thewildseven

[thewildseven]

Let Me Run On Afterlife

I can’t stop listening to this song.

It’s called Afterlife, by Alex G — an indie artist my son London has been recommending for years. And it’s different from his usual artsy-sad stuff: it’s more upbeat, more reflective, almost hopeful.

“Let me run on / Afterlife / Filling up the tank with it.” 

Those first five words of “Afterlife” suck me in right away, and the rest of the song hangs on for dear life as the indie artist touches on poetic and powerful theme; he juxtaposes themes of memories and media, youthful recklessness and spiritual reflection. (Definitely take a listen and check out the artful lyrics.)

My son, London, has been repping this guy for years, and while I’ve enjoyed his intentionally under-produced, mildly depressing music before, it’s this pensive, bittersweet if not positive look at life that finally got me. 

It’s because the song unearths so many thoughts and feelings that swirl just beneath the surface these days: 

Time. Fatherhood. Death. 

“Let me run on / Afterlife,” has a double meaning for me (and probably for the artist, too). Like a car runs on gasoline, Alex G is asking to be able to run on afterlife (and even goes on to say “filling up the tank with it”). 

But on the other hand, it sounds like a plea to the universe: “Let me run on…” 

Man, sometimes I feel like that’s what I’m shouting at the universe as it feels like death is just around the corner. 

No, not in the self-destructive kind of way — that certainly had its time and place some years back — but in the sober, oh-man-this-might-be-at-the-doorstep kind of way… in the “I keep noticing the exits” kind of way. 

It’s the realization that our fragile little world is indeed fragile. 

It’s a nagging feeling that time is running short. That little tap on the shoulder that used to come ever so often now feels like a constant drip. Civil liberties eroding? Drip. Drumbeats of global war (and increased betting odds — yes, betting odds — of nuclear detonation)? Drip. Planes falling out of the sky? Drip. The Christian church not just losing, but jettisoning The Way? Drip. Bad guys keep on winning? Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. 

Whether I’m looking at genetic history that is scary, ACTUAL WORLD HISTORY that is scary, or the wrinkles on my own forehead, it feels nearly impossible to hear anything else but the dripping reminder of inevitable death. 

Dying itself isn’t a big deal, honestly. It’s the nagging feeling of time running out. Of wanting to do so many things I want to do. To establish, grow, nourish, and enjoy relationship with those closest to me. 

Maybe by the time I’m 80, 85 years old, I’ll be ready to go. I’ll have seen everything I wanted to see (and so much I didn’t want to see). I’ll have a body that’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’ll have lost lots of the things that made life enjoyable (including, possibly, my very memory). 

Maybe I’ll be ready to go then. But then again, maybe I’ll never be ready. 

That immediately brings to mind another scenario people are never really ready to embrace: parenthood. 

Sure, parenthood is optional rather than inevitable. But for those of us who enter that realm, despite the careful planning, book reading, and forethought, nothing can prepare you for that moment when you’re holding a new life in your arms — and you have to take it home and, like, keep it alive!? 

Death and fatherhood have something massive in common besides being un-plannable: They, more than any other topics/statuses/situations, are the loudest reminders of the cruelty of time and the reality that there will never quite be enough of it. 

…

Another lyric from that stands out: “When the light came / Big and bright / I began another life.”

Eighteen years ago, I celebrated my first Father’s Day as a newly minted 25-year-old who had a fairly pregnant wife at the time and an insane amount of anticipation. 

Y’all, I was a child. Despite a hubris-fueled overconfidence and arrogance that convinced me otherwise, I didn’t know what I was doing. I got married as a child, really — 21 years old — and having a child was the next step. 

I fell in love with that kid right away. I would just stare at him. I’d kiss his baby-scented little head and sit in a recliner snuggling for as long as he’d let me. And then came his two sisters in rapid succession, and that was it. I was a dad. Like, a triple-dad. Crazy. 

One of the most haunting sayings I ever heard was, “The days are long, but the years are short.” 

When I first became a dad, it felt like I had all the time in the world with my little crew. That illusion evaporated as soon as they started going to school. Fast-forward to a divorce and split-custody time, coupled with teenagers who can drive and have countless other things to do than sit and snuggle with me in the La-Z-Boy, and the time feels really, really short. 

At this point, time with my kids feels like that scene in Mickey and the Beanstalk where Mickey, Donald and Goofy try to share one slice of bread by dividing it into tissue-thin pieces. 

