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Tips to Help You Stay Safe from Wildlife While Hiking

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Peggy Frezon

One of the joys of hiking is spotting the wildlife around you. Do you know how to keep yourself safe while also respecting wild animals and their habitats? “For all wildlife,” says Leslie T. Sharpe, author of The Quarry Fox: And Other Critters of the Wild Catskills, “the first line of protection is to not startle or surprise them. It’s best to always watch ahead, and make some kind of noise so that they can hear you coming.” Here’s what to do if you encounter these animals out on the trail.

Black Bears
If you see a black bear ahead, keep your distance. This will allow the animal to carry on with its routine. If the bear spots you, don’t look it in the eye, Sharpe warns. “This is interpreted as a challenge.” Jessica Williams of Seattle, who hikes with her dachshunds, says it’s best to remain calm. “Unlike with a grizzly, avoid making yourself look threatening to a black bear. Instead, slowly back away. Don’t run, and never turn your back to the bear.”

If you’re worried bears might be nearby, keep them at bay by singing, clapping and banging sticks. Bear bells, whistles and alarms may also work. Carry bear spray and make sure you’re trained in how to use it.

Grizzly Bears
Grizzlies are a different story. They will try to intimidate you by false charging, Sharpe says. “Stand your ground, spread your jacket over your head and make yourself as big and tall as possible. If attacked, try to punch the bear in the nose. If it knocks you down, lie on your tummy, cover the back of your neck with your hands and don’t move. Hopefully, it won’t be hungry.”

Snakes
Even nonvenomous snakes can bite, so it’s best to give them a wide berth and wear leather boots to protect your feet. If you meet a rattlesnake, stay still and give it time to calm down, then back away.

If you’re planning to hike with dogs in rattlesnake territory, Amy Burkert of the travel website Go Pet Friendly recommends rattlesnake aversion training for the dogs, typically a six-week class to learn scent identification and an escape response.

Coyotes and Cougars
Never run or act like prey if you come across a coyote or a cougar. “Yell, wave your arms and maintain eye contact,” says avid hiker Kristine Tonks of Edmonton, Canada. If the animal is aggressive, throw your backpack in its direction.

Moose
Spot a moose? Don’t panic. These herbivores aren’t interested in you as prey. But if they begin to charge, run and hide. They can seriously maim with their powerful hooves.

Mountain Goats
Williams notes that encounters with aggressive mountain goats have prompted the closure of certain trails in Washington State. “Stay at least 50 yards away from a mountain goat,” she advises. “If a goat looks threatening, back away and yell to scare it.”

Alligators
Be alert for alligators when hiking along a waterway. Pamela Webster of Ithaca, New York, travels by sailboat with her husband and golden retriever. Her advice: “Never wade, or allow your dog to wade, in fresh or brackish water where alligators are likely to appear.” Especially at dawn and dusk, when gators are most active.

Being prepared and knowing how to react in these situations is key. Understanding how to protect wildlife while you’re in their territory is important too.

While you may be eager to snap a picture, do not encroach on an animal’s space. Your presence could jeopardize its ability to remain safe from a predator.
Consider keeping your dog on a leash. According to Parks Canada, off-leash dogs may chase wild animals or cause them to feel threatened, and are one of the leading causes of wild animal attacks.
Never come between a wild animal and its young. Parental instinct will kick in and prompt an attack.
Never feed wild animals, no matter how cute they look. Nonnative food may harm them, and feeding them might lead to frequent encounters, which could be dangerous.

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Tips to Create and Sustain a Positive Attitude

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

We all have self-talk affirmations that help us stay uplifted and positive. From “I am beautiful” to “I am good at what I do” to “I matter to the people in my life,” these mantra-like phrases are a helpful part of the routine of positive emotional hygiene.

However, positive self-talk isn’t always enough to sustain an upbeat outlook, particularly during a challenging time in life. Particularly for people who suffer from low self-esteem, depression or anxiety, telling yourself everything is going to be ok can feel hollow and inadequate.

According to Melody Wilding, a social worker who has researched happiness and human behavior, positive affirmations work at the level of your consciousness that’s closest to the surface. As she writes in Forbes, these statements “do nothing to contend with the subconscious mind where limiting beliefs really live.”

The first step toward sustainable positivity, Wilding says, is to give yourself permission to feel your feelings—all of them. That includes acknowledging that a stressful interaction at work left you feeling angry, a medical test triggered feelings of worry or a calendar slip-up has you feeling disappointed in yourself.

Wilding recommends a technique called “re-framing” to shift how your mind reacts to those negative feelings. She writes, “You might re-work your self-talk to sound more like, ‘I am a work in progress, and that’s okay.’ It’s pointing you in the direction of positive growth and is both realistic and achievable.”

This advice came to me at just the right time. I am having one of those days where I feel like I am doing too many things—and doing too few of them well. So I put Wilding’s technique to the test, first acknowledging, “I am feeling overwhelmed and unfocused.” Then I created a re-frame: “I am proud that I have accomplished some things today. I am doing my best, and my best is enough.”

Can you re-frame negative self-talk to have a more positive outlook today?

Tips for Successful Family Meetings

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Lauri Scharf

Lauri Scharf, LSW, MSHS, is a Care Consultant & Master Trainer at Benjamin Rose Institute on Aging

Life is more complex than any family drama from the golden age of television may have had us believe. When mom, dad and the kids faced a sticky problem, they generally had it neatly resolved within the running time of that week’s episode—and pass the mashed potatoes.

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Actual family dynamics tend to make problem-solving far dicier. When the real-life issue is an older parent who needs care, it can be especially difficult to reach a consensus of all involved. Maybe the bulk of the caregiving has fallen to the oldest daughter who has very specific ideas on the way forward but can’t seem to bring her siblings on board. The middle child always seems to be too busy with kids and a job to pitch in or come up with solutions. The “golden child” just talked to Dad, who said everything was fine and not to worry. Resentments are starting to boil over and any possible plan seems to have stalled at idle. Someone reluctantly proposes a family meeting. Now what?

Unwelcome as they may be, family meetings can be an invaluable method of working through problems and reaching good solutions. The process allows every family member to air thoughts and concerns and in doing so, to hear one another out. Holding a focused conversation in the service of a parent who needs attention can do much to clear up misinformation, and to prepare the best possible way forward. Here are some tips to plan for and carry out successful family meetings:

Preparing for the meeting

Planning ahead for a family meeting is as important as the actual meeting. First consider why it is you’re meeting. The logistics of bringing everyone together means coordinating schedules, but if the reason for the discussion is especially pressing—for example, your father is declining and your mother needs immediate assistance—then coordinating schedules, while challenging, is necessary.

