Was I Having a Stroke, or Just an Idiot?

Driving home from work the other night, I noticed it was darker than usual. Not “daylight saving time” darker, not “storm clouds rolling in” darker — mood lighting in a cheap steakhouse darker. Immediately, I thought: Great. My headlights are dying.

So I did the responsible thing. I pulled over. Twice. Got out of the car. Checked the lights. Both were shining like Broadway spotlights. Back behind the wheel? Still dark. At this point I’m thinking: Either my eyes are going, or the universe is playing a prank on me.

And then it hit me — the terrifying thought that crosses every middle-aged mind sooner or later: Was I having a stroke? Because nothing says “fun Tuesday night commute” like debating whether you should pull into the ER or just hope your warranty covers brain malfunctions.

Finally, I make it home, exhale, and as I toss my keys on the counter, I catch my reflection in the window. And there it is: my prescription sunglasses. I’d been driving the whole way wearing shades at night like Roy Orbison — minus the talent, the mystique, and the hit songs.

So no, it wasn’t my headlights. No, it wasn’t a stroke. It was just me… auditioning for the world’s worst tribute act.

Which raises the bigger question: if I’m already pulling over on the highway convinced I’m dying, how far away am I from Depends diapers? Probably just one bad Costco run away.

For now, though, I’ll take the win — and put my regular glasses somewhere I can actually find them.

One day, our laughter will echo only in someone’s heart. The stories we told will return in fragments, and the love we shared will live on as memory. Time moves swiftly, and moments slip quietly into yesterday. Yet even in loss, we are reminded of the gift of now—the chance to be kind, to love without hesitation, to speak gently, and to leave behind something worth cherishing.

The death of Charlie Kirk brought this truth into sharp focus. Whatever one thought of his words, he lived unafraid to speak them—and in that, he left a lasting lesson: the importance of finding your voice. To stand up and speak truth to power, even when your knees shake with fear. To call out hypocrisy and bullshit when silence would be easier. Because a voice withheld is a gift never given, and courage is not the absence of fear, but the will to speak through it.

In the end, what endures is not the spotlight or the headlines, but the small things—the way someone made you feel, the warmth of a smile, the safety of knowing you weren’t alone. One day, each of us will become a memory. May we be remembered as those who loved deeply, spoke truthfully, cared fully, and left behind more light than shadows.

Godspeed, Charlie.

Introduction

The most damaging effect of bad decisions is not always the immediate harm they cause. More often, it is the explicit blessing they bestow upon practices that should never have been dignified with judicial approval. When a federal judge cloaks misconduct in the robes of procedure, or validates inequities with the seal of precedent, the damage ripples outward. Bad decisions do not simply dispose of individual cases; they legitimize entire categories of abuse.

This dynamic was on full display in Prudential Insurance Co. of America v. Kowalski, where Judge Victor Bolden’s rulings transformed serious discovery abuses into normalized practice. The defendant, Jennifer Kowalski, my daughter, litigated the case pro se. She was not only disadvantaged by her lack of counsel but ultimately confined for refusing to surrender her personal passwords—despite mounting evidence that Prudential had already intruded deeply into her computer systems.

I. Background: Discovery Abuses and “Inadvertent” Production

From the outset, Prudential engaged in unilateral, overbroad, and unvalidated e-discovery practices. Its searches extended far beyond the scope authorized by the court, resulting in the wholesale capture of Kowalski’s personal accounts and devices.¹ Even Prudential’s own counsel admitted on the record that the company had “inadvertently produced” sensitive data during its forensic examination.²

For Kowalski, these were not abstract violations. She discovered that text files produced to her contained complete copies of documents from her private sources—including Facebook, LinkedIn, Microsoft, TD Bank, and other personal accounts.³ A third-party forensic affidavit confirmed that Prudential’s agents had embedded themselves in her computer’s operating system, demonstrating the extent of the intrusion.⁴

Despite these revelations, Prudential pressed forward. Rather than correct its conduct, the company designated over 1.8 million files—including non-confidential and irrelevant material—as “Attorney’s Eyes Only,” effectively depriving Kowalski of access to her own information.⁵ Prudential continued to demand her passwords, despite already having obtained expansive and unauthorized access to her systems.