That baby boy of mine turns 18 this fall. I honestly don’t want to become an emotional basket case a whole year before he finishes high school, but I know it’ll go quickly. So I walk the delicate balance of trying to take it all in without becoming a constant blubbering mess. 

I like having London around. He can drive me crazy with his lackluster time/money management, dubious academic behaviors, at-times disrespectful knee-jerk reactions, and occasional lack of self-awareness. But his energy, his life, his excitement about things is contagious and is home to me. 

I’ve previously written about my mom vs. the silence. Her words, “It’s just so quiet,” haunt me more often than I’d like. A year from now, he’ll be 18, will have (fingers crossed) graduated, and will be looking to move out and move on. This is, really, his last full summer with me.

As much as I hate the emotional toll of Fridays, next year, I know that I’ll look back on these moments more fondly — the moments where every other week he’d roar into my house with his sisters — bringing that missing piece back into my heart. 

For now, I just watch him. I listen more and better and just try to be in the moment with him. All we have is the now, and I’m enjoying all the nows where he’s in them, wake surfing behind the boat, doing stupid tricks on the table with his finger-skateboard, playing my old guitar. 

Soon, it’ll all be gone. 

And the truth is, his sisters aren’t far behind him. Dev is one school year behind him, in fact, and I see her only three days in every 14, so time goes exponentially faster. Ivy will be a freshman next year, so the clock is indeed ticking. 

Avoidance can be pretty attractive when it comes to dreading unpleasant feelings, but it only lasts for so long before I know I’m living a lie. It’s why I can’t fully numb out while America heads down a dark path that doesn’t (for now) directly impact me, a straight, white male. 

These days, being with my kids, my parents, my partner, and other loved ones feels like I’m on vacation. My partner, Joanie, sometimes says she has a hard time on vacation because, as she puts it, “It isn’t real,” that all these amazing things we experience — the relaxation, the food, the rest, the peace — don’t follow us home. 

I’m viewing life this way these days. Like the precious moments I have with my kids are temporary, that soon enough, the energy and noise and mayhem won’t be my daily life anymore. Like the peace I can have outside on my patio in the morning hours, listening to birds chirp while I sip a coffee — feels temporary in a world that feels more and more dangerous.

“A prayer was a baited hook / Scribbled in a history book.” 

I drive past a nursing home on the road between my house and downtown Boise. Almost every day during the summer months, some resident will be outside, sitting in a wheelchair or gurney at the corner of the property, just watching the world go by.

I make a point to honk or wave when I drive by, not because I know them, but because I feel like maybe I’m making a deposit on my own future. When the world is literally going by me, and nobody knows who I am, where I am, or how I’m doing, that someone would send me a simple message that says, “Hey, I see you.”

To me, their presence outside is one last act of defiance… one last, “I will not go quietly.” One last “there’s still something for me today.” 

And although they live in a heartbreaking reality, that insistence to live in the present moment, to find the best of what’s available, is attractive and inspiring to me. 

It echoes the sentiments of one of my favorite philosophers, Marcus Aurelius, who wrote in his Meditations:

"Forget everything else. Keep hold of this alone and remember it: Each of us lives only now, this brief instant. The rest has been lived already, or is impossible to see." — Meditations, Book III, 10

and…

"Don’t let your reflection on the whole sweep of life crush you. Don’t fill your mind with all the bad things that might still happen. Stay focused on the present situation and ask yourself why it’s so unbearable and can’t be survived." — Meditations, Book VIII, 36

With fatherhood, with relationships, with my country and my very life, may I keep hold of the moment independently from what’s ahead (as best I can). 

“Let me run on…”

[thewildseven]

My Mom vs. The Quiet

An essential part of my recent trip to Eugene for the On The Rocks 25th anniversary concert was, of course, seeing my mom. She was gracious enough to host us at her house (despite it being a very active Airbnb property). The kids stayed with Grandma Nomi in Gresham while I sang, reconnected, and soaked up the festivities two hours away. 

And to see my show, she drove those two hours, both ways, in one night with my three teenagers — making for a late night and a long day. She didn’t complain or even think twice about it; it’s what she’s always done. 

The next day, after I checked out of my hotel room and drove back up north to Gresham, my mom was deep in preparation for my next social event: a reunion of some of my best high school friends — a quartet that hadn’t been all together in more than 20 years. 

