I was sitting in a local cafe and found myself tearing up.

I’m reading an email someone sent me in response to my recent essays. They’d recently lost a male friend to suicide, and said that after some time passes, they plan to send my essay to this person’s spouse.

The questions in the email certainly got me thinking.

Particularly, one about who their friend could have called, since they likely hadn’t wanted to burden their spouse. I’ve been sitting with that and, admittedly, no answers spring readily to mind.

I’m not a trained professional—there are people who are far better suited to handle crisis situations than I—but I’m always happy to be a resource where I can. That might mean being a listener, an intermediary to get someone connected with the right resources, or maybe even becoming a friend.

The person who sent the email talked about not knowing how best to navigate the boundary line of supportive spouse; particularly with female support of male partners. While I’m not married, I certainly consider how much to lean on my partner. And I’ve come to think of keeping things in as poisonous. I don’t have to unload everything onto my partner, but I do have to find somewhere to get everything out. In my own life, that looks like a combination of writing some if it in my notebook, sharing some with my therapist, talking through bits with my partner, and batting pieces of it around with friends.

I’m staring at the screen trying to figure out what to say when I realize the most important thing I’ve discovered for making that all work, is upholding a commitment of not lying, withholding, or misrepresenting stuff to myself or others. It’s become something of a life-mission of mine to help others dismantle that behavior pattern now, too.

Looking back at my inbox, all I can think is “I’m sorry this happened to you.” I don’t want to try to spin a silver lining or give them some “it could always be worse” bullshit.

Sometimes, bad things happen—plain and simple.

Just like this.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
241/365

When's the last time someone else's loss made you grateful for what you have?

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When the timer went off, I couldn’t resist saying “pencils down.”

I’m sitting in my dining room. There’s an open notebook in front of me, and an open laptop in front of it. On the screen, I have a word doc pulled up and I’ve zoomed in on a table. Inside the table, spread across multiple columns, is a list of about 75 words —all of which, describe different values. I’ve just put down my pen with an unexpected “huh” after whittling the list down to 20, then 10, and finally to a final five.

Every year or so, I like to do this exercise to check in on my values and see how they have, or haven’t, changed. Something about making selections throughout multiple, timed rounds gives it just enough pressure to force me to keep moving without overthinking things.

I was overdue.

And, wouldn’t ya know it, my final list of values had changed since the last time I did this a couple years ago. Looking at the words I’d rewritten below the clump that didn’t make the cut, I noticed something super interesting.

But first, for context—

Here’s the old list: curiosity, connection, progression, expression and autonomy.

And here’s the new list: autonomy, creativity, curiosity, service, and virtue.

I couldn’t help but smile at the similarities.

Although, since it didn’t make the list this time, I thought back to my reasoning for selecting “connection” back then. Almost instantly, I knew why I hadn’t this time.

I reasoned that what I liked and what I valued were not inherently the same thing.

I’d wanted to forge meaningful relationships with people, and also with the various elements of my life—like, work for example. But in the last couple of years I realized that connection is the outcome of the thing I value, and not the thing itself. That’s why I chose to include “service” this time. I value being of service and, in doing so, find that I connect with the people and things I give my time and energy to.

While the clock was still ticking, before I’d run out of time, I was also torn between two final values to round out my top five... authenticity and honesty. As I struggled to pick one over the other, I got an idea.

At the last minute, I changed the rules for myself and selected a word that wasn’t even on the list of words to choose from; it hadn’t been present during any of the prior elimination rounds.

Virtue.

Before locking-in my choice, I looked up the definition to double-check that my rule-bending would accomplish what I’d hoped it would.

Ok, let’s see...

Virtue is defined as...

“Morally good behavior, high moral standards, or a specific admirable quality (e.g., honesty, integrity). It represents conformity to ethical principles, excellence in character, or a beneficial advantage.”

Yep.

Perfect.

The way I see it, aiming for virtue requires both authenticity and honesty. So, this makes it a 2-for-1 combo.

I looked my list over, again, feeling kind of smug at my rule-modifications, and root-cause-revelations... even though, I made the rules to begin with. I think that means I can adapt them as needed.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
240/365

Do you know what your values are?

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I’m fairly certain my neighbor’s not a lunatic. And if they are, perhaps they’re benign enough...

I’m sitting at my desk in my office. This is a room with windows spanning three of 4 walls, making it a much sought after gathering place for natural light. It’s also on the second floor, so it’s kind of a crow’s nest, too; optimal for neighborly spectating.

Mostly I enjoy being surrounded by tree tops. I like being able to see patches of the sky peering through from between the branches, and getting to catch glimpses of the goings-on at the park across the street. So, today, I’m staring into space trying to think through the best way to rewrite a paragraph I’m working on when something catches my eye from within the sea of green below. Sometimes the local cats cut through my backyard. It’s funny; they seem to pick each other up from their respective houses to go hang out together. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I’d bike up the street to Bryan’s house after to school to knock on his door and ask if he wanted to play catch in the cul de sac.

At the moment, however, there’s no cats to be seen.

The movement that’d caught my eye was my neighbor. They’re kneeling in the grass next to a baby blue wheelbarrow and a couple of trowels of various sizes. I’m watching as they gesture animatedly with their hands and nod their head.

I conclude they must either be talking to someone on the phone through a pair of ear buds, or that they’re imparting some words of encouragement to the plants in their garden. It’s hard to tell. They’re wearing a beige ball cap with some sort of fabric draped across their ears and neck to ward off the sun. Either way, I think I like them more.

I find myself sitting there at my desk nodding my approval.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
239/365

When’s the last time someone lowered your defenses just by being themselves when they thought no one was watching?

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We teach boys to hide their shame, and then wonder why men struggle with loneliness.

I’d been talking with my mom over coffee.

We’re in her kitchen and we wind up reminiscing. Perhaps it’s because we live in the same place again, relatively speaking, after more than a decade spent with hundreds, even thousands, of miles between us.

Somehow, we land on the topic of how I wasn’t that great a student as a kid.

Well, ok... we’re recalling how I was “very capable,” as my high school teachers would’ve said, and how my grades maybe didn’t always reflect the true level of that capability. I know now that there are plenty of legitimate reasons for that, my neurodivergence chief among them (undiagnosed at the time). Still, back then, I carried a lot of shame around those less-than-stellar grades and their, seemingly unexplainable, incongruence with my abilities…

That shame would later impact my friendships, relationships, career, and livelihood.

We teach kids to hide their shame—especially boys.

Mom’s sitting across from me at the head of the table. It’s mid morning on a Saturday and we’re fully down the rabbit hole now.

This whole thing began with a joke... one of those half-truths that isn’t so much “ha-ha funny” as it is ironic. We’re talking about that past shame of mine with a light-hearted fondness that only arrives after years of distance and some intentional reflection. So, I’d said, a bit hyperbolically, that maybe my calling was in academia as a psychological researcher. Mom then shoots me a knowing look with a half-grin to acknowledge my half-truth.