II. Judicial Response: Confinement as Compliance

Faced with Prudential’s misconduct, Kowalski refused to provide her passwords. Her refusal was not obstructionist but conscientious, rooted in an unwillingness to enable further intrusion by a party that had already abused its access.

Judge Bolden, however, chose not to address Prudential’s violations. Instead, he converted Kowalski’s refusal into grounds for punishment, ordering her civilly confined until she complied. This outcome stands in sharp contrast to courts that have exercised restraint in compelled-password disputes. In United States v. Kirschner, a federal court recognized that disclosure of a password is inherently testimonial, implicating significant privacy concerns.⁶ Similarly, in In re Grand Jury Subpoena Duces Tecum Dated March 25, 2011, the Eleventh Circuit held that compelling a suspect to decrypt files violated the Fifth Amendment’s prohibition against self-incrimination.⁷

By ignoring Prudential’s misconduct and punishing Kowalski, Bolden effectively sanctioned practices that other courts have rejected as corrosive to both fairness and liberty.

III. Due Process and the Limits of Civil Confinement

Kowalski’s civil confinement also raises serious due process concerns. Civil contempt sanctions are lawful only to the extent that they are coercive rather than punitive. In International Union, United Mine Workers of America v. Bagwell, the Supreme Court drew a clear line: civil contempt is permissible only when the contemnor “carries the keys of [her] prison in [her] own pocket.”⁸ If the confinement ceases to serve a coercive purpose—or if compliance is impossible—continued detention becomes punitive, triggering full criminal due process protections.

Here, Kowalski’s confinement was not designed to coerce compliance in a fair discovery process; it was used to break her will after Prudential had already gained unauthorized access to her data. In such circumstances, the “keys to the prison” metaphor collapses. The sanction no longer served a legitimate coercive function but instead operated as punishment for principled resistance. This blurred the line between civil and criminal contempt, depriving Kowalski of the procedural protections she was constitutionally entitled to receive.

Courts have repeatedly warned that civil confinement must remain tightly tethered to due process. In Shillitani v. United States, the Supreme Court upheld confinement only because the contemnors could purge their contempt by testifying before a grand jury.⁹ But where compliance is unreasonable, indefinite, or sought in service of an abusive discovery process, civil confinement becomes constitutionally suspect. Bolden’s order crossed that boundary, transforming judicial coercion into judicial overreach.

IV. Implications: When Abuse Becomes Law

The consequences extend beyond Kowalski’s personal ordeal. When a federal judge endorses such conduct, the lessons reverberate. Corporations learn that invasive discovery can be excused as “inadvertent.” Courts learn that confinement may serve as a tool to compel compliance, even in the shadow of abuse. Citizens learn that standing on principle will not protect them but instead may result in the loss of liberty.

Other courts have warned against precisely this dynamic. In Crosmun v. Trustees of Fayetteville Technical Community College, the North Carolina Court of Appeals criticized procedures that gave requesting parties unilateral access to electronic evidence, noting that such practices violated producing-party privileges.¹⁰ Likewise, in American Home Assurance Co. v. Greater Omaha Packing Co., the court emphasized that producing parties must be afforded meaningful opportunity to contest e-discovery demands, recognizing the inherent dangers of one-sided control.¹¹

By disregarding these principles, Judge Bolden did not merely mishandle a single dispute—he endorsed a structural imbalance that undermines the fairness of discovery itself.

V. Policy Implications and Proposals for Reform

The lessons of Prudential v. Kowalski extend beyond its facts. They highlight systemic vulnerabilities in how courts approach compelled digital evidence, discovery management, and the treatment of pro se litigants. Several reforms are warranted:

Clearer Standards on Compelled Digital Evidence
Courts should adopt a presumption against compelled disclosure of passwords and encryption keys, recognizing that such disclosures are inherently testimonial. Statutory reform, akin to the Electronic Communications Privacy Act, could codify limits on judicial orders requiring decryption.