The next two-and-a-half hours were full of stories, laughter, catching up, controversies (like finding out I might have indeed been the “bad influence” of our group), and reflecting on life so many years later. 

My mom sat at the table occasionally, only to flit around to the kitchen to grab the pizza she ordered us, or to the couch to watch us from afar. I got a few glimpses of her during that hangout time. She was beaming, a big smile on her face, as if she was suddenly transported to a different time — a time when life was simpler, busier, and louder. I get it; I felt that too. 

Soon enough, 2:30 came, and it was time to make the 7-hour-plus trek back to Boise. I bid my friends goodbye and walked out to the already-packed car. There, mom and I had a heartfelt and long goodbye hug, before climbing in the car with my kids. This extremely fast trip was over, and while I left feeling fulfilled, I also felt the absence of some good “mom time.” 

When I lived in Oregon, and my kids were little, Mom would always end our visits by standing next to our car on the curb (or in the street, if she was feeling especially risky), singing a song that I think we picked up from Smurfs decades prior: “Oh Mr. Moon, moon, bright and shiny moon, won’t you please shine down on me,” until we’d start to pull away, whereby she would begin to act surprised we were leaving and would bang her hands on the car as we’d drive away. 

It was always funny, until we moved to Boise. While we expected it every time we’d drive away (and indeed wanted it), it hit differently — perhaps a stark, sad reminder that we didn’t live close anymore. Honestly, it’s gotten sadder with every passing year for me. The proximity we had was rare and valuable and now we don’t have it. 

Less than an hour after she “Mr. Mooned” us away, my son got a text from his Grandma Nomi — something along the lines of, “I had such a wonderful time with you guys… thank you for filling my house with life. It’s so quiet now.”

Those last four words have haunted me ever since. Because I get that, to some extent. Due to custody schedules, my kids roar into the house like a freight train on Friday, and then the next Friday, they roar out, leaving behind a quiet, empty bedroom, and me with my thoughts. 

For the moment, I at least have the luxury of knowing that it’s only seven quick days until they return. I can’t imagine the feeling of open-ended silence like what my mom feels. 

The thing about my mom is that she finds ways to bring vibrance and activity into her life. She hosts neighborhood kids to dye eggs around Easter. She gives love, advice, and energy to younger women who never got to experience someone like her (or whose moms are far away). She has literally opened up her home as the aforementioned Airbnb because she loves people and loves making them feel welcome. And for the most part, these travelers of various ages, races, and nationalities probably take away some of that silence.

I know there are countless people this Mother’s Day who consider my mom to be, in a way, their mom. I know my sister and I are lucky indeed to actually be the ones who get to claim her. 

Here’s the secret, though: It’s not me, my kids, my friends, or my sister who bring the life and energy to my mom’s home. She does it to all of us. She’s the one who lights up every room she goes into, fosters vibrant conversation, and makes the best memories. We just get to be active participants in her contagious view of life. 

So, it’s in that spirit, that I join with so many, many others in wishing my mom a HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY! We are all more alive because you exist.

[thewildseven]

The Homecoming of a Wayward Rock

In the final minutes before we went onstage for my college a cappella group’s massive 25th anniversary concert, I overheard something in the green room that stuck with me.

“It seems like some people need this a lot more than others.”

It came from a fellow alum, about 10 years my junior, talking to one of his former classmates. It felt like a subtle jab at those of us who were diving in full-force—dusting off University of Oregon-branded ties, snapping on suspenders, and rehashing big solos.

I’ve been thinking about that quip all week. And I agree with that guy.

Because I’m one of the people who needs it.

What is “it”? Music. Memories. Belonging. A grab-you-by-the-shoulders reminder of who I was—and still am. Singing again with the guys from my era, and the generations after, brought scores of memories roaring back to life.

When I transferred from Portland State to the University of Oregon, 9/11 had just happened. I had walked away from a full-ride scholarship as a music performance major and an opera track in order to pursue journalism at one of the West’s best J schools. I also left behind a sleepy commuter school in favor of The College Experience™. I had started a surprisingly serious relationship back in Gresham before my relocation, and was embarking upon my first-ever honest-to-god long-distance relationship. I didn’t know many people. I moved into a dorm as a sophomore.

Everything felt unknown—and exciting.

