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Too Tired to Sleep: The Insomnia Olympics, Post-Stroke Edition

Written June 20, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Ever been so exhausted that you can’t fall asleep? Welcome to my world—population: me, and maybe a few other unlucky night owls who’ve done battle with the great paradox of fatigue-induced insomnia.

Yesterday was a full-blown mowing marathon. I trimmed, I battled weeds, I may have muttered threats to crabgrass. By the time I came inside, I was drained—so much so that my body skipped past “sleepy” and went straight into “wired and grumpy.” Apparently, being utterly worn out doesn’t guarantee a trip to dreamland. Sometimes it just leaves you staring at the ceiling, pondering life’s cruel ironies.

Since my stroke, sleep has become a much more serious business. My occupational therapist warned me early on: protect your circadian rhythm like it’s your Netflix password. Sleep and wake at consistent times. Respect the rhythm. Obey the rhythm. Worship the rhythm. Okay, she didn’t say that last part, but you get the idea.

Post-stroke, I get tired faster than the average person. That’s just how it is. But sitting around grumbling about it? Not productive. Instead, I’ve been learning to listen to my body—like it’s a grumpy coach that yells, “REST, NOW!” and expects me to actually follow instructions.

Lately, though, it’s been tricky. My body’s waving the white flag by dinnertime, but when I lie down, my brain decides it’s party time. To make it more frustrating, I still wake up at my usual time, even if I’ve spent the night wrestling with my pillow and existential dread.

Truth be told, I’ve had sleep issues since I was a kid. Total night owl. Midnight was just the warm-up. Back then, I could bounce back without much trouble. My wife used to be the same, but she “trained” herself to sleep early. She swears by the power of good sleep—says it helps repair her body and brain. She never crammed for exams. She studied gradually and then coasted the week before test day. That approach helped her gain her accounting certifications way faster than most people—with scores so high, I suspect sorcery.

She believes her memory is sharp because she sleeps like a champion. And honestly? She might be right.

After I got back from the hospital, we had to rebuild everything—sleep included. Early on, I was practically a sleep zombie, clocking 9-hour nights and still struggling to wake up. So, we got proactive. We walked. We trained. We meal-prepped. We set a sleep schedule and stuck to it like bedtime vigilantes.

I’ve picked up a few tricks for better sleep—deep breathing, clearing my mind, a dash of meditation—but here’s the catch: you need just enough energy to do those things. Too little, and the focus fizzles. It’s like trying to read a novel during an earthquake.

So here I am. A little tired. A little wiser. Still fine-tuning this whole sleep-after-stroke thing. Because sleep may be natural, but after mowing the lawn and wrestling with brain fatigue? It’s practically a sport.

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Rain, Thunder, and a Lawn That Refuses to Chill

Written June 17, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, I did my usual weather-check routine—part hopeful planning, part meteorological gambling—and saw a full day of thunderstorms on the forecast. My wife has been saying all year, “There’s so much more thunder and rain lately!” but honestly, to me, this just feels like Nashville being its dramatic self. If Nashville had a personality, it would be that friend who wears flip-flops and carries an umbrella… just in case.

Now, my wife used to live in Ontario, Canada. Up there, thunder rumbles in early spring, then summer arrives with the vibe of a responsible librarian: calm, dry, and polite. You’re lucky if you can water your lawn once a week without breaking into a guilt sweat. We used to live in Oregon, too, where the seasons are basically “rain” and “not-rain.” People just accept that lawns go a bit crispy in the summer—no judgment.

But here in Nashville? It’s a lawn’s fever dream. Hot sun plus relentless rain equals unstoppable weed and grass growth. Our yard is turning into a botanical uprising. I’m half-convinced we’ll find a Venus flytrap next to the mailbox if this keeps up.

With all the thunder talk, I figured mowing would be a no-go today. But lo and behold—no rain when I woke up. I double-checked the forecast (because I’ve been burned before) and saw I had about an hour before the skies opened. Cue the Mission: Impossible theme music. I hustled outside and managed to mow the front yard before the first drops fell. Not bad for a guy dodging lightning bolts with a lawn mower.

