September of 2025, Bethany was getting ready to line up for her fourth Ironman in Madison, WI. This was to be her fourth attempt for her fortieth year on the earth. We don’t get anxious about full triathlon events much anymore, especially the one in Wisconsin. We have ridden the course so many times and been in and around it that we didn’t really stress about training anymore.
What was really driving my tension was related to Bethany’s safety. Given the past several years, bee stings (Bethany has had blood treatments and carries an EpiPen), bike crashes, and other possible scenarios were really what was driving me to a bit of apprehension. As we stood in the mass of humanity to get into the swim start, a gentleman walked around with a camera, asking people for commentary on “why they would participate in Ironman.” What’s your why? He approached Bethany and asked for her input, put the camera in her grill, and she said something to the effect of, “Why not?” I don’t remember exactly what she said, but my heart knew it wasn’t fully accurate. Her brother Andy had died by suicide in January of that year, and to say that life had given us many challenges in recent years was accurate, but putting it lightly.
Bethany lined up in the swim corral waiting for her turn to jump in to start the 2.4-mile swim portion to start her thirteen-to fourteen-hour day, and all types of inspirational hype music was blaring as I nervously awaited Bethany getting into the water. I just couldn’t shake the nerves or let go of my worry about Bethany’s safety. I saw the gentleman with the camera and just HAD to go and talk to him. I explained a bit about Bethany and her brother’s story, and he asked if we could find her for an interview before she got in the water. Trying to find someone in a sea of pink and green swim caps and black wetsuits is not an easy task, nor was I sure that Bethany would be super pumped to be pulled away to have this type of conversation, which would not help ease the general tension with all of the adrenaline and energy being focused on the day. We did find her and were able to capture a bit of footage of her talking about Andy, and the gentleman said that he would be following her throughout the day to interview her at various points, and then I would be able to “catch” her at the finish line where she could talk about how the day went.
Some people see coincidences and chalk them up to pure chance and luck. It’s human to see patterns and notice things and want them to have meaning beyond pure chance. It’s deemed superstition and naïve human optimism to see these patterns as more than just chance. One of my best friends Elliot died from a heroin overdose many years ago and his dad always talked about seeing hawks in close encounters and feeling certain he was being visited or observed by Elliot. I found a lot of credence in that belief. I see hawks or eagles and feel warmth in my heart that I have a guardian watching over me. Not just in Elliot, but from Andy, or my brother Joey, and every loved one who has gone to heaven and is swooping in as if to say “Hey. It’s going to be ok. We’re here for you and we can give you a fleeting glimpse of hope that this isn’t the end of the journey.”
I’m not sure I really believe that these things are superstitions anymore. I don’t really hang my hat on whether it matters either. It’s the same with spiritual faith or believing in the power of forces that seem to exist outside of materialist scientific explanation. They don’t need evidence, and even if it’s seen as weak-minded superstition, it doesn’t really change how I feel about it.
After this chance encounter led to a conversation and a special opportunity to share her story, I heard the announcer at the Ironman start say that this was the twenty-third edition of the IM Wisconsin race. If you know anything about our family, Bethany’s grandpa Gene’s lucky number was 23. He passed away in 2021 also. I felt warmth coming over me. I started to feel calmer. I saw a hawk fly by super low, and I said to myself, “She’s going to be ok today.”
I saw these hawks on my final day at Rogers. Metaphorically speaking…
Goodbye days at Rogers were always really heavy in our trauma writing group. It made sense that you were creating bonds with people that could not be forged in any other furnace. I was having mixed feelings about being discharged in general, but there was a lot going on personally within the group, that made me not want to have a day all about me where people just “shower praise“ and say goodbye. I felt it was selfish and counter intuitive to what I had wanted to establish, to take a processing day away from people when they needed it. One such woman was much older than most of the other people and had joined our group recently. I really had a hard time spending time with her in class. She would constantly click her mouth and make noises and suck on hard candy all the time and it drove me bonkers. I know. It was petty and it drove me nuts. I’m a very auditory person and those little things just seem to set me off. It was even to the point where during writing days I had to ask to go into a private “processing” room by myself because I could not concentrate on the writing prompt or what I wanted to write because of her subconscious noises.
