Morning Drift #13 — Ten Cents for Happiness

Morning Drift — a journal of perspective, response, and the shifting truths of everyday life. No instructions. No formulas. Just lived moments.

Stillness @ Six

It is ten minutes after six. Morning drift number thirteen, I believe. I’ve been wondering what to write about. After my last post, I felt a little emotionally drained.

I think that’s where a lot of growth comes from — when you are letting go. And I think that’s why the whole journal thing kind of works. Once you express it, it settles somewhere in your subconscious. It works itself through.

I am grateful for this platform because when I try to write something out formally, I either get frustrated or want to make it sound more profound than it needs to be. This way, I can speak it out, put it down, clean up the grammar, and shape the flow afterward. Sometimes two or three thoughts blend into one because I realize they were connected all along.

This morning, I began thinking about what I was going to think about — or write about — or talk about. I got up early so I could get in ahead of schedule and leave sooner.

Ten Cents of Perspective

I found a dime this morning while walking my dog, Memphis. It’s a dime. It’s ten cents. Actually, it’s not worthless — it’s worth ten cents.

That got me thinking about how giddy it feels — oh, a dime. When you find a penny, you’re excited. At least that was back when a penny actually bought something.

That was back when they made them — because they stopped making them recently. That made me think, wow, there are going to be a lot fewer pennies on the ground in the future. I started wondering if the dime itself was the good… really good… find of the day — and if the dime will become the new penny or the nickel.

I don’t know. As prices go up, do they phase out pennies because it’s no longer practical? I understand why they do it. For years, it has cost more than a penny to produce a penny — so that’s just counterproductive.

And the funny thing about finding a penny was always the joy you get from something so small. Especially as a kid.

The Memory Tilt

It makes me think about the small joys you find in life — and how you don’t always take a moment to soak them in. I’ve mentioned it before, but I’ll say it again because it’s important.

When you think of your past, you tend to remember the catastrophes — the bad things. When you’re arguing with someone, human nature is to bring up past transgressions. The problem is, without remembering the good portions of a relationship — whether it’s work, personal, spouse, child, siblings, family — it’s hard to stay balanced.

It’s hard to step out of that defensive wiring. We’re wired to go for jugulars. It’s fight-or-flight mentality. I’m sure psychologists and psychiatrists have names and studies for all of this, but I’m coming at it like a layman, just trying to understand the world and grow.

Right in Front of Me

I’m tired this morning. I got up early so I could get in ahead of schedule and leave sooner. But when I got up, I felt pretty, pretty good.

Happy with that, I went out to walk the dog. My sons got up early. They’re going fishing together this morning. They’re nineteen now. They’re twins. It’s good to see them choosing to spend time together.

It’s just little joys. Gratitude. Finding a penny. Finding a dime.

Yesterday we had a double rainbow because of the rain. I was complaining about the rain — then I get to work, and there’s a double rainbow. I’m driving today after all that rain — it’s absolutely stunning. Beautiful. The sun’s about to peek through. And it’s Friday, and we got paid last night.

I could have a myriad of things to complain about. My job. Relationships. Life in general. But I think the trick is recognizing that moment you start going down that rabbit hole — before you hit depression or anger, before you fully process it and start living in the negatives.

It’s not easy. That’s why they call it work.

Just Miss It

It’s like those drivers going so fast they’re about to miss their exit. They’re in the fast lane. And they cut all the way across, jeopardizing safety because they don’t want to miss it.

They’re about to miss it — they almost hit a barrier. I’ve seen it. It’s crazy.

And I’m thinking, “Just miss your exit.”

It’s only going to cost three extra minutes. But they have to get that off-ramp — so they jeopardize their life, their safety, and the safety of others.

The fret of being two or three minutes late. The fear of having done something wrong.

That’s a stretch, maybe. But I think you get the gist — simple things. Finding a penny. Letting things go. Somebody cutting you off.

