Category: Brian’s Journey

Posted on

Sunday Rituals: Lavender Lattes, Strategy Sessions, and the Great Pizza Finale

Written May 25, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today has been one of those rare, mythical beasts: a truly relaxing Sunday. I woke up right on schedule (because even rest deserves punctuality), practiced piano until my wife wrapped up her culinary quest, and then glided downstairs for a leisurely breakfast. After that, I lounged around like a cat in a sunbeam, biding my time until the most sacred of rituals—Sunday lattes.

This week’s latte came with a twist: lavender syrup. A bold move, I know. It was a Christmas gift from my sister, paired with a milk frother that has since elevated our caffeine habits from “functional” to “fabulously frothy.” Thus was born the weekly tradition we now call Fancy Coffee Sunday—our little rebellion against mediocrity in a mug.

My wife’s undisputed favorite is pumpkin spice, thanks to a particularly memorable Thanksgiving Day Starbucks special. Me? I appreciate the artistry of a high-end café, but there’s something satisfying—almost rebellious—about crafting your own latte at home with whatever flavor your heart (or sister) desires. Some weeks, we skip the syrup entirely. The coffee still sings.

As for lavender? Let’s just say it tasted… like spring in a cup that forgot it wasn’t a bouquet. Not really my vibe, but hey, it was still good. My wife, of course, liked it—though she might enjoy sipping a cactus if it came with a reading nook and a strong narrative arc.

Speaking of which, my wife reads. Constantly. I’m not even sure she knows how to read for “fun” anymore. Even when it’s fiction, it turns into a full-blown academic symposium, complete with notes, themes, and references. YouTube, movies—it’s all fodder for analysis. After years together, I’ve accepted it: she simply cannot relax like a normal human. Even her downtime has footnotes.

Yet even she bows to the sacred calm of Sunday rituals. There’s the weekly Hansei reflection (think of it as a personal board meeting with herself), strategy sessions, goal recalibrations, and some drawing for good measure. Then—and only then—does she read more books. Because clearly, she hadn’t gotten enough in during the previous six days.

Usually, we take a gentle afternoon walk to clear the cobwebs and digest the caffeine. But today? The weather clearly had other plans. Rain came down like it had a vendetta. Our would-be stroll was rained out, drowned beneath the symphony of thunder and sideways wind. So much for getting those steps in.

But not all was lost. Because Sunday, my friends, is also Pizza Day.

And not just any pizza. We make it from scratch, crust and all, with our trusty sourdough starter—our bubbling pet project. There’s something magical about kneading dough together, like couples therapy but with more carbs.

So yes, while others may flock to fancy brunch spots or glamorous outings, we’ve found our own little sanctuary in the art of doing nothing (strategically). Sunday rituals keep us sane, caffeinated, and deliciously grounded.

And if that’s not self-care, I don’t know what is.

Posted on

Weekend Warriors and Chocolate-Colored Cabinets

Written May 24, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Our bathroom is currently undergoing a transformation, one brushstroke at a time. The original plan—crafted by my industrious wife—was to wrap up the project in two months. We’re now somewhere in the middle of the timeline and knee-deep in paint swatches, grout dust, and the sweet scent of determination.

Now, you should know—my wife doesn’t just work a full-time job. She also moonlights as a businesswoman, weekend renovation specialist, and occasional home depot ninja. She insists on finishing what she starts, even if it means trading her rest days for roller brushes and drop cloths.

First up, we tackled the walls with fresh paint. Then came the next challenge: painting the furniture. There was a brief flirtation with the idea of using a compressor and air sprayer, but after weighing convenience against the learning curve, she heroically opted for the good old-fashioned brush.

Tile regrouting is up next on the renovation menu—but only after the furniture gets its fashionable new coat.

