​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 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.

​Several years ago, I met my friend Brenda. And when you get to know Brenda, one of the first things you learn is that she loves horses.

I admit. When I first met her and she'd talk about her relationship with horses, I thought it sounded odd. Mainly because it truly was a relationship she was describing.

As time went on, though, and she'd talk about the healing she experienced through them, and how others experienced it as well, I began to believe her. I began to consider that maybe horses were created for something more than human pleasure.

I think one of the reasons I started to believe this was because she described a peace that came through horses that I myself experienced when I took a walk in the woods. I began to consider that horses and a mountain trail weren't all that different.

Last week, Brenda let me know she'd be showing her two horse friends—Adam and Noble—at a horse show in Lexington, VA this weekend. I knew I'd be traveling past there on my way home from a work event, so I told her I'd like to stop and experience this whole horse show world.

And what an experience it was.

I think the first thing I noticed was a truth: Brenda really did have a relationship with these horses. They REALLY did understand her—and she them. And there is no other way to describe this relationship than love.

Their connection is love.

And when they entered the ring to show, that love showed up as two creatures—woman and horse— willingly (or maybe stubbornly in Noble's case) working together to perform something magical.

For to look at them as simply navigating a course of jumps is to miss the beauty of what is really happening out there. Much like I came to understand the beauty of a walk in the woods was much more beautiful than a man walking among the aesthetic pleasures of nature.

Sometimes my Christian faith get interpreted in a very human-centered way. God loves me. God speaks to me. Creation was made for me.

But my bible paints a much broader picture than this.

Genesis repeatedly describes creation as good before humans ever arrived. The Psalms describe the heavens as shouting out God's glory. Jesus talks about how much God pays attention to the sparrows and the wildflowers. Paul wrote about ALL of creation groaning and longing for God.

The biblical story doesn't portray humans as the only part of creation containing evidence of God. It portrays ALL of creation with God's fingerprints ALL over it.

I'll be be honest, as my long work week drug on, it got harder to think about stopping on my way home. But lately I've been actively reminding myself that my world gets to feeling empty not because the world is empty, but because I do not often enough stop to fill myself with the beauty this world has to offer me.

My emptiness can often be far more laziness that emptiness.

As I left Brenda and Noble and Adam yesterday afternoon, I felt God remind me that his presence is everywhere—it is truly in every created thing. For me to not believe that or feel that is not evidence otherwise, but rather, evidence that my attention might be too focused on me.

Too lazy to look outside of me.

God is wanting to talk to me in far more places than I often stop to listen.

I am so glad I stopped in Lexington, VA.

And I am oh so grateful for all I heard.

​When I am asked what my favorite sport is, I respond "Notre Dame Football."

A distant second is college football in general.

Because as much as I love watching ALL college football, watching a football game feels dramatically different if Notre Dame isn't in it. And for me, that is what Notre Dame football is all about.

The feeling.

I get asked where this fandom comes from. (Uhm, excuse me, this is full-blown love, NOT fandom). But I never attended Notre Dame. I've never even been to a Notre Dame game. Which is appropriate in many ways, since I fell in love with Notre Dame through the television.

As hard as it is to believe, back in the 70s when my passion for sports was developing, the NCAA tightly restricted college football television appearances for fear it would interfere with tickets sales at the stadium.

Therefore, very few teams made it to a living room TV.

Notre Dame was one of those few, along with USC, Alabama, and Oklahoma. (Crazy how things have changed. Today, I'll be able to watch 4 games at a time on one television screen thanks to YouTube TV split screen technology.)

I also grew up Catholic. And as a kid, the words I looked forward to most from the priest on Sundays were his thoughts on the Notre Dame football game the preceding Saturday. (Often delivered with much more vigor than the gospel readings).

Finally, I'm sure what cemented my love affair with the Fighting Irish was playing high school football for Coach John Rockne, the grandson of legendary Notre Dame football coach Knute Rockne.

Rockne once said in a 1983 New York Times piece about coaching our rural Ohio high school team: "I went into coaching because I love football, not because of who my grandfather was. We grew up in South Bend. That's all anyone ever talks about there. Outside of Notre Dame, there are no other places.''

And when you interacted with him, you felt every word of that. You felt every bit of his outspoken desire to one day coach at Notre Dame. A dream he never came close to, but a dream that was infectious nonetheless.

All that to say, this is my favorite time of the year. The hours before the opening kickoff of a new season. The hours every fan gets to believe and deeply hope—This Will Be The Year!

This will be the year Notre Dame wins their first college football National Championship since 1988.