Simple — letting things pass because they’re not happening to you. Bad things aren’t happening to you; bad things just happen. Things happen. It’s how you react.

And the more I work on that, the more gratitude I have. The more understanding. The less resentment. The more joy I find in picking up a penny. That joy lingers longer now.

Without Forgetting

It’s the same with arguments. The same with processing indiscretions at work. People — as the Lord’s Prayer says — trespassing against us.

Forgiveness is not forgetting.

You can forgive someone for doing something wrong to you. You don’t have to forget it. And you don’t have to set yourself up for repeated trespasses.

Letting it go is one thing. Letting it happen again is another. It’s a fine line.

It even comes down to how someone delivers a message. The delivery may be horrible — crass, condescending. But it’s better to filter that through and ask: is there malice there, or is there an actual message?

Just Enough

I’m simply going to live the rest of the day — and keep tapping into that little bit of joy I found when I picked up a dime this morning.

It’s funny — ten cents is all it took this morning to realize how much joy I have around me.

Something as simple as someone dropping a dime by accident — and you being the one who picks it up a day or two later. How profound is that?

Ten cents for happiness.

There’s got to be a song in there somewhere.

No single tide, no single truth.

Morning Drift #12 — It Wasn’t Quitting – It Was Deciding and Showing Up Anyway.

Morning Drift is a reflective series exploring perspective, growth, and the quiet observations that surface in the early hours of the day — where thoughts tend to be honest and the noise hasn’t caught up yet.

The Marker

Morning Drift number 12, which is fitting because it marks my 12th month of sobriety. 10:30 Thursday night was the last drink I had 365 days ago.

This past year doesn’t replay like a timeline. It comes back in snapshots.

People say quitting isn’t easy. And for a lot of them, it’s not. But for me, physically, it actually has been. The hard part wasn’t quitting — it was deciding. Once I decided, the rest followed.

Like I’ve mentioned before, I don’t experience triggers the way I understand most people do. The only time I ever crave a beer is more about sentiment than taste or feeling. Super Bowl Sunday, for example — I laughed because it was the first sober Super Bowl I can remember. That thought came up: this is when I’d drink a beer. But there wasn’t any desire to actually drink. I woke up at six, went down to Mission Beach by Belmont Park, and experienced another sunrise.

I’m trying to do that once a month now — get somewhere outside my own little hemisphere and watch a sunrise or sunset. If I can do that twelve times a year, I’m ahead of the game.

I’ve learned a lot this past year. I’ve always had anger, and I embraced it. Not brooding anger — energy anger. Survival anger. Every time I’ve tried to move past survival mode and into enjoyment, something tragic would happen. And what did I do to survive? Drink. Mind melt. Mind erase.

But now I enjoy my mornings. I enjoy my control. I enjoy my thoughts. I enjoy not wondering whether something really happened or if it was just one of my crazy dreams.

It really comes down to one word right now: perspective.

Perspective

Recently I started becoming more of an advocate about recovery spaces. Alcoholics Anonymous is simply alcoholics being anonymous and talking to each other. Nothing more. Where it falters sometimes is what people build around it — hierarchies, rules, expectations. The book itself says these are suggestions, yet people forget that. I’m not chastising it. I appreciate what helps people. But I’ve realized something: the milestone isn’t the point.

I’m hitting one year of sobriety. Something I never thought I’d have.

It’s raining as I’m driving to work, and a metaphor hits me. One of my windshield wipers flew off. I’ve got one wiper working on the driver’s side. It cleans the side that matters. But the other side is still foggy.

Going through life with one wiper.
Cleaning what matters but ignoring what still needs attention.

The arm still moves. It looks like it’s working. But there’s nothing attached to it. It gives the illusion that it’s doing its job — but it isn’t.

I’m coming up on one year sober. It took years to become who I was — it’s going to take time to become who I’m becoming.