Meanwhile, indoors, my wife has been tackling home projects on top of her full-time job—because apparently, she’s secretly five people. Right now, she’s on bathroom renovation duty. We bought a grout remover (a tool that sounds more dramatic than it looks), but she’s still figuring out how to handle it without accidentally turning the tiles into modern art. The machine needs muscle, and she’s being careful—removing grout little by little like she’s defusing a bomb.

I plan to tag in soon and give her a break. I know she hasn’t had much personal time lately—barely any reading for fun, and I haven’t seen her play a game in ages. She keeps saying it’s temporary, and she’ll get back to a better rhythm. I believe her—she’s a master planner when she finally has five minutes to herself.

So, today’s wins: front yard mowed, grout battle halfway managed, and a decent shot at finishing the lawn later this week (Thursday, I’m looking at you). Plus, I’ll handle some grout removal while she’s working. It’s teamwork… with thunder in the background.

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Sunday Strolls, Plant Apps, and Fancy Coffee: Our Weekly Walk-and-Talk Ritual

Written June 15, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

A Walk, a Chat, and a Breeze of Domestic Bliss

Ah, Sunday. The day of rest, recovery, and—for us—rambling around the neighborhood like curious kids on a field trip. No running shoes, no dumbbells, no burpees in sight. It’s our official “just walk and talk” day. I don’t work out on Sundays, and my wife only does if her weekday workout schedule goes off-script. This time, she floated the idea: “Why don’t we walk together?” As if I’d say no to strolling beside my favorite chatterbox.

Now, let me tell you—my wife’s morning routine is a masterpiece of consistency. Weekends? Holidays? Zombie apocalypse? Doesn’t matter. She’s up at the same time every day, while I’m still making peace with my alarm clock. Today, she beat me to it by two hours, sipping her tea while I was probably still dreaming of croissants.

Summer mornings, of course, come with a ticking heat clock. If you miss the early window, the sidewalk turns into a skillet. And today? Well, I had my doubts. The rain had pulled an all-nighter, and by morning, it still hadn’t punched out. I thought our Sunday ritual might get rained out—but then, like a polite guest, the storm cleared just in time for a late but lovely 3km wander.

Our walk? Classic. We chatted about everything and nothing. My wife, true to form, had a full playlist of topics: books she’s read, projects she’s juggling at home, and the book she’s writing (yes, plural “books”—she’s got more plots than a garden center). Occasionally, we switch to my favorite subject: my running progress, which she politely pretends to find fascinating.

As we strolled through the neighborhood, we exchanged hellos with friendly neighbors—some by name, others by nod-and-smile status. That’s one of the underrated joys of living in Nashville: people are genuinely nice, the kind who’ll compliment your tomato plant and mean it.

Speaking of plants, I’ve got a plant ID app and a shameless curiosity. If something leafy catches my eye, I snap a photo and hope to discover it’s not just another weed. There’s something endearingly nerdy about playing plant detective. Who knows, maybe one of these will find a new home in our backyard.

Despite the late start and the sun reminding us who’s boss, we managed to stay reasonably cool under the shade and with help from the occasional breeze. Honestly, I’m not complaining. We walked, we talked, and it felt good.

Once home, I whipped up our Sunday fancy coffee—because plain drip just won’t do after a proper stroll—and now I’m rolling up my sleeves to prep next week’s pastry bites. Life’s little rituals? I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

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DIY, Delays, and Distance: A Tale of Tiles and Tread

Written June 14, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

We’re in the middle of a bathroom renovation. And when I say “middle,” I mean somewhere between “what were we thinking?” and “well, at least the plumbing still works.” This weekend’s mission: Operation Grout Removal. Because nothing says “romantic weekend” like scraping old tile lines.

Since this project is unfolding in slow motion—mostly due to my wife’s schedule being booked solid with, you know, life—she fits in the work whenever she can steal a few precious moments. Recently, she fell down the glorious rabbit hole of YouTube tutorials and renovation blogs and emerged victorious, brandishing a discovery: an electric grout removal tool. Apparently, doing it manually is about as fun as carving stone tablets with a spoon.

