For the past few years, I’ve dreamt of finally getting back in shape. Winning the never ending game of tug-of-war by visualizing the type of person who can do it and just… willing myself to do what they’d do.

“Fake it till you make it” they say.

“What does that even mean??” I say back, before just making stuff up and hoping for the best.

I fantasized of wrestling work-life balance into submission, getting enough sleep, and waking up motivated to exercise. I visualized healthy eating habits that felt easy again and tried to figure out how to be someone who looked forward to doing fun things with their partner—rather than watching another movie on the couch.

The want was there, I just couldn’t find my way to the actions that would actually make those things, ya know, real.

Yet, I like to think of myself as a pretty resilient guy.

Willpower is a scam we try to sell each other.

Willpower is the modern snake oil that promises to make all your insecurities disappear. Recently, I managed to start running again. But I don’t think willpower had anything to do with it.

I finally put on the running shoes I laid out over two weeks ago. If they hadn’t already been there, I probably wouldn’t have gone looking for them. It was 6pm, which is right around the time I usually go for a post-work walk. Outside, it was gray again; cold and drizzling. Stepping out into the rain, I took a deep breath in through my nose. At the end of the block, I stretched for a bit and then I began to jog.

Having once been a very avid runner, something in me clearly still knows what I’m supposed to do, even if that part of me has been dormant for quite a while now.

At my two-mile marker, I came across two middle-aged women sitting on a bench along the path by the waterfront. Small waves lapped gently between the ice, rocks, and sand, up-and-down the shore. Rather than slowing down or turning around, I kept going. One of them was sobbing, and it seemed kinder to let them have their space without accidentally implying that their grief made me run in the other direction.

I tried not to look, focusing instead on my breathing, but I managed to see the unmistakable posture of someone trying to console another, very defeated looking person.

Maybe a layoff?

Divorce?

Death of a loved one?

My mind started guessing what might have brought them to the waterfront. After jogging past, I became aware of the guessing game I was playing and was both fascinated and disappointed with how quickly I’d constructed the possible scenarios. Then I thought about my own decision to go running along the lakeshore and felt my head shake as I processed a thought: whatever it is they’re going through, we’re really not so different.

It wasn’t willpower that brought me to the lake, it was… acceptance. I could finally admit it: I can’t fake my way into feeling better about myself.

But, I was actually willing to do something about it—even if it had just been something small, like putting my running shoes by the door a couple weeks back.

Fear fuels willpower, environment triggers action.

Getting back into running is one of the ways I’m trying to take better care of myself. It seems like the first step in my tug-of-war match with the kind of life I want.

Six years ago, I sat across from someone who’d agreed to grab a networking coffee with me. I’d been living in Jackson, Wyoming at the time. After years of trying to piece together a life I could sustain in that mountain town, I felt I’d reached a crossroads. I pictured what my life would look like in 5, 10, 15 years if I didn’t change a thing. I figured it would probably look the exact same as it did in that moment, despite my exhaustive efforts to try and get ahead instead of just scraping by.

The person sitting across from me worked in the same industry as me, but they were a lot further ahead in their career. They’d started out much like I had. So I’d asked them, pretty much word for word, “how the hell did you do it?” We were sitting at their office—a company which they owned—with an unobstructed view of the Tetons as the backdrop for our conversation. I’ll never forget it, because the first thing they asked me was if I loved the town... and when I said yes, they nodded knowingly, looked me in the eye, and told me to leave.

huh?

“Come back in ten years” they’d said.

And, some time after that conversation, I did end up leaving. At first, getting ahead was the plan so that I could return. It’s not anymore, but some of the ingredients are the same. My actual plan has been to sculpt a life with the highest possible agency by finding the most effective leverage. And for the last six years, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I went all in on sharpening my skills and moving my career forward to increase my earning potential.

Deprioritizing my health is the cost I’ve knowingly been paying.

And, recently, I finally became ready to change that.

Instead of adding more willpower, remove what’s in the way.

For the last five years or so, I rationalized the idea of taking shortcuts with my health so that I could get ahead in my career. It sounds silly, but I reasoned the time saved each day seemed worth it. By not commuting to the gym and working out, or going to the grocery store and cooking healthy meals, I figured I could buy myself a few extra hours of working, learning, and doing.

The worst part is that it worked.

I say that even though I’ve spent the last couple years in and out of doctor’s offices dealing with health issues. So when it comes to overhauling things, my biggest goals are three-fold: better sleep, consistent exercise, healthier diet.

The real challenge, though, has been pursuing that without relying on willpower.

1. Right off the bat, I knew that meant cutting down on my caffeine consumption... but, you know, without eliminating it entirely. Between my current coffee intake, medications, and a persistent lack of sleep, it’s not all that hard to understand why my nervous system’s been red-lining for years; even after removing toxic environmental stressors and increasing my mental-health toolbox.

2. When it comes to exercise, I knew from my extensive training as a former athlete that my optimal mix looks something like high intensity workouts (popularized by CrossFit) 2x3 per week, and cardio (running or biking) on the days in between, with one or two days off out of seven.

3. Diet’s the biggie. Unfortunately, it’s become the most daunting of the three. So I’ve been starting with small, sustainable changes.

My goal here is to create an environment that prioritizes healthy habits, one step at a time, without having to fake it in order to make it. Right now, I’m focused on adoption (probably because I’m a marketing operations dork at heart). I just want to make it as easy as possible for me to do the things on that list. And I’m a firm believer in the wisdom of If You Give A Moose A Muffin.

Or, simply, the “if this, then that” ideology.

Since I walk at the same few times each day, using one of those time-slots to run doesn’t feel like such a big change after all. And if I put my running shoes by the door, then I’m much more likely to put them on and go do it. That’s how I’ve been thinking about this. For me, changes like these are about engineering the space to succeed rather than trying to will myself to master everything all at once.

That’s been looking like meal prepping, food shopping, walking, and getting up earlier in the mornings than I was.

Resilience isn’t willpower, it’s practice.

On my way home from running along the waterfront, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the times I’ve returned to this place—of all the times I’ve used this path by the water to put myself back together. Same jagged rocks along the shore, same beachy smell even though it’s a lake, same light gray cityscape above the path... wearing an aura of both sadness and joy.

I’d sat in almost the same exact spot as those women when I was a college student, having just learned of a friend’s overdose. Years later, I’d been running this same bike path along Lake Champlain almost daily to train for my first marathon. The race itself was in Portland, Maine, and after all that training, I showed up extremely hungover for it.

When I moved back to Vermont from Wyoming in 2021, this path along the water was one of the routes I used to get ready for the Boston Marathon, too. I was fresh off of a breakup at that point. Thankfully, I was also in the early days of getting sober, so I was not hungover for that one.

Running past the same women on the bench on my way home, I just mentally wished them well without inventing any backstories.

Make it as easy as possible to take the next step before you can talk yourself out of it.

If you want the first domino to hit the second (and then the third and so on), you have to set them up. Starting means placing the pieces for the chain-reaction.

It’s about small repetitions and making it as likely as possible that you’ll take the next step. Forget about willpowering your way to the “big thing.” Resilience is placing your running shoes in front of the door so you see them every day and have to step over them for two weeks—or however long it takes—before you finally put them on. Because, the key is that you did put them on, whenever that was.

Small actions that change broader behavior… that’s resilience.

It starts with intentionally adjusting your environment, plain and simple. We fail when we bank on willpower alone to solve our problems. Maybe instead of “fake it till you make it,” the answer is admitting we don’t have it figured out yet. Perhaps resilience is being willing to put your running shoes by the door.

Maybe finding your footing is just about rigging the odds in your favor instead.

onward.

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I’m rewatching the Ted Lasso series right now, and it got me thinking about recognition and response in a way I hadn’t expected.

Last night, I tossed on an episode without realizing which one it was. When it got to a hostile locker-room scene after a particularly bad game, though, I felt my body stiffen. I’d known it would. So I took a deep breath and forced my shoulders to relax. The camera panned across an entire team’s worth of uncomfortable faces while they watched an inebriated dad joyfully manipulate his adult son’s emotions. But that pano shot of the team was an intentional camera angle for the viewers—I wanted to see how the actors portraying the players responded when the camera was on dad and son instead of them.

That’s how I noticed the one player who recognized the aggressive tension immediately and stood up before anything even started to escalate.

I rewound.

He’d been sitting alert, facing the dad and son, his teammate, while they started talking. All of the other players had still been going about their business. I’d been very impressed with the director for including that. That same player, the one who’d stood up first, even moved to jump in when things got violent. Only someone who’d been through something like that before could’ve anticipated what’d been about to happen when the dad first walked through the door. He knew. While the other players reacted with dumbfounded expressions when the punch was thrown, that player was already responding; moving toward the situation instead of shying away from it.

That’s when I reminded myself to breathe.

It’s usually the son in that scene that gets to me, but this time I’d choked up for an entirely different reason.

Some people learn to detect danger earlier than others, but what they do with that skill varies. For some, they learn to respond by protecting themselves while others learn to protect those around them.

Unfortunately, I’ve lived through a lot of scenes like that father-son fight from Ted Lasso. Sometimes I’ve been the son, and sometimes I’ve been his teammate who stood up first. Once upon a time, I was even one of the dumbfounded guys in the back. I’m sure that’s why so much of how I respond to conflict is rooted in self-preservation—recognizing something that’s not working and making myself capable of withstanding its ripple effects.

When I was in elementary school, I started filtering the kind of details I shared about myself in class. Like, if I’d gone fishing with my dad over the weekend, I might talk about the best ways of organizing a tackle box, but I’d leave out the parts about why it’d been so important to get it right.

In college, while out at a dive bar, I’d casually yanked a group of friends up against the wall with me a good 30 seconds before a fight broke out next to where they’d been standing. “How did you know that was going to happen??” they’d asked. “I could just tell” I’d told them, leaving out any mention of the times where I’d been the guy who got hit in the face. Truth be told, plenty of those were my fault. Some even happened just like in Ted Lasso, with someone egging the other person on.

Something I’m always working on is recognizing the full picture of what’s happening and choosing how I want to respond.

Take this morning for instance—as I walked into the kitchen to make coffee, I spotted my neighbor in their driveway.

It was early, but not as early as usual. Cold but not frigid, you know? The light popped when I opened the blinds, revealing a bright but not sunny day.

Usually, right about then is when my neighbor Jason wheels his bike from the gate to the sidewalk—yes, even in snow and blizzard conditions—but this morning something was different. I heard no click-click-click from the wheels. I saw no helmet or reflector vest. Not to mention, he was coming up his driveway on foot instead of leaving it on a bike.

huh...

I kept watching with confusion.

Oh, right... coffee.