It’s crisp outside. You can see your breath. It rained yesterday, and after rain everything looks clean. Dirt off the road. Plants washed. Gutters cleared.

You get that after going through something unpleasant.

Going through life half clouded, half blind — then suddenly you can see clearly.

People ask how I did it. But it’s not how. It’s what did you gain?

Perspective.

The Quiet Tests

But my anxiety has been through the roof. Maybe it’s emotional triggers. Maybe it’s everything.

Affirmation is a big thing. I’m not getting affirmation from work. I don’t feel it in my relationship. Even my self-affirmation is waning. I should be proud and excited. Instead I’m anxious, scared, empty.

Usually people ask how you did it. They sing “happy birthday.” I’m not a big fan of that part. To me it’s not a celebration so much as an acknowledgment of discipline. I actually chose not to go to any meetings where that might happen.

Routine and mindset played a huge factor. I got out of my own environment for several days when I first quit. I gathered tools. I tried meetings. Fellowship exists there, but most groups already know each other’s stories. It can feel hard to join. Not in a mean way — just reality.

Last year was about surviving. Weathering bad days. Learning how to do that. This next year is about evaluating what kept me from being here all along. That’s going to be scary. Challenging. Rewarding.

Growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet — and sometimes it gets tested.

The Test

I took a vacation day to turn a long weekend into four days. I stayed home, did chores, and did some honest reevaluating. I realized I own more of my environment than I’d been admitting, so I started cleaning up my side of the street. Things have been better. I still feel dismissed sometimes, but I’m not turning down opportunities. That’s growth. Just not unhealthy changes.

Someone said something extremely hurtful today. It dismissed the effort I’ve put in this year. It made me question whether any of it even mattered.

I’d love to have a beer. Just forget everything for a while. The old voice says why not. But I’m not going to drink.

Instead I’m going to the ocean.

It’s almost like a badge of honor now. People betting against me? Fuck it. Go ahead. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been bet against my whole life.

When do you stop hoping for something that may never come? When you’ve invested years into something, made almost every change you thought would make a difference, and still realize it may never return what you gave?

Showing Up Anyway

I’m lonely. I’m empty. My self-worth feels low. But sobriety isn’t in question. I’d rather face what I’m going through than try to numb it.

Looking back, that’s exactly why I got up at 4:45 to go see desert flowers. A year ago I wouldn’t have done that. Wouldn’t have gotten up. Wouldn’t have gone. Wouldn’t have pushed myself. But I did — because somewhere along the way I learned that even when your head is fighting you, there’s still something worth showing up for.

There’s no harm in acknowledging an ache in your soul.

Accepting where you’re at is half the battle. Because without accepting where you are, you’re not sure where to go.

Right now everywhere I look feels dark.

So I’m heading down to Mission Boulevard, hoping the San Diego parking gods give me a space.

And I’m going to sit there, look around,

and try to find some light.

Morning Drift #11 — The Space Between Expectations, and the Wisdom to Know the Difference

Coming Back a Little Off-Balance

It’s January 29th. Morning Drift Series. Maybe number 11. It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these because the past few weeks have been a lot of trials and tribulations. A lot of testing—not only of willpower, but questioning of where I’m going. It’s been defocusing.

It’s one thing to say your actions are changing—your point of view, the way you react, the way you conduct yourself. It’s another thing to live it.

It’s kind of a two-fold question to myself. Why do I have such high expectations for others? And with myself, why do I have high expectations in certain areas, but no discipline in others? High expectations for other people. High expectations for other things.

I expect that when somebody has rules and standards, or a code of ethics, they actually stand by them. Not just say them out loud and expect you to adhere to them, but practice them themselves. And when that doesn’t happen, it comes back to not knowing what’s in their head—whether they think they’re doing what they say they’re going to do or not. Because from my perspective, people aren’t always aligned with what they say.