Stronger Protections for Producing Parties in E-Discovery
Discovery rules must reinforce the principle that producing parties—not requesting parties—control privilege designations. Amendments to Rule 26 could explicitly prohibit unilateral control of electronic sources by requesting parties, with sanctions for violations.

Judicial Training on E-Discovery Abuse
Federal judges should receive mandatory training on forensic technology and privacy implications, so that “inadvertent production” cannot be casually excused when it masks systemic intrusion.

Heightened Safeguards for Pro Se Litigants
Courts must adopt heightened scrutiny when a litigant proceeds without counsel, especially in technologically complex cases. Procedural protections—such as mandatory appointment of technical advisors or discovery monitors—could prevent imbalance from becoming abuse.

Reconsideration of Civil Confinement in Discovery Disputes
Congress or the Judicial Conference could issue guidance limiting civil contempt confinement to cases where the coercive purpose is clear and compliance is realistically attainable. Where discovery has already been compromised by misconduct, confinement should be off the table.

These reforms would not erase what happened in Prudential v. Kowalski, but they could prevent similar miscarriages from recurring.

Conclusion

The true legacy of Prudential v. Kowalski lies not only in the confinement of a pro se litigant who stood her ground, but in the dangerous blessing Judge Bolden conferred upon practices that should have been condemned. Bad decisions echo, and when they come from the federal bench, those echoes calcify into precedent.

In this case, the echo was unmistakable: intrusion forgiven, concealment tolerated, resistance punished. That is not justice. That is surrender.

Notes

Motion for Separate Evidentiary Hearing, Prudential Ins. Co. of Am. v. Kowalski, No. 3:21-cv-00541 (D. Conn. Feb. 27, 2023), ECF No. 265, at 2.

Id. at 3–4.

Affidavit of Defendant, Prudential v. Kowalski, No. 3:21-cv-00541 (D. Conn. Dec. 9, 2021), ECF No. 77-1 ¶ 65.

Id.

Motion for Separate Evidentiary Hearing, supra note 1, at 5–6.

United States v. Kirschner, 823 F. Supp. 2d 665, 669 (E.D. Mich. 2010).

In re Grand Jury Subpoena Duces Tecum Dated Mar. 25, 2011, 670 F.3d 1335, 1349 (11th Cir. 2012).

Int’l Union, United Mine Workers of Am. v. Bagwell, 512 U.S. 821, 828 (1994).

Shillitani v. United States, 384 U.S. 364, 371 (1966).

Crosmun v. Trustees of Fayetteville Tech. Cmty. Coll., No. COA18-1230, 2019 WL 355874, at *7 (N.C. Ct. App. Aug. 6, 2019).

Am. Home Assurance Co. v. Greater Omaha Packing Co., No. 8:11CV270, 2013 WL 4875997, at *4 (D. Neb. Sept. 11, 2013).

prudentialvkowalski, #JudicialMisconduct, #Boldenresign

What I Witnessed Before Judge Victor Bolden in Prudential v. Kowalski

Lawyers are solemnly described as “officers of the court.” The phrase is repeated like scripture in law schools, bar admissions, and courtroom ceremonies. It suggests a noble duty to justice itself—higher than client loyalty, higher even than self-interest. In theory, the “officer” role binds attorneys to safeguard the integrity of the judiciary.

But in practice, “officer of the court” has become little more than a gag order dressed up as honorific. The truth of that hypocrisy is not abstract. It was laid bare in the Federal District of Connecticut under Judge Victor Bolden—most glaringly in the case of Prudential v. Kowalski.

The Bolden Courtroom: A Stage, Not a Forum

What unfolded in Prudential v. Kowalski was not blind justice but scripted theater. Issues of privacy rights and due process—bedrock principles in any free society—were at stake. The promise of the judiciary was that arguments would be heard, evidence weighed, and rulings grounded in law.

