Rebel Talk: Alterations

Yesterday was supposed to be our Fourth of July redo. Me, my girlfriend, my kids, her kids — all of us tucked away at my place up on the Iron Range, that beautiful patch of Minnesota where the pine trees stand tall and the lake water cools your soul. The Fourth itself had rained out, but that didn’t stop us. We woke up on the 5th ready to squeeze every drop of summer magic from the day.

And it was magic. We played bean bags in the yard, got muddy on four-wheelers, swam until our skin wrinkled. But the real highlight for me was watching my youngest boy, ten years old, strapping on the knee board again. Last year he was just figuring it out. This time? He cut across that wake like he’d been born behind a boat — side to side, riding it out, his confidence bigger than the lake itself. That smile, that determination — it lit me up inside. I thought to myself, This is it. This is why we do what we do. This is the good stuff.

When the day started to wind down, we all gathered on the dock to soak in the last warmth before we headed up to prep for what was supposed to be the perfect night. The plan? Burgers on the grill, a bonfire crackling while the sun dipped behind the trees, a fireworks show that would paint the sky for our kids — a night to remember.

Then came the slip.

I was the last one on the dock, grabbing something I’d forgotten, when a section gave out. Down I went — and when I came up, I had a fresh, gaping hole torn right through my thigh courtesy of some stubborn bolt or nail.

Shock does funny things to you. You get cold. You get quiet. And you know, in that instant, the night you imagined just changed shape. Instead of fireworks, there was an ER trip. Instead of burgers and a bonfire, there was a needle and thread stitching me up. We didn’t get back until 11:30 at night — no fireworks, no s’mores, no picture-perfect ending.

Sitting there in the truck, throbbing leg propped up, I felt that old familiar disappointment creep in. I want so badly for everything to be perfect for my kids — for my girlfriend and her kids. I want the memories we make to shine so bright they last a lifetime. But here’s the thing: that slip on the dock reminded me that sometimes the memories that matter most aren’t the ones we script. They’re the ones that test us, stretch us, remind us how resilient we really are.

My boy didn’t lose his smile because the fireworks didn’t happen last night. He didn’t forget the thrill of cutting across that wake. He learned something bigger — that sometimes Dad gets hurt, plans get scrapped, and we roll with it. We adapt. We get back up. We try again.

Today? We’ve got one more day. The burgers will still hit the grill. The fire will crackle. The fireworks will light the sky — maybe not on the Fourth of July, maybe not exactly when or how I planned, but they’ll happen. And you know what? Maybe it’ll mean even more because of that slip, that hole in my leg, that reminder that perfect is a myth — but together is real.

If you’re anything like me, you probably wrestle with wanting to make everything just right. I get it. But sometimes the beauty is in the busted plans, the stitches, the second chances. Life isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up — hole in your leg, plans off track, still finding a way to light up the night for the people you love.

So here’s to the slips. Here’s to the stitches. Here’s to the burgers we’ll eat today, the fire we’ll build, and the fireworks we’ll send up into that Iron Range sky. Here’s to the truth that even when things aren’t perfect — they’re still perfect in all the ways that matter most.

Hold onto that. I know I will.

Stay Relentless,

Ryan