And what, you may ask, is the theme of this ambitious bathroom makeover? None other than Alice in Wonderland, with a color palette that leans more Victorian mystery than candy-colored chaos. Today’s mission was to choose between French Silver and Chocolate Express for the furniture. After much debate and a few imaginary sips of tea with the Mad Hatter, Chocolate Express won. Because nothing says “whimsical literary elegance” like furniture dipped in the shade of gourmet cocoa.

Both my wife and I share a love for books, which is why our whole house is slowly turning into a literary wonderland. The dining room is destined to channel The Great Gatsby, complete with Jazz Age glamour. The entertainment room downstairs? That’s reserved for Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea—I’m imagining fishing nets and melancholic vibes. My personal room? It’s inspired by the Cosmere universe from Brandon Sanderson. (Yes, I like my décor like I like my fiction—epic and multi-dimensional.)

This morning, like responsible homeowners fueled by coffee and creative purpose, we hit up Home Depot. We returned with furniture paint, garden soil, and enough mulch to make our front yard look like it just got a spa day. After we got home, I geared up for a 10 km run—because fitness waits for no renovation.

While I was out pounding the pavement, my wife was already knee-deep in the flowerbeds, spreading topsoil and mulch with the quiet intensity of someone who had clearly been plotting this moment for weeks. Every time she returned from her morning workouts, she’d linger by the yard, eyeing it like a painter sizes up a blank canvas. Now I get it—she was landscaping with stealth.

Once the front yard was tamed, she pivoted back to the project at hand. I, in true sidekick fashion, was assigned the important job of removing tiny metal hinges and handles from cabinet doors—because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s disassembling furniture like it’s a high-stakes game of IKEA Tetris.

Meanwhile, she began painting. There’s something soothing about watching her work—her brush strokes almost rhythmic. She’s always had an interest in programming (self-taught, naturally), and I often think her brain runs on perfectly stacked command lines. Her day is structured like a flowchart—probably a side effect of her day job in process improvement.

But she’s not all spreadsheets and strategy. She paints, plays piano, devours books, and occasionally disappears into deep thought. There’s a quiet balance in how she mixes creativity with efficiency. Somehow, between all this doing, she manages to be. Reflective. Purposeful. Gracefully intense.

As for me? I help where I can—mostly with grunt work and moral support. Today, that meant handing her tools and cheering when the first coat of Chocolate Express went on smoothly. Now, our bathroom cabinet doors are drying in peaceful anticipation of their grand debut.

Soon, the bathroom will be complete—a portal to Wonderland, with neatly regrouted tiles and literary flair. And until then? Well, I’ll keep running errands, running 10Ks, and running to keep up with my remarkable wife.

Posted on

Chilly Mornings, Running Shoes, and a Piano Sonata

Written May 23, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

The temperature in Nashville has taken a nosedive—and no, it didn’t pack a parachute. After last year’s fiery summer that had us questioning our life choices (and our air conditioning bills), this sudden chill feels like Mother Nature hit the rewind button. Yes, it’s still May, but she seems to be flirting with November.

This morning was especially nippy. When I peeked out the window and saw my breath waving back at me, I knew it was time to suit up: long running pants, my trusty jacket, and—wait for it—gloves. In May. Gloves. It’s like my wardrobe thinks I’m training for a winter marathon in the Alps.

Now, you might think it’s odd to go full snowman mode when summer’s supposed to be knocking. But here’s the thing: my internal thermostat took early retirement after my brain stroke. Temperature control? Not my strong suit. Sudden swings in weather throw my body into a melodramatic performance that would win awards in the “What Is Happening?” category.

Air conditioning? Pure nemesis. Walking into an airport or my sister’s house in summer is like being tossed into a meat locker. I’ve learned to show up in long sleeves—even when it’s 90 degrees outside—because otherwise I’ll be shivering like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. The cold can be layered against. The heat? That’s a whole different beast. I guzzle water like a desert camel on payday, hoping to keep my body cool and my kidneys happy. Two birds, one hydration strategy.