A friend told me I needed to audition for the school’s “boy band”—On The Rocks, the school’s first (and only, at the time) a cappella group. I had just landed a spot on the campus newspaper, the Oregon Daily Emerald, but decided to load up on extra-curriculars.

The audition went well. I remember singing “Soul Tattoo” by Plus One (a Christian boy band, which telegraphed both my spirituality and my pop tendencies), running through scales, and harmonizing with some other guys. Group co-founder Peter Hollens told me, "You're like the best singer I’ve ever heard." I wish I had that in writing.

When I (and fellow auditionee Cooper) showed up for what I thought was a callback, it turned out to be a “chill-and-grill” welcome party. I was in. That night, I learned what it was to be a “rock.” Brotherhood. Shenanigans. Insane dedication to the music and to each other. The existing members sang their cover of “Demons” by Guster that gave me chills—a moment I can re-enter every time I hear that tune.

I felt both a sense of excitement and, honestly, fear—because I realized I was in for more than I’d expected. I knew this wasn’t just a club. It was a lifestyle.

We rehearsed a lot. Performed weekly in the Erb Memorial Student Union amphitheatre, rain or shine. Traveled. Recorded our first album, which hit the top of the campus record shop’s best-seller list. We entertained hundreds every Friday, blending classics like "Brown Eyed Girl" with current hits like Jimmy Eat World’s "Hear You Me." Sororities hired us to serenade them. It was pre-YouTube, pre-TikTok. We were a live, analog phenomenon.

But behind the scenes, I was wrestling. With faith. With time. With loyalty.

My girlfriend, still living hours away, repeatedly said she felt threatened by the group’s culture and worried about my spiritual life. She drove to Eugene nearly every weekend to keep tabs on me. I was battling guilt over these competing commitments, feeling stuck at a fork in the road.

Academically, I stumbled a little. I failed the only class I’ve ever failed—J-202, Info Hell, a journalism school rite of passage—because I procrastinated and tried to write my final on a van ride with the guys to Berkeley. Rookie mistake. The fact that I ever thought I’d be able to get a damn thing done on my laptop in that van full of dudes, despite the roughly 8-hour drive, was naïveté at best, but more than likely sheer avoidant insanity.

But it was all in stride, it was worth it. We were building something incredible, and I loved it.

I learned to grill meat with those guys. Had high highs and low lows. Sang for Phil Knight and Coach Mike Bellotti and our university president, and also dealt with one of our members being hospitalized. We competed in the ICCAs (a cappella championship), winning regionals, getting second place in the semifinals and thanks to BYU Vocal Point not competing on Sundays, we made it to the ICCA finals at the Lincoln Center in NYC and got third in the world.

During that year, we bonded through those successes and trials in a way that, I believe, set the tone for what the next two decades-plus of the group became: brotherhood, commitment, musical excellence, taking the music seriously but not ourselves, and boldness.

When the school year came to a close, we were all understandably exhausted, and were looking forward to the break. But that exhaustion, and my return to Gresham for the summer, had me in a vulnerable spot to make a change.

My girlfriend wanted me to quit the group. She said it was too much of a commitment, and that it wasn’t making me a better Christian. In that moment, I’d agreed with her arguments. I had a big decision to make over the summer, but it was one I avoided until the last possible moment: after fall auditions.

I was leaving OTR.

The guys were stunned. I was never fully comfortable with my decision, and that was evidenced by one of the most bone-headed decisions I made next: I tried to create my own a cappella group, justifying it by saying it would be less of a commitment, less of an eyebrow-raising atmosphere for my pastors, and more of a hobby than a lifestyle. I thought it would make me happy.

My girlfriend thought it was a brilliant idea. My brothers in OTR? It was, accurately, nothing short of betrayal. Just really stupid, arrogant, entitled drama.

I assembled the group using the names and info culled from the group’s fall auditions (another hubris-filled betrayal). We sang haphazardly arranged Top 40 hits in awkward venues like the Carson Hall dorm dining room and the lobby of the student union.

Sure, I had control. But the magic was replaced by the massive guilt I felt, the burden of trying to make this new “hobby” a success, and the loneliness of my social situation. I was Sisyphus, pushing a boulder uphill, only for it to roll back down again and again.

Only a few months later, I got engaged and ultimately abandoned this new group, too. I transferred back to Portland State, bringing an abrupt and inauspicious end to my once-promising era in Eugene. I left UO distracted by the life momentum of getting married, feeling like running away was the only way to not have to deal with all the unnecessary hardship I brought to the people I loved.

