Holiday travel meltdown? Been there. Done that. Stepped in dog shit

Holiday travel gone wrong? From dog shit disasters to flight drama, here’s how humor and mindfulness saved my sanity—and can save yours too.

Holiday travel stress is real. Delayed flights, crowded airports, and unexpected chaos can turn even the calmest person into a ticking time bomb. But here’s the truth: humor might be the single best survival tool you have. This is the story of how stepping in dog shit at 5 a.m. taught me that laughter—and creating space for yourself—can save your sanity.

The Morning From Hell

Thanksgiving travel. 5 a.m. Alto ride to the airport. I’m feeling proud of myself for getting up early and not being a total nightmare. Then—BAM—I step in a massive pile of dog shit. With both feet. Didn’t notice until we hit the airport, leaving the driver with a lovely surprise on the car mat. Sorry, Alto guy.

By the time I’m scraping my shoes on the grating outside, my internal temperature is rising fast. Truthfully, it started the night before. I went to bed early to avoid being a monster in the morning. Mornings have never been my thing. I have a very specific routine:

• Lights that gently brighten before my alarm goes off—never full blast.

• An alarm that crescendos at 532 Hz, easing me into consciousness.

• And the best part? A cup of coffee my husband leaves on the nightstand. His way of increasing the odds that his morning will be delightful too.

On a good day, this routine keeps me sane. Today was not a good day.

Bathroom Breakdown

Fast forward: AA Admirals Club bathroom. Forty-five minutes of scrubbing dog shit out of every crevice of my brand-new New Balance 990s—the ultimate “dad at the grill” shoes. The shoes I need after two ankle surgeries. Patrons walk in and out, giving me looks that range from pity to “REALLY?” Eventually, a kind staff member shows up with cleaning supplies to rescue the disaster zone I’ve created. By the time I finish, I’m drenched in sweat and emotionally fried.

I whisper to my husband, “Do I look beat up?” He doesn’t hear me—twice. So naturally, I yell it across the lounge. My son shakes his head in disgust as fellow travelers stare. I grab a drink. Five minutes later, we’re boarding… except our gate has changed from D to B. Broken foot, pissed-off kid, shitty shoes—we sprint. Last ones on the plane. My husband and I just stare at each other. After 22 years of marriage, no words needed.

The Pivot: Humor or Hell

Onboard, I sit next to a lovely woman and start to feel human again. That’s when I ask myself: How do I frame this?

Option 1: “FML.”

Option 2: Find the humor.

Humor—or humour for my Canadian friends—cannot be overstated. Waiting on the jet bridge, I imagine all the delays and traffic ahead. None of it happens, but my brain loves worst-case scenarios. I’ve noticed as I age, the gap between tragedy and comedy widens. I used to laugh instantly—sometimes literally falling on the floor. Where did that guy go? How do I get back to humor faster?

And then I think of Jodie Foster’s Home for the Holidays—the ultimate Thanksgiving-from-hell movie. Holly Hunter’s character, Claudia, loses her job, kisses her boss, and heads home to a family circus of dysfunction. There’s a turkey mishap, a football game that turns into a fistfight, and Aunt Gladys confessing her decades-long crush at the dinner table. It’s messy, chaotic, and hilarious—because that’s family. That movie nails the truth: the holidays aren’t about perfection; they’re about surviving the madness and laughing through it.

The Secret: Create Space

Here’s the answer: Create space.

Space means doing things outside of all my roles—husband, father, son—and reconnecting with the real me. The me who doesn’t suck. The me who can find humor in an insurance seminar. For me, that space comes from yoga.

Yoga isn’t hippy nonsense or a religion—it’s simply the connection of body and breath. And that’s exactly what I forget when life gets messy: to breathe. When I’m “that Brian,” I’m usually holding my breath like it’s going to solve something. Spoiler alert—it never does. Yoga reminds me to let go, to start with my belly, bring it up to my heart, and let it flow down my spine like cool water as I exhale. It gives me space. Space gives me time. Time helps me find humor faster.

Interestingly, my husband rolled over in bed the other night and said something similar. He told me he needs to find activities outside of all his roles—just for himself. I couldn’t agree more. We all need that space to feed our souls and come back to who we really are.

Meditation and Laughter

Meditation flows from that. Not just sitting on a cushion by candlelight—meditation is a way of being. I meditate walking the dog, watching him marvel at a leaf. I meditate in carpool. And the best meditation? Laughing so hard your vision tunnels. That kind of humor feeds the soul and creates space for others to relax and be themselves.

My Goal: Stay in the Humor

So my goal for this trip: Stay in the humor. Lighten up, Brian. This is your life. There’s nothing but this moment—oops, it’s gone. Right now, I’m on a 1.2-million-pound chunk of metal flying at 521 mph to see my family. Humor is everywhere.

If you see me by the airplane lavatory, I’ll be doing a forward fold into the flight attendant’s personal space. Inhale, exhale, roll up. Maybe twice. And yes—I think he likes my ass in his face. Finding my space.

Because here’s the truth: life isn’t a curated Instagram feed—it’s Home for the Holidays in real time. Messy, loud, imperfect, and absolutely hilarious if you let it be. Remember Aunt Gladys dropping her bombshell at Thanksgiving dinner? Or Holly Hunter in her mom’s giant coat, hair a mess, running into her old flame at the grocery store? Brutal. Awkward. Perfect. Because that’s what holidays do—they throw you into situations you didn’t plan for, and the only way through is to laugh.

So this Thanksgiving, I’m choosing humor over hell.

Your Turn

What’s your funniest holiday travel or family chaos story? Drop it in the comments—I want to hear the moments that made you laugh instead of cry. Because if Home for the Holidays taught us anything, it’s this: the mess is the magic.