Doing What You’re Told — and Paying for It Anyway

An example that keeps coming back to me involves being given very clear instructions during a high-pressure stretch. The guidance was simple: protect your focus, stay on task, and if interruptions come up, redirect them through the proper channel. The idea was to create space to finish what needed to be done without constant disruption. I followed that direction exactly, calmly and consistently.

Over time, though, it became apparent that the system around that instruction wasn’t functioning the way it was described. The path people were supposed to use wasn’t one they were comfortable taking, so instead of the structure supporting the goal, it quietly broke down. Momentum suffered anyway.

A short while later, I found myself being told that I wasn’t communicating well—that I was coming across as unavailable or “too busy.” When I pointed out that I had been doing exactly what I was instructed to do, the response was that it wasn’t quite what had been meant. Not because the direction hadn’t been given, but because expectations had shifted without being acknowledged.

I actually had the original instruction in writing, but that wasn’t the point. The point was how easily expectations can change after the fact, and how often clarity only exists in hindsight. When you’re trying to do the right thing inside a system, you can still end up wrong if the rules quietly move.

When Some Animals Become More Equal

I’ve been spending a lot of time in my head thinking about how processes, organizations, and structure are all great things on paper. Religion can be beautiful. Politics for the people. Structure within an organization. It all looks good—until the human factor comes in.

And I think that’s the overwhelming part. The moment power is given to an individual within those structures, that’s where corruption starts to creep in. On paper, it’s still a beautiful thing, and expectations stay high. But once the human factor comes into play, it feels like human nature takes over. Whether it’s said or unsaid, applied or implied, hierarchy changes things.

That’s it in a nutshell. It becomes a matter of addressing it in your own head and realizing that, unfortunately, there isn’t much you can do about it. It brings me back to the Serenity Prayer—understanding what I can change and having the wisdom to know the difference. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m just getting older.

Paradise vs the Electric Bill

Now I’m looking at the weather again. It’s beautiful. A light haze of gray, a kind of misted cloud outlining everything, and then all of a sudden, blue skies as the sun comes up. It’s already 50 degrees in the morning. It’s not crisp. It’s not cold. It’s just nice.

It’s supposed to be 78 degrees. It’s January 29th in San Diego. Dallas–Fort Worth had snow less than a week ago. Billings, Montana was negative eight. Philadelphia and New York were slammed with snow.

And the first thing I thought was, man, my electricity bill is going to be high. Why did my mind go there instead of holy shit, I live in paradise?

It was a fleeting thought. I did shift to thinking about enjoying the day—maybe going out to Borrego Springs this weekend and taking photographs of the blooms.

When Acceptance Feels Like Failure

I don’t know. Acceptance is a motherfucker. When I say that I have to lower my expectations, it feels like I’m giving up something. Maybe that’s just a frame of mind that needs to be readjusted.

Accepting the way something is isn’t necessarily lowering your expectations. It’s finding some universal grounding to function within the environment you’re in.

At work, I have to be cognizant of the fact that what may look like a shutdown of communication or assistance on my end isn’t always portrayed that way on the other side.

At home, I have to remember that the weather—good or bad—should be taken as just that. It’s just the weather.

Religion, in itself, can be good until it imposes on other people. I’m not necessarily saying the religion itself calls for that. Some would disagree, and I can understand the argument with certain religions, but that’s not what I’m discussing here.

Even organizations that have had corruption in the hierarchy still have benefits. I guess you have to recognize what you can draw from them.

So maybe the lesson isn’t about lowering expectations at all, but redefining them—understanding where to draw from, and accepting that expectations sometimes need to be adjusted to be realized. The world doesn’t always revolve around what you expect or what you want.

Looks Different From Here

I’m looking at the mountain range out in El Cajon, California. Purple Mountain’s Majesty. I wasn’t expecting it, but it’s there. I’m a beneficiary.

As I step into my day, into environments that don’t always feel easy, I put on the face that everything is beautiful and wonderful. My expectations have changed, but maybe my attitude about how I address things has changed too.

