Tag: #angrypoet

This is the seventh 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.

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False Starts and Returning Sparks

December 9th, and I am contemplating a Morning Drift series here. This would be number seven. Over the past couple of months, I actually started a few of these posts, but each one fizzled out. I had one going right after daylight savings, started another about being at the wrong place at the wrong time — or the right place at the wrong time — and none of them came together the way I hoped.

I went back and tried to edit them. It was like when you’re writing a song: you have a great idea, you jot it down because you think it’s solid, and then when you circle back, the spark just isn’t there anymore. The concept is still there, and I still like the idea, but it wasn’t ready. I’ll have to come back to it.

What’s interesting is that before, losing momentum like that would frustrate me. Now I’m noticing something different. Even as I’m talking through this, I’m engaging in creativity again — and honestly, that’s a great problem to have.

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A Milestone, not a Measurement

I’m not forcing this post, but I do want to get my thoughts down as I drive home. Today marks my 300th day of sobriety. To put it in perspective, it’s about 65 days until I reach a full year, which suddenly feels like a surprisingly short amount of time, especially considering how monumental those first 30, 60, and 90 days feel when you first make the choice to be sober.

When you start out on a sobriety journey, everything is about counting days and keeping track. In some of my earlier posts, I talked about how I initially embraced the AA concept and then shifted to SMART. That change reminded me that sobriety doesn’t fit into one single form or fix. Each person has to find their own way, and that choice belongs to them.

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The Stoic Shift

Over the past 300 days, I’ve started dipping my toes into Stoic philosophy and what it looks like to apply it in my own life. I’ve learned that life is never going to be exactly the way I want it to be, and there’s a kind of relief in recognizing it instead of fighting it — especially since it seems I’ve been fighting that tide for most of my life.

Memento Mori, a reminder tied to Marcus Aurelius, was jarring the first time I came across it. The idea behind it — “Remember, you must die” — teaches you to value each small moment for what it is and to live each moment with this in mind, or at least try. And I’ve started to notice that in real ways. On a recent trip to Texas, I woke up at 5 a.m. just to see the sunrise and walk through a part of a park I would have never made the effort to visit before. In the past, that would have stayed in the “it would have been nice” category — this time, I actually did it. Moments like that are showing me what that Stoic idea really means.

Things aren’t necessarily clearer now; they’re just different. I’ve had to re-learn how to deal with people, situations, and my own emotions in ways I never really tried before. I still get angry, I still get upset, and I still get emotional — but the shift is in how I sit with those feelings, process them, and move through them. And maybe that’s the real change these past 300 days have brought.

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The Dogs, the Walks, and the Shift

One of the biggest changes I’ve made is reclaiming my mornings. I usually wake up around 5 a.m., even on the weekends, and on the rare days I let myself sleep until 6, it still feels early enough to start ahead instead of behind. What surprises me is how much I look forward to waking up now — how much I genuinely enjoy those early hours — because the contrast to before is sharp.

301 days ago, mornings were something I avoided. Even though I wasn’t a morning drunk, I slept as late as I possibly could and dreaded the alarm, squeezing every last minute out of the bed. I had my routine engineered down to about seventeen minutes — shower, get ready, out the door — all so I could maximize sleep from the night before and delay facing the day. There was no joy in it, just calculation.

Moving into the apartment with the dogs, walking them in the morning, afternoon, and at night started out as a chore. But it’s become something different now. It’s part of the routine, and somewhere along the way, I learned to actually enjoy it.

Before, it was always I have to do this.
Now it’s I get to do this.
And that’s been a big shift.

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Cold Toes and Perspective

Riding the motorcycle to work in forty-three degrees the other day — maybe forty-four — my toes were frozen, and I found myself laughing at it. Before, I would’ve been miserable about something like that — not because it didn’t suck, but because I was the one making it suck more. This time, it was just an unexpected moment where I realized how different things feel now.

I still didn’t like it — my toes, despite their new Stoic education, absolutely did not approve — but it didn’t own me the way things used to. Instead, I caught myself seeing it as a strange kind of privilege: I have a job to ride to, I have responsibilities, and I’m actually living my mornings instead of sleeping through them or running from them.

I think that’s what hit me the most.

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Close Enough to Feel It, Too Far to Hold

It used to meet almost every moment with irritation, usually by spotting the negative angle with embarrassing efficiency. I still do it, but it’s a lot less polished now, and I’m leaning away from it. Somehow those same moments have shifted into something I process differently, maybe even appreciate.

