It took me a few days to say anything because, truth be told, I’ve been chewing on the ghosts. October’s always been my month , the sweet spot of madness and magic. My birthday. Halloween. The smell of cold air and dying leaves, like nature’s own whiskey-soaked confetti. But there’s a weight to it now. A silence that creeps in when the laughter fades.

My dad’s birthday was the 23rd. We were a day apart. Used to blur the lines between our celebrations. Two stubborn Vikings in a world full of soft men, raising hell in our own quiet way. Now it’s just me, and the echo of those days hits harder than I ever admit out loud.

Maybe I haven’t processed it all. Maybe I’ve just learned to build around the crater. You tell yourself it gets easier, and in a way, it does. You move forward, find new trails, new light through the trees. But every once in a while, something pulls you back. A date on the calendar, a song, the smell of coffee in cold air and you realize grief doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape.

So thank you to everyone who reached out, who still checks in, who keeps me tethered to the living world when the ghosts come knocking. 43 feels strange, like standing on a ridge between who I was and who I’m still becoming. But hell, I’m still here. Still chasing the light. Still trying to make sense of it all through the lens and the madness.

Raise a glass to the ones we’ve lost. And to the ones still standing in the storm.