BELIEVE — Thinking About 2026

BELIEVE — Thinking About 2026

It’s official.
No Mr. Universe contest.
No Ironman.
No marathon.

My six-pack is gone.
My pecs sag. Pecs?
I look like a pregnant woman.

It would be so easy to fixate on all the things I cannot do.

From the neck down, I can barely move. I can’t move my hands. I cannot wiggle my fingers, and I can’t lift my elbows. I can barely move my shoulders. I can’t lift my legs or move my feet. I can’t wiggle my toes.

Every night I wake up at some point usually around 4 am. My feet are freezing. The rest of my body is sweating profusely. My face is itching. Yet there is nothing I can do because I cannot move. I have to go deep into my mind to trick myself that I am not uncomfortable.

I am dependent on others for everything.
I can’t eat or drink without help.
I can’t go to the bathroom alone.
I can’t shower alone.

I threw dignity out the door a few months ago.

I can’t breathe without a ventilator. I can’t laugh like I used to. I can’t talk like I used to.

I’ve been writing in a journal since I was 17 years old.
I can no longer do that.
I can no longer hold a pen.
I can no longer type on a keyboard.

I am always in pain—or, at the very least, deeply uncomfortable.
Whether I’m awake or asleep, something always needs adjusting.

But the hardest part of all?

I can’t hold my baby.

Yes, it would be easy—so easy—to fixate on everything I’ve lost.

But I’m learning something I never fully comprehended before.

I am learning about myself.
About my family.
About my friends.

The thing I’ve been terrible at most of my adult life is asking for help. And yet, it’s something I’ve always admired in others.

Now I have to ask for help all the time.

It’s hard.
Really hard.

And it is only getting harder. Each week, I realise I’ve lost another ability to function.… something I used to be able to do that I could no longer do.

But the people I love keep telling me something profound: that asking for help gives them the gift of helping me.
That helping me is what they want to do.
That it is, every single day, an act of love.

As hard as it is to see it sometimes, I truly believe this is part of God’s plan.
That I’m being used—somehow—for something greater.
Not just for the greater good, but for something better for Grace, for Lizzy, and for me.

And how incredible would that be?

So instead of focusing on everything that’s wrong, I choose to focus on what’s right.

I have many bad moments but I have yet to have a bad day.
I don’t plan on having one.

Every day is a struggle—but I’ve learned that my response is the one thing I can control.
And that response is the difference between hope and fear.
Between anxiety and gratitude.

Adversity reveals character.
Adversity creates the opportunity for strength, courage, toughness, and resolve.

“The night is always darkest before the dawn.
And I promise you—dawn is coming.” – the Dark Knight

We need help.
And even help comes with its own challenges—learning how to receive it, learning how to accept it the way it’s offered, not always the way we imagine it should look. Even harder communicating with the people we love how help truly looks like that is best for us.

I may not laugh the way I used to.
I may not be able to show joy the way I once did.
I may not be able to write in my journal the way I always have.

But I’ve had so many good moments in the most challenging year of my life.

I’ve had plenty of bad moments—but not a single bad day.
Because the good has outweighed the bad.
By far.

Last year at this time, Grace and I were sitting around a table at the Erie Café in Chicago with friends, talking about words—intentions, mantras—for the year ahead.
I shared that my word for 2025 was SURRENDER.

We had been praying, hoping, trying for a baby for years.
I was tightly bound to the outcome.
To my own plan.

And then something funny happened.

Once I truly surrendered to God’s plan, just two months later we were blessed with the news that Grace was pregnant.
Several months after that, I was diagnosed with ALS.

That’s when I learned what surrender really meant.

So yes—it would be easy to fixate on everything that’s gone wrong.
But I choose not to.

As 2026 approaches and I look back on 2025, I realize something powerful:
while I am afflicted with this disease, so many of my prayers have been answered.

At the center of it all is my daughter.
My wife.
And surrounding us is an extraordinary village of family and friends, wrapped around us in love.

So I kept asking myself:

What is my word for 2026?

My Word for 2026: BELIEVE

“Everything is possible for one who believes.” — Mark 9:23

I believe—even when I do not fully understand.
Especially then.

I believe in God’s plan, not because it is easy or clear,
but because I’ve seen love show up too many times to deny it.
I believe grace and Grace has been carrying me long before I knew I needed it.

I believe that while I have declined significantly physically, I have become stronger mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. My mind, heart, and soul continue to carry my body while I believe.

I believe my body remembers how to heal.
I believe restoration is possible.
I believe strength can return—step by step, breath by breath.
I believe I will walk again—not only physically, but fully.

I believe in the power of love.
The kind that sits quietly and loudly like my wife.
The kind that shows up without being asked.
The kind that doesn’t try to fix—but refuses to leave.

I believe in Grace.
I believe in Lizzy.
I believe in our family.
I believe in our extended family and friends—this incredible village that surrounds us.

I believe in people.
In their ability to be good.
In their willingness to rise when it matters.
In hands reaching out at exactly the right moment.

I believe in relationships—
deep ones, imperfect ones, enduring ones.
I believe connection heals what isolation weakens.
I believe love multiplies when shared.

I believe my story still has chapters unwritten.
I believe purpose does not disappear in hardship—it sharpens. “Iron sharpens Iron.”
I believe meaning can grow even in uncertainty.

I believe faith is not certainty.
Faith is choosing trust anyway.
Faith is saying yes—to hope, to effort, to tomorrow.

And when negativity creeps in—because it does—I remind myself of this:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure… think about such things.” — Philippians 4:8

I refuse to give my energy to fear when gratitude is available.

I believe I am not finished.
I believe I am being held.
I believe what’s ahead can still be beautiful.

I believe Grace, Lizzy, and I will travel the world again.
I believe we’ll visit family and friends in cities we love.
I believe there’s a dog in our future—a four-legged best friend for Lizzy.
I believe I’ll write in a journal again, with the special pen Grace bought me, leaving even more behind for my daughter.
I believe I will cook for my family again.

And I believe that I will one day buy a bottle of Macallan 18 again, maybe two, and drink it along with a beautiful bottle of wine with my Family and friends again.

I believe the 49ers will win another Super Bowl in my lifetime.
I believe Notre Dame will win another national championship.
I believe Purdue will win the NCAA Tournament.
I believe the Cubs—or the Red Sox—will win another World Series.

And when doubt visits—because it will—
I won’t shame myself.
I’ll return here.
I’ll breathe.
I’ll remember.

As Bruce Springsteen reminds us:
“It ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive.”

So I choose grit, resilience, and perseverance.
I choose love.
I choose gratitude.

Above all—
I BELIEVE.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God”. (‭‭‭Philippians‬ ‭4‬‬:‭6‬ ‭NIV‬‬)