If you do have to arrange a family meeting to discuss the care of a parent, it can be helpful to:

Keep to one or two topics. Decide on the most pressing issue(s) so that everyone has a clear focus for the conversation. It’s a good idea to include these topics in the meeting invitation you send to your family members.
Time and place. Zoom, Microsoft Teams and other platforms can make it easier to gather individuals who live far apart. Choose a date and time that works for most of the participants.
Decide beforehand which family members will be asked to provide input and which of them will have a deciding voice. (For example, you might want all adult children and their significant others to participate in the meeting, but only the adults in the nuclear family to have a part in decision-making).
Encourage participants to come armed with relevant information. Examples might include physician visit summaries, observations and financial documents.

The meeting itself

Before the meeting begins, you may want to establish some ground rules like letting participants finish talking without interruption and refraining from side discussions. If a participant introduces a topic that wasn’t on the agenda, gently remind everyone what the meeting is about. It may also help to complete discussion of the first topic before going on to the second topic.

Hold to facts rather than feelings. Your parent may want to remain in his or her own home, but safety factors, ongoing oversight or worsening physical and emotional conditions may be deemed more weighty. It’s important to have as much information as possible on your parent’s condition or illness, as well as on how to access relevant community resources. Don’t shy away from discussing how to pay for necessary services and possible resources at your disposal, like IRAs, stocks, additional assets, etc.

Remember who this meeting is about. Respect your parent’s beliefs and values when making any decisions. If at all possible, involve your parent in the discussion and decision-making process. It is easier to exclude a person rather than asking them to leave if the topic becomes upsetting. Rely on documents such as Power of Attorney for Healthcare, Power of Attorney for Financial and Living Wills that have the wishes of your loved one already in place.

Moving forward

After everyone has aired their thoughts and concerns, work on a plan to move forward. Try to be specific about the steps you need to take and, if it’s feasible, draw up a timeline to complete them. Rather than assigning tasks, invite family members to offer to help in the ways they choose. Keep each person’s talents and strengths in mind:

“Caroline, you’re good at gathering information. Could you please reach out to the four health care agencies we discussed to find out what our first steps should be?”

“James, you do a great job maintaining your house, Could you please do an outside inspection of Dad’s home and figure out what we need to work on to get it into shape?”

All families have their own unique issues, which impact how each individual relates to the others. This, of course, includes lifelong relationships with their parents. Remind everyone that the purpose of this meeting is to protect the well-being of your parent. It’s not about repairing old disagreements or perceived injustices. At the same time, it does provide the opportunity to redirect expectations and outcomes as a team. Communicate with “I” statements (I feel…, I need…). Even when you’re not all on the same page, look for the one truth you can agree upon.

You may also want to involve a moderator in the family meeting to maintain the focus, solicit feedback from all the family members and assist in determining how to move forward. Social workers, ministers and Care Consultants are all good options. Often, family meetings arise out of a crisis and arriving at your next steps can be of the essence. A moderator can help you figure out what you need to do right away, as well as offer ideas on further steps you might not have considered. This person may also have valuable experience to share about how to access community programs and other resources.

The nitty-gritty comes after the meeting, as each person begins to take constructive steps. The moderator can be a great asset, guiding you to work through any obstacles that arise, providing positive reinforcement and serving as a touchstone for the entire team. The good news is that once you’ve established a spirit of cooperation and collaboration, the next family meetings should be far less daunting.

Tips for Helping Teens Stay Sober

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Christine Storm

Navigating the passage to adulthood with health and sobriety can feel like a challenge for teens and their families. Many people assume alcohol and drugs are a harmless, or at least universal, rite of passage.

In fact, research shows that alcohol and drugs can seriously damage young people’s brains. Chemicals in alcohol and drugs alter brain development and increase the likelihood of developing a substance use disorder. People who start drinking before age 15 are four times more likely to develop a substance use disorder.

Teens often assume everyone in their peer group or school uses drugs or alcohol. Research shows the opposite. Fewer than 30 percent of all American teens report drinking alcohol even once a month. Substance use seems widespread because it gets a lot of attention in popular culture and on social media. Most kids, though, don’t drink or take drugs.

The best way to prevent teen substance abuse is to maintain strong family bonds, set clear expectations and educate kids about the harmful effects of drugs and alcohol.

Signs of a possible substance use problem include sudden changes in a teen’s friends, grades, activities or attitude. Parents who suspect a problem should not assume they can handle things themselves. Seek advice from school counselors, treatment professionals or trusted online sources. Established treatment organizations such as Caron feature a range of educational materials on their websites.

The transition to college and the freedoms it allows can be challenging for young adults. Some students, especially those who were already using in high school, may find that their substance use increases and so do the consequences.

Behaviors such as drinking to the point of blackout or memory loss, drinking heavily on a regular basis, or drinking or using drugs while alone are red flags for college students and their families.

As with teens, college students can help themselves stay sober by surrounding themselves with sober friends, staying focused on schoolwork and getting involved in campus or community organizations.

Research shows that it’s neither normal nor healthy for teens or young adults to drink or use drugs. Sobriety is an important—and eminently achievable—part of the transition to adulthood.

Christine Storm
Regional Director of Education,
Caron Treatment Centers

Time to Heal from Depression

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Marni Rader

“Who is this again? You’re a friend of my mom’s?” I didn’t know the woman on the other end of the line and couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.

“Your mother is not doing well,” she said. “Her husband moved out and she’s in bad shape. She’s not eating. Not sleeping.”

“But I was just there a month ago, in June,” I said. “They were doing fine.” Mom was 72 and had married a year earlier, after a long time being single. I was glad that she would have a loving companion in her golden years. What happened?

Mom’s friend didn’t know the details. “Look, she needs someone to be with her,” she said. “Here, why don’t you talk to her?”

There was soft breathing on the other end, but no one spoke. “Mom?”

Her voice was so faint I had to strain to hear. “I made a mistake.” That was all I could get out of her.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I said. “I’ll call Shelley. She’ll come stay with you for a few days.” My older sister would be moving to Germany with her husband soon, but for now she was still in Seattle, closer to our mom’s cabin in eastern Washington than I was in Los Angeles.

I hung up, bewildered. What was the matter with Mom? She didn’t sound like her bubbly self at all. She was the one who cheered me up when I was laid off or went through a breakup, reassuring me that I would bounce back. “Never forget that God loves you, Marni,” she would tell me. “He’ll see you through this.” I wished my faith were as strong as hers.

Mom will be fine, I thought. Probably just needs some TLC.

She didn’t get any better the week my sister was there. Shelley had her move to deal with, so we decided it was best to have Mom come and live with me for a while. The change of scenery would do her good. And she loved animals. She’d get a kick out of my sassy Chihuahuas, Taco and Tinker.

I made the spare bedroom in my rental house cozy and in late July I got Mom settled in. Or tried to, anyway. But I couldn’t seem to rouse her out of the strange torpor that had taken her over. She wouldn’t say more than a few words in response to my attempts at conversation.

She’d been a home-ec teacher and I thought I could get her to cook—or better yet, bake—with me, but she showed no interest in the kitchen and barely touched the food I made for her. She didn’t want to go for walks with me and the dogs; in fact, she didn’t take much notice of them.

She spent most of her time sitting on the couch, staring into space. Yet at night, she was restless, pacing the house when she should have been sleeping.

I didn’t like leaving her while I went to work. But I had just started a new job as a marketing writer—which, despite the high pressure and long hours, I knew I was lucky to have in a recession—and I couldn’t take time off yet.

I checked on Mom regularly, calling her on my lunch break and during my commute. In the evening I’d get home to find her in the same spot on the couch as when I’d left in the morning, as if she hadn’t moved all day. It didn’t seem to matter whether I was home or not.

Mom needed professional help. I took her to a psychiatrist. He diagnosed her with major depression, likely triggered by the emotional trauma of her husband’s rejection.

Depression? I’d thought it was more of a midlife thing, but the psychiatrist said the symptoms matched Mom’s: low mood and energy, lack of appetite, loss of interest in activities, insomnia, feelings of worthlessness.

“Depression can be debilitating,” he told me. “I’m prescribing an antidepressant, but your mother’s not going to get better overnight. It will take time. Six to twelve weeks for the medication to have its full effect.” He said I should give her the pills myself and keep them someplace where she couldn’t find them. “You don’t want her to skip a dose or, worse, overdose,” he warned me.

I followed the doctor’s orders and made sure Mom took her medication every day, then carefully tucked the bottle of pills away. I called her from work every chance I got. Sometimes I only had time to say, “I love you, Mom,” but I thought she needed to hear that as much as she needed medication.

I recorded uplifting TV shows for us to watch together. I’d sit on the couch next to her, watching her and hoping for some change in her expression. Even America’s Funniest Home Videos didn’t get so much as a flicker of a smile out of her. Which broke my heart, because my mom was known for her laugh—gentle, melodic, like a wind chime tinkling in the breeze.

I longed to hear her laughter again, to feel the lightness it always brought me, and even more, to have her feel that lightness of being again.

I tried not to give in to worry and impatience when I didn’t notice any improvement in her symptoms. It’s only been a couple of weeks, I told myself. The medication needs time to work.

Then one evening at the end of August, I came home from work to find my mother lying on the floor, unconscious. She’d found the pills and taken the entire bottle. Mom was rushed to the hospital. I stationed myself at her bedside. Her hand felt so small and fragile in mine. How could I have left her alone?

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Mom,” I said. “It won’t happen again, I promise. Just come back to me, please.”

She regained consciousness and was put on a new medication. After five days, she was released to my care and enrolled in an outpatient mental-health program in my neighborhood. Even though she would be there four days a week, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t work full-time and take care of Mom. I quit my job.

My friends thought I was being rash. “How are you going to pay your bills? How are you going to keep a roof over your head?” I didn’t have a plan. I figured I would use my credit cards, take money out of my retirement account if necessary. All I knew was that I had to do more for Mom. A lot more. She needed me!

Mom’s weight was down to 89 pounds. The only way I could get her to eat was to eat with her. She liked Mexican food, so I made chicken enchiladas smothered in cheese. “A bite for you,” I’d coax, “a bite for me.” I bought tubs of coffee ice cream, her favorite flavor, and we’d share them in front of the TV.

We watched a lot of TV. Hallmark movies, Dancing With the Stars. The new medication worked better, but Mom still wasn’t sleeping well. I stayed up with her, snuggling next to her on the couch to keep her company. Sometimes I dozed off, but I wanted to show her that she wasn’t alone, that I would be there for her, no matter what.

Mornings, Monday through Thursday, a care van would pick her up and take her to her therapy program. Going to school, I called it. Mom couldn’t stand it.

“I don’t want to go,” she’d say. “Those other people, they’re so negative.”

“What do you want to do?” I’d ask, hoping there was some activity that would lift her out of her funk.

The only thing she said was, “I want to be with you.”

All the more reason that I had to devote myself to Mom’s care. She’d devoted herself to raising me. This was my way of giving back. I stopped going out with friends. I didn’t date. I even quit volunteering with a community group teaching teen girls creative writing. Mom’s health had to come first.

As the months passed, her physical health gradually improved. She was eating again and gained weight. So did I, since I was eating right along with her. She started sleeping better. Yet emotionally, spiritually, she was still adrift, as if she’d lost not just her sense of self-worth, but also the faith that had anchored her all her life.

I tried to get her to read the Bible, or even some of my touchy-feely devotional books. She just shook her head. “God must be angry with me,” she said.

“He’s not angry,” I said. “It’s like you always told me: God loves you. He’ll see you through this.”

Mom wasn’t persuaded. If I couldn’t assure her that God loved her, at least I could tell her how much I loved her, make her feel wanted and needed. I reminded her what a great cook and baker she was. “There are people who could use your skills,” I told her. “You can help them, like I helped girls with writing. And I might be in my forties, but I still need you to be my mom.”

I couldn’t understand why nothing I said, nothing I did, nothing I thought of, seemed to make a difference. Didn’t Mom want to get better? Meanwhile I’d maxed out my credit cards and been forced to dip into my retirement savings. The stress and frustration got to me. Except for walking Tinker and Taco and buying groceries, I hardly left the house.

After the care van took Mom to “school,” I’d sink onto the couch. I’d spend the hours she was at her therapy program napping, snacking or zoning out in front of the TV.

One day I was sitting there, clicking the remote with one hand and eating ice cream with the other. A spoonful fell on my pants. I halfheartedly wiped at the stain when it hit me. Here it was the middle of the afternoon, and I was still in my pajamas. Lazing on the couch stuffing my face, no less. How pathetic!

What kind of worthless excuse for a human being was I? Worthless. If this was how I felt, how much worse must it be for my mom? Suddenly I understood why she was so listless, why I’d find her in the same spot morning and evening. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get moving and get better. She wasn’t able to.

Just like she wasn’t able to connect with God anymore. I sat up straight, energized. If Mom couldn’t pray, I’d pray for her, however clumsily. God, maybe I’m so burned out right now I can’t help Mom, but I know you can. Help her heal. Help her feel loved again.

Even though I didn’t see a change in Mom, I kept praying. And I felt a change in myself. An acceptance of things as they were, not frustration and helplessness that they weren’t where I wanted them to be.

One night in December, Mom and I were up late as usual, sitting together watching America’s Funniest Home Videos. The episode was all about animals. I was half asleep when I heard a sound that didn’t come from the TV. A melodic tinkling.

Like Mom was…laughing?

I glanced over. Her mouth was turned up the tiniest bit at the corners. “Ha!” she said again.

I’d never heard anything sweeter.

“That’s pretty funny, huh, Mom?” I said.

She nodded. “I haven’t laughed in a long time.”

I knew then that Mom had turned a corner. The psychiatrist had said recovering from depression would take time. I just didn’t realize it would happen in God’s time, not ours.

After that, I saw my mother healing a little more every day, rediscovering herself, her faith. Almost five years after she came to live with me, Mom and I are still roommates. Happy roommates. We go for long walks with Taco and Tinker. We cook together—healthier dishes than I was making on my own.

I went back to volunteering with the creative-writing group, and Mom has joined me. She’s putting her home-ec skills to good use baking cupcakes and cookies for the girls who come to the workshops.

