I’m 59, living in Spearfish on the edge of the Black Hills—mostly, but wishing for more time in New Orleans. Husband to Ann; dad to twins, 24, and an 11-year-old who lives loud and sideways. First-gen American of Italian and Libyan heritage, raised in Queens in the ’70s and ’80s—stoops, subways, and a street-level read of people. Work life: designer to creative director to co-founder of a retail design firm, sold after 24 years; now mostly retired, still hanging on as an honorary VP for a national restaurant group.

I write field notes from the backside of the hill—mind, body, life, place. The ground shifted under my feet, and I’m glad it did. Different map, different promises. A lot of men my age are angry or tired of bending; I’m not interested in that posture. Less swagger, more honesty. More acceptance, more room, more grace. I try to translate why some of us flinch—how we were raised—so the young don’t write us off, and so we can accept and embrace change. Not a lecture. A gentle explainer from a sensitive guy trying to be better.

The body is different math. I’m not chasing faster; I’m trying to slow less. Risk costs more now. One dumb injury can steal a year, and at this age a year is a life. So I pick my lines. I train, then I recover like I mean it. Sleep is gear. Labs are notes in the margins. I still run trails, ride, lift—seeing if my knees can cash the checks my brain writes. Some days they can. Some days they send invoices. Pride rides shotgun, but it doesn’t drive.

Life shifted too. Semi-retired means more time and fewer excuses. I’m the primary at home for my neuro-spicy boy. Plans are suggestions. Anxiety moves like weather. Sensory stuff can flip a good day. I stopped trying to fix him; I try to understand him. Meltdowns aren’t disrespect—they’re a nervous system asking for mercy. He doesn’t need a critic; he needs an anchor. So I show up. Quiet corners. Headphones. Exit plans. Walks where we remember we like each other. I own my wiring—’80s male template meeting 2026 dad work—and I unlearn, badly, then better. If you’re a dad who feels late to this, you’re not. Show up. Stay kind. Try again tomorrow.

And the place. I’m in love with New Orleans—mostly the Bywater. I own an STR there, which means I love a place I also complicate. I won’t duck that. I try to do it with a conscience; sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t, and I’ll say so. What pulls me back: riverfront runs at dawn, coffee that tastes like a small sermon, corner stores with a whole neighborhood inside, murals that repaint your insides. The city is loud, sticky, imperfect, alive. With a neuro-spicy kid, it’s both too much and exactly right. We find quiet pockets in a town built on noise. We leave early when we need to. We come back when we can. Trip journals. Walks. Food. Mishaps. Fix-it lists. Guests who made the week. Repairs from hell. Why I still choose this place, even when it bites. Aging needs a soundtrack. Mine sounds like brass on a Tuesday.

Friends age out. Fog days drift in. Money gets simpler and trickier at the same time. Ten hours of paid work feels different when the rest of the week belongs to you. There’s a lightness in letting go of being “the guy,” and an ache in missing him. The question that keeps me honest: how do I spend the time I have left in a way my kids would recognize as alive?

These are field notes from the backside of the hill. Head, body, life, place—braided. If any of this sounds like you, pull up a chair. Read a little. Argue if you need to. Borrow what helps and go live yours.pent years trying to fix it. Now I try to understand it. Meltdowns aren’t disrespect; they’re a nervous system asking for mercy. He doesn’t need another critic. He needs an anchor. So I show up. I make quiet corners. Headphones. Exit plans. We find the walks where we remember we like each other. I own my wiring—80s male template colliding with 2026 dad work—and I unlearn, badly, then better. If you’re a dad who feels late to this, you’re not. Show up. Stay kind. Try again tomorrow.