In the summer of 2023, I stood inside the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Carved into the stone were the words: "In this temple as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever."

It was the phrase "saved the Union." That single word – saved – carries an enormous amount of weight. It assumes something existed that was worth keeping, and it suggests that history is shaped by those who refuse to let valuable things disappear.

It’s still dark. Thousands of people are moving across a massive field illuminated only by headlamps, cell phone screens and the occasional flashlight. The air is cold enough to make you pull your jacket tighter. Vendors are setting up. Families are unfolding lawn chairs. Nobody seems fully awake, and everyone is excited.

Then the first burner ignites. A giant burst of flame shoots into the darkness and a cheer rises from the crowd. Then another. And another.

I've attended roughly sixteen weddings in my life, and I've never left one without learning something.

When I was younger, I thought weddings were mostly about the dresses, venues and receptions. I paid attention to the surface-level things. The cake and the flowers an whether the DJ knew what he was doing. Now I see them differently.

I've come to believe that weddings are one of the few times in life when people intentionally gather everyone they love in one place and say, “This is who we are.”

The sky darkened as post time approached. A storm rolled in from the west and rain began falling moments before the horses entered the starting gate. The crowd pulled on ponchos and shuffled beneath overhangs.

When the gates opened, the field surged forward.

As I watched the race unfold, I found myself thinking about a question that had followed me all weekend. How had horses become such a significant part of my life?

As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, the colors changed by the minute. Deep blues gave way to purple, purple turned to orange and before long the canyon walls seemed to glow from within. The mountains that had looked intimidating just twelve hours earlier now felt welcoming. We sat there eating oatmeal not saying much and simply watching the morning arrive.

Looking back, that sunrise was the real reward of the trip.

The Thunder are one win away from the Finals again, and the city feels united behind them. It’s us against everyone. National analysts still hesitate to fully buy in. Fans from larger markets still talk about Oklahoma City like it’s a temporary basketball experiment. And that chip on the shoulder makes this whole thing even more fun.

What surprises me most is how emotionally invested I’ve become in this team. I wasn’t always a Thunder fan.

There are certain summers that end before you realize you’re going to carry them with you for the next decade.

In May of 2013, my family took our annual trip to Fort Walton Beach. That year we arrived earlier than normal and the beach was ready for us. Rows of umbrellas stretching across the sand, warm air, rolling waves and enough open beach to convince us we were capable of launching a wildlife conservation movement

There’s something deeply funny about the fact that one of the most meaningful symbols of my twenties ended up being a beer that tastes like someone dropped an apple orchard into a tailgate cooler. Not a fine whiskey. Not an expensive bottle of wine. Just Busch Apple. Cold enough to hurt your teeth.

And over the years, it became attached to some of the best moments of my life.

There are some traditions that don’t look important at first. They aren’t loud or life-changing in the moment. They just sort of appear in your life one day and become part of who you are. Then years later, you wake up and realize those small traditions built some of your favorite memories with the people you love most.

For me, that tradition was the Kentucky Derby.

I was struggling by this point. The final two miles were brutal. The sun had climbed higher, the breeze disappeared and the course felt like it had turned against me. Twenty-four miles in, I was technically in the home stretch, but the finish line felt like it kept inching farther away. My legs had that heavy, uncooperative feeling—like they were part of the team, just not fully bought in anymore.

Then came the turn.

We’re on our way to dinner when we see the glowing porch lights of a laid-back coastal bar. Naturally, we pulled over and wandered inside. The sound of someone playing a guitar spills out from a small stage surrounded by sunburned tourists clutching Mai Tais and margaritas.

This wasn’t on our itinerary, but it felt like it should’ve been. So we stayed.

The steam engine leans into the curve. No matter how sharply we turn, no matter how steep the drop or how tight the passage, the train doesn’t hesitate.

Most of us want a say in every turn. We want to know what’s next, how it ends, and ideally have a backup plan in case things go sideways.

Friendships don’t really work like that.

The Michigan Wolverines beat the UConn Huskies this week to cut down the nets and win the National Championship. One shining moment, confetti falling, ladders out at center court—the whole thing. It’s the image every kid who’s ever picked up a basketball has imagined at some point.

What you don’t picture as a kid is the other side of it.

At first glance, you might think I’m a runner, but I can assure you the only place I’ve historically run to was my 8 a.m. Japanese class in college. Sure, I have what people might call a runner’s build and a decent amount of stamina, but I’ve never really been interested.

And yet I found myself signing up for a half-marathon.