Category: Brian’s Journey

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How My Wife Turned Me into an Audiobook Book Analyst

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written September 16, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today’s workout wasn’t in the gym—it was me versus a front yard buried in leaves. After an hour of vacuuming (yes, vacuuming leaves—welcome to suburban cardio), I felt like getting a reward with a bizarre 40-degree temperature rollercoaster. We started the day at 50, peaked at 90, and now the house sits at a blissful 72. Windows open, fans humming, life’s good.

Naturally, I had an audiobook in my ears. My wife is reading the same book, and I like to “listen along” so we can dissect it together like the world’s nerdiest book club for two. I used to love reading print books myself, but after my brain stroke, double vision made following even one line feel like I was reading through a kaleidoscope. Audiobooks became my lifeline—suddenly, I was devouring books again, mile after mile on a run or chore after chore at home.

My wife, though, wasn’t sold. For her, audiobooks felt like background noise, more like music than words. She almost gave up until she caught me struggling to complete a book. Without me saying a word, she guessed I had a problem reading. So, she passed her audio account—and this time it stuck.

She’s always been a voracious reader, but about four years ago, she leveled up. After reading How to Read Literature Like a Professor, she dove into cross-disciplinary book analysis. Now, a novel isn’t just a story—it’s a launchpad into psychology, history, art, and even rabbit holes of academic journals. (Her Zotero library looks like it belongs to a PhD candidate, not a casual reader.)

Her approach has rubbed off on me. While I was showering today, I realized I wasn’t just enjoying the plot; I was thinking about themes, character roles, and even narrative craft. Blame Brandon Sanderson’s writing lectures too—suddenly, I’m seeing books like a writer, not just a reader.

And the best part? One of her goals has always been to inspire people to read more deeply. Mission accomplished, dear—I’m proof your analysis works.

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Cookies, Cold Runs, and Cat Chaos: A Fall Running in Nashville

Written September 15, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I decided to ignore my usual “cold-weather running schedule” and hit the road first thing. Why? Because thanks to my brain stroke, my autonomic nervous system is about as reliable as Nashville weather—completely indecisive. I have to change my running times seasonally: summer evenings, winter mornings. Today, I gambled with the cooler air.

Of course, fuel was required. Sadly, I was out of my trusty pastry bites, so I settled for one of my homemade bite-sized cookies. Sure, vegetables would’ve been the “healthier carb choice,” but when you’re staring down 5k with zero fuel, kale isn’t going to cut it. My wife won’t touch cookies before noon—she’s convinced sugar is a morning villain—but I like my cookies tiny enough that even my calorie counter barely blinks.

After the run, I realized lawn mowing season is officially over (victory dance). But before I get too cozy, the trees in our front yard have declared war—sending down waves of crunchy leaves that need collecting before they stage a full-on rebellion. Tomorrow, leaf duty begins.

Meanwhile, our kitten has been inhaling food like she’s training for an eating contest. Four servings down before lunch, and she still looks at me like Oliver Twist asking for more. At least she balances it out with exercise—her version of “cardio” is chasing a toy mouse across the living room like a furry missile.

So: no mowing, yes to leaf wrangling, cookies for fuel, and a kitten with bottomless-pit energy. Autumn in Nashville may be confused, but my day certainly isn’t.

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When Life Gives You Rain, Trade Your Mower for Running Shoes

Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke

Written September 25, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Sometimes the universe likes to laugh at your carefully planned to-do list. This morning, it chuckled right in my face. I woke up, stretched, looked out the window—and saw rain. Again. The lawn had already staged a mutiny thanks to weeks of drizzle and warm weather, but mowing in the rain is as effective as trying to blow-dry your hair in a hurricane.

So, breakfast it was. I sipped my coffee and gave the sky my best “disappointed dad” look, hoping it would feel guilty and stop raining. No luck. And even if it did stop, soggy grass is a mower’s worst nightmare. My frustration grew—plans derailed by something completely out of my control.

Enter: my wife. She’s basically a Jedi Master of time management, trained since her teenage years. Watching me sulk at the window, she offered a simple solution: “Why not swap today’s mowing with tomorrow’s run?”

Genius. And annoyingly reasonable.

So, I laced up my running shoes and hit the pavement. And you know what? I ran better than yesterday. Turns out swapping a mower for running shoes isn’t the worst deal after all. My wife reminded me of an ancient truth: control what you can, stop glaring at what you can’t.