Armed with this newfound wisdom, we made our pilgrimage to the local temple of home improvement: Home Depot. My wife, ever the strategic warrior, insists on arriving at the crack of dawn—not out of devotion, but so she can interrogate the staff before the Saturday swarm descends. And ask she did. She’s never shy about picking the brains of the Home Depot veterans, many of whom moonlight as renovation sages.

Turns out, internet DIY tips are great—until they’re not. That silicone sealer she once tried to apply manually? She’ll tell you herself: it was like trying to frost a cake with a spoon that keeps turning back into soup.

Thanks to her early-bird Q&A session, we left with a shiny new electric grout tool, ready to tackle not just the downstairs bathroom, but the upstairs one and even the neglected grout in the storage room. Nothing is safe now.

Of course, all this delayed my run. But the weather gods smiled upon me—it was gray, rainy, and cool. If you’re going to have a schedule slip, at least make sure it comes with cloud cover.

Once home, I laced up and headed out for what became my longest run to date. My running app, which I suspect is part GPS, part confused hamster, announced my distances in that wonderfully random way it does—always just after I’ve passed them. I was aiming for 10k. I got 10.48. Because why stop when you can overshoot and regret it later?

My pace? Slightly off target, but close enough to give myself a virtual high-five and mumble, “Next time, gadget. Next time.” I’ve got a good feeling that next week’s 5ks will be the ones where I finally hit my pace goal.

Oh—and in the middle of all this productivity, I completely forgot to eat ice cream yesterday. This is not a drill. Combined with the long run, that little oversight cost me another pound. Guess I’ll have to fix that tonight after we get back from grocery shopping. You know, for health.

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Life with Kidney Restrictions and Weight Challenges

Written June 13, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Well, I survived another workout today—barely. And to add a plot twist, the scale tells me I’ve lost three pounds since yesterday. I didn’t misplace them on purpose, I swear.

Now before you start sending congratulatory fruit baskets (please don’t, I can’t eat most of them), let me explain. My kidneys have been staging a quiet rebellion for some time now, and part of their protest involves limiting my diet. Combine that with a surprisingly high level of activity, and voilà—I’m losing weight faster than a sock in a dryer.

Summertime brings its own delightful chaos. I have to become a hydration ninja, dodging lab abnormalities like I’m in some kind of medical obstacle course. One wrong move—too little water—and my lab results go haywire. Last year, my cholesterol levels pulled a disappearing act. I wasn’t even mad. Just impressed.

To keep some order in our culinary kingdom, my wife and I plan our weekly menu. Not because we’re gourmet masterminds, but because food waste makes us both twitchy. That, and we’ve basically built our diet around chicken breasts. Mostly chicken breasts unless we go for occasional salmon or plant-based protein. Why? Well, pork doesn’t agree with my wife—upsets her stomach. Same goes for shrimp and crab, so those little delicacies are benched.

Now me? I’m working with a whopping 36 grams of meat protein a day. Thirty-six. That’s like…a sad scoop of shredded chicken. On days with family dinners or special events, I may tiptoe over the limit, but I know my wife will quietly adjust the weekly menu like a stealthy nutritional accountant.

Grains? Limited. Protein? Monitored like a suspicious package. Bananas? Handle with caution. Basically, if it tastes good or feels indulgent, I probably have to negotiate with my kidneys first.

That’s why I bake mini pastry puffs every weekend—a humble little treat to keep my weight from disappearing entirely. I don’t devour them. I ration like I’m on a space station. Ice cream? That’s my red alert dessert. I only pull it out when I notice I’ve lost too much weight. Like today. (Silver linings, people.)

After my stroke, things shifted. But rewind to when I first moved to Nashville—oh, I was running not as much, but enough to build muscles in my calves. I built so much muscle that my mom was surprised. True story. 

Back then, my wife did everything—a full-time job and most of the house chores. It took me some time, but I eventually wrestled the outdoor responsibilities away from her. When you’re exercising and doing yard work in Tennessee heat, weight loss isn’t a question—it’s a guarantee. For me, the diet restrictions added another layer. It’s not that I’m sick and therefore underweight. It’s more like… I got strong, and my kidneys decided, “Cool, but no extra calories for you.”