Once I get going, though—especially on my morning runs—my body usually catches on. “Ah, right, we’re moving now,” it says, and cranks up the internal furnace. I ran early today, when most sane people were still snuggled under blankets. Despite my janky autonomic nervous system, running helps me feel a bit more human. Hot and cold sensations still get confused in my body, like a thermostat designed by committee, but I’ve learned to manage.

At home, we keep things pretty natural—by which I mean we try not to live in a wind tunnel or a sauna. We only use the heater or AC when the weather gets truly unruly. My wife likes to keep our indoor climate close to what’s going on outside, which I suspect is part philosophy and part compassion. She knows if we blast the AC, I’ll feel like I’ve been slapped by a snowball every time I step outside and come back to the house.

Our house helps with this too. It’s cleverly built into a hill—like a Hobbit home, but with better Wi-Fi. From the front, it looks like a charming one-story cottage, but the backside reveals a full two-story surprise. One side of the lower floor is completely underground, which keeps the house naturally cool in the summer and cozy in winter. The front storage room has no windows, making it a perfect hideaway if a hurricane decides to visit. On the flip side—literally—the back has big windows and faces a forest with a stream trickling behind it. You can’t see the stream from the house, but just knowing it’s there is oddly comforting, like a secret whisper from nature.

After my run and a gloriously hot shower (ah yes, the sweet revenge on the morning chill), I sit down to play the piano. This is my favorite time of day—body warm, mind clear, fingers alive. There’s something beautifully simple about it.

As for tomorrow, the plan is to tackle a 10k after our trip to the hardware store. Normally, I’d run first, but with another crisp morning ahead, I figure I’ll wait until later. Timing is everything—even in running shoes.

Posted on

The Case of the Missing Kilometers: A Summer Running Mystery

Written May 17, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Today began with ambition: a 10K run was on the agenda. Shoes laced, legs stretched, I was off. I breezed through the first 5K like a gazelle who’d had a double espresso… then promptly jogged home—not for coffee, but for a much less glamorous reason: nature called, and she wasn’t leaving a voicemail.

Mid-bathroom break, a revelation struck me (because naturally, my most productive thinking happens next to a toilet): I had only done half the distance I intended. Oops. Apparently, my brain thought it was a 5K day. Distracted? Possibly. Possessed by lazy Saturday energy? Likely.

But hey, silver lining: I usually run the same 5K loop twice for a full 10K. So, I just slapped on my shoes again and headed out for round two. Voilà! A split-level 10K.

I use the Adidas Running app to track my kilometers, pace, and whatever else it measures while silently judging my life choices. It’s a free app—yes, free—and surprisingly robust. A nephrologist (yes, kidney doctor turned running app guru) recommended it. Now both my wife and I are part of the Adidas app cult. There’s a premium version, but the free one already does everything short of making you breakfast.

Of course, the app doesn’t understand “bathroom detour logic.” It logged my run as two separate 5Ks. According to my phone, I didn’t complete a 10K—I just got wildly enthusiastic about doing the exact same 5K twice. Technically true. But also deeply unhelpful.

To be honest, I’ve felt mildly off-schedule lately. My weekends have been a flurry of activity—Indiana trips, birthday parties, unexpected chaos. My new summer routine has been more “choose your own adventure” than “disciplined athlete.” Today was, in fact, my first proper Saturday 10K since adopting the summer schedule. That explains the weird déjà vu and temporal confusion.

Why the switch-up? Simple: summers in Nashville are hot and humid. Not just “sweat-a-bit” humid—more like “is-the-air-soup?” humid. My wife, the smart one, runs at 5:30 a.m. to dodge the worst of it. Even then, she sometimes returns looking like she swam the route. If you’re thinking of running later in the day, don’t. Just don’t.

I’ve shifted to morning runs too—not just to beat the heat, but because it makes the whole day run smoother. Early run means early shower, early breakfast, and fewer “hangry while vacuuming” episodes. Trust me, those are not pretty.