In addition to a black winter jacket, a wool hat, and thick gloves, Jason wore a smile, like he usually does, while casually pushing an electric snowblower in front of him. Maybe he was moving it? He’d cleared his driveway last night, of that much I’d been certain. I was there. So, I turned and squinted against the light shining through the windows and looked past Jason to where he’d been coming from.

That’s when it’d dawned on me: he’d just done the neighbors driveway across the street. He must’ve—that’s got to be it. Probably because they’re older and he’d noticed they hadn’t gotten to it yet. I’d been completely speculating, but it’d be a very Jason thing to do. A few minutes later, I did see a reflector vest and bike tire round the corner, and I smiled, taking a satisfied sip of coffee.

I really like where I live.

I really like my neighbors, and I really like the community, too. Because it’d have been just as easy for him to continue on with his day without helping out the people across the street with their driveway. And even though I’m new to the neighborhood, it’s so clear to me that he wouldn’t do that. I’m not sure what he’s been through that makes him want to build up his community, but it was a small reminder that recognition and response can turn self-preservation into contribution. Or even full-blown community. Especially for those of us who grew up using it to find danger and hide from it.

It’s taken a lot of work to get myself into a position where living in a place like this is possible. And now that I’m here, I really want to be like Jason.

From what I can tell, the men who stand up first are usually those who can spot a problem before there is one. And by then, they’ve already got a full enough picture to respond accordingly.

onward.

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The price of existing is going up and I’m not convinced keeping up is worth it.

This week, while working from the coffee place around the corner with the tall ceilings and skylight windows, I realized something and now I can’t unsee it.

We live in a world that expects constant availability.

Comments, replies, emails, messages etc…

Engaging back and forth electronically with everyone—all day, every day—has gone from an unfortunate cultural norm to an expectation (both in work and in life). Is anyone else completely frazzled by this?

Just me?

I’d been thinking about it while sitting at the two-top in the corner.

It’s wedged between two big windows that face the street, and it has a view of the whole coffee shop interior. I love that table. No one can come up behind you, or bump into you while shuffling past, and you don’t have to worry about intruding on anyone beside you, like when you’re the middle seat on a plane. That little wooden table in the corner makes it feel like you’ve got some privacy in an otherwise busy place. Which, to me, is totally worth it.

Sitting in my nook, I noticed the agitation of a guy at the table next to mine immediately.

Let’s call him Guy.

He had his dog with him and they both seemed miserable. The dog was some kind of black lab mix—we’ll call him Dog. He was cute, but in that older, more tired kind of way that has some gray mixed in with the whiskers. Guy was probably late 40’s or early 50’s, clean-shaven, wearing a blue-green quarter zip. He had short salt-and-peppered hair that was coiffed up and over like it was running away from his furrowed brow and clenched jawline. Dog was sitting on the ground by his chair, but was clearly trying to get as far away as the taut leash would let him.

Guy looked stressed.

He was scowling at his computer, which continued to ping incessantly. I was trying not to stare, but it was hard. This had, unfortunately, been a perfectly normal occurrence to witness. They weren’t making a scene or causing problems or anything... their glum aura was just sort of bubbling its way into my corner.

Did Guy have Dog with him today unexpectedly? Or did he choose to? Guy wore a ring—perhaps Guy’s partner had to take the kids and maybe Guy got stuck with Dog?

Who knows.

Maybe they were just having an off morning.

With both hands wrapped around the mug in front of me, I felt a pang of foreboding. I used to think of myself as a dog person. I still do, but it’s different now. I grew up around plenty of dogs, and for years and years I couldn’t wait to get one. When I’d finally started working remotely full-time, I went for it and adopted from a local rescue.

At first, training a highly energetic and anxious puppy amplified my nervous system dysregulation to a level I hadn’t felt since I was a kid at my dad’s house. It’d wound me up so much that I could feel myself dissociating like I’d done back then, blocking out the noises by shutting down and trying not to scream. Suddenly, as an adult on the hook for the well-being of another living thing, I’d found myself wondering if dysregulation like that had been the cause of my dad’s frequent outbursts. Where he’d made it known quite plainly how he was feeling, I’d learned to do the opposite by putting on one hell of a poker face.

Or, at least, that’s what I’d thought.

After spacing out for a minute, I watched Guy’s frustrated face contort with every new ‘ping’ while Dog lay there trying not to cause problems.

I could relate, wondering which of them was me.

And I hated both options.

So there we were, Guy and Dog, me and my coffee; the tightness in my chest becoming more and more noticeable.

Hypervigilance is “a state of extreme, obsessive alertness and heightened sensory attunement, often driven by a nervous system stuck in “scan” mode for potential threats.”1 As someone who’s lived most of their life that way, I can assure you it takes an enormous amount of energy.

I first learned the term “hypervigilance” in high school after my step-sister picked it up in therapy. She’d helped me understand what it had to do with always feeling exhausted by comparing it with battery percentages, saying something to the effect of, “Some of us wake up in the morning fully charged and ready to go. As we move through the day, different things deplete different peoples’ batteries in different amounts.”

Whoa.

It sounded so straightforward when she’d said it like that. So, for one person, maybe brushing their teeth costs a single percentage point of their battery, but for someone else, maybe it costs ten percent. At the time, thinking of it that way felt like an “ah-ha” moment for me because I was constantly feeling weighed down by things that seemed easy for other people. That had been really validating—understanding that my nervous system was always running a heightened version of danger radar, on top of just being a kid.

Existing in busy places, where there’s lots to scan, costs me a lot of battery to this day. Going out to dinner at a restaurant isn’t just an eating-and-chatting activity for me—that type of stuff can cost me a full day’s battery, or more. Which is why the expectation of constant availability that comes from existing in such a digitally-focused society feels so increasingly taxing. What’s more, in an effort to keep up, we seem to have completely forgotten that different things deplete different peoples’ batteries at different rates.

Yet we’re all supposed to stay plugged in and responsive…

Staring directly into the depths of the mug in front of me, I thought about what my life could be like if I spent it trying to always be available and online. Would I be Guy, or would I be Dog in that scenario? I still wasn’t sure.

Eventually, I turned my attention toward reviewing the print-outs I’d brought with me, scribbling and scratching away at the pages splayed across the tabletop.

Breathing normally again by then, I realized I’d felt... better? Great, even. Slashing redundant phrasing and subtly correcting mismatched verb tenses with my pen, I’d felt focused and sharp. Like, I was doing something I was good at—casually but with precision and finesse. My laptop remained in my bag, and I’d kept fighting the urge to check my phone. I’d left it on Do Not Disturb, but the impulse to reach for it still gets me more than I’d like to admit. I’m trying to to be better about it, especially in my personal life. That’s also why I want to keep carving out time to exist without taxing my nervous system so much.

In a world that expects constant availability, it’s things like walking to and from a coffee shop that recharges my batteries. Time spent with pen and paper, and without a phone or computer, helps, too.

If you’re someone who’s hypervigilant, the price of existing has become unreasonable. Keeping up is a mirage you’ll never reach. Which means, the question to ask yourself is whether or not you even want to. Seriously, is keeping up with the modern expectation of constant availability worth draining your battery?

Only you know the answer.

onward.

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Ski lodges have such a distinct smell.

It’s part locker room and part wool sweaters that have been stored in cedar closets. There’s a hint of hockey-rink entryway to them, but with a splash of high school cafeteria thrown in for good measure.

It was late afternoon, and Isobel and I had just grabbed a few snacks in the lodge. I haven’t snowboarded all that much in the last few years, so it was nice to get out.

After making our way to a table by the windows, we slid an assortment of hats, gloves, and goggles out of the way for our laptops. When I was a kid, my cousins and I would pile in through the door, goggles fogging up immediately, after racing from the top of the mountain. The race would continue to the cafeteria while taking off our gear. We’d lunge for those huge, paper-plate-sized chocolate chip cookies in the plastic wrap. Then, the real competition was getting the best seat by the fire. That’s when the boots would come off. Those cookies just tasted better when your feet were popping and fizzing like freshly opened cans of soda.

Sitting across from Isobel, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth thinking about it. My laptop sat in front of me, unopened, as I thought more about all the ski lodges I’ve been in over the years… Wiggling my toes beneath the table, I looked around the room—at the kids crawling between bags and under tables with exasperated parents half-heartedly giving chase. It probably looked a lot like my cousins and I during those family ski weekends as kids.

It dawned on me that the chapters of my life can largely be marked by time spent around ski lodges: teaching lessons in high school, studying for finals in college, working throughout the Rocky Mountain West in my twenties. I even got to officiate and celebrate my friends’ wedding in a ski lodge. I’ve said goodbye to friends and mourned their passing in ski lodges. It seems like my mom and I have had our most memorable life-conversations in ski lodges, too.

Now in my thirties, I was sitting in a lodge across the table from Isobel with our laptops and a cookie between us. Feeling extremely grateful, I reached for another bite.

Earlier on the mountain, we’d split off from the others to tone down the pace a bit.

Since Isobel’s new to snowboarding, that gave us a chance to work on a few things. I’d agreed to help her (even though couples teaching each other how to slide on snow is known to be disastrous). She’d gone as a kid, but it’d been many years since she’d tried again. I like teaching, but it’d also been a bit since I’d done it professionally. In less than a day, she’d progressed from standing up to linking turns faster than any student I think I’ve ever had. That’s how we’d found ourselves lapping the upper mountain while the temps continued to drop.

Once she was carving confidently, and playing with different turn sizes and shapes, I let her lead so I could watch and follow, acting as a sort of body-guard to protect against anyone who might get too close or try to speed past. When there was no one coming, though, I also took the chance to play a bit. I’d scanned back uphill, over my shoulder, finding no one. In front of me, Isobel had been cruising without issue.

Feeling good, I’d swerved over toward the side of a roller at the last second and set my heel-side edge. My shoulders started to wind up out of muscle-memory. Everything slowed down and I’d popped off of the nose of my board into a miller flip 540.

I’d ridden away shaking my head and smiling. Snowboarding was still something I didn’t have to think about. Part of me needed to know that.

And, up ahead, Isobel was still carving smoothly.

Pulling my gaze away from the lodge window, I was surprised to see the crowd had died down significantly. Across from me, Isobel was still wearing her focused face behind her laptop. She’d let out a sigh of joyful relief earlier when taking off her boots, and a “yummmm” when taking a bite of chocolate chip cookie, too.

That’d made me really happy.

I’d been worried that snowboarding wouldn’t feel like it used to. Before my traumatic brain injury, it’d felt like I was more comfortable on a snowboard than walking down the street. Since then, it hasn’t felt the same and I hate it more than I let on.

