Mission Log:

July 19, 2026

The countdown has become quiet.

This morning I opened my journal the way I often do now.

“What message or wisdom would you like to share today?”

The answer wasn’t dramatic.

“Not much today. Your spirits are good despite what’s going on. Be careful. You seem a little wobbly.”

That felt right.

Not every day needs a grand revelation.

Sometimes wisdom is simply paying attention.

The Titan Circle study group became the highlight of the morning. One of our traders was anxious because price had moved in his favor, yet he was afraid of giving profits back.

We talked about moving a stop loss into profit instead of leaving it behind.

“If price turns against you,” I explained, “you’re still walking away with something.”

He mentioned he was trading a funded account.

I smiled.

“If I had a $25,000 funded account,” I told him, “I wouldn’t be nearly as worried. You’re not risking your own money.”

The lesson wasn’t really about trading.

It was about life.

Protect what you’ve gained.

Don’t let fear erase your peace.

That’s how I stay calm in the markets, and increasingly, that’s how I’m learning to stay calm through cancer.

Breakfast stayed wonderfully predictable.

Oatmeal.

Maple syrup.

Coffee.

Jeff and I spent the afternoon running ordinary errands. We filled the gas can for the lawn mower, stopped by CVS for the supplies I’ll need after treatment, and picked up one small item I’d been looking forward to.

Watermelon Sour Patch Kids.

Not because they’re healthy.

Not because they’re important.

Because after radioactive iodine treatment they’ll help stimulate my salivary glands, reducing one of the treatment’s side effects.

It’s funny how something as simple as candy can become medical equipment.

Dinner was at Steak ‘n Egger.

I ordered my favorite low iodine veggie skillet and added jalapeños for a little extra kick. Another reminder that limitations don’t have to mean settling.

By evening there was only one task left.

I packed my overnight bag.

A change of clothes.

The essentials.

The little things that quietly say, I’m ready.

Tomorrow is my last full day before treatment.

For weeks I’ve been counting Sols like an astronaut waiting for launch.

Now the mission is almost here.

There isn’t much left to do except live tomorrow well.

One more sunrise.

One more ordinary day.

Then Mission Control hands me the next checklist.