Too often we hear about division between the men and women in uniform and the communities they serve. Families feel unheard. Officers feel unappreciated. Fear grows on one side, exhaustion on the other. The result is anger, mistrust, and calls to “defund.” But none of that heals the wound. What heals is connection.

I wish I could just listen to music and enjoy it. Some people can—they hear a song and smile, or feel calm. But for me, music is never just music. It’s a doorway. It pulls me into memories I didn’t ask to visit.

Movies took me away from loneliness. When I sat in the theater, I was somewhere else. Somewhere better.

Thank you, Bentley.
Thank you, Kaiser.
Thank you, Carson.

You gave me everything.
You will always be in my heart.

I struggle to say things in the moment.
I fumble.
I hesitate.
The words form slowly in my heart,
but they don’t always make it to my lips.

That’s why I write.

I have failed you.

I know I’ve said this before—
and maybe I’ll say it again.
But this truth sits at the center
of everything that’s broken in our family.

I loved having big parties with lots of dancing. I remember one man in particular, always dancing alone. There was something mesmerizing in his movements, something both beautiful and lonely. I couldn’t look away.

We bring babies into this world with trembling hope.
We look into their tiny faces and believe—
believe that love will be enough.

I reached the goal.
I got the Rolls Royce.
I got the Rolex.

But I was disappointed.
Because even with both in hand,
I still felt empty.

We build towers that reach the stars, but we cannot reach each other to make peace. We stretch bridges across oceans, but we cannot stretch our hearts toward one another.

And still—some keep trying. Some keep planting. Some keep reaching. Some keep believing.

Music has a special power. It soothes babies who don’t yet understand words. It calms animals who respond to gentle sounds in ways we can see but can’t always explain. And teenagers—who are at such a critical, often confusing time in their lives—are deeply drawn to music. It helps them feel understood, less alone, and more peaceful.

If music can reach all these hearts—young, old, human, animal—why can’t it also help us come together during hard times?

When I lived in Beirut, my room opened onto a balcony. From there, I could hear music drifting up from the street—accordion players, singers, laughter. This usually happened at night, when the city softened and the melodies floated more freely. I would step outside and watch them from above, letting the music carry me away. For a moment, I forgot my problems. For a moment, I was somewhere else.

Have you ever heard of Armenia?
It’s a small country that many don’t know about.
A place with proud, kind people—often forgotten by the world.
But Armenia matters.

I’m at the point in my life where I have almost no one left to share my successes with—am I being selfish? Most of the boys—my brothers in spirit—are gone. The men I grew close to, who stood by me through thick and thin, have passed on. And I miss them more than words can say.

Reflections on mistakes made, love missed, and the chance to share it again.