​I am a story teller. And maybe even more, I am a story collector. I am pretty sure those two things are deeply connected.

Because I do a lot of presentations where I share authentically, and because in those presentations I try to safely invite people to explore their hardest stories, I often have people share stories with me they probably don't share in other places.

It's one of the greatest gifts of the work I do.

After my presentation yesterday, a man approached me and we ended up having a long conversation about life and fatherhood. Toward the end of the conversation, he told me he was adopted when he was 3 years old.

Good people adopted him, he told me. He said he felt fortunate.

And yet, he always lived with wondering.....

He told me that a couple of years ago his daughter started doing some exploring on the website: Ancestry. She was researching her family and encouraged him to do the same. It had been over fifty years, and he hadn't had any contact with his biological family.

He had no idea who his biological family even was.

Well, last year he found an uncle. The uncle told him his biological mother had been looking for him for years. My new friend was a bit surprised to hear she was still alive. And even more, since he grew up in another state and had moved to Virginia, he was shocked to hear that many years ago she too had relocated to Virginia.

A few days after this conversation with his uncle, after fifty five years, he met his mom.

He called their reunion beautiful. He said their relationship today is great.

I thought a lot about this story on my drive home yesterday.

Much was made of resilience in our conference yesterday. I'm not sure resilience gets any more pronounced than a 3-year-old baby taken from his home who somehow turns that situation into a long life of purpose.

I thought about how much resilience often looks like love; his adoptive family was a good and loving family, he said.

I thought about the gift of technology. How with a few clicks a website can help us find something that's been missing for 55 years.

But mostly, I thought about their reunion. How it is always too late to change yesterday, but never too late to change tomorrow. And maybe too many of us lose out on the gifts of tomorrow because we are stuck trying to change yesterday.

(It is possible I am preaching a bit to me here).

We often think healing requires somehow making peace with the past before we can move forward. But sometimes healing begins when we discover that the past, no matter how painful or permanent, doesn't get to make every decision about our future.

This man and his mom can't recover 55 years. They can't recreate his childhood. They can't go back and undo the separation or any of the circumstances that led to it.

But they can love each other today.

And tomorrow.

Don't let your yesterdays blind you to tomorrow. There may indeed be something beautiful waiting there.

I woke up this morning to these kind words from my friend Dr. James Stewart. His words mean a lot because of the respect I have for Dr. Stewart as a leader. And because his thoughtful and articulate words reflect what I want every person and community to feel after I've spent time with them.

Dear Keith,

On behalf of The UP Foundation, and from me personally, I want to extend my deepest and most heartfelt thanks to you for serving as the keynote speaker for our 11th Anniversary Unlimited Potential Recovery Gala.

Your message was received extraordinarily well by our audience. So many people were moved by the way you spoke about connection, belonging, and the importance of letting people know that they matter. Your words were not only timely and relevant - they went directly to the heart of why we do this work.

One of the most powerful truths you shared was that healing so often begins in relationship. People need to know that they are seen, that they are valued, that their story matters, and that they are not alone. That message resonated deeply with the spirit of our Gala and with the mission of The UP Foundation.

Your presentation reminded all of us that sometimes the most meaningful intervention we can offer another person is simply our presence - our willingness to listen, to connect, to care, and to communicate, in both words and actions, “You matter.”

That message could not have been more fitting for an evening centered on hope, healing, recovery, resilience, and transformation.

What made your presentation especially meaningful was the authenticity with which you delivered it. You have a remarkable ability to take complex and deeply human topics and make them accessible, personal, and real. The audience did not simply hear your message - they felt it.

In the conversations that followed, it was clear that your remarks stayed with people. Your message about human connection and the importance of helping others feel valued gave our guests something meaningful to reflect upon long after the program ended.

Keith, thank you for sharing your wisdom, your experience, your heart, and your voice with us. Thank you for helping us remind a room full of people that connection matters, compassion matters, and people matter. Most of all, thank you for helping make our first Gala such a meaningful and memorable evening.

We are deeply grateful that you were a part of this milestone in the history of The UP Foundation, and I sincerely hope this will be the beginning of many opportunities for us to continue working together in the future.