I’ve been reminded lately of a story that was told to me—originally in reference to sobriety, but it applies more broadly. When you’re on the ground and you look up, you see a jet gliding through the sky. It looks smooth and beautiful. You wonder where they’re going. Somewhere exotic. A vacation. To see a loved one. A business trip. All the possibilities. It looks effortless, like there isn’t a care in the world.

But then you switch roles. You’re on that plane. There’s a crying baby. Turbulence. A steward or stewardess being rude. Someone clipping their toenails. You can’t get up to use the bathroom. The flight is miserable.

From the ground, you don’t see any of that. And from inside the plane, you’re not thinking about the person on the ground admiring the flight. Two entirely different perspectives. Two different sets of expectations. Almost completely dialectic.

A conflict of expectations. The person on the ground assumes those people are having a wonderful time. The people on the plane are missing connections, trying to get somewhere on time, dealing with frustration. They’re not concerned with the person below watching the sky—only with where they’re going next.

And vice versa.
The wisdom to know the difference.
Really knowing the difference.

Morning Drift #1: Searching for Gratitude and the Simple Choice to Stay Sober

This is the first 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.

A Morning Drive

It rained through the night, leaving moisture on the pavement and driveway, dotting my car with droplets — just enough to rinse the dust off the city. The humidity clings like a summer afternoon in the northwest Philly suburbs — thick, lingering, carrying an attitude all its own. There’s a smell here after the rain, one I seldom find anywhere else: sea salt woven into the wet air and lifted dust, a scent that could only be San Diego.

It was 5:30 a.m., and I was driving to work — something I never would’ve done this early in the past. Now, these early mornings have become a small joy of sobriety: clear, steady, present, and my own.

Gratitude in Motion

On my morning drives and walks, I envy people who say they meditate daily, write their gratitude lists, and somehow manage to find rhythm in it. I try, but my mind wanders. Often, my gratitude circles back to the same things, like repeating a daily prayer. Not a bad thing, just redundant. This morning had me reflecting on my journey to this moment.

Programs, Promises, and Problems

My journey to sobriety started when I went to the Sharp McDonald Center for a week — not the usual 30-ish days, but my plan, my choice. I wasn’t there because of some rock-bottom crash; I went in clear-eyed, knowing what I wanted. That clarity confused some people. Others couldn’t quite understand my strong character or why I wasn’t “broken enough” to fit their expectations.

I followed that with an IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program). At first, it helped, but after a while it became redundant. New people cycled in, the focus shifted, and sometimes the counselors seemed to take things personally, as if disagreeing with them invalidated your recovery. Eventually, I knew it was time to step away.

After that came Wednesday Aftercare, connected to the McDonald Center. It was supposed to be inclusive but leaned heavily into the 12-step format. Longtime members carried themselves with the air of authority: this is the only way. If you relapsed, the fault wasn’t the program — it was you, and they’d tell you why with all their “infinite wisdom.”

I’ve never personally relapsed, and that perspective shaped how I saw those rooms. Sobriety hasn’t been a constant fight for me; it’s been a choice — and, honestly, a relatively easy one. That doesn’t mean I don’t respect the challenges others face, or that I think it’s easy for everyone. Willpower, lifestyle, and circumstance all play their parts. But for me, recovery has been straightforward: one decision, made daily. That’s why I struggled with the message that relapse is somewhat inevitable — as if stumbling was built into the script. I couldn’t buy into that framing. For me, recovery isn’t about carrying someone else’s expectations. It’s about owning my decision and moving with my own way forward. And in those rooms, the promises implied — of community, healing, and belonging — often came with conditions I wasn’t willing to accept.