Sometimes having it feel different is worse than just not going snowboarding at all. But that hadn’t happened this weekend, though; I’d had a lot of fun. Sitting there in the lodge, I couldn’t help but grin at the familiar things sprinkled within this new chapter. Like sharing a paper-plate-sized cookie. Or being gobbled up by cedar closet cafeteria smells.

For all those chapters of my life marked by ski lodges, I’d been avoiding the possibility of adding any new ones. Afraid of changing what shaped so much of who I am. Turns out, nostalgia was never the point… it’s getting to share bits and pieces of your favorite things with the people you love. And writing new chapters together.

onward.

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For years, sleep paralysis meant I’d wake up unable to move or speak.

Despite my immobilized state, my mind would be fully aware that it was awake and not dreaming. As a kid, I’d imagined it must be like getting anesthesia for surgery but then still being fully aware of everything that was happening, while it happened.

Terrifying.

Most days I wake up in a fog of confusion, but not today… today I woke up before my alarm. I was alert but not anxious. I felt light and unbothered. There was no dread, no dark cloud, no background level of perpetual urgency or fear.

Weird… but also, cool?

Honestly, it was so foreign I wondered what was wrong. So I thought back, recounting the ups and downs of the week.

A friend and I got together for coffee this past week, as we sometimes do, but it devolved into something else entirely; which, it always does.

Across from me in my dining room, he’d sat scribbling on the whiteboard between us. I’d watched with curiosity as he wrote, drumming the side of my coffee mug with my fingers. When he’d gone with the blue dry-erase marker, I’d been forced to swallow a cough-chuckle since I’d have picked the black one, personally, but then I’d wondered why something like that even mattered to me—like, why notice that at all?

Who cares?

Our conversation began with the innocent question “what’s new?” but, in the almost 15 years we’ve known each other, surface-level has never been our thing. Which is also why I’d started telling him about how I’d been feeling stressed lately, more so than usual.

Truth be told, I’d been having a lot of trouble sleeping.

One night earlier in the week, my brain would simply not wind down for bed. It’d been late but, since it was actually doing the total opposite of winding down anyway, I’d tossed the book I’d been reading onto the night stand, thrown on a hoodie, and shuffled my way to the couch. Then I’d plopped down with my laptop and wrote.

This is hard to admit, but I’d been writing about how I’d completely lost faith in my ability to flourish in life. Mostly, that I was worried about my ability to make money and live comfortably, long-term. That the job market was changing and the rat race was becoming a chatbot race, and that I had no interest in racing anyway.

I’d been avoiding actually saying that out loud for quite some time, but it’s been eating me alive… so writing about it felt good.

At first, I almost didn’t tell my friend about all I’d been wrestling with when he’d asked over coffee. It felt pretty doom-and-gloom and, while I desperately wanted to change it, I’m really struggling to feel like I can these days.

When I’d talked to my therapist about it, she’d helped me poke and prod at the whole thing a bit more. I’d sighed at the time, fidgeting with the ring on my left middle finger before looking into the laptop screen and blurting out that I suck at corporate politics and that I loathe self-promotion. She’d seemed somewhat concerned at first but relaxed into something more like amusement when I’d started babbling about how both of those things are prerequisites for climbing the corporate ladder.

“I used to be able to do it,” I’d told her. “And then it kind of broke... and I’ve never really been able to put it back together.”

Without missing a beat, she’d gone “... do you want to?”

Nope.

I sure didn’t.

Sometimes, it’s easy to let the voice in my head convince me that my way of seeing things ruffles feathers—that I’m too much. I ask why. I look for better ways of getting things done. I don’t promise certainty because I know it doesn’t exist. Pretending like it does bothers me a lot. I don’t like dishonesty or manipulation. Posturing and performance theater irk me immensely. And I get frustrated with those who refuse to acknowledge that there’s always more than one way to do things. Everyone thinks their way is the “right” way, which kinda sorta definitely means there is no right way by default, right?

Right.

Rest assured, I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. Trust me, I get that. I don’t need to be, either... I made my peace with it long ago. But it’s also just become incredibly difficult not to feel like a complete and total outcast altogether. Like, where the hell are my people?? There’s got to be somewhere that I fit.

That’s when my therapist cut in. She’d still looked amused, but perhaps she’d thought it best to corral us before I launched further down the rabbit hole. Before yielding my time, though, I’d admitted all of what I’d shared was chock full of limiting beliefs. She’d agreed with sort of a “well duh” expression, to which I’d nodded my appreciation.

All to say, I know these things can be untangled and defused. Logically, at least. But more and more it’s felt like I’ve completely lost the ability to believe flourishing’s an option for me. So, lately, it’s taking that much more effort to neutralize those thoughts.

And I’m fucking tired.

It’s not like my friend and I’d gotten together for coffee in order to chat about any of that stuff, though.

I’m actually pretty wary of foisting emotional baggage upon the people in my life these days. That wasn’t always the case, and I think I even overcorrected for a while by sharing too little of myself. But my friend had asked how I was doing and when I’d paused before saying “meh, I’m ok”, he’d smiled and followed up with whether I wanted to be heard, held, or helped. And after I’d responded with the truer depth of how things were going, he insisted we bust out the whiteboard to sort through all that I’ve been juggling. Which, by the way, is totally my move... but I hadn’t done it, even though I’d been meaning to for a while.

So when he’d finished writing and looked up, reflecting back all I’d shared with astonishing clarity, all I could do was exhale, smile, and feel grateful.

And this morning, while sitting by the window with a book in my lap, waiting for my coffee to finish brewing, I found myself contemplating whether or not the act of simply recounting all I’d been wrestling with—and naming it clearly— might be why I’d woken up with such ease.

Who knows. But, I trusted myself to share it with the people in my corner instead of tucking it away to fester, and that’s something.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that, actually, it’s everything.

onward.

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You know when someone does something that immediately makes you feel stupid for not thinking of it? Well, that happened to me today at a coffee shop while I watched a person settle into a table with their dog.

At first I was amused—the pup looked to be some sort of pittie mix with white fur, wearing a very fashionable, multi-colored sweater. And by my best guess, it’d actually been a human sweater once upon a time. From my spot against the back wall, I watched as the pair got comfy at the table in front of mine, facing the window.

Good view for the dog.

Smart.

This person seemed completely unhurried; but also, kind of like they were on a mission. They were focused, but nonchalant about it. After setting down their bag and wrapping the dog’s leash around the feet of the table, they went to get coffee. The dog surveyed the rest of us with a glance, but didn’t budge. When they came back, they took out their laptop and turned to hand a Kong stuffed with treats to the chill floof on the floor in the multi-colored sweater.

I think my jaw actually fell open.

Damn...what a pro.

They were aware of their environment, but not like how I am... they showed up and confidently set their own conditions. Even though I tell myself I do that, too, I immediately recognized the difference: I show up ready to respond, and that’s not the same thing.

It was a hard realization to wrestle with. Especially since I’ve spent years working on it. Beyond just trying to be more aware of how I show up and they ways I can respond, managing my neurodivergence and my mental health has involved medication on and off for over a decade now. At a routine doctor’s visit recently, I’d taken the opportunity to ask a question that’s been gnawing at me—what would it be like to taper-off? Like, could I get to a point of no more meds at all?

My doctor had looked at me with inquisitive eyes when I’d floated that idea into the space between us. Sitting against the wall in one of those blue plastic chairs, I’d wobbled my head left and right while considering what he’d asked me in return.

“I don’t really know” I’d told him.

His face broke into a subtle grin before he’d continued. “Well, you told me what the people in your life think... but I want to know what you think.”

It was a good question.

I’d managed to pull my eyes away from the framed photo of trees on the wall, but when I’d started to speak, I ended up coughing to clear my throat before I was actually able to say anything coherent.

“I’ve been doing well for so long now, that sometimes...

*sigh*

...I worry it’s the meds and not me.”

At first, his eyes widened when I’d said that. Then he’d sat back to gather himself a bit before leaning forward again and saying “that’s not really how they work—at least, not the type you’ve been on.”

I’d perked up at that, but quickly clarified, “I’m confident in my ability to self-regulate—you know, manage the moving parts of my life... What I guess I was wondering was whether the meds keep me in the middle too much? Like, from feeling too strongly or sliding too far toward either end of the spectrum—between joy and despair?”

He’d seemed more at ease by that point, unclasping his hands and leaning his elbow on that weird kitchen counter thing that exam rooms in doctor’s offices have. That’d actually felt pretty reassuring.

“Nope, not with your medication” he’d said again, smiling.

Wow, ok.

After taking a deep breath, I’d looked up just as he’d started to speak. “Maybe we keep an eye on things and come back to it in the spring?”

I’d felt relieved at that.

I’ve long been working to hone my awareness, sifting through all of the personal growth practices that come with it. Which means I know it’s most effective when there’s some discipline involved—rather than just always giving yourself a break.

The difference between those things always makes me think of a winter camping trip I went on in 2013. We were backcountry skiing in Wyoming’s Absaroka mountains and it never got above 0°F for the entirety of our almost three-week adventure. I’d learned the hard way that I’d brought the wrong sleeping bag... one meant for much warmer weather.

I remember one night, I’d been wearing almost every piece of dry clothing I had, plus a buff and a beanie, but I’d still woken up with full-body shakes. Trying desperately to will myself back to sleep, I’d keep rolling over—you know, like you do when pretending you don’t have to get up to pee but you really, really, really do.

Eventually, I’d clicked on my headlamp and begrudgingly pulled on my shells and jacket. After forcing my feet into frozen boots, I’d crawled out of the snow ramp of our quigloo and shimmied on my stomach through the frozen snowbank above. I’d been shocked to find it wasn’t snowing. And in the middle of the night, still shivering, I’d started doing jumping-jacks under the wind-whipped stars to warm up. My breath instantly froze against my eyelashes in the negative temperatures, but it’d worked.

Even so, that’s being able to respond. For one thing, bringing the right sleeping bag would’ve given me a better starting point.

The person at the coffee shop who’d brought the Kong for their dog had set their own conditions. I’m sure they’d be able to respond, too, but they clearly were trying to stack the deck in their favor first so they could get some work done. I admire the hell out of that.

Showing up for yourself isn’t always glamorous. It doesn’t look or feel particularly sparkly, either. But if you won’t show up for yourself to help stack the deck in your own favor, just know that nobody else will do it for you. And I don’t mean that in some platitude-laden, pick yourself up by your bootstraps kind of way… you don’t need to be a project (unless you want to be).

You can find plenty of things to fix if you go looking for them. There’s a time and a place for that, sure… but the best stuff in life seems to come from routinely doing a few very important things well, rather than from trying to fix everything you can find. That means both setting your own conditions, and responding to the ones you can’t control.

As far as I can tell, that’s how you create a path worth maintaining.

onward.

