The World Went to Hell in a Handbasket—And We Let It Happen

I don’t know when it happened exactly, but the world just isn’t the same anymore. It’s not just me, right?

I’m not saying everything was perfect before COVID. It wasn’t. People still had loud phone conversations in the grocery store, you still had to listen to an automated voice tell you to “please listen carefully, as our menu options have changed,” and someone, somewhere, was still chewing with their mouth open. But at least back then, things made some kind of sense.

Then, COVID happened. And it didn’t just show up like a mild inconvenience—it came through like a hurricane hitting an above-ground pool in a trailer park. Everything got knocked sideways, and even though the storm is technically “over,” we’re still picking debris out of the shrubs.

It’s not just the masks or the weird paranoia about touching a gas pump. It’s deeper than that. It’s the way people forgot how to be people.

The world got quieter, but not in a peaceful, “sit on the porch and listen to the peepers” kind of way. No, it was an eerie quiet, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in the first twenty minutes of a zombie movie. But worse than the silence? The attitude shift.

People are meaner now. Ruder. More aggressive.

It doesn’t matter what you believe or where you land on the political spectrum—this isn’t just some “one side versus the other” thing. It feels like everyone’s on edge. The impatient honks at a stoplight the second it turns green. The blank stares from customer service workers who look like they’d rather be anywhere else. The way people avoid eye contact, like acknowledging another human being is just too much effort.

For my wife and me, it’s not just about missing the good old days of decent human interaction. It’s the fact that finding our people—our good friends—feels damn near impossible. We live in Florida, where we don’t always fit in with the people around us. That’s fine—we don’t need to agree on everything—but sometimes it feels like we’re just treading water, stuck somewhere that doesn’t quite feel like home.

The Dream of Escape (And the Reality Check That Follows)

I’ve thought about heading out west. Something about wide-open spaces and small-town kindness seems like the antidote to this mess. But we have two teenagers who are glued to their friends and a bank account that’s still licking its wounds from braces payments. How do you justify uprooting your whole life when you’re already this deep into it?

So we started tossing around another idea—one that’s probably a midlife crisis wrapped in a Pinterest board.

What if we sold everything?

What if we packed up our kids—two teenagers and a toddler with special needs—into a trailer and hit the road for a few months? What if we just went?

I can already picture it. The wind in our hair, the freedom of waking up in a different place every morning, watching the sunset over the Grand Canyon instead of the neighbor’s busted trampoline. No schedules, no obligations, just the road and whatever comes next.

Sounds incredible, right?

Yeah, well, try explaining that to two teenagers who can’t survive without WiFi and think spending extended time with their parents is a fate worse than death. The last thing I want is to be trapped in a camper with two buttheads rolling their eyes at every national park while I try to convince them that “this is an adventure!”

So for now, that dream sits on the shelf, gathering dust.

I Feel Like I’m Living in the Movie UP

You know that part in UP where Carl and Ellie keep putting off their big adventure? They keep saving, keep planning, keep kicking the can down the road until—well, until life happens. And suddenly, it’s too late.

That’s what I feel like.

I feel like I’m living in UP, just kicking the can down the street until the inevitable happens and we just can’t anymore. And how stupid is that? When we were ready to do this, the kids were younger. The logistics weren’t as complicated. The obstacles weren’t as big.

I wanna believe everything happens for a reason, I really do. But I also feel trapped.

God, Faith, and Finding Our Place

And this is where faith comes in. Because if I didn’t believe in God’s plan, I think I’d have lost my mind by now.

Look, I’ll be honest. My wife and I don’t always align with the people around us, and we sure as hell don’t fit into neat little political boxes. But at the end of the day, I don’t care about labels. I care about God being at the center of our decisions—whether that means staying put or loading up a trailer and hitting the road.

Because that’s the real question, isn’t it?

Is this feeling of restlessness just me being impatient, or is it God nudging us toward something different?

I don’t know the answer to that yet.

What I do know is that faith isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about trusting that if we’re meant to make a move, God will make a way. And if we’re meant to stay, then we need to believe that we’re here for a reason.

That’s the hardest part—waiting. Not knowing if we’re supposed to stay put or take the leap. Watching other people live the dream on YouTube while we tell ourselves, “Maybe someday.”

Did We Wait Too Long?

And that’s what pisses me off the most.

The time to say, “Screw it, we’re doing this” was years ago. But we got comfortable. We got settled. And now, the idea of breaking free feels almost impossible.

But maybe we didn’t miss our shot. Maybe we’re still standing at the edge, and God is just waiting for us to trust Him enough to take the next step.

Because that’s the thing about faith—it’s not about being comfortable. It’s about taking risks, stepping into the unknown, and trusting that even when we feel stuck, God hasn’t forgotten about us.

I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if we’ll ever take the leap, or if we’ll just keep hoping for the right opportunity, the right push, the right moment.

But I do know this:

If we’re meant to go, God will make a way.

And if we’re meant to stay, then we have to trust that we’re exactly where He wants us to be—for now.

Maybe we’re waiting for a door to open.

Or maybe the door has always been open, and we just haven’t had the courage to walk through it.