We both know why thinking of high-school-me as an academic is funny, even if we’re not laughing. She tilts her head with the weight of a fresh thought, and says in a more serious tone “That would really be something…” After a quick pause she added, “if you could help teens learn about how to have a healthier relationship with shame, that would be amazing.”

Boys are taught that their value depends on approval.

Shame; that’s what catapulted this whole discussion of ours in the kitchen to scenes from decades past. Now, Mom and I are both drifting in and out of daydreams, asking one another if we remember certain ones.

It’s innocuous enough but, still, I get stuck.

I’m replaying one very dreadful first day of Fall soccer from when I was a kid. I’m 5 years old and I’ve never played soccer before. It’s a new school year, but I’m new here altogether. Mom and I are walking along the edge of the school’s parking lot and I can feel my heart picking up speed, as it sometimes does, but I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m trying very hard not to. Up ahead, there’s a blur of kids all wearing shorts with socks up to their knees. The soccer fields are side-by-side and there are too many to count. I’m already overwhelmed by the cacophony of shrieks, thuds, and whistles.

And I don’t recognize anyone.

This big, green, grassy amusement park of people are bunched up into various clusters separated by orange cones. We’re shuffling alongside one of the clusters, when we reach a kid I don’t know and his dad talking by the cone closest to us. They’re all riled up—waving, pointing, shouting. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I’m really hoping it’s not about the game.

I don’t even know how to play.

Slowly, I’m realizing that everyone else out there does. They clearly all know each other from school, too. In a moment of sheer panic, my tough, silent, and confident exterior crumbles. How come they all know what’s going on and I don’t? Am I supposed to? I don’t think I can fake this… They’re gonna know, and then I’m going to feel even lonelier than I do now.

The weight of it is suddenly too heavy—too extreme—and I burst into tears, hot with shame. Immediately, I wish I was anywhere else.

Sitting there in the kitchen with my mom, I absentmindedly crack the knuckle of my pointer finger with my thumb. Managing to pull my gaze away from its scan of nothing in particular among the countertop cabinets, I turn toward her and find a kind of “now what” expression looking back at me.

Boys full of shame become men full of fear.

I’d been thinking about how, as humans, our relationship with shame seems to play a major role in how accountable we become. When I was a teen, I hid the fact that I struggled to get assignments done in school because I was ashamed of it. I continued to struggle like that until, eventually, I learned how to talk about it with other people.

Male friendships are, at their core, steeped in competition.

I’m not sure I was ever shown how to make or maintain friendships; male, or otherwise. If I’m honest, most of my early friendships were place-based. They formed in school, through sports, or at work. Some of those environments—if not all of them—are centered around competition. It makes me think of how boys grow up being told, shown, and pressured to be of use. I know at least I felt like I was being judged on that. Constantly. My sense of self felt tethered to my ability to do things of worth for someone else—that my value as a person depended on the say-so of others.

As far as I can tell, that’s the same kind of thinking that perpetuates our culture of oneupmanship and peacocking. That, and the many harmful tropes plastered across the movies kids grow up watching. You know, like needing to save the damsel in distress, or that bravery means beating up people who disagree with you. Oh, and can’t forget the insidious bologna that “nice guys finish last.”

These things, among others, seem at least part of the explanation for why boys full of shame become men full of fear… Guys around the globe are dying by suicide, at an alarming rate, without ever having revealed their pain to anyone.

I was almost one of them.

Competitive interpersonal relationships breed defensiveness.

My eyes drift to where the sun’s shining in through the kitchen window. Mom’s still watching me gather my thoughts.

It wasn’t until college, perhaps even my twenties, that I worked to decouple my self-worth from the output I could create for others. For many of the men I know, those things are tightly interwoven, still, well into their adulthood. I have to believe this plays a role in the male loneliness crisis we’re facing.

Despite the competitive lens through which I was raised, I feel incredibly lucky to have forged some seriously strong friendships. A while back, one of my friends from college sent me a pretty lengthy text out of the blue. We used to be very close, but our get-togethers have, admittedly, grown further and further apart. It’s been trending that way for a few years now. That’s also something I’ve written about quite openly. What’s more, I’d been wrestling for a bit with how much of myself I felt comfortable sharing with our friend group. But I hadn’t realized this friend was regularly reading my writing.

Oh... oh shit.

Like it or not, I played a prominent role in our drift, and I was harboring quite a bit of shame around it, too. In that text, this friend called me out. And I’m so glad they did. They told me directly that they cared about me and sensed my distance—that they wanted to talk about it and were all ears if I was comfortable enough with doing so.

I’m so lucky.

SO, so lucky.

Having met in college, we’ve been through plenty of fun times together, but we’ve also been there for each other during breakups, cross-country moves, and existential conversations about what to do with each of our wild and precious lives. We’ve long been vulnerable enough with each other to be truly honest.

So I told them what was bothering me, and the shame I felt about it.

We starve ourselves of collaborative connection when we compete.

What I realized is that every interaction amongst our friends had starting feeling like a contest. And, once I was aware of the pattern, I couldn’t unsee it.

At a group get-together a while back, I watched it happen time and again when someone would strike up a conversation. They’d kick things off, and then another person would link whatever was said to a movie quote or reference. The next person would do the same, adding on a call-back to someone or something else.

Round-and-round we’d go.

It wasn’t even a new pattern… it was one I’d long participated in, too. Maybe I just couldn’t see it, or maybe I hadn’t had the language to label it for the contest it was. But once I did, it made me uncomfortable. And realizing that made me really sad.

During that group get-together, I’d noticed the usual references and reminiscing had evolved, verryyy subtilely, into a version where the call-backs became put-downs. That’s the part that really sucked, actually. It felt like hanging out together had just become a game of who could come up with the sneakiest insult.

It’s only because of the strong, foundational dynamic of trust this friend and I built up over years and years of flubbing our way through the fear of sharing our feelings with each other that a conversation like this was possible.

And, via text no less.

Relational repair is the antidote to ridicule, shame, and isolation—so why aren’t we teaching it?

Something similar actually came up between my partner and I, back when we first started seeing each other.

Movie quotes and the like were the way I best knew how to connect with people. It’s what we’d done on my sports teams growing up, at summer camp, in high school, during college, and even at various workplaces. Not her—her approach was different. So we talked about it. And what it helped me to realize, was that I’d been using pop-culture references as a social crutch… as a way to bond with people without sharing much information about myself, if any at all.

That was early into seeing each other, but I really liked her so I challenged myself to put the references down and start sharing more openly. I thought of it kind of like how a writer might try to avoid clichés by coming up with their own descriptions for things. Doing that required a lot of vulnerability and a willingness to be seen that I wasn’t very good at because I’d never practiced.

I later discovered that this choreography was pretty similar to how Adam Grant, an organizational psychologist at Wharton, approaches relational repair. He advocates for leaning on a strong, empathetic foundation, and a willingness to be vulnerable, as a way to avoid blame and defensiveness in relationships. To do that, he suggests using Beth Polin’s 5 Rs of an apology:

1. Regret - sincerely share that you’re sorry for the harm caused.

2. Rationale - explain why it happened without deflecting or justifying your role.

3. Responsibility - take ownership. No “buts.”

4. Repentance - acknowledging a commitment to doing things differently.

5. Repair - collaboratively seek to restore trust.

Most notably, this philosophy of repair requires owning the impact of your actions, rather than clinging to the intent behind them. That’s so important. And as uncomfortable as it is, it requires leaning in and engaging instead of pulling away and isolating.