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2,000 miles away from Jackson, Wyoming, I drove through Vermont’s backroads feeling very, very far away from the only community that’s ever actually felt like home to me.

There’s no good way to get bad news, and the loss of a friend got me thinking about the kinds of people who can make a place feel like that.

On my way to nowhere in particular, I was wrestling with what it means to show up; about how I interact with the people in my life and the kinds of things I see them do for each other. I thought about how I spend my time and what I focus on.

Am I really showing up in this life the way I want to?

All I could do was gaze at the road ahead.

Last weekend, I’d been staring at my phone, completely dumbfounded, while getting ready for bed. At the top of my feed I’d seen a photo of my friends out skiing. They were standing still, cheesing for the camera. “Cute, I remember that photo” I’d thought to myself before almost clicking away entirely.

I’d been focused on doing one last thing before calling it a night, but then I got stuck trying to understand the words in the caption. Immediately, I’d noticed the tone was off. It didn’t match the photo at all, and I’d started searching for why.

That’s V and there’s Max.

Right, ok. And V posted this?

When, today?

“I thought I’d share these memories to help us all feel close to Max during this tough day” she’d written in the caption.

Fuck.

Oh no, something happened...

I’d started to register that the words were describing something bad, but I couldn’t understand. Did someone get hurt? Was there an avalanche? I kept reading, possibilities running through my brain. Then the next line really scared the shit out of me.

“We love you Max ❤️ you were one of the first friends I made in Jackson 10 years ago”

Were??

What do you m—

No... no way. C’mon, WHAT?

Mouth hanging open, I put my phone down and just sat there completely stunned. I went searching online for more info, trying to prove myself wrong.

Surely I’m misunderstanding something.

By morning, headlines appeared beyond the social media sphere, like this one from POWDER: RIP Max Martin: Jackson Hole Community Mourns Beloved Skier.

And so, without really thinking about it, I’d gone driving, hoping to make more sense of my thoughts.

“You seem quiet today.”

That’s what my therapist had said earlier that morning.

Fair point.

Light shining through the frosted windows, I’d let out a sigh and clutched my coffee mug a little tighter than usual. Sitting at the kitchen table, I’d glanced away from my laptop and my therapist’s face on its screen. Across from me, they’d let the moment linger.

It’d felt harder than normal to organize my thoughts. Usually I can at least do that, even if I’m not saying much out loud. As someone who grew up in more than one chaotic household, I’d learned to think and not speak by trying to blend in with the wallpaper and go unnoticed. For years, I thought I was being polite only to learn later that it’d made me come across as uninterested.

By mid-afternoon it was warm, and the sun even came out while I drove. I’d flipped between podcasts and music before eventually settling on silence. Thoughts about showing up still swirled through my brain incessantly. Thinking of Max, Jackson, and a whole bunch of people who’d helped the place feel so damned loving made me… sad.

I realized what I was feeling was guilt, and it brought back visions of the contemplative grin my therapist had worn during our morning session. So I found myself replaying bits of our conversation. I’d told them about my jumbled mess of thoughts best I could—about questioning my interactions with the people in my life. That’s when their smile had widened, especially so, when they’d said “Can you see how keeping your thoughts to yourself could feel like disinterest, and look like not showing up?”

Yes—yes I definitely could.

I kept driving. Looking out the window at the snowy foothills, I was shocked at how far I’d gone. Exhaling and leaning into my elbow on the door, I tried to gauge how I’m actually showing up these days... Because, truth be told, I didn’t know how to show up back then at all. Not fully. I’m not even sure I do now. That’s the part that really sucks, because I’ve spent years working to organize my life so that I can be present with myself and the people in it.

Results have... varied.

Eventually, I started smiling when a memory of Max popped up.

It was from back when we’d run in similar circles, but didn’t know each other all that well yet. I’d been in a bit of a pickle: the night before a snowboard competition, I’d realized the rules had changed and athletes were now required to wear back protectors or they couldn’t compete. It’d been optional before, and I didn’t have one. So I started texting friends, frantically looking to see if anyone would lend me theirs.

At that point, Max and I had recently started training together at the same gym, along with some mutual friends, but it was still kind of a long shot to ask. When I did, he responded immediately.

“Sure, no problem. Come by whenever!”

I actually don’t recall much about the comp itself, but I still remember Max smiling big and asking me about it when I’d gone to return his back protector. Later, I’d realize it’d been the same smile he’d flash to friends around the mountain, wanting to know what they’d skied. He’d stare directly at them as if nothing and no one else mattered. “So how was it??” he’d want to know, with wide eyes and a smile that radiated belonging.

When he did that, it was impossible not to smile back.

Still driving through Vermont’s backroads and feeling far away from a community where snowy smiles were currency, I felt my head shaking as I realized that I was grinning. And I think it’s pretty cool that being friends with Max still means smiling unexpectedly and feeling like you belong.

onward.

P.S. Read the beautiful tribute to Max that Izzy Lidsky wrote. If you’re able, there’s a fundraiser to help bring Max home from Japan and support his wife, Eliza.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about how people used to tell stories and how that’s changed.

Stories were just how we communicated with each other, but now they feel incredibly different. At least, to me they do.

I can’t tell you the last time I heard someone tell a story or write something that sounded anything close to how my grandfather would’ve told it. He told stories you could see. And he always sounded like he was setting up a punchline, so you had to make sure to listen so you wouldn’t miss it.

“How’s it going, Norm?” someone would ask.

He’d reply with, “Can’t complain... wouldn’t do much good anyway”

*ba dum tss*

That would be his icebreaker, but then he’d follow it up with more substance. He’d tell you he ran into someone recently and then set the scene. He’d describe the person, maybe use a few hand gestures. Then he’d get to the part where he’d interacted with this guy, and he’d take you through the action.

“now this fella, he turns to me and says...

“and I finally get a good look at him...

“so then he goes...”

He was a remarkable storyteller and I simply can’t do him justice. But that type of story with its back-n-forth dialogue and an energy that moves… it was just how everyone seemed to communicate.

Thinking back, it’s easy to write it off as a generational thing. Especially since my sample here is my grandfather and his friends. But I’m convinced it’s just because they were the product of a world that operated a certain way. I don’t feel like ours is really the same world anymore. Not like the one they lived in, at least. And that kind of bums me out.

This whole thing’s been bugging me. Then, recently while grabbing lunch at a local cafe, something finally clicked.

I’d situated myself at a table along a wall of windows, and pulled out my laptop to read the latest from , a writer I like for her contrarian commentary on literature—new and old. What I really like about reading things from Linda is that she regularly references literary icons to contrast the modern group-think of social media. Her essays feel like a little history lesson, disguised as a coffee chat between friends.

While I ate, I read what she wrote about Bukowski, and it got me thinking: a lot of the classic wisdom that gets shared online now comes from authors who sound like they’d been thinking out loud to themselves.

I’ve watched swarms of people try to be prolific like that on social media. They declare and claim. Convince. They state without story. The pendulum feels like it’s swung so far toward presenting expertise, that it’s landed us in a world where people only try to create scarcity and gain authority with their words.

But there’s nothing to picture from what they share, you know?

Sitting in that cafe lost in thought, I’d watched as two young kids played tag by using the rest of us as shields. Their mom looked tired… hair a little ruffled, jacket only halfway on, arms full of things and nowhere to put it all. Her expression fell slightly while her toddlers scrambled between the tables. But when I smiled, she did too, and we didn’t have to say a word. As I’d sat back in my chair, smirking to myself, I tried to label the feeling that settled into my chest.

Later when I’d glanced at the kids and their mom a few tables over, she gave a small nod and this time I got to return the gesture.

I’d found the word I’d been looking for...

Acceptance.

Stories used to be a way of co-creating acceptance with the people around us. Without phones or social media, people talked while moving through their day. Not through a set of AirPods, either, but to the people IRL walking past them. Just chit-chatting about things with total strangers. They’d tell each other stories. And all those stories, it seems, were about something other than the hottest new tips for how to be a functioning person. No, they’d tell you about something from their life or about the people in it.

Everywhere I look now, it feels like it’s only people, profiles, and pages trying to tell me and everyone else what to do.

But, um… hello??

I do not want gurus and spam?
That’s why I stay away from Instagram.
I do not want them, day or night.
Not in my ears or in my sight.
I do not want gurus and spam...

It’s... it’s become completely ridiculous, right? Is it just me? Like, honestly, I just want to hear stories from people about someone they ran into throughout the day. I want to read more things that aren’t self-promotion poorly disguised as hyperbolic life-lessons. Real stories, with people I can see with my eyes closed.

Maybe a punchline or two? Some scenery? I can’t seem to find much of that at all these days. Not like how my grandfather would’ve said it. Sometimes, it makes me feel quite alone. It’s times like that when I says to no one, I says “bahhh; fine. I’ll write my own.” And I have been. But even I have to admit I get pulled by the world around me into patterns of storyless communication.

Still, how cool is it that while everyone’s trying to be prolific on social media, there are folks out there who can remind you of just how human we are? The kind who share what’s going on in their life; without the gurus and spam.

Thank goodness for those who tell stories—who create acceptance with icebreakers, scenes, and interactions. And people you can picture with your eyes closed.

onward.

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It’s the beginning of January and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring down at the phone in my hands. I’d purposefully not let myself lie down; this was to be quick. If only it were ever that simple.

Looking at the phone hurt and I hated it.

I’d downloaded Instagram. Again. I just needed to see how a campaign I’d helped with came out. You know, gauge how the message came together, check how it landed. Super quick. Log in, log out. I even tried to skip the lure of the feed by clicking straight to my profile.

I knew I shouldn’t scroll, but I did.

What I found made me sad. The guy looking up at me seemed… happy. I know he wasn’t, but damn he must’ve been a little to be able to act like that, right? That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The part that stabbed me in the gut was when I began scrolling through my feed after finally managing to tear myself away from my old posts. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—the style of it, the content, the people, the aesthetic… all of it was outdoorsy and lifestyle-driven. It was like a time capsule full of faces I haven’t seen in years, names I haven’t heard from. Still sitting on the edge of my bed, I looked up at the wall and felt my head start shaking.

What... what the fuck am I even doing anymore?

Why???

Looking back down at my phone, I noticed how easy it was to scroll myself into feeling like shit. Grateful for the distance I’d created between myself and the feed over the past few years, I exhaled and picked up my book.

The next morning was full of rain. And that felt… fitting. I was still thinking about my Instagram-induced identity crisis from the night before. Drops fell with thuds on top of mounds of half-frozen slush, forming craters and puddles in the sidewalk. Things have been frigid recently, so every square-inch of ground outside was covered in thick, clear ice.

Holding my umbrella, I surprised even myself when I smiled. I’d gone out begrudgingly. Then I almost immediately ate shit on my front steps.