Still, I’m baffled that I forgot I was doing a 10K today. Maybe it’s summer brain. Maybe I was subconsciously hoping to avoid it. Maybe my legs staged a tiny rebellion. Who knows? What I do know is that I’ve missed three Saturday 10Ks in a row thanks to life’s little curveballs, and today finally felt like a return to the groove—even if it came with a bathroom intermission.

Next week, I’ll be more focused. Or at least I’ll try not to confuse a 10K with a 5K. But if I forget again, maybe I’ll just start calling it “interval training with plumbing awareness.” Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?

Posted on

How I Outsmarted Protein Restrictions and Found My Balance (Mostly)

Written May 13, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

After mowing the lawn this morning—a chore I now count as both cardio and meditation—I had a small but glorious victory: the bathroom scale whispered the sweet news that I’ve almost reclaimed all my lost weight. Just one stubborn pound remains. One! At this rate, I may throw that pound a welcome-back party… with non-alcoholic, low-phosphorus sparkling water, of course.

For months, I’ve been running four times a week. It all began innocently enough: my wife, in her infinite wisdom (and persistence), suggested I start walking to help my brain recover post-stroke. One foot in front of the other eventually snowballed into full-blown 10K runs. I guess my brain took that as “heal or hustle.”

But here’s the kicker: the stroke didn’t just damage my brain—it also decided to throw my kidneys under the bus. That lovely discovery landed me on dialysis and slapped me with a grocery list of dietary restrictions that reads like a “no-fun” menu. Protein? Strictly rationed at 36 grams per day. That’s less than what your average housecat gets. Chicken breasts? Off the table. Protein shakes? Forbidden potions. Cheese, chocolate, bananas? Banned by the Potassium & Phosphorus Police.

And yet, summer rolls in, bringing not just sunshine but a to-do list longer than a CVS receipt. Yard work, outdoor chores, sweating like I’m trying to grow muscles through evaporation—it’s a full-body experience. But here’s the problem: I can’t refuel the usual way. No chomping down extra calories from your friendly neighborhood protein bar.

So I get creative. Snacks become strategic. I’ve mastered the fine art of the homemade jam pastry—yes, it’s as indulgent and carefully calculated as it sounds. Ice cream also makes an occasional cameo, carefully vetted like it’s applying for a visa to enter my digestive system.

Recently, I’ve had to scale back (pun intended) my other workouts due to a rebellious shoulder. Planking? Down to once a day. The result? Surprise! Less exercise = weight gain. Turns out, my body is a finicky machine that runs on paradoxes and spite.

The shoulder is still not back to full power, but it’s slowly on the mend. So, for now, I’m sticking with the gentle path—less exercise, more patience, fewer unreasonable expectations.

One issue at a time. No need to be greedy with progress. My body isn’t a vending machine—I don’t get to press A5 and receive instant healing. But if I treat it kindly, listen to its cues, and bribe it with jam, we might just keep moving forward.

Posted on

Small Steps, Giant Wins (and a Few Flea Battles)

Written May 11, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Good news: my shoulder is feeling better today! Not back to its full glory, but at least it’s no longer threatening to sabotage my every deep breath. Rest seems to be doing its job, so I’ll stick with it—doctor’s orders by way of common sense (the best kind).

Yesterday was a lovely disruption. My wife and I visited my family, and though it threw our usual routine out the window (probably landed somewhere in my sister’s garden), it was worth every minute. On our way home, we stopped by a grocery store near her place—a new battlefield for the weekly shop. The store layout was familiar enough to avoid total confusion, but alas, I forgot to grab cereal and almond milk. A breakfast betrayal. I’ll probably survive until next weekend, but this small oversight inspired a groundbreaking revelation: maybe I should start making a shopping list.

Yes, a list. Revolutionary.

My wife has always been a proud advocate of baby steps. “Kaizen,” she reminds me. Continuous improvement. (And yes, she built this website.)