If stars do indeed align, as some suggest they do, this would be the year for stars to align.

This season, the team will honor Coach Lou Holtz, the coach of that 1988 National Championship team who passed away back in March. Those famous gold helmets will have a LOU helmet sticker on them as a constant reminder of what he stood for, and where he was always pointing:

To the next title.

Additionally, this team has a chip on their shoulder. They didn't make the playoff last year and feel like they should have. And it officially no longer matters what anyone else thinks about that, because what the team does with that belief is now solely in their hands.

Which is why they've adopted a motto for this season: Leave No Doubt.

Oh how I love these hours before the ball is ever kicked into the air. Because as a fan, I get to have NO doubt they will win it all. I get to believe that while also acknowledging that for thirty seven consecutive seasons, NO doubt has ended with deep disappointment.

Repeated disappointment is often a good reason to walk away, I suppose. And if this was simply college football, I am sure I would.

But this is Notre Dame football.

A love affair that dates back to childhood.

A love affair full of disappointments, yes, but full of far more beautiful memories along the way. (The memory of my oldest son many years ago handing his newborn brother a stuffed football while chanting "Golden Tate baby" ranks up there).

So yes, there is no doubt, my favorite sport is Notre Dame football. And to this years team, I say, best of luck gentlemen.

And please:

Leave No Doubt!! 

​While helping to lead a training this week, on a break one of the attendees approached me and said, "You're a really good presenter; I could listen to you all day."

Of course that was nice to hear. But then she went on to say something else. She said, "If I had crossed paths with you somewhere out on the street, I would have never imagined you could do what you do."

This caught me a bit off guard. Because she was essentially confessing she had constructed a version of me before she knew me. She didn't do it with hostility. I was not the least bit offended by how she said it. Maybe because I do that too. I construct versions of strangers based on limited information before I meet them.

I am pretty sure we all do it.

Later in the training, one of the attendees told the group a story about a limousine she and fifteen of her friends purchased together. Not as a business, but as an opportunity to do fun things together. I thought it was one of the cooler community building ideas I'd heard in a really long time.

As she told this story, I began to feel more connected to her. There wasn't necessarily division between us before this, but I certainly felt more connected to her after the story than I did before.

It's occurred to me in thinking about this. Every little piece of someone's story we collect has the potential to shorten the psychological distance between us. And, those pieces don't have to reveal similarity. (No way am I going to buy a limousine with fifteen friends - do I even have fifteen friends I'd want to spend time in a limousine with on a regular basis ?!? 😳).

The thing about our brains is they aren't particularly comfortable leaving the unknown unknown. Absent knowing anything about people's stories, our brain creates stories about them based on the little it does know.

The brain will create a story about someone we encounter on the street based on their gender or their color or the church they walked out of or the person they did or didn't vote for. And believe it or not, people have much deeper stories than all of that.

It always amazes me to spend three days with complete strangers from all walks of life and walk away from the experience feeling like I'd spent time with people who felt something more like family than like strangers.

Maybe that is what close families do, they share and hold each other's deeper stories. And maybe for some of us, that is why family can feel more like strangers, because there are no deeper stories at all.

People—family—friends, I am sure some of the things we know about each other divide us. But this past week has me considering the possibility that what divides us more than anything is what we don't know about each other.

We are creatures full of stories, relationships are our best avenues for sharing them.

I believe there is more to almost everyone than I currently know. And if I approached more people with that belief, and a desire to know that more, my life and the lives of others would likely feel more connected.

​A friend sent me a video yesterday. At the heart of the message in the video was this:

Trust the detour.

Friday afternoon, I sat circled up with a group of people I'd just spent three days with. Three days full of connecting and telling stories and learning how to help others do the same.

Closing out these events is always a little emotional for me. But for some reason this one felt extra emotional.

My friend's video helped me make sense of it.

In that closing circle, listening to people pour out their hearts about what our time together had meant to them, I felt an overwhelming sense of being right where I was supposed to be. And it felt like a miracle.

Maybe because my life has been so full of detours that it makes little sense to me when I'm sitting in a space feeling like life has had a plan all along. And because when life for so long has felt so aimless, it feels miraculous to be sitting in a moment that feels like it has been the aim all along.

It's a reminder, too, I think, to get better at seeing detours as the right way and not some twisted and winding diversion from the way I am supposed to be going. For, many times, "the way I am supposed to be going" is a direction created out of my own wishes and desires and not a response to they way I am being called to go.

I get it. It is hard to appreciate the detours.