That tracks.

For a second, I felt a lot like Harry and Marv from the movie Home Alone. I slipped, grabbing the railing, feet still running in place on the frozen concrete below. So I went back for a pair of nano-spikes.

Then I went for a walk.

That’s what I usually do first-thing in the morning; walk. I started doing it as a remote worker before COVID, as a way to mimic a commute. I get up, shower, make coffee, and take a lap around the block. There’s typically a podcast involved, sometimes music, but when I get back, I grab a mug and get to work. Then, at the end of the day, I do another lap for my “evening commute.”

My therapist calls these little rituals “bookends.” I like to think of them as anchors. But I haven’t been doing them lately. I know they’re good for me, I just kind of... fell off. So, this morning while pulling the studded, spikey straps over my boots to keep from slipping on the ice, I thought of a conversation I had with a friend over the summer. It was about getting comfortable with starting something over. Like going back to the gym for the first time after not going for a while. It’s so much easier to keep going than to start at day one again.

Cinching my hood in place before setting out, I made my peace with starting over again.

As I walked, I thought about the other parts of myself I’d let fall by the wayside. Like running. After recovering from a mental health crisis about 10 years ago, running had become a staple in how I’d learned to show up for myself. I remember when I first moved across the country to Wyoming in my early twenties, it was a new coworker who’d offered to take me on a local run. She’d pulled up Strava to show me the loop we’d be doing. After that, I started running it religiously (same with using the app).

For years I treated the activity descriptions in Strava like journal entries. That’s why I kept my account private back then. It’s more social now, I guess, but it used to be far more focused on tracking personal stats. At least, it was for me. Eventually, though, I unlocked my profile so I could connect with other people—but not before going through and clipping out all of those journal entries.

I felt myself sigh. Walking along the sidewalk, I stepped squarely on a patch of ice with my spikes. Firm, confident. Then, my foot punched through into the water.

You’re kidding me…

I thought it to myself before realizing I wasn’t even upset. I actually laughed because, sure I was walking around my suburban neighborhood in the rain… but there were so many times when my mornings had been spent wet and cold from dark walks up big mountains. Those memories came flooding back, no doubt aided by my Instagram scrolling the night prior. And now, here I was, standing in a puddle on the sidewalk on day one of going on morning walks again…

At the time, I’d called my little Strava diary series to myself “Run On Thoughts.” It felt clever, since I’d been known to ramble about big ideas and meaning—especially in those old Instagram captions. Turns out I’ve been a writer this whole time...

Arriving on the corner of my street, I carefully dodged a puddle while thinking about how distinct the chapters of my life have felt. I can so clearly see their bookends in hindsight. The transitions, though bumpy—and even downright blurry—at the time, seem perfectly proportionate now. My grin widened as I walked. Much like a good book, I realized, each one had moved the plot forward.

I stuck with that running/Strava-journaling habit for years; through career transitions, injuries, breakups, and all the miles of coping with getting sober. I remember cities I’ve traveled to for work by the running routes I snuck in there. When I think of the last decade of my life, I chunk the chapters and memories by countless trail runs, mountain biking trips, backcountry snowboarding days, and frontcountry wanderings by the waterfront.

I trained, gained, and sustained a lot of life that way.

Yet, through it all, I wrote those little journal entries in the activity descriptions on Strava. I distinctly remember back when those started—with that after-work-loop in Wyoming—I dreamed one day, maybe, that I’d be brave enough to start writing things like that publicly. Every single time, at the end of my run, and just before hitting “save.”

Back from my walk, I opened the door and gratefully stepped inside. Taking off my boots, it dawned on me: that’s what this chapter’s been about—the one thing that’s been in all of them. Writing. I suppose, these last few years, those “Run On Thoughts” became something else entirely. They evolved.

Given the right container, they’ve grown.

First, they unfolded into a weekly newsletter. Then, as I dared to share more of myself, they became essays. Most recently, though, my writing habit transformed again when I set out to publish a daily column. Today was day 133 in a row of writing stories like this one. And people keep reading, thanks to you.

Sometimes you can’t tell the difference between longing and languishing until you get to the other side. While you wait, walking seems like the best thing to do if you ask me. Because then it’s not really waiting at all… not when you can turn it into something else entirely.

Walking makes it a transition, and that’s how you arrive at your bumpy, blurry, perfectly-proportionate next chapter.

onward.

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Isobel recently borrowed my copy of Kitchen Confidential. She’d never read it, but it’s one of a few books I keep front-and-center on the shelf behind my desk. Like the others in the small stack, it’s there as a reminder more than anything.

Since Isobel was new to Anthony Bourdain and his work, I suggested that once she finish reading Kitchen Confidential, we watch the CNN documentary that came out in the aftermath of his death.

So we did.

After talking about their last exchange before Anthony Bourdain’s suicide, the voice of long-time producer and director, Michael Steed, began to trail off...

“I wish I’d said more.”

I watched intently as his expression shifted. His eyes looked like he was reliving the memory, then and there. We watched as a steady string of friends, family members, coworkers, artists, musicians, chefs, fans, and everyday people talked to the camera about how much they loved Anthony Bourdain. As Michael Steed recounted his last conversation with Tony, he looked... defeated. I could understand why—Michael’s solemn expression looked a lot like regret for the things he’d never said.

The way he described Tony’s side of that interaction sounded like he’d been angry, irritated, and defensive. He’d told Michael to leave him alone, so he did. Shoulders slouched and lips pulled back in a straight line, Michael exhaled through his nose and looked into the camera.

He wishes he told him he loved him.

Michael didn’t say that, but that’s what I saw on his face.

Like most decorations around the house, Kitchen Confidential and the rest of that small stack of books have been there by my desk for so long that, most of the time, they blend in with the background. I like knowing they’re there. In a strange way, those kinds of things offer assurance—the stories and lessons within, little keepsakes and mementos from tales mirroring my own life. Like street signs wending their way from where I grew up to where I am now. Among the collection are all the Wrong Ways, Dead Ends, and One Lane Road Aheads, too. Even the Turn Backs and Tresspassings.

Seeing that handful of books every day makes me feel more like myself, lest I forget.

Some signposts in those books are nostalgic. It’s the Do Not Enter signs I’m most grateful for, though. I get to plant those ones on the road ahead. It’s one of the reasons I tell my friends I love them every time I see them. It’s why I leaned over and told Isobel I love her, too.

A memento, for where we are now.

onward.

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I stopped at the top to enjoy the sunrise with a “breakfast beer” (I was still drinking back then), snowboarded back down, and returned to the house. My family had all piled in under the same roof for the week, so I’d slid into an open chair at an already-full breakfast table.

I used to worry about which parts of myself to share. The whole thing felt risky. In a setting where I never really knew what to say or how to say it, that morning adventure—and others like it—let me stop caring. I was content to sip my coffee in silence, surrounded by sound.

I’ve thought about that morning a lot over the years.

That version of me did not know how to cope. As a kid I’d earned the label “well-adjusted” by family members, teachers, and parents of the other kids in my class. I’m told they’d meant it as a compliment, since I’d seemingly been able to adapt easily to all the changes after my parents’ divorce… but all I’d really done was learn how to read a room—and the people in it—to determine what was expected of me. The rest was a performance.

Apparently, a good one.

I learned to only share myself in ways that wouldn’t invite criticism, etching a mantra of “don’t rock the boat” deep into my nervous system. Cope invisibly. Hide. That way of doing things stuck with me longer than I realized.

For years, I’d approach social settings as if there were an expectation to “show us something good.” It’s how I used to operate online, too. All those years ago, I’d taken a million selfies on the top of that mountain during sunrise on Christmas. Then I’d spent longer than I’d like to admit picking one to post.

I took some selfies this Christmas, too, but was struck by how differently I engaged with the whole process. My mom doesn’t like this photo but I do (sorry, mom).

I still woke up early because my body doesn’t know how to not do that anymore. But it wasn’t 4am and I didn’t then go hike a mountain. I sat and had coffee with my mom, chatted leisurely and earnestly, had breakfast, and went outside with Ava. We took photos with the tree and while exchanging gifts, but I like this one. We’re smiling. For real. Laughing, even. She’s holding a poop bag, and it shows us as we are—as it actually happened—and without presentation.

My goal isn’t to present perfection anymore, it’s to be present for all the imperfection. However you spent the holidays, I hope you were able to do the same. The best stories come from sharing how it actually happened.

To do that, you have to actually be there.

onward.

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I still remember the look on his face when I’d said, “Alright, give it a shot.”

With a snowboard strapped to his feet for the first time, this middle-aged father of two glanced at 16-year-old me, then at the slope in front of us. After a calculated pause, he looked me straight in the eye and uttered a defiant, “No.”

Um... what now?

I’d been working as a ski and snowboard instructor at the local hill near my house in Massachusetts. My boss had apparently seen something in me because I got assigned to teach adults, even though I was in high school at the time.

One of my first clients had been a dad who’d wanted to learn to snowboard as a way to connect with his son and daughter; both of whom had started taking lessons the year prior. Dad wanted to fast-track his learning so he could catch up with them. Over the next 12 years of teaching, I’d come to understand that skipping steps never works. But on that particular day, I’d thought I’d score some points with him by brushing past the basics and making up for it later in our lesson.

After very shakily taking the rope-tow about half-way up the ski slope, I’d had him strap into his snowboard and began to explain the mechanics of turning. That’s when he’d told me point-blank he was not interested in continuing.

“I’ll fall. I’ll get hurt... I can’t be hurt, I have to work. Who would drive the kids to school? No way, I’m NOT doing that.”

Shit.

15 years later, I’d been flying to speak at a conference when that memory came to mind. With my laptop open in front of me on the plane, I remember exhaling, grimacing, and shaking my head all at once. I hadn’t quite been able to comprehend what was on the slides I was preparing to present. They were bad and I was embarrassed.

The realization had been swift: in order to move myself up in the corporate world, I’d managed to erase my entire personality. Poof… gone.

It’d been my fault; that much had been clear. I remember feeling angry and upset. Then, just... sad. I’d tried to recall when exactly it’d happened, but couldn’t place anything specific. Without warning, my style had apparently just evaporated, and I’d never noticed. The words on the screen sounded stale. Boring. Dry, like a plain bagel from the discounted, day-old’s pile you’d find by the register.

After all those years as a snowboard instructor, guide, and writer, I’d learned first-hand that stories—not explanations—are what help people navigate fear and uncertainty. Yet, sitting on that plane and reviewing the notes for my presentation, I’d felt about as stupid as I had at 16 with that snowboarding client.

Trying to rationalize the deterioration of my… my joie de vivre, it dawned on me that I’d fallen into the trap of throttling my potential in the name of safety.

Again.