With heartfelt gratitude and warmest regards,

James

James R. Stewart, Ph.D.
Licensed Clinical Psychologist
Founder and Executive Director
The UP Foundation
Center for Recovery, Mental Health, and Wellness ​

​I believe in Jesus.

I believe that Jesus was born to a virgin.

I believe that Jesus was crucified on a cross and then died and three days later rolled away a stone and walked out of a tomb to briefly walk the earth again.

And then, shortly after that, Jesus ascended into heaven.

I believe that Jesus did all of that so that I too may one day ascend to heaven to live with him.

I believe all of that. Quite strongly. And, at the same time, I acknowledge and totally get that to some that sounds like a really crazy thing to believe.

But do you know what sounds crazier to me personally? It sounds crazier to write that I DO believe all of that, and yet, at the same time, I confess that some days my situation feels so challenging that I don't believe Jesus can do anything with it at all.

Sure, I would never sat that out loud in the moment of my challenging situation, but does it make any difference what I'm not saying out loud if my body is loudly feeling full of fear and panic and grief?

Does it matter that I absolutely believe Jesus came to be my way out of the darkest of places and yet, at times, I find myself feeling trapped in the darkest of places?

How does such belief and reality live together in such tension?

The answer isn't an easy one. But one I continue to know and feel with more faith every day. And that is believing Jesus is the way out of darkness doesn’t mean I will never find myself there again.

It simply means the darkness no longer gets the final word.

Growing in faith isn’t forever outgrowing the feeling of being trapped; its coming to believe there will always be a way through even when I can't see it in the moment. My life is living proof of this, for I wake up this morning on the other side of many things in my life for which I once believed there couldn't possibly be an other side.

I've come to believe—and know—that my belief and reality meet here: Jesus never promised I would never experience darkness. He promised I would never experience it alone.

I think too many days I'm looking for the stone to be rolled away in my life, when instead I need to be looking for the one who has already rolled it away.

​This memory from 11 years ago popped up this morning. When I took the photo it was just an ordinary photo to share on Facebook. The "look what I have been up to" sort of photo.

But in hindsight, there was nothing ordinary about this photo at all.

Eleven years ago yesterday, I became certified as a Youth Mental Health First Aid instructor. I remember the training. I remember that little koala. I remember taking this picture. What I don’t remember is thinking this moment would help change my life.

I had taken a new job, and this was simply one of the trainings I was told I needed to attend. So I attended. Thirty-two hours later, I had a certificate saying I was qualified to teach other people about youth mental health. What I didn’t know was that I had also taken some of the first steps toward understanding my own.

It remains one of the more miraculous things about my life—that the moments that have changed me most are moments I could have never seen coming. Not in a million years. I often plan for change, but change always seems to be coming up with bigger plans I'm completely unaware of.

Over the decade that has followed, my work has taken me deeper into conversations about adverse childhood experiences, trauma, stress, brain development, substance use, suicide, nervous system regulation, relationships, connection and healing. And somewhere along the way, they became conversations that helped me understand ME more than they helped me understand THEM.

I began to see that mental health isn't something that belongs only to people with a diagnosis. It isn't something reserved for therapists' offices, psychiatric hospitals or crisis hotlines.

Mental health belongs to all of us.

Over these years, I've watched our culture slowly become more willing to talk about anxiety, depression, trauma, loneliness, addiction, suicide and emotional pain. We still have a long way to go, but I believe we are increasingly recognizing something that seems so obvious to me now:

Mental health isn't an important talking point in the human health model. Mental health IS health.

Our minds aren't separate from our bodies. Our relationships aren't separate from our minds. And the stories we share aren't separate from the ways we experience today.

It is all connected.

I look at this picture now and smile. The guy who took it had absolutely no idea what was coming. He didn't know what he would learn about trauma or the nervous system or human connection. He didn't know how many people he would eventually get to talk with about these things.

And he certainly didn't know how much all of it would help him understand himself.

That is one of the great blessings in life. We get to look back. Look back and discover that the moment we thought we were preparing to help somebody else was actually the beginning of learning how to help ourselves. And sometimes people—like me— who had no idea just how much they needed helped.

I'm grateful for this memory.

But even more, I'm grateful for the beautiful memories it's allowing me to continue to create.

