Dear Bishop 2026

 

Dear Bishop,

2026 is the last year of my 30s. For all of us children of ’87, I’m sure we’re eagerly awaiting a natural disaster, an act of God, fate, luck—just fucking something—so we can collectively avoid turning 40.

We are, after all, a generation full of lasts and firsts. We were the last of the streetlight and hose-water kids. The first AOL and Yahoo chat room kids. The first ones to have cell phones.

And I thank fuck that camera phones didn’t become widely available until the end of our teenage years. Some things are better left living secretly in memory instead of surviving forever as a potato-quality, two-megapixel blackmail photo.

Thirty-nine has hit like a ton of bricks in many ways.

Six days before my 39th birthday, Shelby and I were on a quest for garlic bread to go with dinner. We were trying to get it before we had to pick up the Monkey. Then, as fate—and an elderly driver—would have it, my faithful Jeep, lovingly known as Dick, was hit.

It had already been a hard vehicular adventure. The Jeep had just gotten a new-to-it rear end not long before this and had only recently earned back its highway privileges. Just days earlier, I had finally gotten the VW back on the road for Shelby to drive.

To go from two working cars to a car accident in a matter of days...

Well, it was a kick in the balls and the teeth.

Dick had been having problems of various kinds for a while. It was, after all, a 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee with more than 240,000 miles on it. For whatever reason, it had starting issues in the cold. We had a full-on starting ritual for this bitch.

The windows—all of the windows—quit working. The factory alarm started going off and disabling the Jeep every time you unlocked the driver’s door. It overheated in the summer whenever I got stuck in traffic, even after a complete cooling-system replacement. Next on the list would have been the compressor and condenser.

Dick was tired.

Dick stressed me out.

I was tired of Dick.

On May 28th, I caved and upgraded from a 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee to a 2018 Jeep Grand Cherokee Trailhawk.

I did not want a car payment. I dislike newer vehicles. I dislike car payments. Everything I had was paid off. But my morning commute had become a constant point of stress, and I really wouldn’t drive much farther than from home to work anymore. Dick did not care for highway speeds, and his transmission was starting to slip more and more.

Dick has been retired.

I struggled to accept that the nicest, newest vehicle we had was mine to drive. Historically, my other half was more likely to have whatever the nicer vehicle was. It has taken me months to actually be okay with driving the Jeep as my daily. I tried to give it to Shelby to drive more times than I care to admit.

Trauma, am I right?

 

Slight backtrack.

I am a bitch about my birthday. I never go out of my way to celebrate it. I avoid it. I like to not remind people about it. It’s a very shhhh thing.

This year, Shelby did not back down and made birthday things happen. A small surprise party was had. We also took a little day trip to Wendover, but not for the usual Utah-to-Wendover-trip reasons.

I’ve wanted to go to the Wendover Airfield Museum since I learned it existed. Yes, that is the Jailbird from Con Air in those photos. But more than that, Wendover was home to the atomic bomb training program.

And I am a nerd.

Keeping on brand with the backtracking, on April 2nd I did something a little out of character for me.

“Thor, this might be the most autistic thing I’ve ever asked, but can I leave early to go see the UP Big Boy come into town?”

I’ve loved these trains since I was a kid and never thought I would get to see one living and breathing. It has absolutely no purpose being alive today other than the fact that it is fucking badass.

Thor laughed at me but said yes.

It is not every day I ask to leave work to go do something that actually interests me like this does. So that was a Bishop win. I took up a little room for myself.

Shelby was a bit upset that I didn’t invite them, but when 4014 came to Ogden, I made the whole family go.

  

On May 8th, the hand-me-down smoker finally gave up.

It had been dropped, knocked off a ledge, run over, and welded back together. Then it was given to me. It smoked with me from 2021 until May 8th, 2026.

It finally developed pellet-feeding issues and, as much as I hate to admit it, it just wasn’t worth throwing parts at anymore. I had wanted a new smoker for a long time, but as long as the old one was still trucking, I wasn’t about to replace it.

On May 9th, my new grill, digitally and physically known as Meat Slut, came home.

Shelby has even taken to firing up the smoker on their own to make some tasty meals. It has been an excellent purchase.

I started vaping around 2015, I think. My friend Rick gave me my first one. I had been a hardcore smoker years before, and when I took up drinking again, I realized I missed nicotine.

My vape was with me through the best of times and the worst of times from that point on. For a brief period in 2017, I vaped and smoked. Mid-divorce life required extra nicotine, I guess.

Thor and I had plotted to quit nicotine together. Our insurance was taking an extra $100 a month as a smoker’s fee, and we were sick of it.

On April 20th at 7 p.m., I switched to zero-nicotine vape juice.

Withdrawal sucked.

Night sweats. Frequent urination at night. I never fully grasped how much I used the vape for everyday things until the nicotine was gone. And let me tell you, I noticed the lack of happy chemicals drastically.

Things like gaming no longer brought the same joy without nicotine.