AA and Sponsorship

AA says it clearly in Chapter Five:

“If you have decided you want what we have and are willing to go to any length to get it — then you are ready to take certain steps.”
— Alcoholics Anonymous, Big Book, Chapter Five: How It Works

This chapter is widely seen as the core of their program, introducing the 12 steps, a spiritual awakening, and a promise of recovery. But it never sat right with me. I didn’t want everything they had. I wasn’t ready to sign on to every step, every script. I only wanted certain things — the parts that made sense for me. And in those rooms, that kind of selective approach is often seen as doing it wrong.

On top of that, AA is heavy on the sponsor “requirement.” I’ve read the first 164 pages of the Big Book several times, looking for a reference to sponsorship — and it’s simply not there. Sponsorship came later, as tradition — and like many traditions, it hardened into fact inside the culture of AA. That shift is where the problem lies: what was once optional evolved into expectation. And that expectation has become a point of contention, pushing people away from a program that might otherwise help them — well, at least this person (me).

There’s also an unwritten rule of accountability — not just to your sponsor, but to the group itself. You’re expected to share, confess, and keep nothing back. At first glance, it looks like honesty and community. But to me, it often sounded like and looked like control. Step outside the beliefs of the group, make a choice that doesn’t align, and suddenly it’s as if you’ve sinned against the church — not just made a mistake, but violated something sacred in their eyes.

And here’s where I’ll be blunt — this is my opinion: the sponsor system always reminded me of Scientology’s “handlers.” In AA, just like in those groups, you’re expected to report everything to one person who supposedly has the answers, and if you don’t fall in line, you’re seen as not doing it right. That’s not what I needed. I didn’t need someone watching over me, measuring me against a script. I needed presence, not a handler.

I was also wary of the fact that sponsors don’t have any real technical or clinical training. Their only qualification is time in sobriety, which can vary wildly. I’ve even seen members go through sponsors like a kid with a PEZ dispenser — one after another, as if the system itself wasn’t enough to hold them steady. That didn’t give me confidence.

I know that may sound harsh, but it’s simply how it felt to me. And for the people it does help, I’m still grateful it exists.

“Nowhere in the first 164 pages of the Big Book is sponsorship required; it’s a later tradition, not part of the original foundation.”
— Cornerstone of Recovery, Sponsorship — How It Started, What It Is, and How to Make the Most of It

“No where in the first 164 pages of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous does it tell a newcomer to get a sponsor.”
— Big Book Sponsorship, AA Myths — Myth: Sponsorship

SMART Recovery

Then came SMART Recovery — Self-Management and Recovery Training — built around science, self-reliance, and practical tools. Unlike AA, which sometimes mirrored Catholic mass in its structure, SMART meetings were looser, smaller, and often felt unfocused.

One night I’d be sitting next to someone who smelled of weed and booze, just there to get their legal slip signed. Another night someone was explaining their experiments with Kava or Kratom, how it mimicked being drunk or stoned but “wasn’t.” Others spoke of addictions that shifted week to week, never clear, never consistent.

It often felt less like a support group and more like walking into a frontier saloon in Deadwood — unpredictable, rowdy, sometimes absurdly funny, with Kava bar cowboys swapping tales no one could quite follow. A recovery town without a sheriff.

And unlike AA, there were no sponsors and no real accountability. SMART was whatever you wanted it to be — which for some, might have been freedom. For me, it meant not much at all. There was also an underlying resentment of the 12-step programs. Many thought they were smarter than all that, self-managed, above the script. But from what I saw, that “smarter than” stance often looked like a shakier path — less structure, less grounding, too easy to drift.

To be fair, SMART has some valuable tools:

“The ABC Exercise is rooted in Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy’s framework, breaking experiences into Activating events, Beliefs, and Consequences.”
— SMART Recovery, 4th Edition 4-Point Program Handbook

“The Cost-Benefit Analysis (CBA) is useful to take a look at the positives and negatives of a behavior.”
— SMART Recovery, 4th Edition 4-Point Program Handbook

Both help cut through excuses and show how thoughts and choices fuel behavior. Those tools stuck with me. But the meetings? Not so much. And still, for some people, I know those meetings might have been exactly what they needed — just not me. That’s why I kept pulling what worked and leaving the rest.