For me, baby steps weren’t a motivational slogan—they were survival. After my brain stroke and subsequent surgery, many basic bodily functions simply clocked out. Skin sensation? Gone. Moving my legs? Like trying to command two uncooperative noodles. For months, it felt like I was locked inside myself. But slowly—achingly, infuriatingly slowly—I started to recover.

“Never give up,” my wife repeated like a mantra. Some days I believed her. Some days I just nodded while silently screaming. But now? Now I run 10 kilometers. Let that sink in. From immobile to 10k—powered entirely by small steps and pure stubbornness.

Eventually, my wife handed me the reins to this site. She told me people like me—stroke survivors, fighters, turtle-paced improvers—should share their stories. And she’s right. If someone like me can claw their way back into mobility and routine, maybe someone else out there won’t give up either.

Lately, my “kaizen” has taken the form of tweaking our weekly routine. I’m oddly proud of these tiny changes. They’re my breadcrumb trail to a more efficient life—though I don’t believe in a perfect routine. That’s a unicorn I’ve stopped chasing. But improvements? I’ll take all I can get.

Take laundry, for instance. Last week, I added a second wash day to deal with the stealthy flea army I unwittingly invite in every time I mow the lawn. We used to only wash clothes after Thursday mowing. But that left a two-day window for Tuesday’s flea squad to stage an escape from the laundry basket. Now I wash on Tuesdays, too—cutting their freedom window down to an hour or two. I call that a flea lockdown. (Sorry, guys. No soft landing this year.)

Back when we had a cat, she did most of the flea-fighting for us—like a soft, purring sacrifice with flea poison. But now it’s just us, the washing machine, and a growing pile of yard clothes.

So yes, these are small things: a shoulder healing, a forgotten carton of almond milk, a laundry schedule shift. But they add up. And step by step, list by list, run by run—I’m moving forward.

Posted on

Good Morning, Cardboard Chaos and Core Pain

Written May 10, 2025

reviewed 5/24

Hello Dear Readers,

Today I woke up with my body sending out what can only be described as an RSVP to the Pain Party. Most notably, my left shoulder/back area felt like it had gone a few rounds with a grizzly bear in its off-season. Every deep breath came with a charming reminder that, yes, I am no longer 22, and yes, running with sore muscles is about as fun as assembling IKEA furniture without instructions.

My grand plan was to knock out a casual 10k before heading to my sister’s shindig this afternoon. Reality, however, had other ideas. After dragging my slightly disgruntled limbs through a 5k, I waved the white flag. Enough was enough—this wasn’t the Olympics, and I wasn’t trying to impress Zeus.

When I whined—uh, consulted—with my wife about the mystery ache, she casually mentioned it might be from my recent plank marathons. Apparently, the floor space I’ve been using is less “yoga studio” and more “cardboard jungle.” Ever since we got back from Indiana, I’ve been buried in a sorting spree of my ancient Magic: The Gathering cards. Yes, the relics of my nerdy youth have staged a comeback, occupying approximately 47.3% of my study floor. (I measured emotionally.)

Now, my wife is not a fan of clutter. She approaches “stuff” with the same energy Marie Kondo would use to evict a raccoon from a linen closet. So, naturally, I’ve been trying to downsize the collection. Thankfully, a colleague of hers wants some of these dusty treasures. Apparently, old cardboard can still spark joy—or at least a trade.

The real issue? Sorting thousands of cards takes room. A lot of room. So I’ve been planking between booster packs and binder piles like some sort of core-strengthening archaeologist. My wife suggested—read: strongly recommended—that I plank in her room instead, where there’s actually space to extend my limbs without risking a landslide of mana.

Why didn’t I take her advice earlier? Well, I’m stubborn. Also, it felt like cheating on my routine. But considering my left side now feels like it’s been betrayed by my own ribcage, I’ve rethought my loyalties. She’s probably right. (She usually is. Don’t tell her I said that.)