That’s something I was never shown as a kid. It wasn’t until I was trained to facilitate conflict resolution as a wilderness guide that I started to grasp its importance. Ironically, somewhere around the time I first got sober in 2021, I forgot this pearl of wisdom and began pulling away and isolating from my friends. It was hard to admit that my journey of wanting to like myself more came at the cost of straining pretty much all of my relationships. But, one of the mistakes I made was thinking I could achieve it by avoiding the possibility of feeling any shame at all.

What I really needed was to lean into my trusting relationships, so there’d be a place to talk about shame when faced with it.

That’s why I was so excited about my friend reaching out, because asking to talk things through is what led to the open and honest conversation that followed. Multiple of them, really.

We’ve even started emailing each other more regular life updates. In the time since, I feel like our conversations offer something they never did before: named intimacy, rather than inferred closeness. I get to hear about the latest with this friend’s kiddo, the funny thing that happened after work, and their actual feelings toward making life happen every day with their spouse. It’s not small talk or once a year banter—we’re not even catching up anymore, really, because we’re collaborating more in real-time through short, no-pressure snippets.

Showing up without shame requires the presence of trust.

Across from me, mom shifts in her seat. The mid morning brightness is now highlighting an expression of deep curiosity on her face.

I tell her that releasing my shame from its hiding place required a level of trust I hadn’t been willing to participate in back then—that learning how to go about it differently is something I’ve been curious about ever since my teenaged struggles all those years ago. So, that’s when I started absorbing, collecting, and experimenting with different ways of doing things.

“Some of it,” I explained, “comes from Brené Brown’s work, some from Andrew Huberman, Gabor Maté, Carol Dweck, and Adam Grant. Some from Angela Duckworth and Richard Schwartz...” I trailed off.

Mom’s eyes were glazing over.

I leaned forward.

“I’ve accidentally been working toward my PhD in Cognitive Psychology all these years... without getting any credit for it!”

Sure, it was a joke. I’d delivered the line with an air of faux incredulity and we’d smirked at each other. But my half-truth kept hanging there, lingering, in the air between us.

Our relationship with accountability depends on our response to shame.

Last summer, I finally admitted I was lonely.

I wrote about how I was among the many men who feel this way. I’d noticed my friendships had fallen off a cliff when I stepped away from social media a few years ago. Between that, getting sober, and a handful of other factors, I’d felt more and more like I couldn’t communicate effectively anymore. So, I set out to do something about it. I challenged myself to learn more about storytelling and started telling stories at The Moth to keep myself accountable. I even began writing a daily column to further hone my skills.

Nine months later, I heard my name get called over the speakers to go up on stage at The Moth. Then, I swallowed the mouthful of water I’d been holding onto.

The theater was dark, and my mouth gets dry when I’m about to speak in front of an audience. I rose from my seat and made my way to the front while taking a few sharp inhales through my nose. Climbing the steps, I let out a slow exhale as I walked into the spotlights and took my place in front of the mic. Sue, the event host, adjusted the stand, gave me a smile, and then disappeared stage-left.

I looked out at the crowd, peering into the darkness beyond the stage-lighting. With my feet firmly planted, I relaxed my shoulders and reminded myself to stand up straight. I gave myself a silent “you got this”, then smiled and began telling the story of how I chose to save my own ass instead of helping someone else because of the hidden shame I carried.

After I finished, I moved out of the spotlight and could finally see the faces in the crowd and hear their thunderous applause. Descending the steps to return to my seat, I clenched my jaw and felt my throat swell as I walked past tearful smiles and nods of appreciation. In a culture where ridicule runs rampant, we expect people to conceal their shame in perpetuity. All I know, is that collaboration and contribution, not competition, is what helps me offload mine.

This wasn’t the first time I told a story at The Moth, but I think it was the first time I felt like I truly belonged. I missed first place by just a fraction of a point, coming in second (again). One of these times I’m going to win. Maybe. Or, maybe I won’t…

Either way, I’m just going to keep showing up.

Because I’m tired of seeing boys full of shame become men full of fear.

onward.

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I’m just focused on getting us there in time for sunset.

We have about 25 minutes.

The parking lot’s surprisingly empty, so Isobel and I run into the store in search of something picnic-able to bring with us. We head straight for the premade, grab-n-go sandwiches, only to find them all completely sold out.

Shit.

“Ok, is there anything else here you’d be excited about?” I asked.

I’m already thinking of backup plans... maybe we could order burritos ahead and pick them up on our way to the lake? Or, stop somewhere for pizza by the slice?

18 minutes.

Selection made, I scoop a couple seltzers and we’re on our way to the register.

Nice.

Into the truck we go and we’re off.

15 minutes.

I can’t figure out why the streets are empty—its about to be a BEAUTIFUL sunset. I mean... it’s a completely clear sky and it’s already smeared with pinks, yellows, and oranges above the silhouette of the Adirondack’s across the lake. So I’m also shocked there are so many open spots so close to the water.

12 minutes.

Hopping out of the truck, I grab a blanket and pull out my phone to download the pay-to-park app. I’m multitasking—which I’m terrible at—while walking, talking, logging in, and trying to find the best place to sit.

Oh right... it’s Sunday... free parking.

10 minutes.

We strike out looking for a spot on the rocks to sit, so we double-back toward the grass. It works out perfectly, though. We have an absolutely unobstructed view of the sun dropping behind the mountains while blazing a fireball reflection of itself across the water. There are a few trees with budding branches framing the whole thing, too.

7 minutes.

The blankets down and then we follow suit. We’re all smiles, and we’re not the only ones. Plenty of folks found their way down here, but we have our own section of grass to ourselves. Out comes the food and drinks. We crack the cans, cheers, and direct our attention toward the setting sun.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
238/365

When's the last time you raced to catch the sunset, just because?

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This is a pretty inconvenient intersection and the light just turned red.

We’re right next to the train tracks, and the problem is that there’s only room enough for a few cars to fit between the light and the railroad crossing. It’s a four-way intersection and the tracks cut through the lane I’m in.

And I’m on my bike.

There’s no crosswalk or bike lane within this precarious stretch of pavement before the traffic light, so I’m sitting there in the middle of the lane getting ready to turn left. The light turns red, I sigh, and come to a stop.

When the car behind me honked, I hadn’t expected it. I looked up to check, but the light was still red. Another honk. Now I’m confused. Is the honking directed at me? Sure, the walk sign’s on, but I’m not going that way. I’m turning left. So, mentally I’m confirming that I’m accurately following the rules of the road when I hear some guy’s voice ringing out from behind me.

Is he... wow.

Yep.

Another honk.

This guy’s apparently rolled his window down so he can try to mock me by singing “Bicycle Race” by Queen. I recognize the tone as one of practiced patronization. This is meant as a taunt.

It’s 8am on a sunny Saturday, and this person is actively choosing to expend their energy on... what exactly? What is it they’re hoping to accomplish here? I don’t turn around. I don’t even shake my head, but I’m definitely smirking.

It makes no sense to me why someone would spend any amount of energy on something like that. The light turns green. I signal my left turn and, even though I’m met with another honk and some jeering, I’m already looking forward to my coffee and a breakfast sandwich from the place down the street. Maybe a younger version of me would’ve been goaded into a yelling match, but not today.

My mind’s already on my book, and I’m hoping there’s an open spot by the window.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
237/365

How do you deal with assholes? Do you play their games, or focus on your own?

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It makes sense in my mind but... now I need to figure out how to explain it.

My mom’s sitting across from me at the head of the table. We’re in her kitchen. It’s mid morning and we’re fully down the rabbit hole in a conversation about neuroplasticity (yes, I’m absolutely the one that brought it up). It’d started with a joke... one of those half-truths that isn’t so much “ha-ha funny” as it is ironic. I’d said that maybe my calling was in academia, as a psychological researcher.

Mom then shoots me a knowing look with a half-grin to acknowledge my half-truth. Absentmindedly, I crack the knuckle of my pointer finger with my thumb. I pull my gaze away from its scan of nothing in particular among the countertop cabinets to look back toward her with a bit of pretend pompousness. We both know why it’s funny, even if we’re not laughing.

I wasn’t that great a student.

Well, ok... I was “very capable” as my high school teachers would’ve said, but my grades maybe didn’t always reflect my true level of capability. I know now that there are plenty of legitimate reasons for that—my neurodivergence chief among them, which was undiagnosed at the time. Still, back then, I carried a lot of shame around those less-than-stellar grades and their, seemingly unexplainable, incongruence with my abilities.

Shame; that’s how this conversational rabbit hole adventure in the kitchen had unraveled.

Mom looked back at me and tilted her head with the weight of a fresh thought. “That would really be something” she said. After a quick pause she added, “if you could help teens learn about how to have healthier relationships with shame, that would be amazing.”

I’d just explained how I’ve never heard of a named theory, or body of work, that outlines the cognitive-emotional equivalent of neuroplasticity. Nothing that describes it as part of an integrated, biological system. Basically, I described how it’s scientifically proven that an old dog can in fact learn new tricks. That’s neuroplasticity. So, I want to know what to call an old dog’s ability to manage (or even resolve) the shame they feel about the false belief that they can’t learn new tricks. That way... they (we) can go on learning new tricks, sans shame.

I’ve been thinking more and more about how, as humans, our relationship with accountability depends on our relationship with shame. When I was a teen, I hid the fact that I struggled to get assignments done in school because I was ashamed of it. I continued to struggle like that until I defused the shame that interfered with my ability to hold myself accountable. It required trust. I needed to believe that I’d be supported after divulging my shame.

“Some of this,” I explained to mom, “comes from Brené Brown’s work, some from Andrew Huberman, Gabor Maté, Carol Dweck, and Adam Grant. Some from Angela Duckworth and Richard Schwartz...” I trailed off.

Mom’s eyes were glazing over.

I leaned forward.

“I’ve accidentally been working toward my PhD in Behavioral Psychology all these years... without getting any credit for it!”

Sure, it was a joke. I’d delivered the line with an air of faux incredulity.

And we smirked at each other.

But my half-truth hung there, lingering in the air between us.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
236/365

What’s a half-truth you joke about, but that could be a whole truth depending on the audience?

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I could feel it when I opened the door.

Well, ok maybe not right when I opened the door... but once I successfully wrestled my bike through the doorway without shattering the storm door, I definitely could.

First, I had to close both the big wooden door and the squeaky storm door that guards it. That’d required a split-like maneuver where my outstretched, left hand precariously balanced the bike in place from its seat while I extended my right leg forward to perform the kind of textbook lunge my former strength coach would’ve been proud of. From there, all I’d had to do was remember to breathe while I used my right hand to close and lock the door.

After returning to an upright position, I stood for a moment to gather my wits take in the refreshingly crisp, beautiful, blue sunny day.

I’d fought valiantly. Of course I deserved to relish my victory.

“Hey Derek!”

Oh... oh no.

“Great day for a ride huh?”

Shit.

“Mornin, Jason—definitely. Been a long time coming.”

I looked across the driveway at the tight-lipped grin on his face. He’s a super sincere guy, so he meant what he said in earnest. But, he also definitely just watched my entire bike-through-the-doorway debacle.

I could only shrug, shooting him a sheepish smirk back.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
235/365

When's the last time you got caught doing something embarrassing? How'd you respond?

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I used to jump off these cliffs and into the water 60 feet below.

Today, I’m walking in the woods with Ava. After winding through the tree cover we pop out along a stretch of cliffs that drop sharply into Lake Champlain. The patchy sky’s either concealing or revealing a sunny backdrop that’s sort of giving me the vibe of a light bulb on the brink of going out. Or, I guess it could be coming to life. Either way, it’s quiet. It’s calm and serene and peaceful and Ava and I are looking at each other as we walk down a path covered in a pine-needle carpet, crunching our way through fallen twigs and branches.

I grew up cliff jumping.

It’s exactly what it sounds like and it’s where I think I learned the most about fear... standing on the jagged edge of a rock and pushing off into a free-fall above the water. I loved it. My mom didn’t. Ok well, I loved some parts of it. The other parts took a bit of getting used to. Like the lead-up to jumping is where my fear was the worst. That’s where all the anticipation and tightness in my chest would morph into butterflies and swirl around my stomach. Despite all that, it was—and still is—fun.

But I’m just observing today, not jumping.

And Ava’s done waiting. I can hear her sniffing at something and I know she’s about to whimper-whine for us to keep walking. So we do. With each step, I feel lighter. There’s no breeze, and there’s no one else in either direction on this trail, either. Just Ava and I, clomping our way through a midday stroll.

I’m smiling.

And I’m thinking about all that cliff jumping taught me. For as much as I like cliff jumping, I’m realizing I don’t need to chase the rush of it quite like I used to. I know I can manage my fear now. I think back then, I was still proving to myself that I could.

I look over at Ava and she’s trotting with her ears perked up. She’s just seen a squirrel, but she doesn’t leave my side. It’s clear she’s tempted, but she just keeps padding along.

“Look at us,” I think.

“Both showing off our mastery of restraint.”

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
234/365

What's something you no longer feel the need to prove to yourself?

onward.

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I’m watching myself perform on national television... this is WILD.

I’m sitting on the couch last night, looking at the TV with a dumbfounded expression on my face, and my heart rate starts picking up speed. All I can think is “that’s me... on national TV...”

A while back, I got invited to be on an episode of the TV show Stories From The Stage alongside a spectacular group of storytellers, and our episode premiered last night. We told a story connected to a specific theme as part of a live event with a studio audience. The theme was “hidden gifts.”

Leaning forward with my forearms on my knees, I’m thinking about all the times I’ve stood in front of a group of people and divulged bits of my life. Memories cycle through my head of star-lit circles on camping trips with people wearing headlamps as an audience—shining a spotlight on whoever’s turn it was to tell a story. On one of those trips, I’d learned my favorite fun-fact about American bison this way. We were winter camping in Wyoming and one of our trip leaders told me the story behind the hip-sled I’d been using to drag my gear through the snow all week. Each person in the group had one, and they all had labels so we knew whose was whose. Mine came with the label “Tatonka.” It means Bison in Lakota Sioux.

“Bison,” the leader had said, “walk head-first into oncoming storms instead of waiting for the storm to get to them.” He went on to clarify that it’s because they can handle it; they spend their whole lives practicing. That made sense to me. They had the tools—the fur, the strength, the stature. But using the tools repeatedly is what makes them good at facing storms. Disposition, practice, and iteration. That’s why it’s beneficial for them to go through storms. It’s what carries them to the calmer weather on the other side faster.

I shake my head, remembering one job where I flew around the country speaking at events... amazed by the confidence I’d felt back then. In some ways, I think it was like necessary armor. It had been a way to psych myself up and then insulate me from the recourse of any mistakes, fumbles, or follies. I think about the many mistakes I’ve made, and all of the skills I’ve gained by facing the scary storm of public speaking over, and over, and over since.

Now, with my heart still hammering in my chest, I’m watching myself tell a story on TV and I’m shocked by how calm I look up there. Confident, too. I feel like laughing. Apparently, I’m more nervous to watch myself perform than I was to actually be on stage and record this thing in front of a studio audience. I didn’t need to psych myself up for it with that old version of confidence-armor for this one.

This had felt really natural.

Standing on that stage, I’d felt perfectly comfortable... enjoying the weather on the other side of the storm.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
233/365

Do you head into storms, wait for them, or turn away?

onward.

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I’m going to tell you a secret.

The sun’s crawling through the windows and I’m moving and grooving through the kitchen. I’ve just made what I hope will be a fantastic sausage, egg, and cheese. As I’m heading over to the table, I get an idea. There’s been this one video at the top of my “watch later” queue on Youtube for... too long. I’m not sure what even made me think of it, but today’s the day. I’m watching it.

While I’m opening my laptop, I do some thinking about my thinking and land on a reason for why this video might’ve come to mind: restlessness.

I’m itchy—the kind that’s craving some change, some adventure.

That’s not the secret, though.

A few minutes into the video, I’ve only managed a few bites of my sausage, egg, and cheese. It’s good; I’m just hooked on what I’m watching. I mean, it’s really incredible! This is a behind-the-scenes of how Huckberry went and just casually made the best travel show on Youtube. The show’s called DIRT and it’s actually been around since 2022. That’s not the secret, either. But, before I get to that, have you heard of Huckberry?

They began as sort of a boutique, online marketplace for men’s clothing in 2010. Yet, DIRT, feels like the reincarnation of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown—but for washed-up mountain athlete hipsters with expendable income and a travel bug.

Elbows on the table now, I’m leaning over my empty plate and staring at the screen in front of me like a kid at Disney World. What this company’s doing is brilliant. They’re documenting the lives, adventures, and stories that their products enable, but without directly “selling” anything in the show. It’s just pure entertainment and adventure.

Right there in my kitchen, I feel like slow clapping for whichever person in their marketing department signed off on the original pitch for this. The production crew is just sort of... galavanting across the globe—Alaska, Maine, Switzerland, New Zealand, Japan—to meet up with locals in a sort of eat, play, love quest for the freshest cuisine.

The video’s over, and with one hand on my coffee mug I’m digesting what I watched. The other is spinning my ring in a relentless circle while I’m thinking through an idea... Huckberry’s an online retailer, who’s clearly expanding to a media-first marketing model. So, what if they created a print publication that shared behind-the-scenes stories from DIRT episodes?

Pulling my laptop closer, I find myself googling whether or not Huckberry already has a print publication. Turns out, they were creating catalogs from 2017 - 2019.

But that was before DIRT...

Those, it seems, were an amalgam of travel guides and product features. What if they created a new print publication? Something similar to The Mountain Gazette, but with a smidge of The Atlantic and a dash of the old SNOWBOARDER Mag thrown in.

Leaning back in my chair, I’m smiling and nodding to myself. My head dips left and then right. I think about that restless itch I’ve been feeling.

Yup, this could work...

So, that secret I wanted to tell you?

I want to bring this to life. And if Huckberry won’t, I will.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
232/365

Have you ever felt called to an idea before it was even fully formed?

onward.

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We desperately need role models of healthy, secure masculinity. I can’t believe it’s controversial to say that, but apparently it is.

You know how sometimes it seems like the world doesn’t value the things you value… like, at all? That’s what happened to me when I opened Substack on my laptop this week. My eyes floated to the right side of the screen and lingered there for a minute before glazing over completely.

That’s the spot where the leaderboard showed that Andrew Tate—a proud, self-proclaimed misogynist, currently facing charges for human trafficking, rape, and organized crime—had become Substack’s latest number-one bestseller...

At first, I was furious. I was incredulous, angry, and riled-up. However, all of that was quickly replaced with a deep and profound sense of disgust.

Substack is supposedly the anti-slop, emotionally-literate platform for writers.

With over 50 million users on the platform, I was disappointed, bordering on betrayed, to see the likes of Tate get enough support to land atop the leaderboard.

I just… ok, um…

I’m sitting there gawking defeatedly at the screen, wanting to scream at the top of my fucking lungs. I couldn’t take it anymore. For the most part, I try to stay off of social media these days because of shit like this. I didn’t even log on to Substack to scroll, either. I went to write. And then, there I am faced with the dumbfuckery staring back at me.

I just kept sitting there. And then a mountain of thoughts came flooding in. I felt extraordinary disdain and total dejection at the same time until, suddenly, I was back in high school watching a fight break out.

One I could’ve stopped, but didn’t.

Fear of rejection keeps men quiet when bad things happen.

I was fifteen years old, and the person who threw the punch was on the football team with me. Everyone was gathered in a circle just outside of our school’s library in the space between the end of lunch and the start of the next period. I remember trying to understand why the crowd was forming, and then feeling like my feet were stuck to the pavement once I figured it out.

Across from the football player stood someone about three times smaller than him. This person had a reputation for pissing people off, but they also had a learning disability where they struggled to recognize social cues.

The more boisterous things became, the more stunned I felt.

This can’t be happening.

I desperately wanted someone to do something, I just really didn’t want it to be me. We went to an all-boys school and it was the kind of place where social status relied on put-downs disguised as witty banter, and where sameness meant acceptance. Anything that made you different was fair game to be used against you. And I’d been picked on as a kid. Mostly, for being artsy. While it’d taken a lot of work, I finally managed to shed that persona by the time this fight took place. It’d required years of careful engineering to earn a social status that was both flexible and neutral—one that let me fit in without standing out too much.