After listening to her story, I couldn’t help but see the hawks flying above. To feel that same sense of “providence” I felt in Madison on the beach, while I was listening to her speak. This is someone who I was really struggling to connect with because of something so superficial as lip smacking. I learned that it was due to age and medication side effects, and no fault of her own. The story that she spoke about brought me back to those old reliable tears. Again, the courage to turn and face the flames of generational trauma, to take care of her loved ones was profound and really made me feel sad and yet hopeful for her. We were also so similar in how we tried to “treat” our issues. We both tried literally every treatment, modality, silver bullet and special thing that exists for PTSD/depression. From Stellate Ganglion nerve blocks, to ketamine treatments, to trying every medication under the sun and still not being able to figure out “how to nail this depression thing down“. I was so excited to hear her share her story that I was able to learn so much about her and be able to be attentive and compassionate to someone who I struggled to connect with and I could reassure her that the emotional processing in this group was the missing ingredient. And that’s when I started to get that same feeling of comfort, of that underlying warmth that no matter what it’s all gonna be OK; that it all happens for some strange cosmic reason. I don’t quote Morpheus from The Matrix lightly when I say, “Some people see coincidence; I see providence. “It just felt so right to have these conversations on the day that I was leaving. To leave the psychological safety and raw authenticity that I had fostered here, knowing that I had to learn to do it even more at home. I had to learn to forgive and care for myself, and sometimes that comes in the form of just being accountable to yourself and others. I had to learn how to really feel anything other than shame and loathing for myself.
Remember how I talked about how nice I could be to others, but how terrible I was to myself? It’s not that I thought I was a terrible person (for the most part), but I could not forgive myself. I couldn’t even feel anything for myself anymore. I had spent so much time learning to be numb as a protective measure, but then I would hide it. Essentially gaslighting the world about who I was, by gaslighting myself. I was highly critical of myself, and others, but mostly of myself. I expected perfection and would often quit at the first whiff of potential failure. I’d justify never starting as a way to protect myself from the disappointment of not doing the work, or from procrastinating. “Under-promise, over-deliver,” I’d say. Or one of my favorite Calvin and Hobbes memories:
-Bill Watterson
I found comfort in connection through forgiveness. I was working to accept myself and give myself the same forgiveness and compassion that I showed everyone else. But you want to talk about uncomfortable…
If you’re like me, taking compliments from other people can feel like there are bugs crawling on you. It makes me so tense, and I will try to find any self-deprecating reply to reduce feeling good about myself.
What followed prior to my departure was about 15-20 minutes of just having to sit there and take it. Having to sit and listen to people tell me good things and I just needed to “receive it.” As uncomfortable as it was at the time, it was the glue shakily holding my confidence together to return to work. To return to the world and try to not feel like I was some weirdo trauma guy, or I was some broken sycophant waiting to over share at any moment I found. I get it. I am more sensitive and share more than most, but how did I tell people what I had been doing the last few months? How did I re-integrate into life without having this cadre of people with whom there was no story too dark, and action too shameful to admit? How did I come back to my life and take ownership of the problems that I caused without trying to use my “trauma” as an ongoing excuse for my poor life choices? Or even worse, poor choices with good intentions that had negative consequences (these are my least favorite). I was so tense while sitting there and just having to accept it. Tears flooding down my face, thinking about that scared, lonely child who just wanted to be accepted, but instead learned how to fit in. Who didn’t want to be abandoned, but did everything to isolate himself from everyone who cared about him. All in an effort to accept the fact he learned how to be untrustworthy to survive in an untrustworthy world. I also cried because I had learned that I did love that little boy, but I was so disappointed in the man I had become. That I had to squash the spirit of who I really was, all to avoid the feeling that I didn’t like or trust myself anymore. I cried because all of that negativity was a lie…
This is one of my many letters that I will always cherish. Names are withheld here:
“I want to commend you for coming into this program on your own free-will. In our society, it’s very hard for men to seek mental health help, especially in a group setting. We come from completely different walks of life, yet I connect so deeply when you speak. You share without heightened ego or bravado.
My father had his own struggles, and his ability to speak openly about it is probably the main reason both my sister and I are alive. He got us help and medicine when we needed it, instead of calling anxiety and depression typical teenage mood swings. I wish he had had the courage to truly pursue his own treatment further as you have now. Basically, what I am saying is, your children will benefit from the work you are doing now for yourself.
Make sure to give yourself credit for how far you have come and never give up on your pursuit for new knowledge and growth. I know it has inspired me, and these traits make you a great role model for your sons. Trust me, in their eyes, they see you through a lens of endless grace.”
After 50 days, I was going to be discharged from Rogers. All was great, right? This hero’s journey has reached its denouement, and we can have a happy ending?
Yes, but then I lost my job…
The Friendly Cyclist 
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