I cleared a bit more space today, and voila—planking is no longer a game of human Tetris. The pain has subsided after some careful stretching and a moment of self-pity. Once I finish sorting the last of the cards—hopefully by mid-May—I’ll officially reclaim my floor and return to planking with dignity (and less groaning).

Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s better to abandon your makeshift gym and just listen to your wise, clutter-hating spouse. Especially if you enjoy breathing pain-free.

Until next time, stretch wisely and store your cardboard carefully.

—Your slightly sore, slightly wiser blogger

Posted on

When Your Muscles Say, “Not Today”

Written May 8, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Sometimes, my body and I are just not on the same team. Today’s first planking session felt like trying to wrestle a walrus—slippery, slow, and strangely humiliating. As I collapsed into a heap after the first set, I stared into the abyss (okay, the ceiling) and wondered how on earth I was supposed to do three more.

For the record, I don’t do anything extreme. I jog four times a week and do 10–20 minutes of muscle training every day—respectable, not Ironman material. Yet even this modest routine requires me to walk the tightrope of “just enough” thanks to my charmingly fussy kidneys.

Protein is a particular diva in my diet. I can eat it, but only in controlled, red-carpet amounts. If I push too hard without fueling properly, my muscles start cannibalizing themselves like a badly written survival movie. Not the vibe I’m going for. So, I’ve learned to listen to my body like it’s the lead singer and I’m just the backing vocals. Some days, it hits the high notes. Today, it croaked.

Naturally, this led to the Great Plank Debate of the Day: do I quit after one and scale the whole plan back? Or do I test the waters again later and see if my body’s just being dramatic?

Several hours and one curiosity-fueled check-in later… surprise! Round two felt significantly better. Maybe the lawn mowing earlier had worn me out more than I thought. Or maybe my muscles just needed a little nap and a motivational TED talk. Either way, I was back in the game.

Session three was… fine-ish. Not glorious, but also not tragic. I rewarded myself with a brief pause and some household chores—because nothing says “active rest” like folding towels. Then came session four, powered by the holy grail of motivation: ice cream. And somehow, I did it.

This whole planking saga got me thinking—maybe I need a proper rest day in my routine. I already rotate muscle groups to avoid overworking the same area, but perhaps even my meticulous planning needs a day off. After all, I’m not a machine. I’m a human with medical fine print.

I haven’t figured out the ideal plank duration yet. I know I can’t keep increasing it forever (unless I’m training for a Guinness World Record in dramatic floor-staring). One day, I’ll hit a ceiling. But for now, I’ve made peace with the idea that recovery is not weakness—it’s strategy.

Living with chronic conditions means your exercise plan sometimes needs to bend like a yoga master. So today’s lesson? When your body says “later,” sometimes it means “better.”

Posted on

When Weather Gaslights You: A Nashville Tale

Written May 4, 2025

reviewed 5/18

Hello Dear Readers,

Last night, Nashville—ever the drama queen—decided to flirt with winter again. One minute we’re sweating through 80°F days, the next, it’s 50°F and somehow feels like we’ve wandered into a scene from Frozen. Yes, 50 degrees doesn’t sound frigid on paper, but after a week of borderline tropical heat, it hits like a betrayal. I call it thermal whiplash.

We recently took a trip up to Indiana to visit my dad, which should’ve been a casual northern jaunt. Turns out, Indiana didn’t get the springtime memo. It’s just six hours north, but the temperature there lagged behind Nashville’s by a good 10 to 15 degrees. We arrived confidently underdressed and promptly humbled by the Midwest’s commitment to staying brisk. Apparently, even the weather in Indiana had trust issues.

My theory? That chilly Indiana air decided it liked us so much, it followed us home like a stray dog. And now here we are—hosting winter’s encore in May.

My wife, who possesses a fully functioning autonomic nervous system (unlike yours truly), took the temperature dip in stride. While I was layering like a human lasagna, she just mumbled something about needing sleeves and kept her 5:30 AM workout routine like clockwork. The woman is basically a solar-powered Terminator—nothing stops her if it’s scheduled.

