On March 11, 2026, I was diagnosed with squamous cell carcinoma of the throat (oropharyngeal cancer). Not exactly the plot twist we anticipated, but here we are.

After collecting four medical opinions (because apparently I like homework), we’ve decided to pursue treatment at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. They’re the best, and my treatment plan includes chemotherapy, radiation, and participation in clinical trials that are only available there (ask me about psychedelics!). Treatment starts soon...likely in the next week or two, which means things are about to get very real, very quickly. For the next stretch, I’ll be temporarily relocating to Houston and taking leave from work so I can focus on the longevity-inducing hobby of getting rid of cancer. Lyndzee will be holding things down at home with our three kids: Asher (18 months), Cora (3.5 years), and Grayson (5.5 years): who are thriving, loud, and mercifully unconcerned with oncology. What they are concerned with is fighting Dad's Cancer Dragon and his Llama Lump. (It needed a name and Cora nailed it)

We are overwhelmed (in the good way) by the love, support, check-ins, prayers, texts, meals, and general “we’ve got you” energy coming from every direction. Please know: we feel it!

Thank you for being here, for caring, and for reminding us how lucky we are to be surrounded by such a strong, loving community. We’re steady, hopeful, and moving forward... cancer picked the wrong household! Thank you for being a part of our village. 

A lot of you have asked how you can help. First off, thank you, that instinct alone means the world to us.
 If you’re looking for something tangible: seeking specialized care at MD Anderson Cancer Center means temporary relocation to Houston and a number of out-of-pocket expenses....medical costs, living expenses, travel, and all the unglamorous logistics that come with pressing pause on normal life. Financial support is one way to help, but it is never expected and always received with deep gratitude.



And yes, full transparency, if there’s anything left over, it will be put toward a very intentional, post-treatment family vacation. Not a “relaxing” vacation (we have kids), but a celebratory one. Survival feels like something worth commemorating properly.



Mostly, though: thank you for caring, for checking in, and for walking alongside us. We’re taking this seriously, staying hopeful, and leaning hard on the fact that we are not doing this alone.