I feel calmer, more focused, yet there’s still something I haven’t held in a long time — something I once felt and quietly wish I could feel again — and maybe that’s what’s nudging me toward these new goals I’m finally allowing myself to hold, goals that will require work, effort, maybe even some pain. And I’m okay with that.

What I didn’t expect was this layer of loneliness. Not the kind people assume when they hear the word sober. Not missing alcohol — but missing something intangible, something I can’t quite name. And it brings me back to that post I started writing about being in the right place at the wrong time, or the wrong place at the right time, depending on who was looking at it.

I think I know exactly what it is — something I once held and still feel in the background — but I’m not sure I should let myself drift toward it. Sobriety has made the outlines clearer: a loneliness that doesn’t empty me, but sits inside a life already more than half full, something outside my time zone, outside my hemisphere — close enough to sense, but still out of reach.

I want it. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to. Maybe that’s the part that matters most — the wanting and the not-knowing, both still alive in me.

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Making a Big Deal Out of Not Making a Big Deal

Three hundred days in — 300 fucking days — I’m not trying to measure anything. I’m not looking for praise or a pat on the back. I’m just paying attention to how the small things stack up. And the funniest part? I’m out here insisting I’m “not counting days” while practically throwing a parade for day 300. The contradiction isn’t lost on me — and honestly, it’s fun to finally be in on the joke instead of the punchline.

Plenty has changed, and plenty hasn’t. The changes matter, and the things that remain the same just show me where I still need to do the work. And I’m finally at a place where that feels okay.

I don’t know what the next hundred days are going to look like. I don’t know what’s going to change or stay the same, and I don’t really know what I’m aiming for yet. But I do know this: if I keep doing these small things — these little shifts — the bigger picture will probably start to make more sense.

I’m not trying to solve everything at once anymore.
I’m just trying to show up.

No big moment, no fireworks — I don’t need a celebration. Just the truth that I’m still moving, and for the first time, it feels like I’m headed somewhere on purpose, and this time I actually trust the direction I’m choosing.

This is the eighth 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.

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When You Can’t See the Sky

It’s the 22nd or 23rd—I think it’s the 23rd of December—around 6:20 a.m. And in San Diego, we’ve been experiencing some pretty intense fog. There are a lot of internet and Instagram memes saying the fog is radioactive, which is hilarious, but the whole thing is interesting — especially because today feels like there’s no real fog. I saw one that said the phenomenon basically translates to something like a fog tsunami. And when you’re watching those time-lapse videos—whatever they’re called—it’s fascinating to watch it roll in.

But this morning, when you look up, you can’t see the stars or the sunrise. There’s nothing. Normally around this time—I think we had the winter solstice last night, or the day before, I forget—but on other normal days, you’d at least look up and see some color—reds and pinks and purples.

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Comfortable Complaints

What I realized was that I check the weather in all sorts of places, because I have connections in Philadelphia, Minnesota, Montana, and the Cascade area. I guess that’s why I like looking at the weather.

I think one of the things about that is being so privileged to have a “horrible” morning that equates to 52 degrees—which is hilarious, because it’s not horrible at all. Usually that 52 degrees turns into a 70-degree beautiful day.

And yet you’re still bitching about the morning — even knowing how ridiculous that sounds.

I remember back in the day, before weather became so calculated, it could just rain out of the blue, and you’d say, they didn’t say anything about that on the weather last night.

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The Need to Know

That was always pretty funny, because I don’t even know if they were actual meteorologists back then. I guess they probably had that designation, but the information and technology we have these days is just amazing. And that’s why I bring up the weather—because it reminds me of a song by Simon & Garfunkel.

It’s The Only Living Boy in New York, and the lyric goes, “I get the news I need from the weather report / I can gather all the news I need from the weather report.”

And in contrast, I’ve been remembering that about a year ago—maybe a little more than a year ago—I was a news junkie. I watched every single newscast.

Every single channel. I’d start at 5:00 p.m. with ABC or CBS, roll into the 5:30, then hit the 6:00 news on NBC or FOX—whatever was on—cycling through all the major broadcasts.

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Watching With Assumptions

It was almost like a mission. Or a mantra. I had to know. I needed to know. It felt like staying informed meant staying prepared. But the more I watched, the more I realized how little of it actually mattered in my day.

In the end, I didn’t really need all of it. I just needed to know what the weather was doing. And even that was subject to the same need to know.

