Tag Archives: emotional broadcast

Just Heart ©️

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Good morning, Cicely.

There are some journeys we take alone. Not by choice, but by storm. Life has a funny way of rerouting the road just when you think you know the map. And suddenly, you’re not the person you thought you were going to be.

You’re not the golden boy anymore.

Not the rising star.

Not the dreamer with the straight path and the perfect arc.

You’re something else entirely.

You’re someone who went through it. And I mean really went through it.

I’ve spent time in places people whisper about—psych wards, jail cells, corners of the mind where the lights flicker and nothing makes sense. I’ve lost years to silence, confusion, and pain. I’ve watched dreams get shattered like glass on stone, and had to pick up the pieces with shaking hands.

There were nights no one called. Days no one knew where I was. Times even I didn’t know who I was.

And still… somehow… I’m here.

My family didn’t always understand. How could they? Mental illness doesn’t come with instructions. It doesn’t wear a name tag. It doesn’t sit politely in the corner. But even in the dark, they loved me. Fiercely. Imperfectly. Consistently. And I owe them everything.

There was a love once—a young one. One of those first-flame, heart-open, foolish-and-forever kind of things. I let it slip away. Maybe I ran. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I didn’t believe I deserved it. And I’ve never found that kind of depth again. That’s a ghost I carry. Not with bitterness, just with a quiet what if.

I never had children. And maybe I never will. That used to haunt me. But lately… I’ve started to see things differently.

Because while I may not be a father, I’ve become something else. Something I never thought I could be.

I’ve become me.

Not the broken version.

Not the could’ve-been.

Just me.

Someone I trust.

Someone I’m proud to carry through this world.

This is Chris in the Morning—KBHR 570 AM—and if you’re listening, and you’ve been through the long night… just know there’s still morning. There’s still music. There’s still time.

And sometimes, surviving becomes your greatest work.

From a Grateful Son ©️

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Good morning, Cicely.

It’s quiet this morning. The kind of quiet where the trees seem to lean in just a little, where the coffee tastes more like a ritual than a drink. The kind of quiet that makes you think about where you came from—and who helped you get here.

I want to talk about my mom.

She was with my dad for forty-nine years. That’s longer than most buildings stand. That’s longer than some rivers hold their course. That’s love… tested and weathered and still somehow tender.

Now, my dad—he was a doctor. He stitched bones and mended wounds and carried the weight of other people’s pain home with him more nights than not. But my mom—she carried him. Carried the rest of us too. Not in some dramatic, spotlighted way. No. She did it the way great writers do things. Subtly. Line by line. Always building. Always listening.

See, she’s a writer. Not just of books or essays—but of people. Of moments. She taught me that a well-placed silence can be as powerful as a scream. That stories don’t need to be loud to last forever.

And she was—still is—the best mom a kid could ask for. She didn’t just raise me. She saw me. Even when I was trying hard not to be seen. She let me stumble, let me figure it out, and she always had the porch light on when I came back around.

And now that Dad’s gone… I find myself looking at her with new eyes.

She gave so much of herself for so long, and now I just want the rest of her life to be hers. I want her to write again—not for legacy, not for others, but for joy. I want her to feel how much she still matters, how much there is still waiting for her. Because she’s still got stories. Still got fire. Still got time.

Mom, if you’re listening… you don’t owe anyone a single thing anymore.

What I wish for you now is happiness. Pure, selfish, sunlight-on-your-face happiness. I want you to travel, to write what scares you, to laugh until you cry in places Dad never took you.

You carried us all for so long. Now let the wind carry you. Let the future be gentle and wide and yours.

This is Chris in the Morning, KBHR 570 AM, signing off for now. Sending love to the woman who gave me everything—and who I now wish everything for.