Instead, procedure was wielded like a weapon. One of the most shocking moments came when Judge Bolden ordered the civil confinement of my daughter because she refused to hand over her personal passwords. Think about that: incarceration, not for a crime, not for contempt of an order tied to violence or fraud, but for declining to surrender the keys to her own private digital life.

It was a ruling that cut directly against the grain of privacy rights, due process, and common sense. Yet in the courtroom, lawyers—the supposed “officers”—were expected to keep silent, to treat this overreach as normal, to salute the robe and move on.

The Oath as a Muzzle

That moment exposed the true meaning of the oath. “Officer of the court” did not empower attorneys to safeguard fairness; it muzzled them into complicity. To object too loudly was to risk sanction. To call out judicial abuse was to risk professional ruin. The oath elevated obedience over courage, silence over advocacy.

The bar’s rhetoric insists that officers of the court exist to preserve justice. But what was witnessed in Bolden’s courtroom was the opposite: lawyers compelled to play along in a production that undermined it.

PACER: A System That Cannot Guard Its Own Integrity

Layer this hypocrisy onto the judiciary’s crumbling infrastructure, and the absurdity becomes complete. PACER—the federal courts’ Public Access to Court Electronic Records system—is supposed to embody transparency. Instead, it has long functioned as a paywall, charging citizens ten cents a page for documents already funded by their tax dollars.

And now PACER itself has been hacked. Sensitive filings, sealed cases, and private data—the very backbone of public trust—compromised.

So what does it mean to be an “officer of the court” when the court cannot even secure its own records? When judicial officers like Bolden confine a young woman for refusing to disclose her passwords? When transparency is sold off by the page, and then breached outright? Lawyers are told to uphold the dignity of the system, but the system cannot uphold itself.

Witness to a Hollow System

As was witnessed in Prudential v. Kowalski, the phrase “officer of the court” survives not because it is meaningful, but because it is useful. It props up judicial authority, it intimidates lawyers into silence, and it maintains appearances long after reality has collapsed.

The judiciary hides behind the badge of “officership,” while judges like Bolden abuse the robe in plain sight and institutions like PACER leak like sieves. Lawyers are not empowered guardians of justice. They are stagehands in a production that too often insults the very ideals it claims to serve.

The Verdict

Judge Bolden’s order to civilly confine a young woman for refusing to turn over her passwords in Prudential v. Kowalski revealed the ugly truth: “officer of the court” is not a badge of honor—it is a muzzle. It demands silence in the face of corruption. It elevates obedience over courage. And it leaves those who dare to resist isolated, branded, and punished.

The system demanded complicity, enforced silence, and punished dissent. And now, with PACER hacked and public confidence eroding, the hypocrisy of that oath is undeniable.

If lawyers are truly to be officers of the court, then the court must first prove itself worthy of being served. Until then, the phrase is just theater—a line in a play that grows less convincing with every act.

prudentialvkowalski #JudicialMisconduct #corruptconneccticutcourts

She walked into the courtroom alone.

Young. Nervous, but composed. Clutching a folder like it contained the last of her dignity. No lawyer. No roadmap. Just the mistaken belief that justice might still be something more than a slogan etched in stone above the courthouse door.

“Where is my assigned counsel?” she thought.

Not aloud. Just a hopeful, desperate thought—like someone waiting for common sense to show up and intervene.

The judge didn’t flinch.

Black robe. Elevated bench. Impenetrable demeanor.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Judicial arrogance doesn’t shout—it simmers. It watches a pro se litigant walk into a wood-paneled arena with no armor and offers nothing. No explanation. No grace. Just a heavy silence that says: You don’t belong here. And I won’t help you pretend you do.

He could’ve paused. Clarified. Asked if she understood the procedures—though in civil court, “rights” are often more theoretical than real. He could’ve acknowledged the obvious power imbalance. But that would have required effort. Empathy. Humanity.

Instead, he moved the proceeding along like she was a delay in his schedule rather than a citizen in crisis.

The attorneys on the other side? Confident. Polished. Half-listening. They knew the dance. They knew the outcome. She was just another name on the docket, another unrepresented soul to be swept into judgment.

