This story is about me. Only me. It’s about my ego and insecurities and fears and needs.
I typically write what I think might be useful for others to know and understand, but this is different. It’s more like a diary entry. A confessional. A cry of frustration.
It’s the sort of thing I would address to a wife or partner or trusted companion — if I had a woman in that role. It’s my half of a conversation which I would need to have with someone who loved me and believed in me and was permanently a part of my life.
So this probably isn’t for you.
I’m struggling right now. In many ways, things are the best in my life that they’ve been for at least 20 years. I have stability and purpose again. I know where I want to go. I’m more clear about my values and my priorities than I’ve ever been in my life.
But I’m struggling with the gap between how things ought to be and the reality I see in front of me. And that gap terrifies me — because nobody lives forever.

THE McELROY ZOO: Meet Sam, the baby kitten I stole
Would you have avoided mistakes if a psychic could’ve warned you?
Do great dreams really come true or do they just serve to haunt us?
Deconstructing my old life’s hard, but I’m learning to be healthier
We can’t control timing of death, just what we do as we’re waiting
Arming teachers for safety likely to create gang that can’t shoot straight
No matter where I might ever live, the South will always be my home
This burning question divides us: Why can’t you people be like me?
What would your obit say about you — if you could write it yourself?