My Uncle Kirk has always been a rock in my life. When I was a child, he’d spoil me with trips to the movies, Toys ‘R Us, and was never in short supply of cool things at his bachelor pad. There were sexy beer models on the walls, sports posters, workout equipment, foreign paraphernalia, a gun would pop up from time to time, and lots of classic rock.

Now my Uncle Kirk is one of the most inconspicuously successful people I know. A multi-millionaire who lives a wildly humble life without kids, a partner, or the weight that connection can carry. I fear he is a very sad man. I wish there were something I could do…

He always has lessons and advice. He enunciates, and when he enunciates, he purses his lips out and is methodical in his descriptions of technical motion. I remember him fondly and with humor, taking me to the batting cages to work on my swing. When his coaching took the podium, I remember just looking at him with a sense of wonder and warmth as he went through the process of hitting a baseball. In those moments, and in our rambles around San Diego, he was my guide, my protector, my hero.

As I got older, the advice and methodology continued to take on different weight. My Uncle Kirk, despite what I imagine were deep internal battles, seemed so put together.

I was not.

I found interests, hobbies, or pursuits and abandoned them when things got difficult or when criticism wasn’t delivered in a way that met my needs. When transition periods arose, and subsequent journeys into the next phase of my life were on the horizon, my Uncle Kirk would often mention tunnel vision and staying focused.

For someone with Bipolar II and ADHD, tunnel vision wasn’t a problem in short bursts of intensity, but staying focused was never a strong suit of mine. Until I finally found a treatment plan and routine in my life, I was largely adrift, speckled with grand periods of production.

My Uncle Kirk’s advice has taken new form as I’ve gotten older and wiser. When I heard “tunnel vision” and “stay focused,” and witnessed his put-together ways, I thought I had to embody those traits others expressed. There was no way that I could have their tunnel vision, their version of staying focused, or their idea of put-together.

I tried.

I tried for many years to be a version of myself that was palatable to others, or to express these traits through the lens of someone else’s experience, but I failed over and over and over again. I was not brave enough to be who I was; rather, it wasn’t my tunnel.

In the wilds of other tunnels, I’d feel suffocated, claustrophobic, scream and thrash, trying to get out. I had to beat my fists, claw, and emerge from the 1/4 mark, center, or even come out the other side and realize the destination was not where I was meant to be. It wasn’t my tunnel.

Tunnel vision has taken on a new meaning for me, as has my Uncle Kirk’s words. I stopped jumping into tunnels without silence and reflection before I climbed in.

What it has revealed is a tunnel all of my own. My tunnel is spacious, bright, cool, and warm. In the tunnels of others I could see something at the end. In mine, I look to the end, and it’s filled with feeling, colors, freedom, and power.

I do not know what the end of my tunnel will reveal, but I’m falling in love with the crawl. Sometimes my tunnel gets larger, and I sprint through it, hollering and laughing, smiling at the melodic and sometimes scary echoes it produces, but I keep moving forward. I take time to look back, and all I see is a void, dark matter I’ve exhausted. At the other end, I see revelation. I see the power and tenacity I have when I’m working in my own tunnel versus someone else’s. I’m focused; I’m ready for when the tunnel gets cramped and when it gets wide.

Nobody else may understand my tunnel, and I’ve come to realize I’ll never understand anyone else’s.

Enjoy your lane, your tunnel, your focus, and finding your own version of what it means to be put-together.

Having tunnel vision requires seeing the tunnel for what it is, climbing inside when you’re ready, and not letting others or the echoes determine the tenacity and fortitude of your tunnel vision. Fight like hell for your own.

Thank you, Uncle Kirk. It may not be your understanding, or your intent, but a message has been received many years later.

The only way out is through.