I haven’t written much lately.

Part of that is because I haven’t known what to say. Part of it is because there has been too much to say. My mind has been full, but not in a way that feels organized or useful. More like a room where everything has been pulled out of the drawers and left on the floor.

Since finishing the 70.3 in Mallorca, part of me has felt lost.

For months, I had something in front of me. Something to train for. Something to fear. Something to chase. Something that gave shape to the days. It was never just a race. It was a promise. It was a way to carry Alex. It was a way to keep moving when I didn’t know what else to do with all of this grief.

And then I finished.

I crossed the line.

And somehow, instead of feeling whole or proud or transformed, I found myself asking, “Now what?”

I don’t mean that the race didn’t matter. It mattered. It still matters. I did something hard. I showed up. I carried Alex with me. I carried Jason with me. I carried the weight of everything that has happened and somehow kept moving forward.

But after something like that ends, the quiet comes back.

And in that quiet, I can feel myself slipping into a familiar place. A place where motivation disappears. Where desire disappears. Where even simple things feel heavier than they should. A place that feels too much like depression.

I still think about Alex every day. I still talk to him every day. I cannot imagine a day where I won’t do that. Not a single day goes by that I don’t miss him.

Some days that connection feels comforting. Some days it feels like the only thing holding me together. Other days it just reminds me how much I still don’t understand and how much I will never get back.

We are down to one dog now.

We let go of Rocky.

That was hard. It was difficult to admit that he wasn’t the right dog for us. It was difficult because Alex loved him. Alex loved all animals. And if I’m being honest, I think I kept Rocky around for Alex. Maybe part of me felt like letting Rocky go was letting go of another piece of him.

But Rocky deserves the right home. He deserves a place where he can get the love, attention, patience, and structure he needs. And I believe this gives him the best chance at that.

Max, meanwhile, is living his best life.

He has more freedom around the house now. He hangs out with me in the office most of the day while I’m working. He comes outside with me to get the mail. Jason has been taking him for walks most days when it isn’t too hot. Max seems happy. Relaxed. Comfortable.

And I know Alex would want that for him.

I try to hold onto that. I try to remind myself that loving something does not always mean keeping it exactly as it is. Sometimes love means admitting what is not working. Sometimes love means letting something or someone have a better chance somewhere else.

That is easy to write.

It is harder to feel.

One of the dads from my support group mentioned doing a century ride for our sons. We talk about biking and other things, and I found an event ride in Maryland that I am strongly considering.

I know I am not ready to ride 100 miles yet. That part actually makes sense to me. It would give me something to train for. Something to move toward. Something with a date on the calendar and a reason to get on the bike when I don’t feel like doing anything.

But it does not feel the same as Mallorca.

Maybe it can’t.

The 70.3 had a kind of weight to it that I don’t know how to recreate. It was tied to Alex in a way that was impossible to separate from the grief. It became a container for the pain. It gave me a place to put some of the love, anger, guilt, sadness, and helplessness.

A century ride might be meaningful, but it feels different.

I am also working on designing a custom cycling kit. Something I can wear for rides and events like this. Something that helps me carry Alex with me, but not only Alex. Jason too. Other memories too. Other people and moments that have shaped me.

I think I am trying to find ways to make the invisible visible.

Grief is so much of what I carry now, but nobody can see it unless I show them. Nobody sees the conversations I still have with Alex. Nobody sees the moments where I look at something ordinary and suddenly miss him so much I can barely breathe. Nobody sees the guilt that still sits on my chest.

Maybe the kit is another way of saying, “This is who I carry.”

Maybe it is another way of saying, “He is still with me.”

Lately I have also been thinking a lot about Alex and my failures.

That is the word that keeps coming back.

Failures.

I know people will tell me not to use that word. I know what I would say to someone else. If another dad from the group said these things to me, I would tell him there is no way he could have known everything. I would tell him this was not his fault. I would tell him that hindsight is cruel because it lets us see signs only after we already know the ending.

And I would mean it.

But when it comes to me, I still blame myself.

I think about my own struggles last year. I know that, for me, I just needed the struggling to end. I could not carry the weight and pressure anymore. I also know I had amazing people around me who would have stepped in without hesitation. They would have helped. It would not have been a burden. I would not have been putting them out.

But something inside me would not allow me to ask.

I needed help, but I could not ask for it.

That is such a complicated and awful place to be.

I think if someone had asked, “Do you need help?” I probably would have said no.

If someone had asked, “Can I come clean the kitchen?” I probably would have said no.

If someone had asked, “Do you want to go out to dinner?” I probably would have said no.

Not because I didn’t need those things.

Because admitting I needed them would have felt impossible.

I would have felt like a burden. I would have felt like I should have been able to handle my own shit. I would have felt ashamed that I was struggling at all. And I would not have wanted anyone to know how bad it had gotten.

It is almost like I needed someone to read my mind.

Which is not fair.

It is impossible.

Nobody can be expected to know what someone else is hiding, especially when that person is trying so hard to look fine.

But the more I think about it, the more I believe that what might have helped me was not a question. It would have been someone stepping in.

“I’ll be over in 20 minutes.”

“Get ready. We’re going out for ramen.”

“I’m coming by to sit with you.”

“I’m taking care of dinner tonight.”

No big conversation. No making me explain. No making me admit how badly I was drowning before being willing to throw me a rope.

Just action.

Just presence.

Just someone refusing to let me disappear into myself.

And then I think about Alex.

I wonder what he was struggling with. I wonder what weight was on his shoulders and in his mind. I wonder what felt so impossible. I wonder what made him feel like there was no way out. No help. No hope.

And I wonder how I could have made it easier for him to come to me.

That question destroys me.

Because I was his dad.

I was supposed to protect him.

I was supposed to notice.

I was supposed to know.

And maybe that is the impossible standard grief sets for a parent. We believe we should have been able to see through walls. We believe love should have made us psychic. We believe that because our love was big enough, it should have been enough to save them.

I don’t know how to forgive myself for not knowing what I didn’t know.

I can say the logical things.

I can say that people hide pain.

I can say that I know from my own experience how hard it is to ask for help.

I can say that even when help is available, something inside can still refuse to reach for it.

I can say that if someone else told me this story, I would never blame them.

But none of that stops me from blaming myself.

That is where I am right now.

Not healed.

Not inspired.

Not on the other side of anything.

Just here.

Still talking to Alex.

Still missing him.

Still trying to figure out what purpose looks like after the finish line.

Still trying to be present for Jason.

Still watching Max live his best life and thinking Alex would love that.

Still wondering whether the next ride, the next goal, the next mile can help me keep moving.

Still carrying guilt I do not know how to put down.

Maybe that is part of why I needed to write this. Not because I have an answer, but because silence makes everything heavier. Maybe writing is one small way of stepping into the room and turning on a light.

Not a bright light.

Not enough to fix anything.

Just enough to say I am still here.

Still wounded.

Still trying.

Still loving my son.

Still looking for a way forward.

Related Posts

• Alex: My Everglow: Reflections on living with loss and the daily presence of grief.
• When “Not Enough” Has Nothing to Do With Effort: Exploring how endurance training became a way to carry grief and purpose.
• Am I Broken? Grief, Scars, and Life After Losing Alex: Thoughts on how grief changes us and what it means to heal.
• Ironman 70.3 Mallorca: A Promise to Myself and to Alex: The story behind the race that became a container for grief and love.