beginning to understand how quickly a moment becomes a memory. I was still at my own birthday party, already imagining how much I’d miss it. The night wasn’t over, but I couldn’t make it last.
I didn’t have the words for it back then. Just the ache.
🎥 This scene has always stuck with me. It reminds me of that birthday—wanting a little more time before everyone went home.
What bothered me was not understanding why I felt that way. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying the party. I wanted to go back inside and join them, but I couldn’t seem to stop crying.
My feelings didn’t fit the room. Nothing had gone wrong, which somehow made it harder to explain.
After years of poetry, meditation, and therapy, I’m a little kinder to that kid in the garage. I’ve always felt things deeply—sometimes more deeply than I’d like. At ten, I didn’t know what to do with that.
Beneath that dim garage light, I wiped my eyes. I couldn’t explain the tears then, but I’m still writing about them all these years later. What if it’s more?
I know how frustrating it is to feel something and struggle to explain it. That’s part of why I care about getting the words right, both for myself and for someone who’s trusted me with their story.
Sometimes I read something and think, “That’s what I’ve been trying to say.” Someone else found the words before I did. I’d love to give another reader that feeling.
Writing has taken me into classrooms, boardrooms, and ballrooms through projects with nonprofits, creative agencies, and businesses. I’ve met people whose stories have stayed with me long after a project ended. Those conversations are part of what I love about the work.
I’ve written about civil-rights attorney Fred Gray, who stood beside Dr. King and Rosa Parks, and developed interview questions and an honoree profile for cognitive scientist Dr. Maureen Dunne. I’ve also helped publicize events featuring Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jonathan Eig and humanitarian Jessica Buchanan.
For the Navy SEAL Foundation, I wrote press announcements for tribute events featuring Dr. Robert M. Gates and Admiral Michael Mullen.
Beyond those events, I’ve worked with the Hoover Institution, Yellowstone to Yukon Conservation Initiative, The Florida Aquarium, iHeartMedia, NAMI, and Paul Gregory Media. My work closer to home includes Total Body Health Center, Fefles Family Chiropractic, and Martin Avenue Apartments.
After years of writing for other organizations and taking on freelance projects, I wanted to build a business of my own. On October 6, 2025, I registered Mindful Media, LLC in Illinois.
Through Mindful Media, I help businesses and nonprofits with writing, social media, graphics, and PR. I also work with individuals on manuscripts, essays, speeches, and wedding toasts.
Somebody might come to me with a finished draft or a few notes and no idea where to start. We work through what they want to say, and I write or edit with attention to how they actually sound. They should be comfortable putting their name on it.
I have plenty of my own shit to work through, too. Helping someone with their writing doesn’t mean I have life figured out. My own writing is often how I try to make sense of it.
I still think about that birthday when I catch myself missing something that hasn’t ended yet. It’s a familiar feeling, even if I understand it better now.
Writing gives me somewhere to put it. I can describe the room, the music, the people who were there. I can return to a moment without expecting it to explain my entire life.
If a memory keeps coming back to you, try writing down one detail before deciding what it means. A song that was playing. Something someone said. You don’t have to make a whole story out of it.
I can still picture that kid beneath the garage light. I wish I could tell him he didn’t have to understand the tears before going back inside.
There was still some birthday left.
I still need that reminder. I can spend so much time thinking about how things are changing that I miss what’s happening right in front of me.
And if that old garage light could talk, it would probably laugh at how far we’ve come.
I don’t think every ending needs to become a lesson. Some things end, and I miss them. But I’ve also had endings make room for people and experiences I couldn’t have imagined beforehand.
Maybe that’s what more was always meant to be—not a bigger life, but a deeper one.
At ten, I wanted the night to last. Now, I’d settle for going back inside and enjoying the rest of it. 💛
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