Just yesterday, I finally hit my target weight again. And now? Boom—dropped below it. It’s irritating, sure, but not the end of the world. I’ve got my strategy: tiny pastries, sneaky scoops of ice cream, and a carefully curated menu. Let’s be honest—if the solution to a problem is “eat more dessert,” I’m not going to complain too loudly.

Until next time,
Stay hydrated, stay balanced, and treat your kidneys like the finicky coworkers they are.

—Yours in protein math and pastry puffs.

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Negotiations with a Tired Body (and a Lawnmower)

Written June 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

As per tradition—and by “tradition,” I mean “necessity born from heat survival instincts”—I began my day mowing the lawn. Here in Nashville, the summer sun doesn’t just rise, it attacks. So if you’ve got a body like mine—one that treats both heatwaves and cold snaps like personal insults—you learn to outsmart the weather before it starts throwing punches.

Normally, I can mow half the yard and still have enough gas left in the tank to face the rest of the day. But today? Nope. After mowing, my body filed a formal complaint and went straight into shutdown mode. I skipped my pre-breakfast exercises, half-expecting that would be it for the day’s physical activity. My body said no. My willpower said maybe. Eventually, I rolled onto the mat for some planks and stretches—not exactly Olympic training, but hey, it counts.

Somehow, I rallied enough energy to squeeze in my planks and arm curls. I didn’t bounce back; I meandered back—like a weary turtle doing yoga. Still, I did it. Not exactly on schedule, but sometimes winning means just showing up… 30 minutes later than planned and slightly annoyed.

Now here’s the kicker. I can’t tell what’s making me tired: the weather, age, my kidneys, or some perfect storm of all three. Whatever it is, when I push too hard, I morph into something between a zombie and a disgruntled houseplant. Meanwhile, my wife bounces around like she’s got a backup battery installed. She claims she struggles in the morning, but by the time I’m up, she’s practically done with her workout and halfway through a motivational podcast. She says she’s slow in the morning. I say she’s just being polite to us mortals.

So I’ve had to learn the art of negotiation—not with clients or coworkers, but with my own body. Some days, I push things to tomorrow, knowing full well tomorrow might need to be negotiated too. Other days, I rest so I can function again in the afternoon. This is not laziness. This is energy management. The strategic pause. The recharge pit stop.

I’ve had a kidney condition for who knows how long—discovered only after a brain stroke crashed the party. Maybe I’ve always been running at 70% battery while others (like my wife) were born with solar panels. And yes, I know comparison is the thief of joy… but sometimes it also leaves a trail of gym clothes and lawn clippings.

I don’t have a high-energy body. But I do have a high-effort mindset. So I’ll keep negotiating with this unpredictable, occasionally rebellious body of mine. I may not be fast. I may not be consistent. But I am persistent—and that counts for something.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rest heroically so I can finish my to-do list… sometime before winter.

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Running on Cool Air and Accidental Kilometers

Written June 9, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday was a scorcher—the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices, your wardrobe, and maybe your decision to live on Earth. We sweated through it with as much dignity as possible (read: none), but thankfully the heat retreated overnight. This morning, my wife emerged from her walk announcing it was “chilly.” I was still burrowed under blankets like a hibernating bear, and I had to agree—comfortably so.

We’ve developed a quirky philosophy around indoor climate control. Our goal? Keep the indoor temperature close enough to the outdoor one that our bodies don’t go into seasonal whiplash. Yes, we have central AC. Yes, it technically still works. But it’s old enough to remember dial-up internet, so we try not to lean on it unless the weather turns dramatic—which, living in Nashville, it frequently does.

And here’s the twist: after my brain stroke, my internal thermostat retired early. I can no longer regulate body temperature like a normal human radiator. Fortunately, we’ve always preferred a “seasonally appropriate” indoor vibe. No saunas in winter or ice caves in July. But when Nashville cranks the weather dial to “chaos,” even our stoic system has to bend. That’s when the AC gets its rare moment of glory.

