What a day.

I don’t want to say it was terrible—because that doesn’t quite hit right—but it was definitely shit. One of those days that doesn't test your patience; it tests your purpose.

It started with Ethan. Solid guy. Dependable. Gives me everything he’s got, every damn day. But today? Today he lost the forklift key. Not a wrench, not a tape measure—a key to a 12,000-pound machine. Now, I could’ve lost it. I wanted to. But the truth is, when someone shows up the way he does every day, you don’t bury them for one mistake. I told him to go home, dig through every pocket, every toolbox, and find the damn key.

While he did that, I took on a task that felt like punishment from the universe: pocket doors. High-end kits. Precision hardware. A thousand parts that all look the same and demand perfection. I was alone on the third floor, staring at diagrams like they were hieroglyphics.

Meanwhile, downstairs, my crew is cutting concrete on the main level—because now that space is leased, underground plumbing has to go in. It's loud. Dusty. But it’s progress.

Then the call comes in.

Fourth floor. Head nurse. No water.

Let me paint this picture clearly: the fourth floor is fully operational. As in, actual eye surgeries happening. This isn’t a site trailer losing pressure. This is medical-grade panic. My heart sank. My brain spun through schematics I’ve memorized in pieces over months.

And then it hit me. Three conduits run under the slab to the water room—fire pump, backup generator, and water pump. I didn’t need to see it. I already knew. They cut through two of the three.

Fire pump and generator—dead. Water pump? Hanging by a thread.

Error codes were flashing like a warning from the universe. It took everything I had to get that system back online. And when the water finally roared back to the fourth floor, I didn’t cheer. I didn’t celebrate. I just exhaled and braced for the next wave.

Because the fire pump was still down. And that meant the entire building had no fire suppression. No safety net. That’s not just a problem—it’s a red-letter liability. Life safety down.

We had to send electricians on a two-hour round trip to Fredericton just to get the right wire. Time we didn’t have. But we made it work. We opened the floor. We ran the new conduit. We waited until after-hours—after the clinic finally cleared out at 6pm—to cut power to the whole building and finish the job.

All of this, on top of the weight of the day.

Because today… today was my mother’s birthday.

She’s been gone for years. Took her own life. And yet, there are days—like today—when her absence is louder than any saw, sharper than any broken wire. There’s no manual for how to feel when the person who brought you into this world left it by choice. Some years I feel peace. Other years I feel rage. Today? I just felt… hollow.

And I nearly made a mistake I wouldn’t have come back from.

The man running that saw was inches from death. I knew the conduits were there. I thought they were deeper. I guessed. I gambled. And I almost lost more than just time and money. But the systems worked. Breakers tripped. Power died instantly. And that man went home to his family. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

This job—this four-story building—it’s my first major build. My first time leading something this big. I remember the call that changed everything. I was in PEI, working a smaller site. My boss asked, “You want a big boy job?”

Hell yeah, I did.

I had no idea what I was stepping into. No clue what it would take from me. How many nights I’d go home broken. How many days I’d show up already defeated. But I said yes. And I meant it.

Because I wanted this. Not just the title. Not just the check. I wanted to create something that would stand long after I’m gone. Something my kids could point to and say, “My dad built that.”

So tonight, I ran.

I ran like my life depended on it. Because in a way, it did. My sanity did. My balance did. I needed to shake off the fear, the guilt, the rage, the grief—all of it.

And I hit a personal best: 5 kilometers in 27:24. My fastest yet. I didn’t even realize it until I stopped. My watch buzzed and I just stood there, drenched, destroyed, and somehow... a little healed.

I cried. Quiet at first. Then hard. Letting it all fall out under the streetlights. Because sometimes being strong means letting yourself fall apart.

And I thought of her. My mom. I wondered if she was proud. If she would’ve seen the man I’ve become and smiled. Or told me to slow down. Or told me I’m doing okay.

I missed Evan’s basketball tournament today. It was his last day at camp. Laura went. I was supposed to go too. But the job wouldn’t let me.

Dad guilt is its own kind of weight. A quiet, relentless pull.

So yeah—today was brutal. But there’s something beautiful buried in all this mess. In every failure I survived. In every system I restored. In every inch of concrete I patched . There’s purpose.

Mental Miles isn’t just a name. It’s the reality of moving through life with every emotion chained to your ankle—and choosing to keep running anyway.

This is Episode 9.

The day that nearly broke me.

But it didn’t.

Still standing. Still running. Still building.

And tomorrow?

I’ll show up again.