Years ago during a mountain-guiding clinic in Jackson Hole, I’d learned that lesson in a way I’d thought I’d never forget. Maybe I just hadn’t recognized it in its business casual, corporate-friendly attire. Thinking back, it’d happened during a training day. When our group got to a more technical section of the backcountry route, we’d gone one-by-one down to the next safety point. As I descended, I’d been focused on riding safely… rigid, uniform.

With the rest of us watching, the last person to ski down had taken a different approach… And they’d ski’d the shit out of that line. Truly, it’d looked fantastic. It seems obvious now when I think about it, but it’s because they were having fun. Our guide had even leaned over to say, “there are people who ski and there are skiers—now that’s a skier.”

I hate to admit it, but I remember being big-time jealous.

It hadn’t occurred to me whatsoever to kick up the throttle of my riding. In my head, we’d been in guide-mode; I’d thought that meant reserved and calculated. I hadn’t ridden the line the way I’d wanted—I’d ridden it the way I’d thought was expected.

And that’d made all the difference.

Sitting on that plane a couple years ago, looking at the presentation I was set to give, it’s like I’d completely forgotten that lesson. Not only was there no “me” in there, there was no fun, either… nothing for people to grab hold of. Just facts, statements, and data points.

Yuck.

Explaining things seems logical. In fact, it’s a super helpful way to organize your thoughts; but that’s why it really only sounds good to the person doing the talking. It might feel good to neatly corral what you think, but listeners need a way to picture what you’re saying. And I was apparently very out of practice, despite how often I was speaking. In watering myself down to try to fit in better at work, I’d fully clogged up my creativity.

That realization on the plane is what led me to start my newsletter two years ago. I’d hoped it would help me find my voice again by forcing me to write regularly. The only thing to do, I’d reasoned, was to get to it—open the valve and start flushing out the gunk. So that’s what I’ve been trying to do for a couple of years now. A year and a half ago, I told my first story at The Moth. Then, about a year ago, I took a swing and published a personal essay instead of my usual newsletter. The response was incredibly positive, so I kept doing it. Then, three months ago, I challenged myself to launch an email series where I write a new story every day. Completely by accident, I’d say that’s been the thing that’s forced me to reckon with myself more than anything else.

And, after all of that, this week I found myself sitting in the greenroom of a television studio in Boston. I’d been invited to share my story on national TV.

When you realize you’ve been throttling your potential because it’s made you feel safe, it’s important to ask yourself why. It’s even more important that you do it again if you lie to yourself the first time; which is something I’ve had to do quite a few times now. Only then can you start sharing a story all your own—one that really feels like you.

This week, I got the chance to try my hand at doing just that. Without taking all those steps to find my voice, I’m sure I’d have felt terrified when the producers reached out—and again once I stood in the studio and saw what was in front of me. Kinda like that snowboarding dad from when I was 16, but I wasn’t terrified. No, I was excited.

Reviewing my notes before the show, I’d thought about that plane ride where I’d discovered the loss of my voice, and then I felt myself smile.

The words on the page felt like the ones in my head. I didn’t sense myself reaching for any I’d thought might be expected of me. So when I went out on that stage, standing in those bright lights in front of that studio audience, I shared a story that felt totally and unequivocally like me. And I… um… I’ll be working on wrapping my head around that for a good, long while.

Keep an eye on your local GBH station to catch my upcoming episode of Stories From The Stage.

onward.

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Your whole direction in life can change in a single week, if you let it.

My plan was simple. It’d even seemed straightforward. Back in September, where this baffling adventure began, I’d hoped to improve my communication skills enough to revive my dormant social life. That was the original goal. It’s important to keep that in mind, because that’s why I’d set out to write a new story every day for a full year. I’m only three months into this self-imposed challenge and it’s already upended everything.

A close friend and I got together for coffee this week. We’d been overdue for a good, long chat. I just hadn’t expected it to go the way it did; not really. Sitting across from me in his kitchen, he’d been peering over his mug while I’d looked down into mine. He’d just asked me a great question, for which I told him I didn’t have an answer.

Even though I did.

Working on how I delivered my thoughts had felt like something I’d be able to measure through this writing thing. You know, like: how long did it take me to form a story each day, how many views did it get, how many people responded etc…? I’d expected it to challenge me, but I wasn’t ready for it to open this new door.

Shifting in my seat, I withdrew my right hand from where it’d been cradling my mug and quickly replaced it with my left. I’d initially replied out of reflex; so after digesting what he’d asked, and confronting the real answer—the one I’d brushed past—I let out a sigh and looked up.

“Ok…that’s um… that wasn’t true” I’d told him.

While mining my own thoughts for the parts I’d been leaving out, I actually found comfort in how quickly I’d been able to call myself on my own bullshit. Just as quickly, I noted that I’d been able to find words to describe it to him, too.

Huh...not bad.

I searched his eyes, finding only curiosity and encouragement. I’d feared there’d be judgement or jeering somewhere in there. Which, was a total projection—he’d never given me reason to think he’d be anything other than accepting. It’s just that his question had struck a pretty big nerve. Naturally, it was me who’d been judging and jeering at myself.

Taking a sip of coffee, I’d chosen to face my insecurity and coax it into taking a break. I’d asked for my friend’s advice—keep in mind, that’s why we were having coffee in the first place. And he’d let me talk through what I’d been wrestling with. So, I’d finally managed to tell him about the career pivot I was considering—or, at least, that I was open to one.

Job, life, all of it.

I’d felt too close to be able to see things truly objectively but, still, I’d wondered where my skills could succeed beyond marketing and writing. Which is why his question had so squarely caught my attention. He’d surfaced a very wild idea, and I’d been unable put it back in the bottle.

“I think you’d make a damn good therapist” he’d said. “Would you ever consider switching careers to do that?”

I… um… wow.

Yes I would consider it, I’d told him.

In fact, I’m still considering it right now. Sitting back in my chair, and setting down my mug, I’d started to wonder: would a few more years of difficulty be worth it? Would going back to school allow for 40+ better, more fulfilled years afterwards? Kind of feels like a no-brainer when looking at it through that lens…

I cracked a smile, unable to help it. A writing challenge—my whacky decision to write stories every day for a year—that’s what’d led us to this point in our conversation. I’d found what felt like rhythm with my story structure. My ability to communicate my ideas felt sharper, and the way he’d been responding during this coffee chat affirmed it. Now we’d unearthed this thing I wouldn’t be able to unsee.

I’ve been noticing that I feel most aligned in life when using my strengths to help others. The part that I’ve been most resistant to, it seems, is acknowledging what I’m actually best able to share with them. Accepting my gifts for what they are continues to challenge me—but to do so is to truly set your heart on fire.

Reframing and restitching loose threads together is what sets mine ablaze. It’s what allows me to help people make sense of the world and their place in it. So I think I’m really doing this; embarking on the winding path of getting my master’s and becoming a licensed clinical therapist.

At least, for now, that’s where this story’s headed.

When your whole direction in life threatens to change in a single week, sometimes letting it is the only real way to find out what actually fills your cup. After all, those are the options, right? To grab a cup of what sets your heart on fire, or to ignore it and let it just sit there… taunting you, while you burn your dreams instead.

onward.

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I took this photo on a day when, like today, life seemed to snap into focus. I’d been tired a lot back then. Stressed about money. Worried about getting certifications I’d spent whole seasons prepping for. All the while, I’d also been growing more and more disenchanted with chasing “the dream.”

Something you should know about me is that I wasn’t always like this. Sitting at my old desk in my new home office this week, I couldn’t help but smile thinking about it—the afternoon light beaming in and out of the room seemed to warrant it.

It made me think of something called a “sun dog.”

I looked up when a sliver of sunlight danced across the room. The trees wiggled in the breeze, cascading the light softly through the windows. Taking a long, deep breath, I exhaled in-time with the coffee-house jazz playing through my headphones, absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on my left middle finger. Relaxing my wrists, I let them hover just above the laptop keys in front of me.

“Sun dogs” are these solar flare-type things that hang in the air like the Eye of Sauron; but you know, if J.R.R. Tolkien had gone for more of a snowy landscape in Lord Of The Rings instead of that fiery one.

Sun dogs are so cool. They only show up in the right atmospheric conditions. Think cold, snowy, overcast days that clear up just enough to let a column of light through. But then, add a rapid change of temperature and slow the wind speed way down all at once. This is the recipe I’ve seen work best. It makes the invisible pressure systems in the sky start acting like lava lamps, clumping and bumping against each other.

When those blobs part ways jusssttt enough—that’s when sun dogs shine through.

They’re elusive, though. I went digging through the archives to try and find an example, like in the photo above. It made me realize something pretty cool… and also, kind of heavy, but really inspiring at the same time? Tough as it is to admit, I’d made a habit of always agonizing over the next opportunity. One more, I’d tell myself, just to get ahead. Because for me, getting ahead really just meant getting “caught up”, or even just “staying afloat.”

For a huge chunk of my life, I kept myself busy by simply looking for more things to stack on the pile. I said yes to everything, hoping to learn my way into yet another new opportunity. The goal was money, but not because I wanted to be rich. Seriously, I just wanted to be able to pay my rent and have free time; to get paid enough where I could finally step off of the hustle treadmill.

Most days back then, I’d get up at 4:30 or 5am after pulling a closing shift at the brewery. During those early mornings, I’d diligently record weather data for avalanche forecasting, send out the snow report, and work on whichever web build, email campaign, or writing submission was due next. After that, I’d walk my coffee to the bus stop and catch a ride to work—to the job where I got to stand on a snowboard and help people live the best day of their year (sometimes, of their life).

Back then, sun dogs seemed to show up when I needed a reminder to slow down. But now, afternoon sunlight pouring in through my windows, I’m taking a moment to smile at how different things are. As hard as I can be on myself, I’m realizing just how far I’ve come.

What do you do when you realize you’re doing too much? Do you ever celebrate yourself for making it through the shit?

Now’s as good a time as any.

onward.

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All I could think about was acceptance while driving home from a Friendsgiving weekend in Massachusetts. In the passenger seat next to me, Isobel dozed with her head pressed up against the glass. She’d made a make-shift pillow with my sweatshirt, so I’d put on a podcast.

Through the speakers, I’d listened as Megan Falley talked about her relationship with famed poet, Andrea Gibson, who died of ovarian cancer in July. Andrea’s work pumped acceptance through the LGBTQ community. They spoke about mental health, social justice, and mortality in ways that felt approachable. I honestly don’t know what made me put on that podcast... I just saw Andrea’s name and clicked.

I’m so glad I did.

Listening made me think of the same thing as when I first came across their work in college: the time I’d had my heart broken in middle school while on a field trip.

Our school’s band had gone to compete in a state-wide festival. I think we messed up pretty badly, but that’s not the part that sticks with me. On our way home, I’d been sitting toward the back of the bus with a small group of friends, playing a game called Never Have I Ever. Everyone holds up 10 fingers, someone says something they’ve never done, and those who actually have done it put a finger down. The first to zero loses.

One of the other players was, by all accounts, really cool. He and I were friends. We played on the same basketball team and went to the same summer camp together. We even car-pooled and swapped music playlists. So when he said “never have I ever questioned my sexuality” and looked right at me, I froze.

He didn’t say it with curiosity. This was a smugly delivered statement—a devastating blow to anyone who’d dare put a finger down. Suddenly, I became very aware of the others. They’d shrugged nonchalantly while I’d been doing some hurried social math. I worried about lying, but I worried more about telling the truth. Because I had questioned my sexuality. Quite a bit, actually. It was dark outside during the bus ride, but still I wondered if anyone had seen my hesitation before I visibly kept my fingers up in denial.

Today, precipitation splattered the windshield, alternating between rain and a snowy wintry-mix, while Isobel and I made our way home from a weekend spent with a group of my old college friends. If I’m being honest, I’m still learning how to be comfortable around them again since getting sober four years ago. The first time I got drunk was when I was 12, not long after that game of Never Have I Ever. These days, social math looks like deciding whether or not to draw attention to the fact that we only ever swap drinking stories now.

When Megan read the words to Hold Down The Fort, I turned up the windshield wipers, to account for my now blurry vision. Andrea’d written it for Meg. The first time she’d heard it was in the final three days of Andrea’s life, after missing the chance to say the kinds of things neither had been ready to face.

I looked over at Isobel, still sleeping, while water droplets tapped the glass next to her head. She’s never seen me drunk, but she’s always always there to hold my fingers and talk about future hopes, dreams, and schemes.

Never have I ever felt acceptance like that.

Until now.

Where do you look for acceptance? How do you ask for it?

onward.

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These days I can spot when my nervous system is fried, which is objectively good; it means I can tell you quite confidently that I’m a tangled ball of tension today with nowhere to let it come undone.

It made me think of my dad. He always had a thing about people chewing with their mouths open. Not only did he hate it, but he’d become so completely enraged by it that I often wondered if he actually knew why he was so mad. Fists would hit the table. Plates would clink, clank, and clatter. If I watched closely, I could spot his effort to resist the inevitable boiling point. The giveaway was a throbbing vein that would magically sprout from his forehead. His posture would stiffen and then his face would turn red, like he was lifting something super heavy.

As a kid, it was both a terrifying and helpful warning sign. At least, that’s what I’d tell myself, my friends, and my therapists over the years.

So today, my stress made me think about my dad’s. And then about his dad’s, which had been a thing about wearing hats at the dinner table. It was a big no-no for us—I guess it was about manners—but I never fully got that one. At first, my siblings and I thought my dad’s issue with open-mouthed chewing was about etiquette, too. But it never explained why he had a problem with my step-brother scraping his fork on his teeth, or the egregiousness of someone talking while he was trying to catch the funny sound coming from the car.

I didn’t know why his triggers were triggers, I just knew that they were. For years, I chalked it up to him being an asshole. But then, as an adult, I got a dog.

Ava’s a four-year-old rescue who loves frisbee more than treats, and leaning against your leg more than ear scratches. A few months after getting Ava, she got giardia. That’s when we spent a couple of very long weeks going outside in the middle of the night. Like most dogs do when distressed, she would pant like crazy and anxiously lick her lips when she had to go out. My reaction to this was a crashing wave of rage I couldn’t explain—some primal, nervous-system-level response.

I was horrified, but I simply could not stand hearing the sound of her licking and panting like that... like fingernails on a chalkboard.

A few years ago when I talked to my therapist about it, she’d asked if I’d ever heard of misophonia. I hadn’t, so she went on to tell me it’s a sound sensitivity and auditory processing disorder known to impact some neurodivergent folks. Shortly thereafter, she gently informed me that I met the criteria.

Holy shit.

Today, Ava’s getting over a stomach bug. She’d been throwing up a lot, panting, and nervously smacking her lips. My nervous system still twists and knots itself at this so, after a few breathing exercises, I grabbed my earplugs, my noise-canceling headphones, and sat myself down at my typewriter. I love feeling the keystrokes, the control of the clicking sound, and the rhythm of the slugs slamming against the platen. It pulls me out of my head. Softly. Gently. I get to launch into the world of what I’m writing, even when listening for the indicator bell at the end of the line.

It made me wonder if my dad’s ever found better ways of coping… or whether he even listens for the sound of the margins at all.

How do you keep yourself in check? What do you look or listen for? Has it helped you learn to do things differently?

onward.

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I was a freshman in high school when I stopped loving reading and writing; if only temporarily.

My English teacher held her class in the computer lab, which was in the basement. You could kind of see out of the storm windows, but only just. All you could make out were the bushes, level with the ceiling. I swear we wrote more in that class than in any college course I took. Fluff wasn’t tolerated—every word had to serve a purpose.

I remember that year we read and wrote about the poem, Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas. I don’t picture grim determination so much as blunt objectivity when I read it: the world is as it is, and so we must be.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light” has stuck with me ever since.

Our teacher was very particular. She wouldn’t get up from behind her desk—if she needed to move, she would glide across the floor in her swivel chair. When it came to our writing, she wouldn’t stand for trite claims or summarized filler, either... the whole point of essays in her class was to start asking how the author saw things.

“Why did Dylan Thomas use the word ‘rage’?”

She made us consider the author’s perspective. There was no getting around that. The whole class was about writing what we’d discovered clearly and succinctly. “Take a stance” she’d say. That didn’t make sense to me. It still doesn’t fully. If the goal was to consider alternative viewpoints, how were we to make claims with any certainty?

“Convince me.”

I can hear it even now.

The only thing I wanted to convince her—or anyone—of is that there might be yet another way to look at something. To make sure we were giving it an honest go, she ran our work through plagiarism detection software back when Sparknotes was cutting edge—before Obama’s first term.

The following year, I had an English teacher who’d wanted us to go even deeper. His whole thing was about wondering why the authors might’ve seen things the way they did, not just how they saw them. He was incredibly inquisitive. By the time we got to F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Salinger, and Vonnegut, I was reading to find out both why and how instead of only what.

I can’t seem to avoid the need to ingest and express opinions. From the looks of it, neither can anyone else. Critical thinking feels scarce these days and outsized reactions just keep getting louder. Which is why I deleted the Substack app. Scrolling started feeling far too overstimulating—a never-ending onslaught of opinions that completely overwhelms a brain trained on asking why and how. So recently, I sat down at my typewriter to collect my thoughts (I’ve been fixing it up and it’s now fully functional).

The words that sprang to mind were blunt more than grim; a familiar phrase from freshman-year English.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

What’s something you learned from a teacher that you’ll never forget?

Why?

onward.

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When I was a kid, music was a big deal on my mom’s side of the family. It often spoke for us when we couldn’t, or didn’t know how. There was music for getting together, for catching up, and for saying goodbye. Skiing had songs for the chairlift and for looking good on the way down. We had music for special occasions and even for reading books.

But mostly we had music for long car rides.

My life’s been full of those; long car rides. That’s when time always seemed to stand still. The destinations didn’t change all that much, rotating between my mom’s, my dad’s, and my cousins’ houses in Massachusetts, as well as my grandparent’s place in Vermont. Each had a soundtrack. Whether we were driving through falling leaves, piles of snow, or a coastal breeze, mom would always hit the back button after Sympathy For The Devil played. I always knew she’d look over and ask “again?”

My answer was always “yes.”

Music both covered the silence and created it in my family. One of my cousins, Colby, is older than me. Chris is technically younger, but barely—only by a few months. Those two fought like crazy back then, deeply committed to the role of “bickering brothers.” Picture black eyes, bloody lips, and too many boogers used as weapons. Naturally, it was my job to sit between them in the car. My kiddo-sized barrier wasn’t enough to stop the attacks, though.

Those long car rides are where we began our education in classic rock.

In hindsight, it was the perfect distraction. Squabbling got replaced by trivia, and family gatherings turned into game shows... you’d prove yourself by answering,“No, Ronnie Wood wasn’t in the Stones at first! He replaced Mick Taylor on guitar!!” before anyone else could.

I remember when we went to see The Rolling Stones at Fenway Park. I don’t know if we were the youngest ones there, but Colby, Chris, and I were definitely the only kids in our section. Our grandfather, Vladi, didn’t stop smiling once. He was enjoying the show, but I also think he was just proud to be passing down a musical legacy to a new generation.

All these years later, I’m driving through Vermont, watching red and yellow leaves fall. These roads haven’t changed much, but my destinations did. I live here now. These days, my long car rides are mostly solo and there’s no fighting to be found. The soundtrack’s different, but not by much—everything’s rooted in classic rock. Still, I want to turn back time. Parts of it, anyway. Certain themes have shaped my life like levels of a video game… they just keep repeating themselves until I can figure out how to work through them. The soundtrack helps me cope while I do it.

When I see a red door and want to paint it black, it’s because it distracts me. It lets me knowingly hit replay before moving on.

Think of a song you love—what chapter of your life is it from?

onward.

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My whole life has been shaped by rapid tech innovation. That’s the blessing and the curse of being a millennial—we grew up knowing the before and after of a world that’s swiping our humanness from us.

So I’ve decided I want to get a typewriter.

Before my dad’s parents passed, they’d downsized. When they did, cleaning out their house was like something out of a movie. Most people probably would’ve called them hoarders. Grandma would’ve said they were collectors, Pa might’ve mumbled something about being practical. To his credit, we never knew for sure if the stuff in those piles would come in handy one day. But they were there... just in case.

In the entryway of their split-level home, going downstairs would lead you to Pa’s office. Until the day they moved out, I’d never made it further into the labyrinth than that. Discovering there was a door on the back wall of that room was shocking. “So that’s how you get to the garage?!” Even more surprising was learning of another set of stairs that led to a furnished basement with more rooms packed full of more stuff.

My grandfather’s office doubled as a workshop with toolboxes interspersed among the filing cabinets. That’s where he spent his time: tinkering on something when he wasn’t puttering about in the yard. My dad had a similar cave in his house when I was a kid, full of workbenches and band-saws. He’d always be fiddling with some project in the shadows of dusty shop-lights. In the background, he’d have Baywatch muted on the TV, and the sound of country music from his 8-track player filling the space.

My mom never had a bunker like that. Sure, she kept boxes in the basement of our house, but those boxes held her memories.

Hundreds of photographs—maybe thousands—made up albums and scrapbooks from her life. Some had even been passed down from people I’d never met but who I’d hear about while looking at their photos. Those boxes held stories. Sometimes we’d sift through them and mom would tell me about the world before swiping. I remember hearing tales of her Uncle Wolfgang, the prankster who lived in Germany, and how he’d combat roll his kayak with her in it to scare my grandmother. “He’d always pop back up and laugh with a mischievous ‘he he he’” she’d tell me.

Photos would be sprawled out across the floor sometimes.

Mom would point to one and say, “that’s me playing the accordion as a kid.” She’d wanted to take guitar lessons but the teacher made her learn the accordion first. Then we’d find childhood photos of her and my aunt learning to ski and place them next to ones of them teaching my cousins and I to do the same. Black and white images would get plucked out of their clear, plastic sleeves and held gently by the edges before getting passed into my hands for a closer look. Meanwhile, my friends and I began creating Myspace pages on our family’s desktop computers. Eventually, we’d go from uploading Facebook photos in the kitchen, to snapping, swiping, and sharing memories from our phones.

We went from telling stories to posting them.

Instead of dusty workbenches and toolboxes, or a basement full of memories, I have a desk. Sometimes, there’s a MacBook perched on top, and it asks me if I want to upgrade my storage. So I’m looking for a typewriter. That way I can catch words that collect dust instead of pixels. And maybe one day, I’ll point to a filing cabinet and tell stories about the people on the pages inside. When I do, I bet there’ll be blues-rock playing through a bluetooth speaker. Somewhere in the background, I’m sure I’ll have a muted snowboard movie going on the TV.

So, yes, I want to upgrade my storage. But I want that to mean I can hold its contents—gently by the edges—and pass it into the hands of others who’ve been swiping too long to remember an analog life.

What’s a favorite memory that you hold close? How do you store it? How do you prevent it from getting swiped?

onward.

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P.S. Know any tips for tracking down an Olympia SM4 typewriter? I’d love to chat!

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I went on a roadtrip recently where I tried my hand at digital nomadism.

Parked along the rocky, New England shoreline, I’m staring at my laptop screen instead of the ocean beyond it where the sun is setting.

I want to love the creator economy, but things would be a lot easier if I could just hate it instead. That seems to be the case for a lot of people these days. We’ve been sold on the idea that it’s a shortcut to financial freedom… but is it? I keep hearing that new technology makes it easy to set up and maintain life as a solopreneur, and that just a bit of persistence will pay off big time…

But is all that really true?

The creator economy is the new “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” fallacy.

Isobel’s boiling water for mac-n-cheese. I’m sitting on the foam mattress in the bed of the truck, connecting to my phone’s wifi hotspot. Our coastal roadtrip means stopping into coffee shops or working remotely—in the truest sense of the word—to get stuff done.

Parts of it are idyllic, but it requires a ton of flexibility, patience, and emotional regulation. Managing yourself and your workload is challenging enough on a normal day, let alone when you’re living out of a Toyota Tacoma with your partner. So while typing away in the descending darkness, all I could think about was the crossover between solopreneurship and the self-help industry.

We Americans have long fetishized the corporate-ladder-climb, gritting our teeth and grumbling all the while. But the undercurrent of built-up resentment now resembles an overflowing river, yet we’re all still pretending creator side-hustles are some shiny alternative to the stagnant, corporate jobs everyone loves to hate.

The American dream has gone from climbing the ladder to avoiding it altogether.

A growing number of people are buying into this idea of “side-hustle security”. I’m one of them, or I used to be… still am? It’s complicated.

I’m hearing more and more people describe how they feel stuck with low pay and without upward mobility (which just means they’re worried about a lack of future earning potential). And rightfully so. While “dead-end job” used to carry a largely negative connotation, as if it were something to avoid at all costs, it’s since flipped in the post-COVID burnout factory we find ourselves in. The want for purpose and passion feels palpable—same with the expectation to be compensated like a human being for prioritizing it.

That dead-end job is a coveted thing, but for different reasons than before. Sure, health insurance is still the big one. But really, it’s about having a safety net hidden in plain sight. Most wouldn’t admit it to their boss outright, but that dead-end 9 to 5 job is a great way to keep getting paid while quietly building your life-raft.

People are gambling their livelihoods, with plans to recoup once they get away from the rat race. Here’s a snapshot of folks who supplement their income with a side job:

• 34% of Gen Z.

• 31% of Millennials.

• 23% of Gen Xers.

• 22% of Boomers.

Wanting a better shot at success isn’t new, but modern-day snake oil looks different. So do the sales people.

Still, I’m seeing more and more examples of people hoping to be paid for their side-hustle, while scoffing at the idea of paying similar prices for art or services themselves. This shining contradiction seems to thrive in cultures where scarcity mindsets are encouraged. It emerges when people feel the need to compete for survival, and where someone else’s gain means your loss.

So people scrounge.

And, as Americans, we’ve been conditioned to believe that pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps works—that it’s the rule, not the exception. So, we sculpt our side-hustles with the expectation they lead us to a brand-new life. I’m not convinced.

This is the biggest problem facing the creator economy—and tech companies are exploiting it.

After dinner, I’m reconnecting to my phone’s hotspot to work on a few more things when I find myself scrolling. I catch myself quick enough, but I’m bummed. The same over-the-top, self-help guru sludge that repels me from using Instagram and Tiktok has found its way to Substack.

Great.

Everywhere, it seems, now has influencers who hawk themselves as proof of get-rich-quick schemes. More and more financial institutions are running ads with rags-to-riches stories, and tech startups keep glorifying side-hustles by cosplaying relatability: just look at the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker! But our self-inflicted, social media silos make it hard to see the reality of the bigger picture.

That’s why the self-help industry is thriving.

People want idealism and identity.

Carving out even the tiniest bit more cognitive bandwidth feels magical. Many of us are using that freed-up space to dabble in the creator economy; whether selling art, services, or something else entirely. I certainly am. We long for the sort of anti-capitalist utopia that would allow for full days of existing as curious humans instead of as competitive, corporate cogs.

I saw the perfect example of this while working from a coffee shop earlier on our trip. I’d been in line when the guy behind the counter got everyone’s attention without raising his voice. He didn’t do anything dramatic, and what he said wasn’t even all that outlandish, either.

He was the owner. And he was also taking orders, pouring drinks, and making small talk with customers. Handing a cortado to the person in front of me, he mentioned that this wasn’t the shop’s original location. Turns out, they’d started in a more popular area before uprooting and relocating to this rural spot.

“We chose somewhere with a slower pace and happier people” he said. “That’s worth more than the million we left on the table to do it.”

Damn.

Talk about helping yourself find health, wealth, and happiness. However you define it, this guy found a recipe that clearly works for him.

Self-help loves to promise growth, but operates like a Ponzi scheme… and so does the creator economy.

If it feels like tried-and-true multi-level marketing, that’s because it is. Except it’s app subscriptions instead of skincare products or Tupperware.

I dream of donating the contents of my bookcase just to be rid of the ruse. Because the whole thing feels like if Bernie Madoff rebranded, called himself Self-Made Madoff, and hit the podcast circuit to promote his proprietary method of selling your self-worth back to you.

Limited time offer, available whenever.

My own self-help story is rooted in a chaotic upbringing, all of which came to a head one night ten years ago. It’s 2015 and my back is against the wall of a dive-bar dance floor. I’m surrounded by friends. This is the kind of place where indie funk bands play, and where—if you closed your eyes—you’d see tapestry-covered, string-lit walls instead of tattered event promo posters.

People are engaged in a mix of start-n-stop conversations around me. Friends are bobbing and weaving between downbeats and drowned-out laughter.

I’ve never felt more alone.

I left just in time to have a panic attack on the floor of my own home that night instead of at the dive-bar. Then I drank and drugged my way to a few very dark places during a 10+ year journey through the ups and downs of a self-help growth spiral.

The self-help industry’s become a pipeline for creating autonomous, portfolio careers that fall apart.

This thing is broken and I’m really conflicted about it, because self-help saved my life, then gave me a new one.

It helped me get clear on my values, develop some self-efficacy, and start taking small steps toward a life I didn’t want to escape from. It helped me find my footing in the outdoor industry and again after a snowboard crash left me with a TBI and many months of recovery. Self-help systems even guided me through getting sober.

Books, podcasts, practices, and many, many, many sessions with therapists have helped me work on my shit. I’ve seen those principles translate to career success. I’ve wanted to believe, like many of us, that growing a side-hustle into a thriving creator business shouldn’t be all that different.

But, for that to be livable, it requires of you what a corporate role does… and then some. It may sound easy—you just do what you do at your job, but for yourself, right?

Not quite.

Fake it till you make it doesn’t really work, but we keep trying it anyway.

The gurus are encouraging the average Joes to be their own brand. Create an offer, build a product, get paid.

• books

• courses

• communities

But self-help doesn’t teach digital fluency, it teaches dependency on self-help. So, while simultaneously promoting a culture of side-stepping small business support systems, I’m watching people stake their personal livelihoods on projects that traditionally require enterprise-level resources.

They don’t see it as a risk.

They should, but they don’t because they see themselves as the exception, not realizing the business acumen, software comprehension, and strategic execution required to generate something people will buy. And the people who won’t pay still want to tell you about their thing that’s for sale.

The dead-end isn’t the job or the side-hustle… it’s picking up self-help and never putting it down.

Another night of typing in the dark from the back of my Tacoma, and I’m suddenly, glaringly aware of the self-help loop I find myself in… the one I thought I’d escaped.

So now I can’t stop thinking about a memory from when I was 13. My family was on vacation at a lake house not far from where Isobel and I are camped for the evening. I’d just finished a computer science course to get a jump on things before starting high school that fall. Laptop in hand, I was sitting inside trying out some of the new HTML I’d learned for building websites. Later, we paddled to the middle of the lake with a canoe to camp out on an island. And so, the kernel of a dream planted itself in firmly my brain.

If only the rest were so simple.

In her description of artistic recovery, author of The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron, describes “shadow artists” as the parts of ourselves we let get close to the thing we want but without actually getting it. This is self-help spiraling 101— thinking we can out-learn our way into being vulnerable enough to be brave. The sports agent who secretly wants to be an athlete? That’s a “shadow artist.” Same with the magazine editor who’d always dreamt of being a novelist. These are examples of getting close in proximity, but not in practice.

For me? This looked like becoming a marketing executive instead of becoming a writer—like working with software near sentences, and eventually writing sentences about software, but always from the shadows.

Fast forward and I’m 31. Laptop in hand, I’ve spent the week sitting outside while on a camping trip with my partner. I’ve just finished a summer of website configuration to get a jump on things before starting a project this fall. While on the road, I’ve been able to write, work on web projects with clients, and camp by the water.

So now, according to social media, it’s time I start writing fiction.

onward.

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