Now, about today’s run—by the time I laced up and hit the pavement, it wasn’t chilly anymore, but it was that perfect middle ground: warm enough to get the blood flowing, cool enough to pretend I was in a Nike ad. I felt good. Too good, maybe. So good, in fact, I forgot to check my distance and accidentally ran an extra kilometer.

The wild part? I still hit my target pace. I know. Who is this person?

Back when I first started running, one kilometer felt like trekking across the Sahara. In 2017, I managed just over a mile, and it nearly took my soul with it. Then came the real game changer: proper shoes. My wife gifted me a glorious pair of Nikes—shoes that whispered, “You got this,” with every step.

Consistency, not magic, built my endurance. Last year, I got curious about pace. Sometimes I plateau, sure. There are weeks where progress is flatter than a pancake in Kansas. But in the long haul, I’ve improved.

And today? I ran farther than I planned, faster than I expected, and finished with enough breath left to write this blog.

Not bad for a guy with a malfunctioning thermostat.

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How I Beat the Humidity Boss and Logged My Second Fastest 10K

Written June 7, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I woke up feeling like a well-charged phone—ready to take on my first 10K of June. That enthusiasm lasted about thirty seconds… until my wife, aka the Morning Oracle, gave me a weather update: “It’s humid. Very humid.”

She’s always up at 5 a.m., doing her workout before the Nashville air turns into soup. I try to follow her lead, minus the pre-dawn drama—I have a bit more wiggle room in my schedule. (Perks of being flexible. Or at least pretending to be.)

But wow. Stepping outside felt like walking straight into a sauna hosted by the sun and a wet sponge. My wife, who once lived in Canada, still can’t get over Tennessee summers. She expected dry, crisp warmth—not a full-on oven door to the face every morning. Yet oddly enough, she loves living in Nashville. Go figure. Apparently, greenery and ultra-friendly neighbors make up for atmospheric soup.

And she’s not wrong. The people here are wonderfully nice. We’ve met most of them while running. Seriously—if you jog in our neighborhood, you’re basically signing up for a rotating social club on sneakers. Everyone’s out walking, running, or flexing their lawn-care game. It’s a charming vibe.

Despite the swampy conditions, I hit the pavement anyway. I’ve learned not to negotiate with my feelings in the morning. Motivation is a fair-weather friend—I prefer routines that don’t ask for permission. My wife says the same: “If I waited to feel like it, I’d never get anything done.” High-five to the discipline duo.

By the halfway point, I was just a second behind my target pace. But by the end? I actually clocked in two seconds faster. Take that, humidity boss! This run earned me my second fastest 10K ever, which, considering the weather, feels like unlocking a hidden achievement in a fitness video game.

The week overall? Not too shabby. I’ve been consistent with my workouts, though my upper body still feels the aftershocks of pushups and bicep curls. Sure, I’ll never win a protein shake endorsement deal (thank you, kidney-friendly diet), but I’m definitely stronger and happier than I was a few months ago.

So yes, today’s run may have felt like wading through a damp sponge, but victory tastes pretty sweet—even when it’s served with a side of sweat.

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The BBQ That Wasn’t: A Tale of Canceled Grills and Saucy Solutions

Written June 6, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Alas, dear readers, the sacred ritual of BBQ Friday has been grill-napped. The culprit? Not raining. Not a meat shortage. Nope—my wife had an important meeting, and duty called louder than the sizzle of burgers on the grill.

Now, let me be clear: she’s not a fan of dining out more than once a week. Restaurant food, she claims, is a minefield of sodium and sneaky cholesterol. She’s not wrong, but still… BBQ Friday, gone? Tragic.

Was I disappointed? Of course. But I get it. Her work matters, and so does what we eat. She’s the nutritional commander of this ship—and, in fairness, probably the reason I haven’t rebelled against the strict renal-friendly regime I’m on. Honestly, she eats like me… just with more eggs for extra protein. She makes clean eating look like a culinary art form.

To fill the BBQ void, I whipped up some homemade French fries. And no, we don’t deep-fry them into crispy rebellion. My wife usually does the oven-bake toss-with-oil thing. I’m team Air Fryer—faster, crispier, and fewer complaints from my arteries.