Finding My Own Path

The truth is, sobriety has been relatively easy for me. It’s not difficult staying sober — I don’t find it a chore. For me, it’s a simple choice, made daily. But I also know that’s not the case for everyone. Willpower, lifestyle, circumstances — they all play a role. For many, the fight is violent, daunting, and never far away. I respect that, even as I recognize my journey is different.

My approach isn’t tied to 12 steps, rules, or fixed strategies. It’s more about owning my shit, weathering the shit storms, and moving forward. Along the way, I’ve borrowed what worked: tools from SMART, perspective from AA, lessons from IOP, even bits of wisdom from Aftercare. A hybrid of all of it. But I never signed on fully to any one program, because they didn’t all fit.

That’s why I struggled with the message that relapse is somewhat inevitable — as if stumbling was written into the script. I don’t buy that. For me, sobriety hasn’t been about bracing for relapse. It’s been about choosing one path over another — and trusting myself.

In a way, I think I expected it to be harder — that I’d need to hit a deeper bottom to be accepted, or to stumble into some kind of magical enlightenment. But it didn’t happen like that. What I found instead was right here: all of this rolled into one, and most of all, inside myself. The hardest part of sobriety wasn’t saying no to booze. It was saying no to the established programs. That was tough — tougher than I expected — because it felt like swimming against the tide. In those circles, walking away feels like you’re breaking a rule or committing some kind of failure. I carried that weight for a while, the sense that I was doing it “wrong.” But once I let go of that and trusted myself, sobriety started to flow. And it flowed well.

Closing Reflection

I’m grateful for the chance to have experienced all of the above — each program, each lesson, each challenge — because they helped me shape my own path and flow with my own tide.

I know this has been a long post, and it leans on the negatives at times. But for me, it’s really about reflection and growth. The faults I saw in the systems were also the push I needed to find my own way. They forced me to define sobriety on my terms — and because of that, I’m stronger today.

Part one of the Morning Drift series — Tides and Truth: No single tide, no single truth…

Morning Drift #2: Post It Note Prophecies

This is the second 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.

You know, those amazing quotes that, just like the old daily horoscope in the newspaper, seem to make you stop in your tracks. The words land in front of you, and suddenly it feels like the stars aligned to send a message just for you at the right time, at the right moment.

At first, writing them down feels like capturing lightning. A phrase scribbled on a sticky note turns into something more than ink — it’s symbolic, it’s a mantra, it’s a little prophecy of what you hope to become. Writing it down makes it real. It etches itself into memory and, if you let it, into your actions.

But here’s the problem: if those notes aren’t revisited, if they’re not spoken out loud or lived out in small ways, they fade. Your intentions fade. The meaning, the moment, the message — all of it gets lost. What was once a prophecy becomes clutter. Just another Post-it on the wall, an unfulfilled prophecy.

And I can’t help but wonder: is the road to motivational hell paved with lost sticky notes? Good intentions scribbled but never applied?

Scroll-Sized Truths

Lately, the messages show up on social media — little dopamine packets that hit like scroll-sized truths. Some bounce off, others cut straight to the core. The trick is deciding which ones deserve a place on the wall and which ones need to be left in the feed.

Sometimes the ones that stick hit harder than a sermon. A single line that feels like it was written with you in mind.

Nothing changes… if nothing changes.

Your “Boos” don’t mean anything to me, I have seen what you cheer for.

Earn, learn or leave.

Stop asking for directions to places they have never been.

Sometimes you have to sit back, relax, and let the train wreck itself.

Each one of these lands differently. Some I let pass, others I grab with both hands.

Nothing changes… if nothing changes. That’s the one that keeps me honest. A sticky note that doesn’t just sit there — it dares me to act.