As much as I love caring for my mom and being with her, I’ve learned to make time for myself too. I found a job as an online editor, so I work from home while she’s at her therapy program. I go out with friends, and I started dating a great guy. One of the things we bonded over was being caregivers for our mothers.

Not long ago, I asked Mom what she’d like to tell other people who are struggling with depression.

“That this too shall pass,” she said. “That time and love heal.” She looked at me and smiled. “I know that I am loved and cared for, and I am so grateful for that.”

I put my arm around her and held her close. “Me too, Mom. Me too.”

Read our tips for taking care of yourself as you care for a loved one.

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Thriving Through Alzheimer’s

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Evan Miller

NIA MOSTACERO

One afternoon, Nia found her TV remote in her refrigerator.

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Nia Mostacero

A few years ago, that would have sent the 46-year-old retired Air Force officer down a rabbit hole of fear. Was her early-stage dementia progressing? Her mind slipping away?

Instead, Nia switched on her favorite show. “I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore,” she says. “When you have Alzheimer’s, every day is a blessing. The future? That’s in God’s hands.”

Between volunteering at church, working out, reading her Bible and attending the young adult early-onset support group she founded, there’s not much time for relaxing. “You can still feel fulfilled with a dementia diagnosis,” Nia says. “Your life isn’t over.”

Her attitude wasn’t always so sunny. Twenty years into her Air Force career, she found herself making errors in her work. She put them off as stress. Then came the day she couldn’t remember how to start her car. The diagnosis, in 2017, was devastating. Her doctor gave her five to eight years to live.

Her military career over, Nia sank into a deep depression. Stopped going to church. But ultimately she realized she couldn’t face this enemy alone. She went back to church. Began talking to God all the time, rather than praying at set times. Through the Alzheimer’s Association, Nia found a support group, then started her own for people who are 65 and younger.

She finds strength in Ecclesiastes 4:9–10, with its ending message: “Pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.” Words Nia lives by.

“I feel like God is not allowing me to progress as quickly,” she says, “so I can help others.”

ROD STEPHENSON

Rod realized his dream of becoming a minister late in life. He loved ministering to his parishioners, preparing sermons, immersing himself in Bible study. But it’s now, at 75 and facing early-stage dementia, that he feels closest to God.

Rod Stephenson

“God is in control. I know that more deeply than ever,” he says. “This isn’t my problem to solve, and yet I’m able to talk to the One who has all the answers. That gives me such comfort.”

Rod was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment in 2020. He had already left the ministry because of health problems. He and his wife, Deb, were caring for his mother, who was in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. No one had to tell them the toll the disease would take. “It was hard to think about anything but how this will end for me,” he says. “Deb cried every day.”

The couple called the Alzheimer’s Association 24/7 Helpline. “That was the best thing we could have done,” Rod says. “It connected us with other people who are on this journey.”

He and Deb began praying together, a practice that has strengthened their marriage. “I’ve learned how important it is to be open with your spouse,” he says. “It has created a deeper bond between us.”

Still, there are times when Rod battles negative thoughts. On those days, he turns to Scripture—Romans 8:38–39: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life…nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

“I’m reminded that every day is a blessing,” Rod says. “Alzheimer’s can’t take that away from me.”

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Three Lessons of the Beatitudes

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Therese Borchard

Within the Sermon on the Mount in the Gospel of Matthew are found eight revolutionary teachings of Jesus, revelations of God’s mercy and unconditional love, and instructions on how to invite the Spirit into your life and fulfill your vocation as a disciple.They are simple guidelines on how to open to grace and bear fruit that lasts, how to access the peace that is available to us through faith.

Ever since I was a young girl, I looked to the Beatitudes as a source of comfort and consolation, a primer of hope.

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For me all eight categories of people listed in the Beatitudes (the poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, those who hunger and thirst for justice, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, and those persecuted for justice) are variations of the first group: the poor in spirit. Why are the poor in spirit so blessed?

Although there are many lessons of the Beatitudes, here are three that mean the most to me.

Lesson One: Everything is Passing

One reason the eight beatitudes offer so much consolation is that they suggest nothing is forever: those who mourn will be comforted, the merciful will obtain mercy, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be satisfied, the pure in heart will see God.

While it is natural to see the state of our affairs as permanent, these eight promises remind us on the transience of all things. They speak of Teresa of Avila’s “Bookmark” prayer:

Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing frighten you,
All things are passing;
God only is changeless.
Patience gains all things.
Who has God wants nothing.
God alone suffices.

To live the Beatitudes, then, means to live in the present moment to the best of our ability, to consent to life in all of its messiness. As Therese of Lisieux said, it means to “choose everything,” even our trials and dark nights, trusting that God uses all things towards good and there is meaning in all of it.

Lesson Two: Powerlessness Breeds Peace

In a recent meditation shared from his Center for Action and Contemplation, Franciscan priest Richard Rohr compares the language of Jesus, and I would add especially in the Beatitudes, to the spirituality of twelve-step groups: it’s about the gift of powerlessness. “We suffer to get well,” he writes. “We surrender to win. We die to live. We give it away to keep it. This counterintuitive wisdom will forever be resisted, denied, and avoided until it is forced upon us—by some reality over which we are powerless—and if we are honest, we are all powerless in the presence of full Reality.”

The Beatitudes call us back to powerlessness: to be among the lowly, the poor, the ones who don’t hold the reins and sometimes bear the brunt of injustice. We abandon the pursuit of power, prestige, wealth, and all empty values, to be a testament of God’s living word in our world, and to face the pain, rejection, and humiliation that accompanies our choice, only to find a peace in the surrender. There is an interior freedom in detaching from what we thought would provide us with security, and depending solely on God.

In his book The Eight Door of the Kingdom: Meditations on the Beatitudes, Fr. Jacque Philippe writes, “It is essential that one recognize⁠—and always accept⁠—one’s poorness and limitations, accepting myself as I am in my radical weakness, my fragility, an being reconciled to it, since I place my trust not in myself and my personal perfection but only in God.”

Lesson Three: There Is Grace in Paradox

The Beatitudes contain paradox after paradox: it’s an upside-down kind of theology: “Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so men persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

The hard part is trusting God with all of this upheaval, knowing that even though we can’t see the bigger picture, it all makes sense. Fr. Philippe writes, “When we cease playing at being life’s masters and consent to embrace what comes to us day by day, life becomes full of meaning.” He goes on to say that this means coming to terms with not understanding everything, not having answers to all the questions.

I find one of the most inspiring, universal messages of the Beatitudes is this: “God isn’t through with me yet.” I may feel rejected, sad, poor, persecuted, but the Kingdom of God is not yet realized – it is still going on, and therefore, I can’t know what this experience of suffering means, but it will all make sense in the end.

In her book No Crystal Stair, Diana Hayes, author and professor emerita of systematic theology at Georgetown University, wrote, “My life, a seeming paradox of contradictions and odd twists and turns, has truly been one where troubles of many different forms have always been in my way. Yet I know now, deep within me, that ‘trouble don’t always last.’ God is not through with me yet.”