I got married just before beginning my senior year. I had a very limited list of people to choose from to be my groomsmen (I even had to ask my dad to fill in a spot, and another spot was filled by a guy I didn’t know very well from my work at a Christian bookstore). All the while, my former OTR bros were all groomsmen at each other’s weddings. They’d carried on, and I lied in the bed I made.

I finished with a somewhat weak degree in Communication Studies but a strong resume that landed me a job at the Oregon Coast for a year, before I returned to the Portland area as Editor of a small-town newspaper. Had my first kid in 2007, and two more by 2011. Built a career in journalism and church ministry. Led worship. But something always felt missing.

When the 10-year OTR reunion came around, I was shocked to be invited as an avowed alumnus. My interactions with the guys were understandably tense at first, thanks to all the history and all the hurt I caused. But one by one, each guy was bigger than I had ever been, and slowly, we began to repair.

Although there was little to no engagement with the group (outside of getting to guest-sing with the current group when they came to the city where I lived), a lot of life happened over the next 10 years.

In the years leading up to the 20-year reunion, I was starting life over. I had divorced the girl from college. It was a long, although ultimately abrupt awakening to the fact that our passions would never align and would always be seen by the other as a threat. I lived in a new place. I no longer identified as an evangelical Christian. I had found new love. And I was yearning to sing again.

Not as many of the guys from my era were there, but for those who were, I finally felt like part of the group again. Together, it felt like almost no time had passed. I walked away from that interaction resolved to connect with my friend Pete, who lived not too far from me in Boise, Idaho.

I started taking voice lessons again, something I hadn’t done since my first year at Portland State. I joined the local opera company and a semi-professional choir to scratch the musical itch. Music was back in my life. On my terms again.

Eventually, I called Pete, saying, “Enough is enough; let’s get a beer.” That first hangout led to a road trip to an Oregon Ducks away game. That led to 10 hours of talking through everything you’ve read so far and then some. I apologized a whole lot for everything—my judgmentalness, my abandoning, my betrayals—and I was met with a hell of a lot of grace, kindness, and that true brotherhood I remembered from so long before.

All of that fed my emotions coming into the OTR 25th Anniversary weekend.

Out of the nine guys from my era, eight of us made it to Eugene, among the 70-or-so total guys in attendance from throughout the generations. Sure, I got to reprise my solos for “For the Longest Time” and “In the End”, but the greatest joy to me came from the surreal feeling of singing alongside these guys in real-time again. From seeing Chris and co-founder Leo sing together on “Demons”. From hearing Pete and Cooper hold it down on bass in the “I Need to Know” breakdown. From Hollens and I making the same goofy faces at each other during our dueling vocal parts on “Romeo & Juliet.”

It was almost too much for me to take. So much life has happened over the past 23 years. So much water under the bridge. So much growth and wisdom and repair. And aside from the well-earned occasional joking jab about that “other group” I started, we all were brothers again. More than the music, more than the albums and the competitions and the fans, the most valuable part of this experience was (and still is) making magic with people you love.

This time, I knew what it meant. I didn’t take it for granted. Never again.

I have had a beautiful opportunity over the past six years to reacquaint myself with the younger me. Sure, that guy had a lot of demons—anxious attachment and its manifestations chief among them.

But that Marcus also had so much energy, so much promise, so much positivity and so much hope. As I get to know this guy all over again, I can feel a deep, almost parental, love for him. And I want to learn from him now.

It was especially powerful seeing my three teenage children in the front row, finally getting to see what the hype is all about. Pete tells me he nearly cried as he watched the look of awe on my kids’ faces as I belted out a solo Saturday night. I’m just so happy they got to meet another version of their dad.

A week after the reunion, I’m still trying to make sense of it all. I know reunions aren’t real life. I know I’m probably never going to be part of an a cappella group like that again.

But there’s something I’m supposed to take from it—something more than nostalgia. That weekend wasn’t just a fun trip down memory lane; it was a wake-up call. A siren reminding me that something’s still missing: brotherhood, joy, belonging, shared history.

This wasn’t just about reliving the past. It was about rediscovering the parts of myself I’ve left behind—and realizing they still matter. I want to nurture the relationships that knew the old me and build new ones that honor who I’ve become. I don’t know exactly how that will look yet. But I do know this: the best parts of my past life can help me live better today.