The switch to zero nicotine was the right choice. I didn’t want to develop a new habit with chew or gum. I wanted the nicotine gone.

It worked.

I still had the hand-to-mouth comfort, and that made me slightly less homicidal. But I started getting anxiety at the thought of not having the vape with me anymore. So I started leaving it at home for short trips.

Eventually, I got tired of the anxiety.

On June 12th, I finally said fuck it and gave up the vape completely.

As of this writing, I have been nicotine-free for 113 days. I have been vape-free for 60.

I kicked that goal’s ass!!!

Starting next year, I get to keep $100 more a month.

I call this a win.

Remember the talk of frequent late-night urination? Well, I had a few things going on.

I had a complete lack of energy. I would start falling asleep at my desk mid-task. I had trouble staying focused, and sometimes I would drift away mid-conversation. I took lots of naps and had zero zest for life.

Those were just some of the symptoms.

I told Thor I thought I was dealing with diabeetus. He reminded me that the symptoms of quitting nicotine could be similar and might take a while to shake off. So, for a while, that explanation made sense.

I finally went to the clinic on June 28th. I gave them the rundown of what was going on and what I thought I was dealing with.

While I waited, I could hear the nurse talking to the doctor in the hallway. I couldn’t make out exactly what was being said, but the tone sounded a whole lot like, “Ugh, another person trying to diagnose themselves.”

Then they drew my blood.

The doctor came back into the room and pretty much led with:

“Well, you have type 2 diabetes. You were correct.”

So this is 39...

While I have never been the healthiest eater, eating was never complicated.

This—this is complicated.

Suddenly, being hungry required a whole new level of involvement. Not only do I need nutrition, I need smart nutrition.

I had fasted for 12 hours before I went to the doctor. That part was premeditated. I was 90% certain I knew what was up, so I came prepared.

After the doctor? McDonald’s.

Two double cheeseburgers. No fries, because carbs.

I bought a meter off Amazon that logs everything with my phone. I still have to do the finger prick, but at least the log fills itself in. Shelby really stepped up and makes my breakfast and lunch for most of the work week. They have helped me find lower-carb and smarter choices.

Sometimes I eat shit that is bad for me for science.

I want to see the blood-test fallout. I want to feel the feels and learn my limits.

I can tell you that two cinnamon rolls and a five-hour nap later, my blood sugar levels were pretty good. I felt fucking drunk from the sugar rush, though, and I haven’t wanted to repeat that experiment.

I can also say that french fries are of the healthy devil and jack my numbers up.

Tonight, I sit listening to my liked songs on Spotify. I have come a long way from the teenager who would make CDs and playlists based on what I thought other people would find cool.

This year has been challenging in ways I could have never imagined. Shelby and I have had our own trials by fire, alone and together. It really has not been easy.

But here we are, doing the best we can.

Life will never be perfect. Plans will always find little ways to get fucked up. We will never have perfect control over what happens, but we can control how we react and how we recover from the hard knocks of life.

Thirty-nine was not what I imagined. But, being truthful, I never expected to get to 39.

Teenage me did not have plans this far into the future, and sometimes it shows.

Had I planned for 39, I probably would have taken better care of myself. But until we take our last breath, it is never too late to be even 1% better than we were yesterday.

Physical health is not the only thing, though.

Growing up, I feel like my boundaries were pretty hazy. That was probably due, at least in part, to being Mormon and homeschooled. It is hard to push back against something when everything seems normal because you were taught that it was normal.

But I can proudly say that I now tell people to fuck off when it is warranted.

I am more honest and open about my feelings, both with myself and with others. I take up a bit more space now—and not just because I am fat.

Life is ever-changing.

So am I.

It felt good tonight to finally write again after being away for so long. It has taken a lot to find level ground after quitting nicotine and being diagnosed with diabetes.

This is my yearly letter to myself. I write these every year on what was originally my wedding anniversary. Some of these letters have been lost along the way. Some were never written, but that was mostly during my dating-Morgan era.

Life is better now, even with the struggles I have been facing.

So I guess if I could drop one final pearl of truth this year, it would be this:

Be honest with yourself.

I stayed in my marriage for as long as I did because I lied to myself. I told myself I did not deserve better. I told myself no one would ever treat me any differently. I told myself this was just what life was.

Those were some pretty fucking big lies to tell myself.

Divorce sucked. It tore me down in new and exciting ways. But here I am, almost a decade later, living my life. Living my truth.

I am a much happier man.

I am glad my ex and I co-parent well. But in the end, we could not be together any longer. I was an idiot who dated some idiots along the way. But once I developed standards, things got better.

Knowing your limits and knowing your standards will make almost every aspect of life easier.

So, Bishop, keep being honest with yourself.

Keep taking up some room.

Keep doing shit simply because you want to.

Keep getting 1% better.

And when life inevitably fucks up the plan, recover.

With much love, Bishop, I conclude this year’s letter.

Bishop Brown :(: