Are traditions the same thing as routines, they're just done less frequently? And if the tradition is both loved and hated, what does that mean? On today's Keepin It Real, Cam shares that he both loves and hates them.

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I have a routine that I practice nearly every day. I both look forward to it and hate it. I wake up shortly after 5am. I have clothes laid out on a chair next to the bed and I dress and go into the kitchen and start the coffee. I fold laundry while it brews. I then pour myself a cup and sit in my morning chair and write in my journal for about thirty minutes. I then review my calendar for the day, make a to-do list, boil an egg for breakfast, shower, dress, and head into the office. It's the same thing every weekday. I love my routine. It's helpful. It grounds me. It's something I can control. It's a predictable thing in this unpredictable world. It's reliable and I like that.

At the very same time, I also hate my routine. It drains the life from me. It's oppressive. It holds me back. It severely restricts me. It's tyranny. How can something that I love so much, that I count on to be there every day, also crush my soul? It makes no sense, but that's what it does.

This, of course, leads me to the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. Routines and traditions are not the same thing, but they can have the same impact. For years my extended family has gathered at my father's cabin in the woods of Clark County on Thanksgiving Day. I can't be there on Thanksgiving Day without thinking of my mother. She's been gone for three years or so and yet the place still reflects my mother's presence. And Thanksgiving Day was the pinnacle of her presence each year there. She'd set the table in a way I can still remember. She'd send her grandkids into the woods to find leaves that had changed colors for the fall – they're not easy to find in south Alabama. The leaves would be arranged in small vases down the center of the table. There were short wax candle figurines of pilgrims and turkeys that magically appeared on the table each year. They were on that table when I was a child; my kids, decades later, knew to expect them and asked about them. We eat. Comments are made that if you want any food, don't get behind my sister-in-law in the line to fix your plate. The same thing every year. The same comments. The same wonderful food.

It's a tradition. It's an annual routine. It's wonderful to fall back on – we know exactly what's coming. It's also specifically prescribed behaviors which we all agree to participate in, which, to me, can feel stifling. However, I happily do it because not having it – this tradition, this annual routine – not having it available to me – would be worse. The meal would feel empty and awful. I cherish it.

Just like tomorrow, I'll get up again just after 5AM, get dressed, start the coffee maker, fold clothes while the coffee brews, and so on. It's boring and predictable. But I need it. I cherish it. Not having it available to me would be worse.

I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep It Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, it's Friday and Cam's brain has had enough. He once wanted to keep going. Now, he's just hoping to make it to today.

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I can remember complaining that there simply weren't enough days in the week to get all the stuff I needed get done done. I wished that each day was longer and the work week had more days to it. I wanted a twelve-hour workday and a ten-day work week and a three-day break at the end. That would be preferred, I thought. That way I could get everything done and take a break when it was over.

Wow, have times changed. Or maybe I've changed. Maybe it's age or wisdom, but I don't feel the same way about work anymore. I usually charge out of bed on Monday morning with a to-do list that I made Sunday evening. I hit the list hard Monday and Tuesday, adding things to it along the way. By Wednesday I can feel my energy beginning to fade. I'm watching dumb TV at night rather than reading. Thursday morning, I try to get a few simple things done because I know that lunch on Thursday about the last time, I'll be productive that week. Friday, I make a show of it. I leave the easy items on my to-do list for Friday so I can feel like I've done something as I check them off and by lunch on Friday I'm cooked. My brain is fried. I'm tired. Nothing more will get done until my list making begins again on Sunday.

At my gym, one of the trainers asked if I wanted to join her workout at 5:30pm on Fridays. It caught me off guard. I laughed a little and told her that by 5:30pm on Friday I'm useless and beginning a workout at that time on a Friday was out of my world of possibilities. I'm more likely to be having a beer with friends or in a ball on the couch, beaten to death by the work week. An organized workout is nowhere near being on my radar. The trainer is young. She looked confused. I didn't even try to explain.

I'm beginning to appreciate dentists hours more and more. My dentist begins reminding me of an upcoming appointment about six weeks out with a barrage of texts and an automated voice mail, nearly threatening me to not miss my appointment. The dentist also attaches emotions to their message, as if missing or having to reschedule will hurt their feelings. I feel ashamed and like I've let them down if I have to reschedule. When I arrive, I see they pack their patients into the workweek so that they can take half a day off on Wednesday and a whole day off on Friday. His office is a spinning carousel of open mouths and teeth and the dentist is on the move from patient to patient. But call him after noon on Wednesday or on Friday and you'll get the answering machine. He's gone. So is his team. But my phone is still buzzing with automated messages telling me about my upcoming appointment and how they'll be heartbroken and maybe even cry a little if I can't make it.

However, by the time Friday rolls around, I think my dentist and I are living the same dream. He's locked his office door, and I'm shutting down my brain. He's earned his day off, and I've earned the right to stare at nothing for a while. Maybe that's how grown-ups measure success — not by how much we get done, but by how guilt-free we can be when we finally stop trying.

I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, another chapter closes in Cam's life. And he wonders what comes next.

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John Cougar Mellencamp has a song called Ain't Even Done with the Night. It's one of my favorites. That song became a regular part of my days four or five years ago. I'd pick my daughter up from her volleyball practice and as we made the turn from the gym onto the larger road, I'd ask Siri to play it. My daughter would protest and moan. "Not again, Dad" she'd say. I'd sing it loudly. It became our song in a weird way. She didn't like it, didn't want to hear it again and again, but eventually began singing it with me. To this day I can't hear that song without thinking about picking up my daughter from her volleyball practice.

This week she played her last volleyball match. She's a high school senior, and I watched her walk off the court Wednesday in Birmingham for the last time. She gathered with her team and her coach to talk about the match, and then she lingered out there a while. I stood by, eager to smile and congratulate her on her volleyball career that included many more wins than losses. When she finally left the court and walked to me, I took a big breath, looked into her red eyes full of tears, and could only hug her and kiss her sweaty head. My words were lost. I muttered quietly how proud I was of her, tears in my eyes, voice choaking.

Last night my son, her twin, played his final high school football game. Like my daughter, his football community has been a big part of his life since he was in middle school. I located him after game, kissed his sweaty head, and told him, like my daughter, how proud he made me to see him out there year after year as a teammate, a contributor on the field, and a leader of the underclassmen.

So, after four kids and hundreds of games and matches, countless hours in stands and on sidelines, it's all over. As I think back on it now, I regret ever complaining about having to pick up my daughters and her friends from another volleyball practice and taking each of them home. I regret wishing I'd get a Friday night in the fall where I wasn't committed to being in the football stands. I wonder how I'll feel when the absence of commitments to my children and their activities makes me wonder who I am now. These tethers that I once begrudged actually offered me meaning, purpose, and an identity. I've heard it referred to as the thunderclap of silence. What will fill that void? And who will I become?

My children may be my role models in this regard. Their eyes are already on what's next. One is talking about college roommates already. The other is getting college applications out and acceptance letters in. Their time being on the courts and on the field will quickly fade to memories and stories; parts of their former identity.

And for me, it's with great sadness, difficulty, and a lump in my throat, that I reluctantly turn the page.

I'm Cam Marston just trying to Keep It Real.