Meanwhile, I work from home and consider “schedule” more of a suggestion than a rule. My day bends around three pillars: sleep, meals, and whether it’s cold enough to make me regret my life choices. As temperatures go haywire, I adapt like a lizard seeking sun—except slower and with more coffee.

I had just kicked off my summer schedule. You know, the one where I run before the pavement becomes a skillet? That plan lasted, oh, about two days before the weather pulled a reverse card. When your body can’t regulate temperature like it used to, you don’t negotiate—you pivot. And so, back to the winter plan we go: outside chores and running only when the thermometer behaves.

As for tomorrow, it looks like I’ll be suiting up in long sleeves again. Annoying? Yes. Unfair? Absolutely. I mean, I wasn’t consulted when they set the week’s forecast. But here I am, a humble peasant bowing to the weather gods.

Still, I got my bonus chores done today like a champ. And since I recently added piano practice into the mix (because why not make life more melodious?), I’ll be squeezing that in post-shower, post-workout—basically when I’m already exhausted but slightly cleaner.

Moral of the story? Nashville weather is like a cat: beautiful, unpredictable, and completely uninterested in your plans.

Posted on

My Left Hand and the Piano: A Love Story in Progress (with Supervision)

Written 05/03/2025

Hello Dear Readers,

For my birthday, my wife gave me a pair of gifts—small in size, but mighty in purpose. One was a clever little guide that sits atop the piano keys and tells me which note is which (finally, no more pretending middle C is wherever my finger happens to land). The other? A beginner’s piano book for adults—because apparently, it’s never too late to become a clumsy Beethoven.

Naturally, this led me to the next question: Where on earth do I squeeze piano practice into my already jam-packed schedule of surviving, recovering, and occasionally pretending I don’t need a nap?

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in my younger days, I was a lightning-fast typist. A true child of the digital age, I grew up playing text-based games online, typing as if my life depended on it—probably because it did, at least if I wanted to defeat goblins in under 0.3 seconds. But then came the stroke. And just like that, my typing—and pretty much every other form of movement—hit the reset button.

My right side made a comeback worthy of a sports movie montage. My left side? Eh… not so much. It remained clumsy, uncooperative, and frankly, a little rebellious. Since walking was the first priority, I focused on my legs. Years of effort later, I can now run 10K like someone with a vendetta against gravity. But the hand? Still marching to its own awkward beat.

So I turned to my wife—who’s a piano player and my resident hand-coordination consultant—and asked for a piano book. She lit up like a major chord. I had tried piano before, somewhere around 2018 or 2019, but couldn’t keep it up. Mobility had to come first, and my left hand was still on sabbatical.

Now, with the book in hand (well, mostly right hand), I’m ready to try again. It’s a fresh start. A new project. And we all know the first rule of New Projects Club: Don’t kid yourself. Saying “I’ll just practice whenever I have time” is code for “I’ll definitely forget, then panic, then pretend I never planned this at all.” So I’ve decided piano will follow my shower—clean body, clean mind, slightly damp enthusiasm.

My wife advised me not to launch into a full 30-minute Beethoven marathon right away. “Start small,” she said. “Five to ten minutes. Don’t burn out your fingers or your will to live.” Wise words. The goal is consistency, not concertos.

She also gave me The Talk about posture and form. “No slamming the keys,” she warned. “It’s not a typewriter or a drum.” Apparently, hitting a piano key too hard can cause unwanted vibrations in the other keys—kind of like when one person sneezes in a quiet room and everyone else flinches. She had to unlearn her own bad habits, and she’d really prefer I not repeat them.

So here we are: me, a slightly-used left hand, a piano, and a patient wife. I’m excited. Nervous. Slightly tone-deaf. But excited. Let’s see where this new adventure takes me—hopefully somewhere between “Chopsticks” and Chopin.