The flight attendant on my Atlanta flight secretly gave me a seatbelt extender. She carried it under a metal tray she was balancing, which held small plastic glasses half-filled with water. She smiled as she handed it to me, and I appreciated the first-class sensitivity. If I were in coach, she would have gone over the loudspeaker:

"Becky, seat extender needed in 22C, please." And pressed my call light so Becky could find me quickly.

What I really wanted was an extra spicy Bloody Mary. A double. Just like they do it at home in Wisconsin: a couple of olives, hot pepper, a chunk of cheese, and a beef stick stacked on a stirrer with a Spotted Cow chaser. I wanted the jolt of vodka to warm my stomach and chill me out a little. But they told us we couldn't have any alcohol for two weeks leading up to our visit, and I guess I'm now a rule follower.

On Saturday and Sunday mornings, we’d settle into the living room of our “up north” Wisconsin home. It’s tucked way up at the top of the state, just about an hour from the Michigan peninsula. Look it up on a map—you’ll see why locals and regulars call it the Northwoods. The area is mostly state forest, full of deer, wolves, the occasional bear, and our favorite—the bald eagle. It’s our happy place.

From an early age, boys learn the rules: be tough, don’t cry, move on, handle it yourself. Pain becomes something to outgrow rather than understand. Vulnerability is framed as weakness. Over time, this conditioning doesn’t make trauma disappear; it simply forces it underground. And what goes underground does not dissolve—it shapes behavior, relationships, health, and identity.

Listen in!