And worse—watching them perform was nauseating. The pandering was almost theatrical: exaggerated deference, unnecessary compliments, and a tone so syrupy it could have triggered a diabetic emergency. They weren’t just advocating. They were auditioning.

This judge liked his ego stroked. And they knew it.

They played to the bench, not the merits. They flattered the process, not the principle. And the more they performed, the more obvious it became: fairness wasn’t the currency of this courtroom—fawning was.

And that’s the cruelty: not just that she had no lawyer—but that the judge acted like she didn’t deserve one.

Because once the robe goes on, the system protects its own. Judges stop being people and start being mechanisms. Detached. Defensive. Drunk on their own discretion.

This wasn’t justice. It was a performance. A ritual sacrifice in real time.

Because in civil court:
• Pro se means “sit down and lose quietly.”
• Litigants are expected to navigate rules written for law school graduates.
• Judges know they’re presiding over unequal battles—and they do it anyway, with a straight face.

And when that woman stood there—hopeful, alone—the court had a chance to offer something real.

Instead, it showed her exactly what the system thinks of the unrepresented: you are a burden, not a participant.

“Where is my assigned counsel?” she thought.

But the answer came not in words, not in kindness, not in fairness—but in an order.

He ruled her in contempt. Not for outbursts or defiance. But because she refused to give up her computer passwords to the plaintiff. She didn’t trust them. She was afraid. She stood her ground.

So he had her shackled.

Right there. In a civil case.

She was ordered into federal custody—taken from the courtroom like a criminal, not for breaking the law, but for daring to protect herself without permission from the court.

That’s not justice.

That’s a warning.

And it’s codified.

Woe unto you also, ye lawyers! For ye lade men with burdens grievous to be borne, and ye yourselves touch not the burdens with one of your fingers.”

—Luke 11:46

There comes a moment in nearly every life when we first collide with the legal system. It might be buying a first home, navigating a work dispute, showing up to small claims court, or facing a painful family matter. Most people walk in expecting fairness—that justice is blind, the rules are clear, the judges impartial, and the lawyers working toward resolution.

But after 25 years in employment law, I’ve had to break it to many good people: that vision of the legal system is a myth. Trials rarely happen. Correctional systems rarely correct. And mandatory arbitration? That’s not justice—it’s a privatized echo of it, hidden behind closed doors and stacked decks.

The system has grown into something alien—bureaucratic, bloated, and incomprehensible to those who need it most. Worst of all, it often feels like it was designed to confuse, to delay, and to profit.

Yes, I understand the strange comfort in hiring a lawyer—the yellow legal pad, the solemn nods, the assurances that “you have a case.” But what I’ve seen, too many times, is the shock that follows—the first bill arrives, the retainer’s gone, and nothing is resolved. The case hasn’t even really started.

And now? The rot isn’t just at the margins—it’s deep in the system.

In Georgia, a trial court issued a ruling based entirely on hallucinated, AI-generated case law. Fake citations. Nonexistent precedent. No pushback. And when the case went up on appeal? Both sides—both sides—submitted briefs citing more phantom cases. Twelve in total. No real oversight. No functioning safety net.

And in Maryland? All fifteen federal judges on the bench have now retained private legal counsel amid a controversy that’s shaken public confidence in the judiciary. These aren’t criminal cases—they’re credibility crises. But the message is loud and clear: even those wearing the robes now feel the need for protection.

This is no longer just a flawed system. It’s a system unraveling under the weight of its own contradictions. And yet everyday people—like my friend—are expected to walk into court and trust that justice will be done. That someone will listen. That truth matters. That fairness wins.

If I sound jaded, I won’t apologize. I am jaded. Because I’ve watched how this system breaks people. And I’ve watched how it rarely holds itself accountable.

Let me leave you with this:

Most new judges in America are required to complete less training than manicurists in California, who must log 400 hours of practice before taking their exam.

And as Charles Dickens once wrote:

“The one great principle of the English law is to make business for itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings.”

To those born between 1952 and 1979 —

We are the bridge between two eras.