In this day and age, it feels like that same need to know feeds the narrative—what they’re trying to portray—often at the expense of the actual facts. There’s always an angle. Or an edge.

It’s funny, because while I’m watching, every time I move from one broadcast to the next, I would already think I knew what the narrative was going to be.

Like if I watched one channel, I knew it was going to feel left-leaning. If I watched another, I knew it was going to have a right-leaning angle.

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A Three-Minute Window

But again, what does any of that mean when it comes to the weather? I think the weather is probably the most—and the least—important thing at the same time.

It’s most important when you’re back east, somewhere where it can change in an instant. I remember being in Ohio one time.

My cousin had taken me to one of my favorite chili dog places, Skyline Chili. We were inside when it started pouring outside, and I was like, oh crap, because usually when it rains like that, it’s going to rain forever.

And she whips out her phone—some sort of weather app—and she’s like, we can go now, we’ve got about a three-minute window.

And sure enough, the rain stops. For three minutes. We get in the car, we start driving, and boom—it starts pouring again.

But I think that moment mattered, because at the time the weather mattered more than anything else.

The point is this: you have to find what’s actually important in the information that’s being given to you—why it’s being delivered, how it’s being delivered, and who’s delivering it.
And regardless of what anybody says, just like my tagline: no single tide, no single truth.

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The Cost of Comfort

It’s fascinating to know what’s going on in other places, and how people have to react—or live. I can’t really imagine anymore getting up, pulling on jackets and scarves, and scraping ice off a windshield.

But anyway, what’s the trade-off? If there’s something in that climate that you desire—something that completes you or makes you happy—is that the trade-off? Is that the give and take?

Or is the give and take that you’re lonely in paradise—and it’s still paradise?

Poor men think money will make them whole. Rich men realize it doesn’t.
Some of the poorest people I’ve known were wealthy. Some of the richest had almost nothing at all.

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Still Learning How to Notice

I think that’s kind of the theme lately. Not that things suddenly got simpler—you don’t get to choose the circumstances—but you do get to choose where you spend your energy. You can focus on what’s wrong, or you can choose to put the work into seeing what’s right.

There’s always something wrong. That part’s easy to find. What isn’t as easy is noticing what’s still working, or what hasn’t broken yet. And most days, seeing that clearly takes more effort than simply reacting to what’s wrong — and I think that effort matters.

And I think that’s where the weather comes back into it. You can’t control it—you just react.

And I think people are a lot like that. We react more than we reflect.

I’m trying to be better about that myself.

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In the Pauses

It’s Christmas Eve morning. And it’s quiet—at least quieter than it usually is. There’s still traffic. There’s still movement. But there’s something different about it. It feels softer.

And I think people talk about the Christmas spirit like it’s mandatory. Like you’re supposed to flip a switch and suddenly be joyful, generous, grateful—on cue, on brand. And if you aren’t—if you’re not ho ho ho’ing, throwing magic reindeer dust around on everything like it’s holy water—it doesn’t just feel awkward. It feels like you’re the problem. Like you failed the vibe check. Like your lack of cheer is somehow a character flaw.

But I don’t think that’s how it actually works.

I think that’s why it feels more like the weather again. It’s just there—you notice it when you slow down enough.

The spirit isn’t in the decorations. Or the music. Or the commercials either.

It’s in the pauses. It’s in the moments where nothing is being asked of you.

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A Real Gift

I think we get distracted by the idea of gifts — what we’re giving, what we’re getting, what we think we should be doing. And we miss the things that don’t come in boxes at all: time, patience, grace, presence.

Those things don’t cost anything — but they aren’t free either. They take effort. They take intention. And that kind of effort feels similar to what I was thinking about yesterday — about choosing where you put your energy, and about noticing what’s still working. And Christmas just makes it more obvious.

It’s not about pretending things are perfect. They aren’t. Families are complicated. People are complicated. Life is complicated. But there’s something about this time that reminds you that you still get to choose how you show up, and you still get to decide what you carry forward.

It’s Christmas morning now. And I’m thinking a lot about growth — about the difference between who you were and who you’re trying to be. For me, that includes sobriety. I don’t say that in a dramatic way — it’s just part of my reality.

Sobriety isn’t about willpower. It’s about clarity — about being present enough to notice what you’re actually feeling, instead of numbing it or pushing it away. It’s not always comfortable. But it’s honest. And honesty, I’m learning, is easier to live with than denial.

I don’t think growth happens all at once. I think it happens in small decisions — over and over. Choosing differently. Responding instead of reacting. That theme keeps coming back: weather, news, people, myself.