They can feel inconvenient. Frustrating. Unwanted burdens throwing wrenches in your pursuits.

Until you're unexpectedly sitting in a moment that feels like your pursuits could have never lived up to the beauty you are suddenly surrounded by.

A moment that makes you want to thank the detours.

And trust them all the more as you travel on.

​In a Friday evening commentary on Tucker Carlson (and others), the President of the United States said:

Tucker Carlson "happens to be, surprisingly, a very Low I.Q. individual. He could barely make it out of College, and maybe he didn't, but only really dumb people can't make it through that wonderful four year time in life!"

So, my story. I barely made it out of college. It took me 11 years to get a 4-year degree. And that with barely the necessary 2.0 GPA to graduate. Partially because, by the President's labeling, I'm sure I am Low I.Q. Additionally, I tried to navigate college while navigating an alcohol problem. And finally, I hated school.

Absolutely hated it.

Still, I found a way to "barely make it out."

Right out of college, I went to work in a residential wilderness program serving at-risk youth. There, I worked alongside many adults who didn't have college degrees. And many of them, for many reasons, were never going to have one—they were never going to make it through that "wonderful four year time in life!"

Yet, these adults poured their hearts and souls and love into hundreds of kids during my 13 years there. Kids who adored them. Kids who had no interest in knowing how big their IQs were, but couldn't get enough of their BIG hearts.

To many of these kids, these adults were the most NOT dumb people they'd ever met.

And lets talk about these kids. Very few of them went on to college after they left us. For many reasons, they would have never made it through that "wonderful four year time in life!"

Yet, many of them went on to serve four years in the military.

Many of them went on to work trades.

Many of them went on to struggle to make ends meet any way they could to support themselves and their families.

Many of them went on to contribute beauty to this world in ways that many with High IQs and college degrees couldn't begin to do.

I am grateful to cross paths every day with people in this world who have started college and did not finish—and with many who never started college at all. I am even more grateful that when our paths cross, never does the word dumb cross my mind.

Never do I think Low I.Q.

Quite frankly, if I have to choose where to put my hope these days, in the political power structure that is filled with High I.Q. people who finished that wonderful four year time in life, or in those people who did not, well, in my small world, I'll hang with the did nots every time.

Even if only because they are far less likely to call an entire group of fellow humans dumb.

​I recently heard Dr. Zach Bush describe experiences he had as a hospice doctor. He said he watched over and over again as humans in the last minutes of their lives suddenly looked back and realized their life was perfect.

He described this through the experience of his patients like this: "Oh my God, the whole thing was poetically perfect. All of the heartbreak, all of the estrangement, all of the disappointment, all of the insecurity. I did that for the experience and I felt everything. I felt everything a human can feel."

Bush said that during his time as an ICU doctor, his definition of victory was more life—another hour, another day, another recovery. Death meant losing the battle.

But in hospice, victory meant something else. Victory was someone reaching the end of their life and somehow holding the entirety of it all, the beautiful and the painful parts, as one whole story.

And that's where this idea of poetically perfect matters. I don't think Bush was suggesting that every hard thing that happened was good or deserved or some plan of God. What he's describing is a perspective where a person can eventually say: "I wouldn't call it all good, but all of it belongs to my life."

I found myself thinking about this as art. Specifically abstract art. And how it can frustrate me because I just don't get it. I could stand for hours looking at the individual shapes and sizes and colors and still not understand a single bit of it.

What in the hold defamation of art was this artist thinking?

But Dr. Bush seems to be describing a moment near the end of life where we get to stand far enough away from the art that we no longer need to understand all the parts to see and feel the beauty of the entire piece.

This has me wondering. If this is true, and I believe to some degree it must be, is this maybe a challenge to embrace the poetic beauty of our lives long before we reach the end?

I spent much of my life numbing away the parts of my life I wasn't fond of experiencing, and yet—as uncomfortable as some of those parts were—they were MY parts.

If I know that the parts of me I want to disappear today will in my final breaths be part of a story I will hold with appreciation and love simply because it was MY story, should I wish so much away today?

It is hard not to feel some things in my life today as distractions from what would otherwise be a beautiful story. I want to rip so many of those pages from the book of my life.

But if in the end I will hug the book—tightly—refusing to let go simply because it is MY book, and I will feel some sense of beauty in recognizing I was alive enough to feel every single page of it, should I not hold a few of the pages a little more tightly today?

Maybe in the end it will all feel poetically perfect.

And also, until then, maybe we don't have to wait to feel the poetic beauty in it all.