So I’d watched from the edge of the circle outside of the library, panicking, while that football player raised his arm to strike. Intervening felt like I’d be throwing away the social safety I worked so hard for. And, as ashamed as I felt, the fear of losing that safety kept me quiet while things continued to escalate. Yes, I’d managed to embed myself within the jocks’ social group by then, but I was very much still struggling with my queerness.

I hadn’t come out yet.

My closest friends didn’t know. At times, I tried very hard not to know either.

So, standing on the edge of that circle outside of the library at school, I remember thinking there was no way he was really going to do it. This teammate of mine was not going to punch this guy.

But then he did… he punched him directly in the center of his face.

Immediately, I thought he broke his nose.

At first, none of us did a thing.

Then, suddenly, I’m standing between them—nobody tried to stop me. Everything grew quiet directly after the hit, anyway. Next thing I know, I’m at the school nurse’s office telling the guy with the bloody face he’s going to be ok. Before I could leave, he reached out and hugged me; thanked me even. And I walked out of there completely full of shame for having saved my own ass at the expense of his. I didn’t go to the principal or tell anyone about it, either. I just went to class.

And I still regret it.

Healthy masculinity requires vulnerability, empathy, acceptance, failure, and accountability.

After a while, I’m scrolling the Notes feed on Substack and it’s clear I’m not the only one who’s aggravated by the leaderboard. All I could do was shake my head. I hate that healthy masculinity is such a faux pas thing to talk about.

Seriously, I’m sitting there wondering how insane I must be to hope more people agree that vulnerability, empathy, acceptance, failure, and accountability are behavior patterns worth endorsing. These are the basic elements of secure, human connection—regardless of gender. And I still can’t believe how controversial they are.

Shifting uneasily in my seat, I’d wondered if there are just too many people out there in the world who dream of punching a bully in the face, but who haven’t yet realized that they’ve become the bully. And I know I could be wrong, but I also know that kind of pain, without an outlet, ferments into really something sinister.

Shame is a breeding ground for insecurity.

Unfortunately, I also know a thing or two about that. I turned 32 this week and I never expected to make it this far.

Recently, a couple close friends and I talked through that very topic during a conversation about “life milestones.” We were sitting across from each other in a triangle in their living room. As soon as the topic popped up, I knew I had a decision to make: be honest, or deflect. For years I chose the latter, but this time I decided to go with the former.

The line of questioning bopped unceremoniously from “how’d you picture your career” to “what’d you want to be when you grew up,” and then over to “how did you choose which college you went to” and “wait, did we all feel super pressured to go to college in the first place??”

From my seat on the end of the couch, I’d kept my eyes on my friend while she explained her answers, fidgeting incessantly with my hands in my lap. When the invisible sharing stick finally made its way over to me, I inhaled slowly and prepared to let the honesty out.

More calmly than expected, I explained that my upbringing was spent predominantly in fight-or-flight mode. Moving past the details, I stated quite plainly that all of that had led to an arduous game of tug-of-war with both my mental health and masculinity as a teen. Before continuing, I’d braced myself in what I hoped was a subtle way. I’d uncrossed my leg from its perch on my knee and swapped it for the other one. Eyes flitting back-n-forth between my two friends, I then told them how that chapter of my journey ultimately led to a suicidal crisis and how a phone call to a friend saved my life.

And, with all of that in mind, I explained how I never pictured what my adult life would look like—no ideal career, house, hobbies, hopes, dreams, or schemes. No role models. I didn’t think I’d be here for any of it.

My friends didn’t recoil. Their eyes were a bit wider than usual, sure. But they already knew the raw truth of what I’d shared. Granted, this framing was a bit different than I’d ever really gone into with them. But I was glad I did. To me, it didn’t feel harsh, or triggering, or upsetting. It just felt... matter of fact. Sort of like a clean slate. I see a lot of hope in that from where I’m sitting.

So, what did I want to be when I grow up?

Happy.

Which is why, every year, I find myself more and more grateful for my clean slate.

Curiosity is the antidote, but connection is the cure.

I’d finally clicked away from the Substack homepage and into the draft I’d gone there to work on. Blinking cursor and blank background in front of me, I let out a big, long exhale. More calmly, I started thinking about all of this from a different angle.

It wasn’t until my twenties that I learned to talk to the men in my life about pain, so I can empathize with those hoping for a way to resolve their insecurity and loneliness.

And male loneliness has truly become an epidemic.

• 30 years ago, 55 % of men reported having at least six close friends.

• Only 27 % of men have six or more close friends today.

• 15% of men have no close friendships at all.

When I called my friend in crisis all those years ago, my voice wobbled but his didn’t. He was calm and offered advice that saved my life. I later asked him how he stayed so level-headed during that phone call, since it was his clarity that made the difference. What he said in response is something I’ll never, ever forget.

He told me that when he answered the phone he was terrified, but he knew he needed to find a way to keep calm. So he asked himself: “What would Derek do if roles were reversed?”

And then, he tried to act like me.

That’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. My throat still catches thinking about it. It’s one of the most profound mindset shifts I’ve ever come across, too. I use it all the time now.

Asking for help is the second bravest thing you can do.

The first is asking someone else if they’re ok and meaning it.

When I finally reached a place in my life when I was ready to stop searching for masculinity to guide me and, instead, try steering myself by pointing toward the kind of person I wanted to be, it was clunky at first. But that’s the thing that actually helped me get rid of any fear of being quiet when bad things happen. Defining what I value, and making decisions based on those things, helped me build accountability. Vulnerability, failure, and acceptance led me to develop empathy and nurture a sense of security.

That’s what it took to get here.

It’s why I’m confident in who I am and what I believe in.

I want to be someone the people in my life can have honest conversations with—even, and especially, when they don’t have their shit together and/or they’re dealing with pain. To do that requires a level of empathy only found by helping people learn to make space for themselves and others.

For me, that’s about as masculine as it gets.

onward.

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I’m writing an email to a friend when I start to wonder if I actually sound like myself.

It’s early morning-ish and I’m sitting in the dining room. The light’s on, but usually I wouldn’t need it. Today’s a washout—gray, wet, dark, and dreary. So I’m sitting at the table with my laptop, peacefully and purposefully click-clacking away.

I’d been reading The Correspondent by Virginia Evans beforehand and I don’t doubt it had something to do with feeling inspired to reach out to a friend. The book shares the story of Sybil, through various letters, emails, and messages between her and the people in her life. She has a very bespoke writing style. So, I’m three-quarters of the way through my email and I’m wondering: do I sound like me or do I sound like Sybil? I was reading Theo of Golden before I started The Correspondent; do I sound like Theo?

I sit back in a huff.

I’ve always been a collector.

As a kid, it was impressions of movie characters. And not just their words, but their mannerisms, too. With snowboarding, it was trying to emulate certain riders’ style. I like figuring out how people think. Or rather, I like understanding what makes someone approach something they way they do. Mind maps... I’d say, mostly, I’m a collector of mind maps.

