Twenty and Rolling

Twenty years old today. Two decades on this earth, and I’m spending my birthday doing exactly what I want—suiting up for a travel hockey game three states away from home. The bus ride was long, but it was worth it. This is what I signed up for. Early mornings, long drives, cheap motels, gas station coffee. All of it. Because when you step on that ice, none of the rest matters.

I’m in the locker room now, first one here as usual. I like the quiet before everyone else shows up. The smell of old equipment, the sound of the building settling, the anticipation hanging in the air. I drop my bag on the bench and start unpacking my gear, laying it out in order like I always do. Ritual matters.

Then my stomach gurgles. I feel it coming—pressure building. I’m alone, so I just let it go. A long, rumbling fart that echoes off the concrete walls. I laugh to myself, shaking my head.

And immediately, I think of Mitchell.

It’s weird how my brain makes these connections, but there it is. Mitchell and his nighttime routine. He’s required to poop his Pampers at night, in bed. That’s part of his new life now. He doesn’t get to choose when or where—it happens in his sleep, in his diaper, and that’s just how it is.

But here’s the thing that really gets me: just because he poops his Pampers in bed doesn’t mean he gets changed right away in the morning. He told me about this once, and at first I didn’t really understand why. But then he explained it.

It’s about dependency. It’s about fully embracing this new reality he’s chosen. When he wakes up in the morning, messy diaper and all, he has to wait. He doesn’t get to decide when the change happens. Someone else does. That’s the point. It reinforces that he’s not in control of those basic things anymore—someone else is taking care of him, on their schedule, not his. It could be an hour after he wakes up. Could be two. He just has to wait, sit in it, accept it.

That level of commitment is insane to me. Most people can’t commit to a gym routine for more than a week. Mitchell is committing to a complete lifestyle overhaul that requires him to give up control over the most basic aspects of his day-to-day life. And he’s doing it willingly. Happily, even.

I hear voices in the hallway—my teammates are starting to arrive. I finish lacing up my skates, pull my jersey over my head. Number 17. Twenty years old today, and I’m exactly where I want to be.

But I’m thinking about Mitchell. About commitment. About what it means to go all in on something, even when it’s unconventional. Even when people don’t understand.

The door swings open and the guys pile in, loud and rowdy. Game faces on.

Time to play.