​I had a conversation with a gentleman at a training I led yesterday. I was teaching about how the challenges of childhood can often linger and then morph into bigger challenges in adulthood. The gentleman approached me very respectfully. He said he understood all I was saying. But then commented that in the end, no matter what, it all boils down to one deciding to do things different.

He based his comment on his own challenging childhood. And the reality that he'd made something of his life in spite of it—(and indeed he has; he's doing meaningful work in his community).

I told him I understood where he's coming from. That I too had overcome some challenges in life. And that for the longest time I carried a belief that if I can do it everyone else should be able to do it as well. But then I told him I've come to see that not all change is created equal.

Not everyone gets to that "I need to change" decision following the same path as everyone else.

Not everyone knows that path even exists.

Not everyone has the same kind of willpower to make that change if and when they get there.

And not everyone has the same kind of clue as to what the first step toward change is even as they desperately long for it.

I told him that I've come to believe the great equalizer for change—the one thing that gives everyone the best shot at it—is each other. And that when we come to expect that other people should be able to simply change because we simply changed, I fear we overlook that for most of us change wasn't really that simple.

In the bible, in the book of Ecclesiastes, the writer tells us: "Two are better than one. If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help."

Isn't it interesting that the writer isn't so much worried about someone falling as they are about someone who falls alone.

I have had many falls in my life. And it's true that I've risen from many of them. But it is most true, I think, that I never would have risen at all if it weren't for some really meaningful people in my life.

Change is hard. But it is rarely a solo act.

When it comes to change, relationships are the great equalizer.

I believe in the power of the cheer, "You can do it."

But in the end, change most often happens walking together along the path of "We can do it." 

​I am preparing to deliver a keynote at the Unlimited Potential Recovery Gala in Lynchburg next week. In doing so, I've been spending some time thinking about the world of self-help we seem to be living in.

For the longest time, I have frowned upon the idea of self-help. Mainly because I have witnessed very few people make meaningful changes in their lives all by themselves. Further, I myself have tried repeatedly to make big changes in my life relying totally on self and willpower only to repeatedly fail.

But the reality is, as I've been thinking about it—all big changes DO start with self. No personal change happens without one first deciding I want some area of my life to change. However, almost always, success in making that change is fueled by the support one has surrounding them.

The decision is mine. The success of the decision becomes ours.

There may be no community in the world that understands this tension better than the recovery community.

No one else can decide to pursue recovery for another person. We can plead. We can encourage. We can offer treatment. We can open doors and sometimes desperately wish someone would walk through them. But at some point, recovery requires an individual to say, I want something different for my life.

That part is self.

But what happens after that decision is very rarely self-help. Because deciding you want a different life and knowing how to build one are two very different things. That's where other people come in.

Seth Godin says, "All help is self-help, multiplied by the expectations, support and compassion of the people around you."

Expectations. Someone needs to believe there is more to your story than the chapter you're currently living. Not expectations as pressure—don't screw this up—but expectations rooted in hope: I believe there is a life available to you that maybe you can't see yet.

Support. Recovery requires more than believing in someone from a distance. Sometimes support looks like treatment. Sometimes transportation. A meeting. A recovery coach. Employment. Housing. A phone call at the right moment. Someone sitting beside you when the old way of surviving starts looking attractive again.

Compassion. Compassion changes the question from "Why would you keep doing this?" to "What has this been doing for you?" From "What's wrong with you?" to "What's happened, and what do you need now?" Compassion doesn't eliminate accountability. It creates a relationship in which accountability doesn't have to be confused with shame.

There is something powerful about deciding to do something different in life.

But not nearly as powerful as be surrounded by people who say let me help you with that.

​There's a myth I used to believe. And that myth is that failure and mistakes equal growth. Like the big silver lining one can cling to after making a big mistake is knowing some big growth is on the way.

That is a myth.

Because growth doesn't naturally follow mistakes. If it did, my life would have skipped a whole lot of hardships that I ultimately experienced.

I have made a lot of mistakes in my life that have invited me to grow, and yet, time and time again, I responded, "no thank you."

For that is ultimately what mistakes are. What our hardships are. What our lowest of lows are. They are invitations to make adjustments to our lives that begin to look and feel like growth.

