This is the fourth entry in my Morning Drift series — a personal search and journal of gratitude, presence, and the shifting truths I find in sobriety. These aren’t polished guides or programs, just lived moments: presence, gratitude, reflections, frustrations, questions, and the daily work of finding balance.
Boundaries and Parallels: A Tug of War
It’s 6:10 on a Saturday morning, September 27th. My mind is on weekday rituals: No Meat Mondays, Taco Tuesdays, and Wiener Wednesdays at Der Wienerschnitzel (yes, I am that guy who refuses to drop the DER! ). Funny how nobody ever made weekend themes—what about Suck-it-Up Saturdays? Or better yet, Sober Saturdays. And really, Saturday and Sunday are the only two days that start with ‘S’—Sober Saturdays and Sundays… And yes, that’s gonna piss some people off! That smirk faded quick, because my mind drifted elsewhere: the default settings we fall into with media. For most of us, the phone is the first stretch of the morning. I get it—I want the weather, the time, urgent emails. But it quietly steals something from me—my ownership of the morning. Maybe that’s why I’m on my way to Mission Beach—to step away, reflect, and reclaim some space from the screen.
The glow of my charging screen pulls me in, fading through purples, greens, and blues like a wave across the glass. It gives off its own aura, whispering: “Hey, I’m here. Check me.” That tug makes me think about boundaries—ideas like “No-Cell Sundays.” I like the concept: loosening that digital leash to clear some of the static in my head. Yet I’ve also been lost without my phone—like the time I left it behind on a drive and couldn’t remember a destination without Google Maps.
So where’s the line? The phone is a ball and chain, yet also a lifeline you can’t imagine leaving behind. A paradox: the thing that traps you can also be the thing that sets you free. That’s why I picture something less extreme—maybe not No-Cell Sundays, but No Media Mornings. Keep the phone if you must, but skip Facebook, Instagram, TikTok. No stimulants. Just space.
It’s hard, though. Doomscrolling is real. My adult kids—21, plus 18-year-old twins—grew up with this. Their TikTok is what Sesame Street—and Saturday morning cartoons—were for folks my age. Every generation has its own hook—video games, MTV (when it was actually MTV), Walkmans, now endless feeds. I admit, I enjoy posts and reels too. Some are hilarious, some hit home. The balance is the question. Quitting alcohol was straightforward once I had direction. So why does breaking free from the scroll feel so much harder?
I’ve written before that sobriety itself has been relatively easy for me, even when I struggled with programs or philosophies around it. I admire projects like SoberHats.com and InspiringSobriety.com, where hats and t-shirts shout messages—phrases like “ZERO PROOF,” “SOBER”—period, “Not Anonymous,” or “The No Matter What Club.” They remind me of the little slogans that swirl around in sobriety culture, much like the catchy memes and taglines that dominate social media. Both shape behavior, both echo in your head. And as I thought about those slogans, another memory surfaced: a SoberHats anniversary post—celebrating their first customers. The message was clear: recovery is hard. But for me, it wasn’t. During treatment and meetings, I saw pain in others and felt empathy, yet for me the choice to quit came simply. That contrast gnaws at me. Why was alcohol—a prison I always had the key to—so easy to leave behind, while cookies, phone scrolling, or small daily compulsions remain stubborn? And that’s the paradox—the biggest battle felt easier to win than the smallest ones.
At the Edge of the Tide
By 6:52, I was standing at Mission Beach. A lone surfer, remnants of sandcastles with toys abandoned, the seaweed line meeting the foam. Even the worst wave surfed beats the best day working. That truth settles in as I watch: you don’t worry about the first or last wave—only the one you’re riding. Life is like that. Ride the wave you’re given—clear or choppy, breaking left or right. I could only be here sober. Otherwise, I’d be home—sleeping off last night’s drunk.
The waves crash like distant thunder—a comforting chaos. Planes lift overhead, stirring melancholy. Leaving San Diego always tugs at me—watching the shoreline disappear. But trips are round-trip, and even the departures remind me I’ll return.
Maybe birds and dogs are the luckiest souls on the beach. Dogs nose through seaweed with wonder, each smell a new story. Birds pose unknowingly as I snap photos, their lives simple yet enviable. I think of one of my phrases: “sand between tides and truth.” Sand as the friction that ties everything together—sometimes agitating, sometimes foundational.
I feel lucky. Maybe there’s something in that AA phrase: “If you want what we have.” What I have isn’t just sobriety—it’s calm, gratitude, and the clarity to stand here and take it all in. There’s regret too: why don’t I come here more often? I remember a lyric from my song GOD’s Jester: “This ocean I look at so seldom keeps throwing me waves.” Standing here now, it feels even truer. It’s time I stop taking it for granted.
“Morning Drift” began as drive-to-work reflections. But it’s become more—self-reflection, questioning, searching for truth—my truth. Planes rumble overhead, children boogie board in the surf, dogs chase and play. Memories are made here, fleeting yet powerful. Science says bad memories linger more than good ones. So how do we flood ourselves with enough good ones to cancel out the bad? Maybe mornings like this are the answer.
By the time bike rentals opened and joggers filled the boardwalk, the quiet was gone. Belmont Park’s lights dimmed as daylight took over. I thought: next time, I’ll come earlier to catch the twinkling lights and solitude again. This is balance. This is presence. This is owning my mornings.
Part four of the Morning Drift series — Tides and Truth: No single tide, no single truth…
Tides and Truth... 