Running on Empty Isn't the End
.The strongest advocates aren't the loudest. They're often the parents who are exhausted... and show up anyway.
I didn’t sit down to write this blog.
It found me.
I was headed west, making the familiar drive home after another long day in Cleveland with Tabby.
If you’ve ever made a drive like that, you know the feeling.
The miles are quiet.
Your mind isn’t.
You replay conversations with doctors. You wonder if she’s comfortable. You think about the next appointments, the next visit, the bills waiting at home, the kids, and everything else life has piled onto your shoulders.
Then the radio played Running on Empty by Jackson Browne.
I’ve heard it plenty of times over the years.
But this time, one simple phrase landed differently.
“Running on empty.”
I don’t know if I’ve ever related to three words more.
The last two years have changed our family forever.
Bella’s medical journey.
Tabby’s strokes.
Hundreds of trips to hospitals and rehabilitation facilities.
Learning medical terms I never wanted to know.
Learning what it truly means to be a caregiver.
Trying to be the best husband I can.
Trying to be the dad my kids deserve.
Trying to lead organizations that matter to people.
Trying to help other families find hope.
Some days...
I’m just tired.
And I know I’m not alone.
Every day I hear from parents who are carrying burdens no one else sees.
Parents wondering how they’ll make it through another day.
Parents wondering if anyone in Harrisburg understands what their family is living through.
Parents trying to protect children who simply need a chance to succeed.
Then summer arrives.
The baseball fields fill up.
Families head to the lake.
Vacation photos fill social media.
Life slows down for many people.
But not for every family.
Not for the parent sitting beside a hospital bed.
Not for the family waiting on test results.
Not for the caregiver learning another medical routine.
And not for the parents spending another summer wondering whether politicians will once again treat their children’s education like a bargaining chip.
That’s the reality for so many families in Pennsylvania this year.
We’re being asked to fight like hell for the funding that allows our children to attend the public school that finally worked for them.
We’re making phone calls.
Writing emails.
Sharing our stories.
Explaining—again—that public cyber charter students are public school students.
Trying to remind people that behind every budget line is a child with a name, a face, and a future.
Some days it feels like nobody is listening.
Then I stop myself.
Because I remember something.
Children don’t have a microphone in the Capitol.
They don’t hire lobbyists.
They don’t make campaign donations.
They don’t stand at committee hearings.
They have us.
Parents.
Grandparents.
Teachers.
Neighbors.
People willing to stand up when it’s uncomfortable.
If you think someone else will fight for your child...
Maybe they will.
Maybe they won’t.
But no one will ever fight with the same determination as the person who kisses them goodnight.
No one remembers the bullying the way you do.
No one remembers the anxiety.
No one remembers the sleepless nights.
No one remembers the moment your child finally smiled because they found a school where they belonged.
You do.
That’s why your voice matters.
You don’t need to know every funding formula.
You don’t need to memorize every bill number.
You don’t need to be a professional advocate.
You just need to care enough to speak.
Tell your story.
Write the email.
Make the call.
Share the post.
Show up.
Because stories change hearts.
Hearts influence votes.
Votes shape laws.
And laws shape children’s lives.
That’s what Candy Apple Advocacy has always been about.
Not Democrats.
Not Republicans.
Not red.
Not blue.
Kids.
Parents.
Opportunity.
Hope.
As I watched the sun begin to disappear behind the hills on that drive home to western Pennsylvania, I realized something.
Maybe being an advocate isn’t about always feeling strong.
Maybe courage is showing up when you’re exhausted.
Maybe leadership is taking one more step when you don’t think you have another one left.
Maybe changing the world looks a lot more ordinary than we imagine.
One parent.
One story.
One phone call.
One child.
If you’re reading this today and you’re tired...
I understand.
If you’re overwhelmed...
I understand.
If you feel like no one hears you...
I understand.
Rest when you need to.
Laugh with your family.
Take your kids for ice cream.
Watch a sunset.
Recharge.
But don’t convince yourself that your voice doesn’t matter.
Because somewhere in Pennsylvania, another parent is just beginning a journey you already know.
And somewhere in Harrisburg, another vote is coming.
Your child doesn’t need a perfect advocate.
They already have the best one.
You.
Maybe we’re all running on empty sometimes.
But we’re not done.