I often say many people need a rock bottom to grow. That's not because there's some magic dust coating the floor of the rock bottom pit. It's because when you are lying there in rock bottom, you can see easier than you ever have that the only way out now is to adjust.

It is where you are most likely to feel that you must stop crawling and start climbing.

I have experienced that pit.

The problem is, in my experience, we let a lot of our mistakes define us. We let them tell us who we are instead of hearing them invite us to become someone new. It's hard to make the adjustment to winner when you've let your mistakes convince you you're a loser.

Hard times do not build character. Doing the hard things required in hard times to make the hard times not so hard is what builds character. Even while acknowledging some of what is required is REALLY hard.

Growth is not some silver lining that beautifully covers the hardships of our mistakes and failures.

Growth is an adjustment.

A decision.

And quite honestly, sometimes it feels easier to keep making the same old mistakes than it does to make the decision to adjust. Which is why one can make a lot of mistakes and never grow at all.

It doesn't have to be that way.

Adjust.

​I don't think our President is anti-The American Constitution. But I do think when it comes to how it applies to his own life, and his own wishes and desires, it is nothing more than a minor consideration.

Yesterday, the President banned three news agencies from the White House. And when he explained the reasoning, in his own words, he simply said people shouldn't be allowed to purposefully write negative things. And that a country that allows such is a sick country.

Not my words, his.

The one thing that has remained consistent about this President, the only thing I've ever respected, is that he never hides what he is thinking or feeling. You are never left trying to read between the lines.

If you are reading this article, you are on a platform that openly allows—and in my opinion encourages—people to write negative things. Is this a sick platform?

And what is purposefully negative?

Is what you are reading right now purposefully negative?

And will people add purposely negative comments to what I have written in the comments section?

And is a country that allows such a thing really sick?

It is ironic that I've heard this very President say and write more negative things about other people than I've personally heard from any other President in my lifetime. And honestly, the only beautiful thing I've been able to find in those words is the fact that I live in a country where one is allowed to freely say and write them.

The writer in me truly appreciates that, even as hard as it is for me sometimes to read things I find purposefully negative.

It's a slippery slope when the beauty in that is suddenly considered a sickness.

Our Constitution made it clear that I have a right to say and read anything (within limits—negativity NOT being one of them).

Yesterday, the President unilaterally changed that right to what we read and write to SOME things.

That's a pretty big change.

That's a pretty slippery slope.

​It's Georgia Jewel weekend. Which means I have a lot of memories popping up. It's hard to believe it's been 8 years since I first attempted to conquer that monster.

Attempted I say.

And failed....

In 2018, I signed up to run the 35-mile Georgia Jewel Trail Race course through the mountains of northern Georgia. My friends Donna and Anthony were so sure I'd finish it that they made me a plaque beforehand to honor the completion of my first ultramarathon.

Eighteen miles into the race that day, it became clear they'd given me the award quite prematurely.

At least that's how I looked at it back then.

Two years after that failed attempt, in the year of 2020 (we all remember THAT year), during one of the darkest periods of my life, I returned to Georgia. And I completed that 35-mile race.

There is a scripture from the bible on the plaque my friends made me:

"Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith."

I look back on that 2018 race and remember that nothing in me believed I could keep going that day. I had no perseverance.

So, I quit.

To be honest, when I returned to Georgia in 2020, I don't know that I had any more belief that I could keep going then than I did in 2018. But I felt this sense of urgency—this desire and desperate need to keep going—that I didn't have two years prior.

Maybe because my battle to keep going was as intense outside of those woods as it was inside them on that rugged trail. And just maybe my friends' plaque wasn't two years early after all, but right on time.

"Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us...."

We all have a race to run. And sometimes memories that pop up from segments of the race already run aren't memories at all.

They are reminders.

Reminders that the strength that lived within us to do what once felt impossible still lives within us.

And so I feel compelled to remind you. If you are reading this, you have memories of overcoming some hard stories in your life. You have crossed some finish lines—be it in the woods or outside of them—that would make me marvel at your strength and perseverance.

So please, take a moment and YOU marvel at your strength.

You marvel and be reminded you can and will absolutely keep going.

The race is not over.

Together, we must all keep going.