“What I Thought Would Fix It All (And What Actually Helped)”

 

“Loving Him Through It: Learning to Parent While Healing Myself”

     Before I talk about our camping trip I want to talk a little about why this trip was so important to me and how I had gotten to the point that I had.

    Since kindergarten, Grayson’s struggled. School never fit him. He had a hard time regulating his emotions, making lasting friendships, or feeling like he belonged — and it cut deep because I recognized every bit of it. I lived that. And just like me, he didn’t have the words for what was happening inside his head.

    I tried everything. More one-on-one time. Elaborate trips. Soccer, baseball, boxing. I bought him things I couldn’t afford, hoping they’d fill a hole I didn’t know how to reach. I swung between coddling him and losing my temper. Lecturing when I should’ve listened. Inconsistent in my efforts to actually help. Truth is — I didn’t see that I was part of the problem

    By the time he was seven, I’d started and sold two businesses, worked the oil fields, bounced through jobs that drained me. We moved eight times before finally landing in Windsor. My relationship with my partner was hanging on by a thread. Years of mistrust, hurt, and unresolved trauma sat between us like a loaded gun on the table. And all of it — my frustration, regrets, and self-loathing — leaked into my kids’ lives. Especially Grayson’s.

    I saw myself in his anger. In his isolation. In his hopelessness. The difference was, I wasn’t hitting him or devising cruel punishments like what I grew up with. But the damage? It was still happening.

“I Thought I Was Helping — I Was Hurting Too”

Why? How? I didn’t get it. And worse — nothing I did seemed to help.

    When we moved to Windsor after I took a nonprofit job, I thought maybe things would settle. They didn’t. Within three months, Grayson was suspended multiple times, teetering on expulsion. Everything felt like it was unraveling. But somewhere in that chaos, something in me shifted.

    For the first time, I started to really look at what had been holding us all back. And there was a lot.

    I opened myself up to help. Therapy for him. A support system for me. I pulled him out of aggressive sports. We started simple: weekly swims at the rec center, library runs, family dinners without screens, board games. I stopped nitpicking. Picked my battles. Practiced loving him through his struggles instead of punishing him for having them.

    I learned to choose peace over pride with my partner. Not every fight needed to happen.

    And slowly — in small, barely noticeable moments — I see the light come back in his eyes. The meltdowns at school haven't stop overnight. Neither did my bad habits. But for the first time in years, there was consistency in our home.

   I wish I could say I or he are healed. He isnt. I’m still not. But those small changes planted something. A different kind of seed. A seed that will grow in the trails of our hearts and souls. 

    Next time, When I first planned a camping trip with Grayson, all I wanted was a quiet weekend in the woods — just me and my boy, no phones, no noise, no expectations. I thought we’d hike a little, roast some marshmallows, maybe talk about life if the moment felt right. What I didn’t expect was how that trip to Lory State Park would light a fuse in me. Somewhere between the dirt trails, cold mornings, and watching my son’s face light up over frogs and firewood, I got hooked. Not just on backpacking, but on what it does to a man’s mind and heart when the weight of the world is replaced by the weight of a pack. That trip wasn’t the end — it was the beginning. How a simple weekend hike turned into an obsession with backcountry backpacking, treasure, the western divide, and finding myself in the wild.