The lawn, of course, will get its day—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. But here’s the kicker: I secretly dread more mowing anyway. It’s autumn, the grass should be retiring by now! Every raindrop feels like nature’s way of extending lawn season just to spite me.

Still, once I made the switch, I realized my mood had already improved. Running in the rain (well, drizzle) was a lot better than sulking indoors. And yes, the lawn still looks like a small jungle, but at least I got a solid run and a story out of it.

Lesson learned? When the rain ruins your plans, don’t argue with the clouds. Just change shoes.

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Cold-Weather Running and Cookie Emergencies

Written September 14, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today officially marks the start of my cold-weather running schedule. Translation: my sneakers are now bracing themselves for frostbite, and I’m mentally preparing to turn into a human popsicle on the sidewalk.

Over the summer, I had been relying on puff pastry to keep my weight steady. Why puff pastry? Because with my kidney issues and a long list of food restrictions, flaky dough filled with my wife’s homemade jam is basically the culinary equivalent of winning the lottery. Grocery store premade dough + jam = the fastest way to eat happiness.

This summer was more fabulous than usual. I didn’t even mow weekly—my lawn got to cosplay as a wild prairie, and I didn’t complain. But since mowing season has ended, my activity level plummeted faster than a cookie jar in a toddler’s hands. So, no puff pastry this week. Instead, it was time to deal with something far more sacred: my emergency cookie supply.

Now, what is an “emergency cookie supply”? Glad you asked. Six months ago, in a stroke of pure genius (or hunger-induced paranoia), I stashed a package of ready-to-bake cookie dough in the downstairs freezer. This was a just-in-case backup plan for those dark days when the grocery store failed me or when I forgot to buy cookies—which, let’s be real, is a tragedy that no human should endure.

Being me, I even set a Google Calendar reminder to pop up six months later: Bake those cookies or banish them forever. You see, I don’t believe in freezer purgatory. If I wasn’t going to eat them, I’d at least bake them and let the house smell like victory.

So today was the day. The oven fired up, the cookies baked, and soon the upstairs smelled like a Hallmark movie marathon. Oddly, these heavenly aromas don’t tempt my wife—she’s not into sweets. (I know, I don’t get it either.) She only took half a cookie out of politeness and declared, “Not so bad.” Translation: “Thanks, but no thanks.” She’s cautious about diabetes since it runs in her family. I, on the other hand, am cautious about running out of snacks. Different priorities.

To avoid eating each cookie like it was the size of a steering wheel, I baked them extra small—bite-sized, calorie-friendly, and perfect for sneaky nibbling between runs. Mission accomplished: cookies baked, freezer cleared, snack emergency avoided.

And honestly? Nothing feels more triumphant than winning both at baking and freezer organization on the same day.

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Morning Routine with Siamese Kitten Vet Day Adventures

Written September 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today was a milestone in our household: Arty’s first big vet day. Translation? Vaccinations, a health check, and a whole lot of dramatic meowing. The good news: our vet confirmed that Arty is a healthy, thriving kitten. The less-good news: Arty believes the carrier is a medieval torture device.

On the drive over, she serenaded us with her most heart-wrenching Siamese opera. My wife, ever the cat whisperer, told me to keep petting her through the carrier door so she wouldn’t think we’d abandoned her mid-aria. If you’ve never traveled with a Siamese, let me explain: they will tell you how they feel. Loudly. For hours. (Our late Siamese, Gambi, once meowed for an entire five-hour road trip. Broadway missed out.)

My wife loves Siamese cats because of their loyalty. They pick a favorite human—like an Akita dog, but with more fur-shedding and fewer walks. For Gambi, that chosen human was me. Apparently, she’d sit on my chair meowing like a widowed opera singer whenever I traveled for work. Flattering, if slightly guilt-inducing.

Arty hasn’t reached that stage yet. She’s still figuring out her territory, cautiously exploring upstairs, but she’s clearly claimed my chair and her cat tree as her safe zones. When we run errands, I know exactly where to find her when we get home: either curled in the cat tree penthouse  like royalty or impersonating me at my desk.

We’re doing our best to make her life cushy. Daily litter box cleaning? Check. Fancy air purifier in the laundry room to keep odors away? Check. Endless snacks, water, and love? Triple check.

The vet laid out Arty’s next steps: one more shot before the 16-week mark and then—gulp—surgery in a few months to prevent her from going into heat. She’ll probably hate us for it, but since we’re not running a kitten factory, it’s for the best.

Back at home, I rewarded myself with a run and some vacuuming. Fun fact: Arty is far less terrified of our central vacuum than Gambi ever was. The machine is pretty quiet since the motor is in the garage, but considering cats can hear a mouse sneeze two blocks away, I still consider her bravery impressive.

By the end of the day, with vet visit conquered and no bad news on the health front, I felt oddly victorious—like I’d just finished a boss level in the game of cat parenting. And the best prize? A perfectly healthy (and still very vocal) little Arty.

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Morning Routine with Kitten Chaos: How Arty Turned My 5K Run into a Purrfect Day

Written September 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

This morning, I was awakened an hour earlier than planned by two forces of nature: my wife and our kitten, Arty. Arty has officially declared our bed part of her kingdom, and apparently, my feet are her sworn enemies. Nothing says “good morning” like a four-pound ball of fur launching a surprise attack at your toes.

But here’s the thing—I kind of love it. Watching her bounce around like she’s had three espressos before sunrise makes me feel oddly calm and ridiculously happy. I’m starting to think kittens are cheaper than therapy (though with the vet bills incoming, maybe not by much).

Fueled by Arty’s 6 a.m. pep talk, I decided to get out of bed and put on my running clothes. Naturally, Arty sat on the blanket, staring at me like, “Sure, go ahead, human. Run. I’ll be here conquering invisible monsters.” Fridays are a 5K day, and thanks to my tiny furry alarm clock, I hit the pavement early. By noon, I’d already knocked out my to-do list. Honestly, I felt unstoppable—like I’d unlocked some secret productivity cheat code called cat ownership + cardio.

When I got home, Arty and I had a little fetch training session. Yes, you read that right—I’m teaching a cat to fetch. She’s not perfect, but she’s leagues ahead of where she started. Sometimes she’ll go on a 20-fetch streak like an Olympic champion, and other times she taps out after three rounds and collapses dramatically on my lap. Either way, I’m basically the proud parent at her recital.

My wife has been bonding with Arty too. After losing our previous cat, Gambi, years ago, she promised herself she’d spend more time with this one. And she has—whether it’s cuddling on the couch or chasing fleas with a comb like it’s a full-time job.

Tomorrow is Arty’s big day: her first vet appointment. She’ll get her checkup, vaccines, and a follow-up plan for October. We’ve even collected a stool sample (because nothing says romance like discussing cat poop with your spouse). We just hope the car ride doesn’t freak her out too much.

So, yes, my days now start with kitten chaos, mid-morning runs, and poop samples in the fridge. But honestly? I wouldn’t trade it. Arty might be small, but she’s already teaching me how to live bigger, run earlier, and laugh more often.

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Why a Belt Pouch Beats an Arm Holster for Carrying Your? Phone

Brian’s fitness journal after brain stroke

Written September 10, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Today I tested out a new running hack: ditching my arm holster and slipping my phone into the pouch on my water bottle belt. Turns out, this was a major upgrade—kind of like trading in a wobbly shopping cart for one that actually rolls straight.

The belt itself came after a chat with my nephrologist. I proudly said, “I’ve started running again!” and instead of high-fives, I got, “Are you drinking enough water?” Because Tennessee summers are hot enough to roast marshmallows on the sidewalk, and running a 10K without hydration is basically survival training.

Originally, I borrowed my wife’s old running belt. Back in her racing days, it carried everything: keys, cards, a license, and occasionally water bottles when she ran with friends. But like all veterans, it eventually retired—translation: it broke. So, I upgraded to my own shiny(ish) version.

My belt’s pocket is the perfect size for keys or a phone. The problem? My old phone was basically the size of a small TV and didn’t fit. That’s when my wife introduced me to the arm holster. And while it worked, it also slipped, bunched, and demanded constant fiddling mid-run. Worst of all, it caused me to drop my phone once—because apparently, I like to add “juggling” to my workouts.

Enter: my new, smaller phone. It fits in the belt pouch like it was born there. No slipping, no bouncing, no phone gymnastics. And wouldn’t you know it—I clocked my fastest time yet. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe the pouch is my new superpower.

The phone itself is also a delight. I’ve redownloaded my apps, got my audiobooks back, and life feels orderly again. Was my pace faster because of the belt setup, the phone, or pure runner’s glory? Who knows. All I know is, I finally hit a sub-9-minute kilometer—my first since last spring.

The goal now: keep that pace up and maybe even shave it down before 2025 waves goodbye. In the meantime, I’ll keep running, hydrating, and making sure my phone stays securely on me, not in pieces on the pavement.

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When Life Gives You No Puff Pastry, Bake Cinnamon Rolls

Brian’s fitness journal after brain stroke

Written September 7, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

Yesterday’s grocery run dealt me a cruel blow: my beloved puff pastry sheets were nowhere to be found. Gone. Vanished. Puff, indeed. Since my weekend yard-work-and-running combo demands extra calories, puff pastry has been my trusty fuel. But no puff pastry meant I had to improvise – bake cinnamon rolls!

For a moment, I stood in the frozen aisle with my arms stretched like some tragic Shakespearean hero, whispering, “Wherefore art thou, puff pastry?” Alas, the shelves mocked me with their emptiness. So I grabbed a backup plan: cinnamon rolls.

This morning, I baked cinnamon rolls. To be honest, “bake” is generous—the box basically said, assemble, shove in oven, bask in glory. Within minutes, my kitchen smelled like a sugar-scented candle factory. The rolls were petite, so I shared one with my wife. She’s not big on sweets, but she declared them “delicious,” which is high praise from her.

Eight little cinnamon spirals came out of the oven—perfect math for my running week. Four running days, two rolls per day. On non-running days, I’ll behave (or at least try). They’re tucked neatly in Tupperware, ready to serve as post-leaf-vacuuming rations.

Speaking of leaves: the windy weather turned my yard into a leafy confetti zone. Vacuuming leaves isn’t as brutal as mowing, but it still eats up 1–2 hours. Normally, I escape with an audiobook, but with my phone screen now as black as a gothic novel, I’ve been awkwardly leaf-sucking in silence. My phone still makes sounds, taunting me like a ghost who won’t leave the house. I can’t even snooze my alarm because I don’t know where to swipe on a screen I can’t see.

My wife assures me the new phone is arriving tomorrow. I’m already sweating about the data transfer—will it be smooth, or a tragic comedy? Last time, it took two phones and an awkward dance of swipes and codes. This time, I’ll be going in blind. Literally.

Until then, it’s me, my cinnamon rolls, my audiobook-shaped silence, and a yard full of leaves. Wish me luck.

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Thunderstorm Workout: An Alternative Way to Stay Active

Brian’s Journey after a brain stroke

Written September 6, 2025

Hello, Dear Readers,

This morning I woke up like a superhero ready for a 10k—but the universe had other plans. My new Google phone, the sidekick I’d been waiting for, pulled a diva move and decided not to show up. Delivery delayed. My wife explained that we missed the carrier’s cut-off, and since it’s the weekend, the phone is basically sipping margaritas in a warehouse until Monday.

Now here’s the problem: I had psyched myself up for a two-hour run, but without audiobooks, that’s just two hours of listening to my own thoughts. And trust me, my brain is not the best playlist. To add insult to injury, it was cold. Like, September-just-started-but-we’re-already-in-October cold. Nashville apparently skipped the weather memo.

Then my wife pointed out the thunder and lightning. Yes, actual thunderbolts—while I was too busy sulking about my phone to notice. She had already cut her own run short (she’ll run through snow, rain, plagues of locusts—you name it—but thunder is her personal “nope”). To be fair, her aunt once got hit by lightning. Survived, but the story was enough to permanently traumatize her. On a day like this, I will find an alternative way to stay active.

So instead of dodging lightning like a wannabe Olympic sprinter, I downgraded to a safer workout: vacuuming. It doesn’t burn quite the same calories, but hey, clean floors are underrated cardio.

Meanwhile, our kitten staged her own adventure. She scaled the stairs, stormed into our bedroom, and leapt onto the bed like she owned the place. My wife was over the moon. Me? I was just proud our tiny furball could jump higher than my weekend motivation. She’s getting braver by the day, meowing for pets, curling up on my lap, and basically running the household with four paws and a tail.

Honestly, spending the morning with her wasn’t a bad trade for missing my run. Thunder outside, purring inside. And while I do feel naked without a phone—no alarms, no stopwatch, no audiobooks—I’ll survive. It’s wild how much we rely on those little rectangles, even when we’re not on social media.

Until my phone comes crawling home on Monday, I’ll be over here vacuuming, cat-cuddling, and pretending I meant to skip that run all along. When the weather is not suitable for running, this is how I deal with it, an alternative way to stay active.