The Man Behind the Madness
Stories from a life being lived.
I'm a husband, a father of four, a veteran, a student, a writer, and a fellow who has apparently never encountered an interesting idea without wondering whether I could turn it into another project.
Some of those projects work out beautifully.
Others become stories.
And occasionally, the dumpster fires are ripe for a harvest, but all I have is a bottle of water and a towel.
Welcome to CranioDad.
It Started With a Story
I've been writing in one form or another for a long time.
In August 2011, I sat down and started putting words to something I was experiencing for the first time: the anticipation of becoming a father.
I was excited. Terrified. Full of questions I couldn't answer and emotions I didn't entirely understand.
And I wrote about them.
Not because I had some great wisdom to share. Quite the opposite. I was trying to make sense of things, and I suspected there might be another fellow somewhere who was feeling much the same way.
I didn't know it then, but that instinct would become one of the most important reasons I continued writing.
In April 2012, my wife and I welcomed our daughter into the world.
And life, as it so often does, decided that the plan we'd imagined was merely a suggestion.
Our daughter was born with medical complexities that would introduce us to a world of specialists, hospitals, surgeries, uncertainty, and an entirely different understanding of what it means to be a parent.
Somewhere along that road, CranioDad was born.
The name came from craniosynostosis, one part of our daughter's medical journey. But the reason I started sharing those experiences was much simpler.
I was looking for another father's voice.
Someone who could tell me what it felt like to sit beside a hospital bed. To be frightened and grateful at the same time. To love a child so completely that the thought of not being able to protect them becomes almost unbearable.
I wanted to know that someone else had stood where I was standing.
And eventually, I realized that perhaps my words could offer a little of that companionship to someone else.
But there's something important I've learned over the years.
My daughter's story belongs to her.
I can tell you what it has been like to be her father. I can share the fears, the gratitude, the sleepless nights, and the moments that changed me.
But I don't get to tell her story for her.
That distinction matters more to me now than it ever has.
The Years Have a Way of Changing Things
A lot has happened since those early days.
Our family grew. Four children now fill our home with noise, laughter, questions, arguments, projects, and an impressive ability to make a perfectly reasonable schedule completely irrelevant.
My wife and I have learned that marriage, parenting, and life generally require a great deal more patience, humor, and flexibility than either of us probably anticipated.
I've spent years serving in the Army, building a career, leading teams, learning new things, and discovering that the lessons I thought I'd mastered have a remarkable tendency to return for another examination.
Faith has remained part of that journey, too. Not as a claim that I have everything figured out, but as something that challenges me to keep asking questions, to show up, and to consider how I treat the people around me.
And through all of it, I've kept finding stories.
Sometimes they're big ones.
Sometimes they're about standing along a baseball fence after a long workday, watching a child do something he's worked hard to accomplish.
Sometimes they're about a conversation over coffee, an unexpected moment of kindness, or realizing that the elaborate family activity I planned is considerably less important than simply sitting down together.
And sometimes they're about the dog, the dishwasher, or whatever fresh nonsense has decided to make an appearance before breakfast.
I've come to appreciate that the ordinary moments are rarely as ordinary as they seem.
They're the things I want to remember.
And they're the things I hope my children might someday return to, not necessarily to discover what happened, but to understand a little more about how their dad saw the world.
Still Learning. Still Building. Still Writing.
These days, life is as full as ever.
I'm raising a family, working in healthcare analytics and leadership, continuing my education, and pursuing more creative interests than any reasonable person would attempt to manage simultaneously.
I enjoy building things, exploring ideas, reading, gaming, and learning something new simply because I want to understand it.
Sometimes that curiosity leads to a finished project.
Sometimes it leads to another notebook full of ideas.
And sometimes it leads to me standing in the middle of a room wondering how a perfectly innocent question turned into a three-month undertaking.
I've also spent time streaming and building communities around gaming, conversation, and shared experiences. Those connections have mattered to me, and that part of CranioDad isn't gone. It's simply one of several things that have a place in my life.
But right now, writing is where I'm deliberately investing my creative energy.
In 2026, I made a concerted effort to return to the journal, even while balancing school, work, and family.
Not because life suddenly became less complicated.
If anything, it seems to have taken that suggestion personally.
I returned because I wanted to pay attention.
To capture the moments while they're happening. To work through the questions. To recognize the things worth celebrating and acknowledge the days that are simply hard.
And perhaps, every now and then, to write something that makes another person feel a little less alone.
Pull Up a Chair
That's what CranioDad is today.
It's a journal with the door left open.
You'll find stories about family, fatherhood, faith, work, learning, creativity, and whatever else life decides to put in front of me.
Some will be thoughtful. Some will be funny. Some will be messy.
I don't promise profound wisdom, perfect answers, or a life that consistently goes according to plan.
I can promise that the stories come from a life being lived.
If something here makes you laugh, think, remember, or feel a little more connected to the people around you, then I'm glad you stopped by.
There's coffee somewhere around here.
Pull up a chair.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.