Impermanence, powerless, and paradox are just three lessons of the Beatitudes. They say the same thing in different ways: to live the Christian life, we must believe and hope and keep walking in the darkness even when we can’t see. God is with the humble, with those who trust in Him.

This Veteran Ran the Boston Marathon to Honor His Fallen Comrades

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Micah Herndon

You probably saw pictures of me all over social media this past April. I’m the dude who literally crawled across the finish line of the Boston Marathon. I was totally gassed. But nothing on earth was going to keep me from finishing, because it wasn’t just me. My left running shoe had the names of three comrades in Afghanistan whose lives had been destroyed by an IED.

“Adapt and overcome” was pounded into us in the Marines. I had to push through. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled to the finish line. For Ballard. For Hamer. For Juarez.

As seen on the cover of the September
2019 issue of Guideposts

Running had never been a thing with me. I had to do it in basic, and I took it up again only at a low point, after returning to civilian life. Fighting overseas, I had been in charge of multimillion-dollar equipment and entrusted with the lives of fellow Marines. But back home in Ohio, I couldn’t get anyone to hire me. Finally I applied for work as an electrician and learned the trade. But my self-esteem was shot. Nothing was the same. My marriage fell apart, and my wife and I divorced. I was tortured by survivor’s guilt. Those guys who had died over there—couldn’t I have saved them somehow?

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I had enlisted in 2007, after one semester at Hiram College and one at Kent State. School wasn’t really doing it for me, and the idea of signing up for the military was appealing to me, sacrificing oneself for something bigger. I’d played football and basketball in high school and was in good shape. I figured boot camp at Parris Island would be a breeze. But I soon discovered that the real discipline for a Marine was mental. Learning how to tough things out. To be tougher than the enemy.

That mind-set came in handy when I was deployed. I was a machine gunner with the First Battalion, Third Marines—the Lava Dogs. I did two deployments, first in Iraq, then in Afghanistan. We did about 400 missions altogether. My mom wasn’t crazy about me signing up for the military and had given me a silver charm to keep in my flak jacket, a little angel with wings. I hung it on a piece of cord when I sat up there in the gun turret. January 9, 2010. Afghanistan, deep in Taliban territory. I was worried about fellow Marines Mark Juarez and Matthew Ballard and the British journalist who was embedded with us, Rupert Hamer.

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I was the lead machine gunner and the first squad leader, in charge of six other gunners. Our staff sergeant knew I had a lot of experience and had asked me where we should put everybody in the convoy. I placed myself in the first vehicle, which was usually the most dangerous position, the one most likely to hit an IED. Ballard and I had become good friends. He was expecting a son back in the States—I didn’t want him to be at as much risk. I didn’t know Juarez and Hamer as well, but I knew they had families back home. I put the three of them in the last vehicle, where I figured they’d be safer.

IED stands for “Improvised Explosive Device,” also called Improvised Expletive Device. You’re constantly on the lookout for them. I mean all the time. And it’s still not good enough. Our convoy was hauling supplies, journalists and fellow Marines between bases. It was early in the day when we hit that deadly 400-pound IED. It didn’t explode under the first truck—the one I was in. Instead it exploded under the last vehicle. Hamer and Juarez were killed instantly. Ballard was thrown from the turret and landed on the ground, both legs shattered. There was screaming and blood and debris everywhere.

Instantly we reverted to our training. We created a 360-degree safe zone around the convoy so Ballard could be medevaced out and the bodies of Hamer and Juarez could be airlifted out. We who remained stayed focused. Once the casualties were taken care of, we had to move on. We had to complete our mission. All the while I asked myself, Why hadn’t I seen that bomb? Could we have avoided it?

Later on during that deployment in Afghanistan, I hit two more IEDs and survived both. The first one didn’t go off. It had been wired wrong. We were lucky, really lucky. Yet deep down a part of me wondered if I didn’t deserve to be blown up too.

The second one was a powerful 50-pound bomb. The blast knocked me out, my ears ringing, but I wasn’t bleeding anywhere. I still had my arms and legs. We had music playing in the truck that day, and somehow the iPod survived the blast. The song I heard while the doctor was checking my vitals was Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel.”

The Marines wanted to medevac me out, but I knew if that happened I wouldn’t be able to return to my buddies in the platoon. I would have been sent back to my duty station. Instead I stayed at the base and didn’t go on any missions for a week, trying to clear my head. We got mortared on the base that same week. More explosions, more screams, more destruction.

I was honorably discharged after four years. I had served my time and served my country. It was when I was back home in Ohio that the survivor’s guilt hit me big-time. Here I was, safe, close to family and friends. But I didn’t feel safe, wracked by memories, horrible nightmares waking me up at night. I loved my wife, Sarah. I didn’t know why we couldn’t keep our marriage together. I was a mess inside, as if a bomb had gone off inside my soul.

Micah’s fallen comrades (l to r): Matthew Ballard, Rupert Hamer, Mark Juarez

It was then, living by myself, that I took up running. I’d heard that you could get this runner’s high when you increased the mileage, and I needed something to take me out of myself, something to release me from my feelings. I’d put those men in the last vehicle. I’d chosen the spot where two of them would die instantly. For months I’d held out hope for Ballard. He made it to Walter Reed and endured multiple surgeries to repair his shattered legs. He came home to be with his wife and son. But things went bad for him. The pain was so intense; the painkillers were too many to count. He died of a heart attack.

I ran outdoors under groves of trees along Ohio’s Freedom Trail. I thought of Ballard, Hamer, Juarez. Three names. I knew those guys were in heaven—they’d done their best. I wanted to do my best for them here on earth. I started this habit of praying their names as I ran. Every day running a little further, a little faster, staying close to them. Inhale—“Ballard”—exhale. Inhale—“Hamer”—exhale. Inhale—“Juarez”—exhale. Someone suggested I run a half-marathon. I did it in Canton. Then a marathon. I did that in Canton too, fueled more by guilt than anything else. My work was going well. I ended up being hired as a substation electrician for FirstEnergy Ohio Edison. If only this sense of responsibility for my comrades’ deaths would leave me. It was the thing I could not outrun.

Sarah and I started talking again, slowly rebuilding the trust between us. In 2017, we remarried. She could see the change in me since I’d taken up running, the healing that was going on. That I was trying. The guilt was never completely gone, but I had a way to fight it. And I felt as if I was doing something to honor my fallen comrades.

It was Sarah’s idea, putting their names on my shoes. By the time I was running the Boston Marathon, we had the good news that we were expecting our first child.

Micah crawling toward the Boston Marathon finish
line after his legs locked up at Mile 22

Meet Marine Veteran Kirstie Ennis, Wounded Warrior and Mountain Climber

I wouldn’t have scripted it the way it turned out, crawling to the finish line. What an inglorious end for a Marine. Some people saw that shot of me on my hands and knees and thought maybe I’d just knelt down to thank God. Well, I wouldn’t have crawled to do that. But I did say a prayer for 26 miles with every inhale and exhale. Ballard. Hamer. Juarez. Those guys felt very near. I’ll run in their memory forever.