Last weekend reminded me what it feels like to be fully alive, fully seen and accepted. Maybe I do need that feeling more than most. And honestly? I’m alright with that.

[thewildseven]

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[thewildseven]

“Friday”

Like an explosion, but the opposite. Out of chaos, a drastic thud, the slamming of the mute button.

So.

Much.

Silence.

My stomach drops, my eyes water. Felt like I’d lost my own voice when yours faded out.

Noise is my blanket, my kerosene, my fire This calm is my tourniquet, my guillotine, my mire And in the cold of the quiet, I shiver.

I think. I feel. Too much.

The warmth of a memory stinging. A bittersweet song still ringing.

It’s hard here with you. But so much harder without you.

[thewildseven]

This actually brought tears to my eyes. Music and connection are VITAL parts of being human. Thanks, Dave.

[thewildseven]

9 Things Crossing My Mind During Quarantine

I think I want to start writing lists. Numbered, even ranked sorts of lists. Feels like a quick, efficient way to get some thoughts out and keep me writing.

As of this blog, I’ve been sheltered in place during the coronavirus outbreak for something like a month; let me kick this off by sharing with you the 9 things crossing my mind during the coronavirus quarantine (but first, a quarantine-tune):

1. It’s unfair that hobby lobby has to close while michaels and Joann stay open. Listen, they all need to close, and HobLob was really trying hard to assert itself, but let’s play fair, guys.

2. The people with AK47s protesting in capitals trying to get stay at home orders lifted are far more dangerous than the virus itself. It’s unfortunate we aren’t doing more about THOSE threats.

3. Fear is the most contagious thing of all. People are afraid of the virus, of other people, the government, their jobs vanishing, of vaccines, of take out food, of not having enough alcohol... all of it. Fear fear fear. What was it FDR said?

4. Good gravy I have newfound respect for the civil servants who keep us safe and alive. Of course I think of medical professionals and first responders, but right now I’m referring to my kids’ teachers. Man I miss them.

5. Working from home basically magnifies all your insecurities surrounding family and career. You really can’t do anything well, and if you do, it’s either because you have one badass non-working partner, you’re lying to yourself, or you’re burning the candle at both ends and are about to have a breakdown.

6. I really wish someone would make me an Oregon Ducks face mask. Dark green with a yellow O right in the middle of my muzzle, please.

7. It’s been great to see people just not using their cameras anymore in Zoom meetings. We are all like, “Screw it. We all know we’re disheveled and still in bed. Let’s not even make the effort to look put together. Let’s just try to not SOUND like we just woke up.” The game has changed.

8. The pace of life has wayyyyy slowed down, and that’s probably my favorite thing ever. People are learning how to wait again, to do things like puzzles and bike rides and gardening and chalk art. Sure, technology is great, but I feel like people are largely making strides to get AWAY from the screen, not closer to it.

9. When I was little, it would flood ALL the time in my neighborhood. Sometimes it would flood so bad that the streets would be like little rivers. A few times we got out the canoe to paddle down the street. It never got into my house while I lived there, so the danger never materialized. It was a pain for the adults, I’m sure, but I loved storm season. I was sad when the waters receded. I think I’m feeling the same way about quarantine. I want to go on my trip to Europe or visit a Portland or even drive to Salt Lake City, but not a day goes by that I don’t try to breathe in the novelty of this moment, to see the gift that is hunkering down in one’s home with loved ones, to enjoy the slower pace of life and to stretch the days. I’ll miss it when it’s gone, no doubt — even though I’ve somewhat been social distancing for the past year-plus. I wonder how many of us will have post-quarantine blues. But hey, no matter what, states like Georgia and Texas are straight up dumb for reopening their states. This isn’t even close to over.

[thewildseven]

I feel like my purpose in life is to root out fear. It hides everywhere. I see it as my overarching goal as a parent, a friend, a human.

[thewildseven]

That’s me!

[thewildseven]

Had a BLAST making this music video with my daughters!

[thewildseven]

In case you’re like me and needed a diagram in order to moonwalk. https://www.instagram.com/p/B2OCCpylDW5/?igshid=174prayftvk9a

[thewildseven]

This book... just... 🤯

[thewildseven]

Drenched in the rain of the tears you cried. Numb from the reign of the pain inside. I was there... I am there, with you.