The last to grow up before everything went digital—

and the first to step into that new world, wide-eyed and unprepared.

At our high school, the class of ’76 had more in common with the graduates of the 1950s

than we ever did with the classes that came out in the ’90s.

We wore uniforms. We stood when teachers entered the room.

We learned respect, mostly the hard way.

And we learned responsibility—long before we understood what it meant.

We were the kids who played outside until the streetlights buzzed on.

We shouted names from the sidewalk, not a phone.

We scraped our knees on pavement and came home bleeding—with no one suing anybody.

We ran errands with crumpled grocery lists and came back with exact change.

We spun records, made mixtapes, danced with Walkmans.

We marveled at CDs, then DVDs, then the idea that music could just… disappear into the cloud.

We blew into Nintendo cartridges and felt like hackers.

We rewound VHS tapes with chewed fingernails and patience.

We remember houses that cost $18,000.

Our parents bought them.

We’re still not sure how.

We were raised on The Flintstones, Bonanza, Ultraman, Combat! and G.I. Joe.

We fell asleep to the hum of radios, not podcasts.

Saturday mornings were for cartoons, cereal, and jingles we still hum under our breath.

We rode bikes with no helmets.

Cars with no seatbelts.

Beaches with no sunscreen.

And somehow—we survived.

We drank soda from glass bottles, dropped food on the floor,

dusted it off, and ate it anyway.

We shared soda, sandwiches, secrets—

and the occasional bout of lice.

Vinegar solved it.

We took road trips with no screens, no playlists, no WiFi.

Just static-filled radio, endless rounds of “I Spy,”

and siblings poking each other across the backseat.

We carried backpacks that weighed more than our book reports.

We memorized phone numbers, used payphones,

and rewound tapes with a pencil—because that’s what you did.

No smartphones. No TikTok. No 5G.

But we had marbles, jump rope, freeze tag,

and truth or dare whispered beneath the stars.

Friendship wasn’t filtered or posted.

It was earned—through bruises, loyalty, and laughter.

We weren’t avatars or handles.

We were the quiet one, the fast one, the one who always got a laugh.

And somehow, we all belonged.

We didn’t learn from TED Talks.

We learned by trying, failing, and getting back up.

We remember the world before it sped up.

And we held on tight as it did.

❤️ We survived it all—with grit, with soul, with heart.

And no—we wouldn’t trade it.

Here’s to us—

to those who lived before and after.

To the ones who still remember.

To the lucky ones.

“You cited what?”

A trial court in Georgia, just issued a ruling based on hallucinated A.I. case law—complete with fake citations, zero verification, and no pushback until the case hit the appeals court.

It gets worse: on appeal, both parties cited 12 more non-existent cases. This isn’t just a glitch. It’s a systemic failure.

No safeguards. No checks. No balance. Just fabricated precedent shaping real-world outcomes.

Legal professionals—judges, attorneys, ops leaders: Are we witnessing a breakdown in the rule of law, or sleepwalking into a future where legal reasoning is outsourced to black-box models?

This is a leadership crisis. If we don’t assert control now, we risk letting machines invent the law—and that’s not justice.

Back when summers were loud, streets were ours,

and joy cost about fifty cents,

there was Tina’s—the around-the-block candy store on 83rd.

You’d walk in with a pocketful of change—sticky from melted candy—and head straight for the wire bin near the register.

No need to ask. No need to explain.

There it was, waiting for you: the Spaldeen.

Pink.

Rubber.

Perfect.

Not just a ball—the ball.

The one that knew every crack in the sidewalk,

every brick on the schoolyard wall,

every stoop that could launch it into orbit.

Kids were allowed outside—no phones, no tracking apps—

just a simple rule: be home by lunch.

And with that kind of freedom, the block was your universe.

You’d bounce it once outside—pop!—and suddenly the block lit up.

Kids came running.

Games erupted.

Handball. Slapball. Stoopball. Punchball.

No gear, no coaches, no rules you couldn’t bend.

The Spaldeen went under cars, over fences, into backyards you weren’t supposed to enter.