When that bomb went off, I too was injured, a moral injury that tore into my soul, throwing off all sorts of spiritual shrapnel. I feel as if I am trying to put my soul together with every mile I run, outpacing the guilt that exploded that day on the battlefield. Every mile I run draws me closer to God.

VIDEO: Listen as Micah shares how long-distance running has helped him in dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

This Truck Driver Got Fit and Then Got Busy Helping Other Truckers

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Siphiwe Baleka

Did you know that truck driving is one of the unhealthiest professions in America? Obesity, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, smoking, limited physical activity, fewer than six hours of sleep per day… In a national survey, 61 percent of long-haul truck drivers have two or more of these health issues. I know what that’s like because for nearly four years, I was a truck driver myself, for Prime Inc., one of the largest trucking companies in the country.

Now I do something different: I’m the driver health and fitness coach for Prime. I also founded my own company, Fitness Trucking, designing health and fitness programs specifically for the truck driver lifestyle. An unusual occupation, especially for a Yale grad with a philosophy degree. So how did I end up here? I’m kind of surprised myself.

Then again, I’ve never done what was expected.

Not even when I was a kid growing up in Oswego, Illinois. Back then, my name was Tony Blake. My family was the first African-American family in the neighborhood. I always stood out. My dad took what could’ve been a negative situation and encouraged me to turn it into a positive. Being different was my motivation to be the best at everything, from academics to athletics. When Dad saw my competitive fire, he introduced me to a distant cousin, Hayes Jones, who’d won the 110-meter hurdles at the 1964 Olympics.

Hayes let me hold his gold medal, and I thought, I want to win one too. I was good at football and basketball, but I’d never have the size to go far in those sports. I turned my focus to swimming. So what if there had never been an African-American swimmer in the Olympics? I’d be the first! At age 10, I won my first state championship. I kept winning. By the end of high school, I’d grown to 5’8″, 140 pounds. Though usually the smallest guy in the pool, I made up for it with intensity and technique.

I was accepted at every college I applied to, including five Ivy League schools, Stanford and the University of Virginia. I was also offered full scholarships at a few other universities. I opted for Yale. No one could understand why I’d chosen a college that doesn’t even give out athletic scholarships. Not only that, the swim team had the worst record in the Ivy League, 5-7.

Like I said, I never do what’s expected. But I had my reasons. At Yale, I’d be a big fish in a little pond. I could lift the team from the bottom of the barrel to the top of the Ivy League. Each year I swam for Yale, our team got better. My junior year, we had a 9-1 record. I entered the U.S. Open Swimming Championships, my best chance of qualifying for the 1992 U.S. Olympic team trials. I needed to have the meet of my life. But in my best event, the 100-meter freestyle, I missed qualifying by eight tenths of a second.

My Olympic dream died in eight tenths of a second. A part of me died too. Senior year, I just had no desire to swim anymore. The coach talked me into staying on to help our team win the Ivy League championship. At our meet against Harvard and Princeton, I swam the lead leg of the 4×100 relay and got us a big lead. We ended up winning the relay and, with it, a share of the Ivy championship. It was the culmination of my swimming career.

Three days later, I left Yale, a few months short of graduation. No one understood, not even my dad. “All you’ve got to do is take your exams, Tony, and you’ll have your degree,” he said.

I wasn’t going back. I’d read about Jesus, Buddha, other spiritual luminaries. Now I needed to explore the world, to find out who I was meant to be.

For the next 15 years, I was a nomad, traveling Europe, the Caribbean, Africa, working odd jobs. I came back to the U.S. briefly in the late 1990s—I finished up my degree at Yale, then worked at a few nonprofits. But I took off again, going to Africa to learn more about my ancestral heritage.

I went to Togo, Ethiopia, Ghana, Benin and South Africa, where I had the privilege of meeting with tribal elders. They told me that when a son of the soil returns, he is given a new name. For my first name, they chose Siphiwe, meaning “gift of the Creator.” For my surname, Baleka, or “he who has escaped.”

By 2008, I was in my mid-thirties and tired of scraping by. I couldn’t imagine myself in a nine-to-five office job. A friend who was a truck driver suggested I try his line of work. I liked the nomadic lifestyle. I’d get to explore America. I’d make good money. I didn’t have many living expenses, and I worked out a plan where I’d drive for three years, build some savings, then move on.

I signed up with Prime Inc., which is based in Springfield, Missouri. I got my commercial driver’s license, then went on the road, training with an experienced driver. After two months, I had a break and went to go visit my dad.

He gave me the once-over.

“What?” I asked.

Dad smiled. “I told you what would happen once you stopped swimming—do you remember?”

I remembered. He’d joked that I would get fat. I hadn’t been getting much exercise behind the wheel of the rig, but my body couldn’t have gone soft that quickly, could it?

I checked out my reflection in his bathroom mirror. My face was fuller. I lifted my shirt. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t see my abs. I got on a scale. I couldn’t believe it: 155 pounds!

I’d weighed 140 pounds all my adult life, and in just two months of driving, I’d gained 15 pounds. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but I’ve always been body conscious. When you’re a swimmer, you spend most of your time in skimpy swim briefs, so you’ve got to look good.

At this rate, I’d be 50 pounds overweight by the end of the year. I wouldn’t look good, and I definitely wouldn’t be feeling good. In trucking, it’s all about the delivery schedule. Every second counts. Eat. Sleep. Drive. That’s all you have time for. How was I going to fit in working out?

That night, as providence would have it, I was flipping through the channels on TV and came across an infomercial for the Range of Motion exercise machine. It was like a spin bike, rower and stair stepper all in one. The inventor claimed that four minutes on the machine would give the benefits of an hour-long workout. That’s ridiculous, I thought.

There was only one way to find out. I’d have to try it. Not the machine itself—it was massive and cost $15,000. But I came up with a workout replicating its movements, using my body weight as resistance.

Anytime I had a few minutes, I worked out. Burpees, mountain climbers, jump-tucks. Beside my truck at rest stops, I’d do each exercise at high intensity for 20 to 60 seconds, rest for 10 seconds, then repeat. “Get it in where you can fit it in,” I told myself.

Drivers wait in line at the receiving office for 20 to 30 minutes. I used that time to do squats and shadow-box. Some of the guys laughed at me. I became a running joke over the CB. It didn’t bother me. I don’t do what’s expected, remember? Besides, I was used to standing out.

But some drivers would come up to me and say, “Man, I really need to be doing this. Can you show me?” I demonstrated and gave them exercise and nutrition tips while exercising in front of my truck. The more I coached them, the more I realized my new routine wasn’t just for me. It was meant to help other people find their way to health. There was a real need and a real business opportunity here.