Now for the real star: the dip. I made a spicy mayo using one of her handcrafted seasonings. Yes, you read that right—she makes her own ranch, buffalo, shawarma, Mexican, and Italian blends. Because store-bought seasonings? Too salty. And salt, for me, is the arch-nemesis.

Herbs, however? My besties. Rosemary, thyme, dill, basil—they’re basically flavor with a halo. Sometimes I swap sour cream for homemade yogurt, which she also makes because she’s a kitchen sorceress. Control the thickness, control the taste. Plus, she swears it’s easy. (I believe her, but I’m not giving up my air fryer just yet.)

Tonight’s sauce of choice was the mayo mix I usually serve with oven-roasted carrots or chicken. It’s spicy, creamy, and most importantly: wife-approved.

She finally returned from her meeting, and we dined like royalty—on fries, no less. It was already 5:30 PM, but we shared that meal like it was BBQ Friday. (Confession: I’d already eaten leftover homemade pizza earlier. But hey, second dinner is a thing… right?)

We may be on a tight dietary leash, but here’s the twist: I don’t even feel deprived. When you enrich our foods with our homemade favorites, “strict diet” feels more like a lifestyle than a sentence.

And next week? BBQ Friday will return. Unless life throws another curveball… or she schedules another meeting.

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Sweat, Sun, and Sore Muscles: A Summer Morning Mow-tivation Tale

Written June 5, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, unlike the tropical Tuesday saga, I seized the rare opportunity to mow the lawn before the sun turned my backyard into a convection oven. Thanks to a relatively cool night (by Nashville standards), the air was downright tolerable — you know, in that “I only mildly regret existing outdoors” kind of way.

Armed with determination and a mower that has seen more summers than our old air conditioner, I conquered the yard in just under three hours. By the end, the temperature had climbed high enough to cook an egg on the sidewalk — sunny side up, no less. I bolted inside and promptly shut all windows and vents, preserving that glorious sliver of night-chill like it was the last popsicle on Earth.

We try not to blast the AC unless absolutely necessary — not just because it wheezes like an asthmatic raccoon (bless its vintage soul), but because we’re reserving its final act for a true heatwave encore, à la 2023. Spoiler alert: It’s getting replaced next year, assuming it doesn’t melt into a puddle of R-22 first.

Now, let’s pause for a moment of historical curiosity: how on earth did people survive 100 years ago in this kind of heat? Imagine doing farm work in the blazing sun with zero air conditioning. Just sweat, grit, and maybe a straw hat if you were lucky. No thank you.

My wife, the seasoned world traveler and resident thermostat of our home, lived in Canada and Germany before settling in the sauna we call Tennessee. She rarely touches the AC. In fact, she says your body should know it’s summer — not be tricked into thinking it’s mid-October. Logical? Sure. Comfortable? Debatable.

Truthfully, I’ve found her temperature policy rather merciful post-brain-stroke. My body doesn’t respond well to sudden climate shifts, so a house that mimics the gentle rise of outdoor heat is oddly comforting. Still, I come prepared — always with long sleeves in tow when visiting overzealously chilled places like malls or friends’ homes, aka human freezers.

Once I cooled off (the natural way), I shifted into phase two: exercise. This week has been a redemption arc — I actually stuck to my workout plan, unlike previous weeks when I mostly specialized in the art of Procrastinative Stretching™.

That said, my chest is still protesting Tuesday’s push-ups. It feels like I bench-pressed a rhinoceros in my sleep. One ongoing issue is keeping my weight steady — a challenge when your appetite ghosts you and your muscles are crying out for protein. But too much protein can be a bad thing too. Ah, the paradox of wellness: even good things need moderation. Like ice cream… or leg day.

I’ve been tinkering with my routine: adjusting sleep, sneaking in extra snacks, and playing Goldilocks with my workout load — not too much, not too little. Just right. Maybe. Hopefully. We’ll see.

All in all, it’s been a productive, sweaty, slightly achy but oddly satisfying day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to ration what’s left of that precious indoor cool before the AC makes its final dramatic gasp.