It disappeared down sewer grates—may it rest in peace.

Sometimes it split right in half from too much love.

But that was okay.

Because Tina’s always had another.

And you always had enough change if you skipped the second soda.

It wasn’t just a ball.

It was your ticket to the game.

To the crew.

To the long summer afternoon that never seemed to end.

The Spaldeen didn’t bounce.

It boomed.

And if you were lucky,

it took your childhood with it—

high, fast, and free.

I’ve learned the hard way—there comes a point when holding things together just isn’t worth it.

Meryl Streep once said, “Let things fall apart—stop exhausting yourself trying to hold them together.” She was right. Some things aren’t meant to last. Some people were never meant to stay. And forcing what’s already breaking only ends up breaking you.

Let people be upset. Let them misunderstand. Let them judge. Their reactions are not your responsibility. You don’t owe explanations to people committed to twisting your truth.

And when someone shows you who they are—believe them. Stop justifying, excusing, or hoping they’ll become who they promised to be. Watch what they do, not what they say. Patterns don’t lie.

And when you see bullshit—call it out.
Stop shrinking to keep others comfortable. Stop letting people hide behind titles, egos, or power. That includes bosses, leaders, institutions—anyone who forgets that leadership is a responsibility, not a shield from accountability. If you have a platform, a skill, a voice—you have an obligation to use it. Not just for yourself, but for those who can’t.

I’ve been silent before. I’ve carried the weight of unspoken truths, hoping things would just work themselves out. But silence doesn’t fix anything. It just eats you alive from the inside.

There is more ahead—more love, more clarity, more peace. But only if you’re brave enough to make space for it.

So ask yourself:
What are you still afraid to say out loud?
What are you clinging to that’s already let go of you?
What truth are you sitting on because it makes others uncomfortable?

Say it.
Let it go.
Call it like it is.
And step into who you’re actually meant to be.

I keep this photo in my office. It’s a reminder of what real suffering looks like.

Her name was Czesława Kwoka—a 14-year-old Catholic girl from Poland, deported to Auschwitz with her mother during the Nazi occupation.

Shortly after they arrived, a guard beat her in the face for not understanding orders in German. Then, this photo was taken. She was murdered weeks later.

The camp photographer, a fellow prisoner named Wilhelm Brasse, defied orders and secretly preserved her image.

“Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess—except one thing: your freedom to choose how you respond”.
—Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning

I hope people who are struggling right now see this—and remember that even in the darkest moments, we can still choose compassion, dignity, and courage.

May her face never be forgotten.

My high school has, recently, published a number of photos of its newly admitted class of 2028 and I’ve enjoyed seeing these pictures. It’s been 51 years since I first entered Xavier. I see myself in these newly admitted ‘brothers’. Proud, happy, a bit scared; all on display. These young men have no way of knowing what their future will be, just as I didn’t know when I first stepped into Xavier. They have no way of knowing that they are beginning on their search of finding Heaven. What do I mean? I guess what I’m saying is that I believe in Heaven on Earth, and I believe it’s found anywhere you seek it. I first found it with many of my friendships that began with fellow Xavier High School classmates that have now stood the test of time. There’s not a lot you can hide from someone who knows you since you’re 13 years old! Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, lemme tell you. Those are big years. Everybody always thinks of it as a time of adolescence—just getting through to the real part of your life—but it’s more than that. Sometimes your whole life happens in those years, and the rest of your life it’s just the same story playing out with different characters. I could die tomorrow and have lived the main ups and downs of life experienced with those guys. Pain. Loss. Love. Gratitude. And what we all so fondly refer to as wisdom. That’s Heaven. I found Heaven with some of the Jesuit teachers I had. The teachers of my life saved my life and sent me out prepared for whatever life I was meant to lead. Like everyone else, I had some bad ones and mediocre ones, but I never had one that I thought was holding me back because of idleness or thoughtlessness. They spent their lives with the likes of me. They lit a path for me and one that I followed with joy.
So, lads enjoy your own search, recognize that you will never regret going to Xavier and keep marching Class of 2028!