I drew up a proposal to become the in-house health and fitness coach and presented it to Robert Low, founder and president of Prime Inc. He was all for it. I studied corporate wellness programs and developed a 13-week program for our fleet. Interested drivers had to fill out an application and come in for a day of orientation.

Emily was one of the first to enroll. “I went to an amusement park with my granddaughter, and they kicked me off the ride because I was too big to buckle the lap belt,” she said. “I’m ready to make a change.” The average weight loss in that first group was more than 19 pounds. In the second group, I had a guy who lost 60 pounds in 13 weeks.

Their success inspired others to sign up. Drivers use an app to log everything they eat and drink. Once a week, we analyze their food logs and identify what’s doing the most damage to their metabolism and show them how to fix it. Improving nutrition and fitness isn’t complicated. What’s harder than changing your behavior is changing your thinking.

I’ll have people confess they’re embarrassed to exercise in front of others. “I’m 270 pounds. What if folks see me doing burpees and make fun of me?”

“What if they see you and think, Hey, if he can do it, maybe I can too?” I say to them. “Why not set a healthy example and be a light, like Scripture asks of all of us?”

That’s what I’ve found myself doing. For once, I’m doing what’s expected of me—in a totally unexpected way. And I’ve never felt more fulfilled.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

This Senior Synchronized Swim Team Finds Healing in the Water

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Jessica Toomer

Visit the swimming pool located in the Hansborough Recreation Center in Harlem on a weekday afternoon and you’ll be treated to an unusual sight—even by New York City standards.

The pool, normally filled with kids learning to stay afloat in the shallow end or adults getting in some laps after work, transforms into an aquatic haven for some of the city’s senior residents. Home to “The Harlem Honeys and Bears,” the senior synchronized swimming team.

Made up of members that range in age from 60 to 95 years-old, the team is a mainstay in the community, holding regular practices since 1979. There are, on average, over two dozen members of the team at any one time, and most if not all, are African American.

Although the team has gained media fame in the past few years, appearing on the TODAY Show (where they taught host Hoda Kotb some water aerobics) and with profiles in publications like The Atlantic and National Geographic, going viral was never what drew these swimmers to the water.

“A lot of us came here sick and this was given to us as therapy,” Monica Hale, the team’s captain, tells NBC News. “It’s been the best thing that’s ever happened.”

The team meets three days a week to practice routines for the city and state competitions they take part in each year. Their coach of 23 years, Oliver Footé, crafts choreography that each member can participate in, no matter their level of ability.

In fact, because many on the team suffer from a variety of ailments, the center has made a point of catering to its senior-most team, installing lifts for those who can’t use the stairs to enter the pool.

For 96-year-old Lettice Graham, the oldest swimmer on the team, the ability to dip into the water and stretch her muscles has, in many ways, saved her life. Graham didn’t begin swimming until age 64, but you wouldn’t know it watching her perform intricate dances and human pyramids in the deep end.

“Without swimming, I’d be in the doctor’s office,” Graham says. “It’s the best therapy.”

The team says that Foote’s robust aerobic workout strengthens their cardiovascular muscles, relieves tension and stress, and allows them to exercise without straining their limbs and joints.

But the team isn’t just focused on improving themselves, they’re also intent on giving back to the community.

Each week, members of the team serve as coaches and mentors during swim practice for younger students, helping kids in the community — a majority of which are black youth — work on their strokes, learn to tread water, and overcome their fear of the pool.

According to a recent University of Memphis study, 70% of African Americans have little to no swimming ability and black children are five times more likely to die from drowning than white children. The Harlem Honeys and Bears are hoping to reverse that trend.

They hope to break harmful stereotypes associated with their ethnicity, and to entice their peers to get into the pool because, no matter your age, the water is just fine.

This Heart Attack Survivor Wants You to Know the Signs

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Jessica Toomer

At 53 years old, Bertha B. Verde never thought she’d be the victim of a heart attack.

Verde was in great shape – she had just finished an intensive fitness boot camp – and was committed to clean eating. In fact, it was while enjoying a snack of fresh veggies at home in her kitchen that Verde noticed something was off. She began to have trouble swallowing, she started sweating and clenching her teeth, she had a sudden jaw pain and her arm began to go numb.

“At the time, you don’t think, ‘Oh, what’s the list of symptoms of a heart attack?’” Verde tells Guideposts.org. While Verde was ready to ignore the pain, her husband wasn’t. The couple rushed to the E.R. where Verde was admitted and had to undergo an EKG and blood tests.

She would find out later that she had a suffered something known as the “widowmaker,” a spontaneous coronary artery dissection, where a tear forms in the blood vessel and blocks blood flow.

Verde may not have known it at the time, but her symptoms were classic signs of trouble when it comes to women’s heart disease.

“Men and women’s symptoms are very different when it comes to heart disease,” Dr. Poulina Uddin, a cardiologist at Scripp’s Women’s Heart Center in La Jolla, California says. “They can have the classic chest pain but more often they’ll complain about jaw or back pain, nausea, excessive fatigue, sometimes lightheadedness. Those could be symptoms of anything which is why they’re often missed.”

According to Dr. Uddin, women are also more likely to shrug off their discomfort, like Verde did.

“Women are used to having pain from various things, their period, childbirth, so they may disregard it and blow it off as something else.”

For Verde, accepting that her body had gone through such a trauma was difficult. It’s been 18 months since her heart attack and she finds herself still struggling through the recovery process.

“The immediate was denial. I knew it happened but I couldn’t believe it happened,” Verde said of the few months following her heart attack. She couldn’t exercise for long periods – just a 30 minute walk left her winded – and found herself filling up her downtime by scrolling on the internet, searching survivor support forums for answers as to why she was feeling so low and hope for when she might return to normal.

“Depression is really common after having a heart attack and people don’t talk about that,” Dr. Uddin admits. “People are usually in shock for a good six months after something like this happens and they don’t even process it until a year later but we want to give them the tools to say ‘Hey, you’re not alone and here are other things you can do to inform others and educate others.’”

It wasn’t until Verde started attending a women’s support group at Scripp’s Women’s Heart Center that she began to feel understood and started to take charge of her recovery.

“As a person who has suffered a heart attack, I just wanted to talk to other people [like me],” Verde says. She began attending a group at Scripps that was a 45 minute drive from her house but soon felt lead to start a support program in her own neighborhood.

She attended a four day training program at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester Minnesota where she was instructed by cardiologists and medical professionals about the different types of heart disease, how to recognize symptoms, how to support survivors and how to run a support group.

A few weeks ago, Verde held her group’s first kick off meeting.

A handful of ladies signed up on line. Over a dozen ladies came in.

“They were so happy that there was somewhere to come and listen and talk to others in the neighborhood,” Verde says of the meeting. “I had no idea that I could help in this way. You could hear women talking to each other, connecting with each other and feel relief and feel understood. You can talk to other people, but unless they’ve been through it, it’s kind of hard for other people to truly understand what’s happened to you.”

She hopes to offer more to the women in her community, educating them on the signs of heart disease and encouraging them to be proactive about their health.