I don’t beat myself up for the past. I don’t glorify it either. It just is. What matters is what I do today — how I respond, what I pay attention to.

And I think that’s a real gift. Not something wrapped. Not something bought. Just awareness. And the willingness to keep trying.

This is the ninth 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.

My daughter leaves back to Montana in a couple of days. She’s 21, heading into the final semester of her senior year in college, and she’s on the dean’s list. I’m extremely proud.

That had me thinking this morning about recently having all the kids together. Not at a dinner—just hanging out—going back and forth, giving each other a hard time, reminiscing about things.

I often talk and write about gratitude. But when does gratitude become a reward? I’m very grateful for what my kids have become, and for the reward of seeing the work put into trying to help shape them.

I have three children—two 19-year-olds and a 21-year-old. They’re maturing, figuring things out, enjoying life. That, in itself, is one of the rewards.

When I was their age, I was on my own little Survivor show. I’d been on my own for a couple of years. I lived on the streets—nothing like you’re thinking. The mean streets of Tustin, in Orange County, California—and that’s sarcasm. Very different from a large metropolis. I had friends. I slept where I needed to. Sometimes in the back of cars.

When I look at my kids now, I see them with jobs, school, vehicles, friends, hobbies, passions. That’s rewarding.

And one of the things I found myself focusing on this morning was realizing I was actually happy hearing them bitch and moan.

They joke now about things I used to take them to do, but it’s always with fond memory. And I guess the lesson there is this: when you’re raising your children, don’t be afraid to take them somewhere they might think isn’t fun.

It still etches a memory somewhere deep. Their eight- or ten-year-old self might not enjoy it, but their nineteen- or twenty-one-year-old self remembers it. Later on, they might laugh and say, “Oh God, remember when Dad used to take us there?” The key is this—you don’t get that opportunity back.

That brings me to this weekend.

I went shooting at the range with one of my sons. I had a full-on conversation with my other son, which was great. And I went out to a hidden beach spot in San Diego with my daughter.

We had some coffee at a new place she knew about and absolutely loved it. We ended up at In-N-Out, which is a favorite of ours. We’re big foodies, but we don’t take ourselves too seriously about how seriously we take ourselves about food, so we found ourselves comparing In-N-Out to other regions.

She goes to school in Montana, so before she left, she obviously needed her In-N-Out fix. From there, we found ourselves down in the Sports Arena area of San Diego—not the greatest part of town, a lot of traffic, a lot of homelessness—and that’s when I found myself thrifting in a Salvation Army.

I’m not the guy who doesn’t like to shop. I actually enjoy it. I love farmers’ markets. I love swap meets. I’m not a big fan of the mall, but I’ll go. I’ll enjoy myself. I’ll find something. And I’m not the guy who gets impatient or pissed off when the people I’m with want to browse.

I get it. It might not kick in my endorphins, but I understand that others enjoy it. I’ll politely and patiently sit until we get to a shop or something that I like.

I’ve never been thrifting. I was looking at it in a kind of jovial way, like an overzealous garage sale. And yet, I walked away with about $26 worth of stuff, which was hilarious.

I found a shirt designed by an anime guy—I don’t even know who, and I’m not big into anime. We looked it up online, and it goes for about $156. I got it for five bucks. It’s a great shirt. I love it. I also grabbed a wall decoration for eight dollars for my apartment, which still has nothing on the walls.

That’s the last part of making it my own. I digress. I’m standing there looking around, and you know that part of you that judges yourself, thinking, What the fuck am I doing here? You laugh about it, even if you kind of hate it.

And then it hit me.

My daughter was doing to me exactly what I had done to them all those years ago. She was making me create a memory out of something I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I wanted to do—and I was actually having a good time.

I guess I’m old enough now to recognize that sooner rather than later. Driving to work this morning, recapping the weekend, I saw it for what it was.

You never know when the tables are going to turn and the lesson comes back to you—the very one you thought you were teaching them. That’s a reward. Gratitude comes with rewards, I guess.

The memory of my daughter taking me places, introducing me to things, is etched in my memory. It’s going to keep this smile on my face for the rest of the day.

It’s not the first time she’s turned me on to things I really enjoy. And I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the thrifting at the Salvation Army. It was fun, and I never would have done it without her suggestion—“no, we’re going over here, let’s do this.”

And that’s great. Because when I say it’s not the first time, it’s the first time I really realized how incredibly special that gift was—and is.