I don’t know if my writing voice changes based on what I’m reading at the time, but I like to think I’ve harnessed my voice such that it remains unmistakably mine—even upon run-ins with avant-garde influences.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
231/365

Have you ever met someone with an accent and started copying it by accident? Cool cool cool... me neither.

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The sun finally shows up in full force, and I’ve been couch-bound for two days now.

Waking up yesterday, I immediately felt off. It was like my vision was lagging—everything was slow and distorted. I couldn’t figure it out at first. It felt like I’d been drugged... or like when I was recovering from my TBI and my eyes couldn’t track properly. I got up and took a shower, hoping it might snap me out of it, but it didn’t. I was dizzy and afraid of falling over.

Since then, I’ve been hydrating like crazy and trying my hardest to rest.

I don’t know why, but I never thought vertigo was something that could happen to me. It wasn’t even on my radar. But it definitely explains why I haven’t really been able to walk a straight line.

Thankfully, today’s been better than yesterday. I’m hopeful that trend continues. As someone who writes daily, and who reads almost as much as he writes, I can tell you with the utmost confidence that this sucks. Because it’s hard to do either of those things while the room’s spinning.

All the while, the quote “if you don’t schedule a break, your body will do it for you” is reverberating through my head. That, and the U2 song, Vertigo. Which, by the way, I’m not even convinced is that great of a song... their deal with Apple that landed them on every iPod by default might be the biggest stroke of luck any musical group has ever had.

These are things I’m thinking about as I’m trapped inside on another sunshiny day.

Still, I know I need the rest. Apparently stress and an overtaxed nervous system can cause vertigo. Not much of a shocker, there. So, I’m leaning in (finally). Much like I should have been doing for months.

On the one hand, I know that mental health is just… health. And on the other, I wish it wasn’t a lesson I needed to keep learning. Especially because I feel like I’m someone who’s very mental-health-conscious. I do the stuff—the healthy habits and the routines and the good mental maintenance.

But I’m not that good about rest and recovery (yet).

I’m working on it. And I know that actually becomes achievable by picking things up where I left off, rather than giving myself a hard time about it.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
230/365

What lesson do you keep re-learning?

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Yesterday I encountered a river otter while running by the lake.

I’m on the return trip of my out-and-back route along the waterfront when I hit this straightaway stretch that means I’m almost there. It’s my “you can do this” section where I’m tired but nudge myself along knowing it’ll be over soon. For a predominantly overcast day, the sun made a very valiant effort while I puttered along that section of the path. It was going to rain; without a doubt. It was just a matter of when. In fact, I was prepared to get rained on during my run, but so far I’d made it unscathed.

My heads down and I’m counting out elongated inhales and exhales when something off to the right catches my eye. It’s in the water, and it’s moving but not splashing. What is that? It kinda looks like a log—wait, is that an animal?

I slowed to a stop, trying to identify it.

When I stopped, it did a 180° and swam straight toward me. Now, it... it’s checking me out, isn’t it? Cautiously, I started to jog. It changed direction again and followed me. At first I thought it might’ve been a beaver, but it’s a river otter. I didn’t even know we had those here.

I’m grinning at this point, remembering a childhood trip to Alaska where my mom and I saw otters floating together on their backs along the coast. This one shepherded me to the end of the straightaway before bidding me farewell and heading back down the shoreline.

So cool.

I’m winding down my run thinking about how calm I felt when the river otter showed up. It was immediate. I’d been sort of cycling through a list of stressors in my head before that. And that shifted dramatically once I encountered that furry little fella. It felt like good luck or something.

When I got home, I looked it up and discovered that otters are associated with peace and play. So I’m psyched. And I’m grateful—because I think that’s exactly what I need right about now.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
229/365

What’s the universe trying to tell you these days?

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I’m eating lunch today when I get a taste of my own medicine.

This cafe is always packed right about now, so I’m psyched to have landed an open table by the window. My laptop’s open in front of me and I’m clicking through my inbox. First, I see the name of the sender and I’m excited because it means new writing from someone whose words I love to read. Next, my eyes dart to the subject line, and as much as I don’t want it to, my interest dwindles.

“Is It Just Music?“

I go back and forth between opening it now or waiting until later, and later wins. I move on. There’s plenty on my to-do list for the day and I’m trying to squeeze in a run this afternoon before it rains. Running in the rain is a sadistic sort of pleasantry, but only on occasion. Lately, I seem to be doing it a bit much for my liking.

When I’m done eating, I glance at my watch and mentally prepare to pack up and head out. For some reason, I click the email I’d saved for later.

Just a peek.

Only a teaser.

My eyes danced along the first sentence before sashaying their way to the second. And then the third. And the fourth, fifth, and sixth. I’m smiling and it’s only getting bigger the more I read. It’s really good!

I’ve been reading Brendan Leonard’s writing for a decade now in various forms. His book 60 Meters To Anywhere played a pretty major role in my decision to get sober. The outdoor-focused, travel-journal style of his work has kept me an avid reader of his other stuff, too. Today, though, something was so refreshingly different about the words in front of me that I couldn’t place it at first.

Over the years, his style has shifted with the evolution of his personal life. He got married and became a dad, but still runs ultramrathons. And he writes about all of it in a very human way that I thoroughly enjoy. So why was this piece so different? What made me completely lose track of time and drop all prior urgency related to my to-do list?

It felt like him.

That was it—the story, the details, the thoughts were all personal touches. And yet, I was picturing my own life and memories while I read about his. In fact, when I was done reading, I just sat there staring into space for a bit so I could hang out with the memories I’d stumbled across a bit more.

And, to think... I almost hadn’t clicked because of the title. Turns out, it didn’t match the gravitas of the piece even a little bit (at least, in my opinion). But that’s the whole ballgame, isn’t it? I had to shake my head at that. As a writer, I felt a pang of exasperation—for Brendan, for the people who might not read his masterpiece. And for myself; for facing the very same gamble every day when I publish this column. Or an essay or podcast episode.

I felt like shouting “YOU ALMOST DIDN’T GET ME” into the ether.

ME! And I read all your stuff!

But you did, Brendan.

And I’m so glad.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
228/365

What's something you love that you feel is severely underrated? Who can you share it with?

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Apparently, most people don’t think about their thinking quite like this.

For starters, I’m running up a fairly steep hill in the rain; which is something I used to think only crazy people did. So either my circumstances have changed or now I’m crazy, too... who’s to say.

Still, lately I’ve been thinking about how much I think about my thinking.

So, as I’m huffing and puffing and blinking droplets of rain out of my eyes, I’m actively trying not to ask myself why I’ve been thinking so much about the amount of thinking about my own thinking that I do.

Thinking about my thinking is something I’ve done since I was little. Plenty of us do it to some extent. If you’ve ever asked yourself “why—WHY—did I say that??“ after an especially awkward interaction, congrats—you’re in good company.

I recently heard Brené Brown and Adam Grant talking about this thinking about thinking dilemma (aka meta cognition). They just started a new podcast together called The Curiosity Shop and praised Eileen Gu, the Olympic skier, for her meta cognitive ability.