“I want everyone to know the symptoms, to know the risks, to get checked,” Verde says. “I want women to know how to empower themselves and to know what questions to ask.”

This Former Addict Is a Popular New York City SoulCycle Instructor

Posted on March 11, 2026March 12, 2026 by Noa Shaw

Meet me and I bet you don’t think, That guy’s a New York fitness instructor.

I’m not some toned and tanned yoga teacher wearing trendy athletic gear.

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I’m a 58-year-old recovering alcoholic and drug addict with a regular-guy physique, shaved head, long gray beard and a body covered in tattoos.

Actually, I don’t think of myself as a fitness instructor, though I do teach SoulCycle classes in New York City, where I live. I’m not sure what to call what I do for a living.

How about…soul inspirer. That’s my goal for every class I lead. It’s also what I try to do for my life-coaching clients. And my podcast listeners.

I have been blessed by God with an amazing second chance in life. I went from being an addict, drug dealer and convicted felon to living and thriving as a sober person for 14 years so far.

I used to hate what I’d done to myself. Now I wake up excited for each new day. Surrendering to a higher power taught me that anyone, however low they’ve sunk, can change direction and climb back up.

I want to pass on that hope. I want to share the joy that comes from living without fear. It’s my mission. One class, one client, one day at a time.

You’ll see what I mean if you come to one of my classes. Rows of stationary bicycles face a single bike on a platform up front. People arrive, in every shape, size and fitness level. They climb on the bikes, and the lights dim. Rock music starts up.

I go slow at first, but soon we’re pounding the pedals, and the music gets louder. I’m loud too.

“Everything you need is already inside you!” I shout. “That’s why I call this a work-in, not a workout!”

I share my story. I encourage people to face their own fears and believe in themselves. I don’t proselytize, but I am candid about being a changed man, saved by grace and grateful for everything I have.

There’s something about being in a small, loud room, surrounded by exhausted, exhilarated, sweaty people facing their limits, that makes you vulnerable.

It sounds weird, but it feels like church. That’s how it was for me my first time. Before I became an instructor, I was a rider like anyone else. I stumbled into my first SoulCycle class 10 years ago. I weighed 300 pounds and smoked four packs of cigarettes a day. I was only a few years sober. I had no idea that one class would change the course of my life.

Back up to the beginning. I can’t blame anyone but myself for my problems. I grew up in a loving middle-class family. We moved a lot as my dad climbed the corporate ladder in publishing, and I always felt out of place at school.

Lots of kids grow up feeling awkward. I dealt with it by drinking, starting with sips I’d sneak from my parents’ liquor cabinet before escalating to full-blown alcohol dependency by high school.

Soon I picked up cocaine, got addicted and started dealing to support my habit. TV makes the drug life look glamorous. Believe me, it’s not, no matter how many hip New York parties you go to or how many A-list celebrities buy your drugs.

One morning, after a night of clubbing and dealing, I sat in my car on a Manhattan side street, snorting coke and watching the sun rise. The neighborhood gradually woke up, and families began coming outside to walk to school or work. Parents with kids. Husbands and wives. Good people. They all looked so happy. So normal.

I sat there, alone with my coke and self-loathing. I’m not worthy of a good life, I thought. That pretty much sums up the self-consuming reality of addiction, the spiritual desolation.

I could tell you my addiction story, my qualification as we say in 12-step, and believe me, it’s crazy. But it arrives where they all do. At rock bottom. Mine came in 2006. I’d moved to Los Angeles to pursue stand-up comedy. One day, cops searched my Hollywood apartment and discovered bags of marijuana and cash. I was arrested, convicted and ordered into a six-month residential treatment program in L.A., plus two years’ probation.

I’d already been to rehab multiple times and even sobered up for a long stretch after finishing a treatment program in Mississippi during my mid-twenties. Walking into the facility in L.A., I suddenly remembered what it had felt like to be sober. I’d been happy. Stable. Proud of myself. The siren song of drugs took that all away.

Why had I relapsed? I didn’t really know. What I did know is I wanted my sobriety back, and I would do anything to get it.

I remembered a guy I’d met in the Mississippi treatment program.

“Do you pray?” he’d asked in a thick Southern accent.

“No,” I said.

“Why? You afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.” After all, I’d been shot at during drug deals and tried to kill myself several times.

“Then get down on your knees and pray with me.” The guy knelt by his bed and put his hands together.

I wasn’t about to back down from a challenge. I knelt beside him. The next thing I knew, a peace I had never experienced enveloped me. A sense that something bigger than I could comprehend held me in its hands and would never let me go. I surrendered wholeheartedly. Though my sobriety didn’t last, I had been touched by something miraculous that had taken root deep in my soul.

So I was ready, really ready, to surrender again in the L.A. treatment program. I prayed every morning and evening. I worked the 12 steps. I was determined to walk a different path and asked God for guidance.

I became a case manager—but that didn’t mean all my habits were healthy. I ballooned to 300 pounds. My doctor told me I was a junk food addict and a walking heart attack.

One day, out shopping for underwear (I’m not kidding), I passed a brand-new SoulCycle studio in a mall. On a strange impulse, I walked in.

“Want to try a class?” said the owner. Me? Something made me say yes. I heaved myself onto the bike closest to the door—in case I keeled over and someone had to haul me out.

I started pedaling. Right away, I was out of breath. Everything hurt. I wanted to stop so badly.

Then a thought came to me: I have survived getting shot at, attempting to kill myself and doing an insane amount of drugs. Am I going to let junk food defeat me? No!

I pedaled my heart out and, by the end of the class, felt like a different person. It wasn’t quite like praying, but it was close. I had left some broken part of me behind on the bike and walked out of the studio feeling amazed that I’d survived.

I signed up for two more classes the next day. And the next. Then the day after that. I lost weight fast and gained a reputation for inspiring other riders with my enthusiasm and willingness to bare my soul as the class revved up.

Not long after my first class, an instructor called. He’d hurt his ankle. “Want to help me teach?” he asked.

Again, something made me say yes. I was still pretty heavy. I still smoked, though less. I mounted the podium and got on a bike beside the instructor’s. He led the class, but I helped keep the cadence going. I thought I would be terrified. Instead, the bright lights and eager faces inspired me to pedal even harder. They made me want to be my best self.

A month later, a master teacher asked if I’d like to become an instructor myself. I agreed and ended up moving back to New York to train.

My teaching style was…unique. I held nothing back. I shared my story of addiction and recovery. My struggle with weight. My feelings of worthlessness and my newfound faith in myself. It was an exercise class. But it was also a place where people, including me, could trade their self-deceptions and negative self-talk for an hour’s worth of pure grit. A sanctuary. I loved it.

I’ve been doing it ever since. My classes are popular, but it’s not because I’m some fitness star. I have a hope and an honesty that comes from surrender to a loving higher power. I’ve been to the bottom and, by the grace of God, climbed back up.

See what I mean? I’m a soul inspirer. A guy saved by grace who is helping other people find their own next right step. One class, one client, one day at a time.

For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.

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