BLOG: Home Base

BLOG: Home Base

Tonight, I’m writing from where it all makes sense.

The bowling shoes are off. The cart is parked. The laughter is still echoing in my heart.

There’s something sacred about coming home after a night like this—when the pins fall just right, the air is filled with that good kind of tired, and your people are right there with you. No performance. No proving. Just presence.

Bella was smiling. Barbi was glowing. I felt like myself again—not the coach, not the writer, not the man sorting through storms—just the husband and father who knows he’s already rich.

We rode the golf cart as the sun dipped low, and for a moment, I remembered that roots don’t grow in noise—they grow in stillness. In joy. In shared moments. In little glances that say I see you, and arms that know how to hold you without words.

I belong here. With them. In the quiet strength of my family.

So tonight, I won’t say much more. I’m going to close this post, turn toward them, and breathe in what I almost forgot to notice:

Love like this is home.

Goodnight, from the heart of it all.

—Brian