When I heard that, I was dumbfounded by how much they endorsed the behavior because of how little they see it used.

Um... what...

And here I am, desperately trying to do it less.

Despite my best efforts, my inclination to ask myself “why” rivals that of a particularly tenacious toddler. My condition is completely self-inflicted. Understandably, my therapist and I joke that I need to practice putting down the shovel instead of digging myself deeper into a hole in my quest for answers. And at the same time, it’s incredibly frustrating. It’s not like I need to know—I’m actually extremely comfortable with ambiguity. It’s the many possible answers and various angles of inquiry that I find myself addicted to.

I’m not the only one, either. Sakichi Toyoda, the founder of Toyota, created The Five Whys method for discovering root cause in the 1930s. Turns out, I was born and bred to search for root cause.

Cresting the top of the hill, I adjust my stride without slowing down so I can catch my breath. I steer my thoughts toward what I’m feeling rather than what I’m thinking or how much I’m thinking it. Like I’ve been practicing.

I don’t know why I think about thinking so damn much, but I do know what I’m feeling. And that’s a huge win for a guy who’s been trying to do just that by thinking less in order to make space for it.

Still plopping one foot in front of the other, what I’m feeling is... accomplished.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
227/365

What are you trying to make space for these days?

onward.

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You know that feeling where it seems like the world values something completely different than you do?

That’s what happened to me when I opened Substack on my laptop yesterday. I thought I was seeing things. Then, I hoped I was. My eyes lingered on the right side of the screen before glazing over completely.

Nope, not seeing things...

It’s real.

The leaderboard on the right of the screen showed that Andrew Tate—a proud, self-proclaimed misogynist, currently facing charges for human trafficking, rape, and organized crime—is the latest number 1 bestseller on Substack...

At first, I was furious. I was incredulous, angry, and riled-up. But only briefly, because all of that was quickly replaced with deep and profound disgust. Noticing my rollercoaster of emotions, I paused to ask myself why. What was behind it?

I was disappointed, bordering on betrayed.

Substack is supposedly the anti-slop, emotionally-literate platform for writers.

I just… ok, um…

I’m sitting there, gawking defeatedly at the screen and wanting to scream at the top of my fucking lungs. I can’t take it anymore. This, on top of all the other completely egregious modern headlines, I’m left feeling like the world values very different things than I do. Again.

I try to stay off of social media for the most part. I didn’t even log on to Substack to scroll, I came to write. And then, here I am faced with this latest dumbfuckery staring back at me. Somehow, I feel extraordinary disdain and total dejection at the same time.

For a minute, I just sit there. And then a mountain of thoughts just come flooding in.

Male loneliness as at epidemic-level proportions.

We desperately need role models of healthy, secure masculinity. We need people who demonstrate vulnerability, empathy, acceptance, failure, and accountability. At the very least, I’d love to see more people agree that those are behavior patterns worth endorsing. I mean, those elements are the basis of secure, human connection—regardless of gender.

I can’t believe it’s controversial to say all that, but apparently it is.

So, if you’re reading this, I implore you to talk to the men in your life about pain. Because pain without an outlet ferments into something sinister... Guilt, shame, and fear are a breeding ground for insecurity. And when we give insecurity a chance to feed on our pain, it tries and fails to protect us by distorting the reality we accept. It translates rejection into inadequacy and encourages us to isolate.

Lonely people are susceptible to malicious acts disguised as purpose when they’re made to look like acceptance...when they promise a sense of belonging.

When you talk to the men in your life, tell them in no uncertain terms how much you care about them. Ask them about what they’re going through and make space for them to exist without needing to have their shit together. Invite them to things. Tell them so, so, so explicitly that you want to be someone they can have honest conversations with.

Most of all, let them know that people like Andrew Tate are terrible role models. Make it abundantly clear that his popularity is a cause for concern, not celebration. We can do better; all of us. So, so much better.

Bravado doesn’t solve insecurity.

It just doesn’t.

Curiosity is the antidote for contempt, but connection is the cure.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
226/365

Who came to mind when reading this? Go talk to them.

onward.

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It was the sticker by the register that got me.

The coffee shop aesthetic was one of barn-or-cabin-meets-rural-general-store. It had exposed beams and finishings, with wall decor depicting the Green Mountain countryside.

I’m getting ready to pay when I see a big sticker slapped directly on the counter facing the customers. It just says “Karen,” but within a big red circle that has a line through it like you’d see on a no smoking sign. I gave a small chuckle before noticing the smaller sticker next to it.

Then I broke into a huge grin.

“I like the Clippy sticker” I told the guy behind the register.

I pointed to the image of that old Microsoft Office animated paperclip with the googly eyes and floating eyebrows that never seemed to be attached to anything. The text box above it said “You seem to be in the middle of an existential crisis. Would you like some help with that?” And, again, this is right next to the No Karens sticker... so I’m getting a real kick out of the implied meaning between them.

“Glad you like it!” the guy responded. “No one bought ‘em so I stopped making them” he added.

Wouldn’t ya know it, that only made it funnier to me.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
225/365

Have you seen any good bumper stickers or come across any good puns recently?

onward.

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Today I turned 32 and I never expected to make it this far.

Recently, a couple close friends and I were talking about “life milestones.” We were sitting across from each other in a triangle in their living room. As soon as the topic popped up, I knew I had a decision to make: be honest, or deflect. For years I chose the latter, but this time I decided to go with the former.

The line of questioning bopped from “how’d you picture your career” to “what’d you want to be when you grew up,” and then over to “how did you choose which college you went to” and “wait, did we all feel super pressured to go to college in the first place??”

From my seat on the end of the couch, I kept my eyes on my friend while she explained her answers, but fidgeted mercilessly with my hands in my lap. When the invisible sharing stick made its way over to me, I inhaled slowly and prepared to let the honesty out.

More calmly than expected, I explained that my upbringing was spent predominantly in fight-or-flight mode. Moving past the details, I stated quite plainly that all of that had led to an arduous game of tug-of-war with my mental health as a teen. Before continuing, I braced myself in what I hoped was a subtle way. I uncrossed my leg from its perch on my knee and swapped it for the other one. Eyes flitting back-n-forth between my two friends, I told them how that chapter of my journey ultimately led to a suicidal crisis.

And, with all of that in mind, I explained how I never pictured what my adult life would look like—no ideal career, house, hobbies, hopes, dreams, or schemes. I didn’t think I’d be here for it.

My friends didn’t recoil. Their eyes were a bit wider than usual, sure. But they already knew the raw truth of what I shared. Granted, this framing was different from what I’d ever really gone into with them. And I know how jarring it sounds—I get it. That’s why I never talk about it. But, to me it doesn’t feel harsh, or triggering, or upsetting. It just feels... matter of fact. It sort of feels like a clean-slate, and I see a lot of hope in that from where I’m sitting.

So, what did I want to be when I grow up?

Happy.

And every year I find myself more and more grateful for my clean slate.

Our Daily MAP Year Prompt
224/365

If you could imagine it from scratch, how would you draw-up the life ahead of you?

onward.

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