It was one of those weekends that didn’t know what it wanted to be. Half party, half project, half therapy session—yeah, I know that’s three halves, but that’s about how it felt.

Golfing for a Cause (and for the Laughs)

We kicked things off with a charity golf tournament for Bobby’s Hospice. If you don’t know Bobby’s, it’s not just another name on a building. It’s a place where people in their hardest moments are treated with dignity, compassion, and love. My wife saw that firsthand when her father spent his last days there. She’ll always carry that experience, and honestly, so will I. You don’t forget when people you’ve never met treat your family like their own.

So when a fundraiser rolls around, we’re there. Doesn’t matter if it’s golf, bowling, or underwater basket weaving—we’ll show up. This year it happened to be golf. Four-person best ball. Sounds fancy, right? Truth is, it’s basically “pick the best shot out of four hacks and pretend like you planned it that way.”

Our team: me (who last swung a club in high school), Laura (never swung one in her life), and Jay and Brian—two guys who were either great golfers or great liars, I never figured out which. By hole three, I knew we weren’t winning. But man, were we laughing.

Here’s the thing about golf: it’s 20% swinging and 80% driving the cart while drinking. And let me tell you, the cart part I was excellent at. By the back nine, I was questioning if golf was actually just an excuse to legally day-drink while occasionally hitting something.

Still, the weather was perfect, the cause was real, and the laughs were worth it. But when it was done, I was done. Everyone else was ready to hit the clubhouse for more beers, stories, maybe even bad karaoke. Me? I wanted my couch. No party left in me. I Irish exited without the “Irish” part—just straight-up gone.

The Shower Project (and My Sore Knee)

The other half of the weekend was less glamorous. I finally finished the bathroom shower. Tile set, plumbing hooked up, glass doors on, and—drumroll—I actually got to shower in it. That first one felt less like a wash and more like a victory lap.

But getting there? Brutal. These glass doors were heavy. Like “why did I do this myself” heavy. And of course, I didn’t lift them once—I lifted them about six times because that’s the rule of home projects. Nothing ever fits the first try. Somewhere in the middle of this, I twisted my knee. Not bad, but just enough to make me wince every time I bent it.

Three days—three whole days—went by without a run. The longest break I’ve taken all summer. And it messed with me. Running isn’t just fitness anymore, it’s therapy. Without it, I feel off balance. Like when your phone’s about to die, but you forgot your charger. You’re not out of juice yet, but the panic is already there.

Back on the Road

So today, I had to go. Didn’t matter if my knee was sore, didn’t matter if I was tired. I laced up, hit the road, and decided it was going to be a distance run, not a speed run.

I put myself on cruise control and just kept moving. Kilometer after kilometer. Before I realized it, I’d hit 16 kilometers—10 miles. Longest run of the summer. And here’s what I’ve figured out: distance running is basically pain management school.

Your leg hurts? Shift the weight. Both legs hurt? Change the stride. Out of breath? Change the rhythm—nose in, mouth out, reset. Got a stitch? Stretch it out mid-run like you’re trying to look cool. Running long distances isn’t about avoiding pain, it’s about negotiating with it. Making deals with yourself until the miles are behind you.

I thought about pushing for a half marathon, but I made one rookie mistake: no water. Idiot. Lesson learned. Still, finishing that run felt incredible. My body needed it, my head needed it more.

Then, the Buzz

Here’s where the weekend really got weird. I’d just finished that run, dripping sweat, feeling proud, when my phone buzzed. A message. From my father.

We haven’t had a real conversation in months. Whole summer, barely a wave as he drove by. And yeah, I can’t pin it all on him—I didn’t reach out either. Silence is a two-way street. But it still hit me like a sucker punch.

Our relationship is… complicated. It’s been that way since my mother passed. After she was gone, everything with him changed. Arguments. Distance. Years where we didn’t speak. Then a few words. Then nothing again. Rinse and repeat.

I’ve learned how to forgive, but forgetting? That’s different. I can’t forget. I don’t even know who he is anymore. The man who was once my hero—gone. The guy who replaced him is just… another man. And that’s the hardest part.

Because I meet men every day on job sites. Tough guys, broken guys, good guys, assholes. Men are everywhere. But I only ever had one father. And he’s not that to me anymore.

It sounds harsh, but here’s the truth: at this point in my life, I don’t need new friends. I don’t need new relationships. My circle is set—Laura, the kids, a few good people around me. That’s enough. That’s everything.

Running Forward

So what do you do when your past sends you a text? Do you answer? Do you ignore it? Do you hold onto old wounds, or do you try to stitch something together from scraps?

I don’t know yet. What I do know is this: when I run, I run forward. Not backward. Not standing still. Forward.

And maybe one day, I’ll figure out what to do with my father. Maybe I won’t. But for now, I’ll keep lacing up, keep logging miles, and keep choosing forward—mile after mile, step after step.

Because that’s what Mental Miles is all about.

-T