Vacation officially starts tomorrow. At least, that’s what the calendar says. My brain hasn’t quite caught up yet. I’ve got a few last things to finish for work—because of course I do—and then it’s road trip time. Montreal, here we come.

Now, this isn’t just any vacation. This is our first long road trip together. Normally, we’re airport people. Planes, tight connections, plastic-wrapped sandwiches at the gate. But this year we decided to shake things up. Pack the Honda, crank the playlist, and see how far four people can get before someone threatens to walk home.

And here’s the thing—I’m nervous. Not about the driving. Not about traffic. I’m nervous about myself. I’m worried that I’ll let my anxiety sneak into the driver’s seat. That I’ll snap at Laura when she doesn’t deserve it. That I’ll lose patience with the kids when they’re just being kids. And then, of course, I’ll beat myself up about it later. Classic Trevor spiral. Sometimes I swear my brain writes horror stories that never make it past the first page, but I still sit there convinced the monster is real.

The truth is, I want this trip to be good for all of us. For Laura, who deserves a break from dealing with me pacing the house like a caged animal. For my daughter, who needs a little reset before school ramps back up. And for Evan—my boy, my firecracker—who thrives when there’s something exciting happening every five minutes. If the excitement slows down? Well… let’s just say he morphs into a sour little baysnatch faster than you can say, “Are we there yet?”

But maybe this trip will be exactly what we all need. Shopping, new sights, a break from routine. Hell, maybe I’ll even surprise myself and just… relax.

Work Before Play

Of course, the timing couldn’t be worse. Back at the job site, Level 3 is in its final stretch. It’s the kind of week where everything matters—last-minute fixes, details, a hundred small decisions that all add up. And I’m not there.

But Dennis is. Thank God for Dennis. The guy’s capable. More than capable. Still, I’m fighting the guilt. I wish I could be on-site to see this floor through, but here I am double-checking schedules and tying up loose ends so I can leave without carrying the whole damn project in my back pocket.

It’s funny—vacation always feels like a reward you don’t deserve. You step away and part of you wonders if the whole world will crumble because you’re not holding it together. But here’s the lesson I keep trying to drill into my thick skull: the world doesn’t actually need me 24/7. The building will still get built. The team will still handle things. Maybe my job this week isn’t to finish Level 3—it’s to finish Level Trevor before I burn myself out.

Running Through It

Even with the chaos of work, I’ve kept running. Not perfectly, not with a neat plan, but I’ve kept moving. Some days long, some short, sometimes even twice a day. Tonight was a double-run night. Work during the day, then lace up after, twice. Why? Because if I don’t, it piles up inside me.

Running has become my reset button. I can feel it in my bones when I miss a day. The frustration, the worry, the thousand racing thoughts—they start building like concrete without rebar. Running cracks it open. Running lets it out.

And then there’s this—Mental Miles. Writing. Talking. Getting it out into the world instead of letting it rot in my head. Every time I post, it’s like I’m having a conversation with myself, but one where I actually listen for once. Funny how that works.

Truth is, nobody really knows about Mental Miles. Not my coworkers. Not my kids. Not even most of my family. Except my aunt—she’s the only one I’ve told. And even then, she hasn’t said a word about it. Maybe she reads it, maybe she doesn’t. And maybe that’s okay. Because right now, this isn’t about applause. This is about survival.

Lessons in the Rearview

So here we are. Bags half-packed. Anxiety whispering like a backseat driver. But I keep coming back to this:

Vacations aren’t about perfection. They’re about presence. Nobody remembers the trip where everything went flawlessly. They remember the time Dad accidentally took the wrong exit, or when the car smelled like fast food for three days, or when Evan refused to get out of the car because he “didn’t like the vibe” of the gas station.

I’m starting to think maybe my real job this week isn’t to finish Level 3 at work. Maybe it’s to finish Level 3 of fatherhood. Learning how to let go. How to relax. How to be with my family without mentally checking in at the job site.

So here’s to Montreal. To the long drive, the little arguments, the bad playlists, the laughs, and even the inevitable “Are we there yet?” Here’s to letting myself breathe.

Relax, Trevor. Just relax.