Stop asking for directions to places they have never been. That one feels like a compass correction, a quiet reminder to be careful who I take advice from.

And then there’s the tough one: Sometimes you have to sit back, relax, and let the train wreck itself. Not every fire is mine to put out. Sometimes the wreck isn’t mine to stop.

Prophecies You Choose

These aren’t just scraps of paper. They’re little prophecies that, when I let them, shape the way I move through my day.

And like the sticky notes that eventually fall off the whiteboard or slip from the edge of your monitor, what stays depends on you. You get to decide if it’s time to let them go, or if you press them back up as affirmation.

Tides shift, truths drift. And maybe the greatest prophecy isn’t the one you stumble across in a feed or find in someone else’s words. Maybe it’s the one you write yourself — your own Post It Note Prophecy, carried forward until it shapes the tide you’re moving with.

Part two of the Morning Drift series — Post It Note Prophecies. Read part one here: Morning Drift: Searching for Gratitude and the Simple Choice to Stay Sober

Morning Drift #3: Gummy Bear Politics

This is the third 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.

It’s early, and my mind drifts into the candy aisle. Gummy bears, of all things.

When you think about them, you picture the bag — multicolored, multiflavored bears staring back. Most people don’t eat them at random. They sort. They pick out the colors they like. They dig for favorites, or they leave behind the ones they don’t. Kind of like jelly beans. Nobody likes the licorice one. (Well, I do, but that’s beside the point.) Same with Skittles. Open a pack, and I separate them by color. Any candy with multiple flavors, I end up sorting.

And that’s the heart of it. Gummy Bear Politics is picking and choosing. It’s sorting. It’s deciding. And sometimes shunning.

Sour Gummies and Gummy Worms

Every story needs its bad guys, and in this bag, it’s the sour gummies and the gummy worms.

Sour gummies don’t blend in, they divide the room. You either swear by them or spit them out. They sting your tongue, hijack the conversation, and pull every other candy into their sour orbit. They don’t compromise — they polarize.

And then there’s the gummy worm. Restless, intrusive, always wriggling into the middle of things. Too long to fit in the bear clusters, too bendy to stay put. It winds itself around groups, tangles alliances, and topples neat little coalitions just by barging in.

Together, they’re chaos in chewy form — souring the mood, unsettling the order, and reminding every bear in the bag that politics rarely plays fair.

How Many Reds in a Bag?

I can’t help but wonder — is there a “gummy count”? Do companies decide how many reds, yellows, or greens go in? Or is it just luck when you pull a bag with more of your favorite flavor? Some groups end up over-represented, some rare, some overlooked.

And the flavors themselves aren’t even universal. In the U.S., it’s five: Raspberry (red), Orange (orange), Strawberry (green), Pineapple (clear), Lemon (yellow). In Germany, they add Apple. So even across borders, the same bears can’t agree on what belongs.

Sorting Beyond Candy

I’ll admit it — I sort. Reds with reds. Greens with greens. Yellows off in their own pile. It feels clean, logical, tidy. But that order only lasts in theory — because the piles all end up in the same place: my belly.

And it’s not just candy. We do this everywhere. Music — we like some, dismiss the rest. Sports — same. School — kids cluster by groups. Food — don’t even get me started on fish tacos and cheesesteaks. Some people in Philly argue Pat’s or Geno’s (I can’t imagine why…). Me? I’ll take Dalessandro’s in Roxborough. In San Diego, some swear by Rubio’s for fish tacos. Me, I’ll argue for Kiko’s food truck down in Mission Valley that gave me the best fish taco I ever had.

Everyone picks their flavor. Everyone claims their spot. And that’s fine — until it slips into surrounding yourself with only the same taste, the same color, the same flavor over and over. That’s where the slope gets slippery.

When Flavors Collide

Life doesn’t stay sorted. Gummies melt. Fish tacos get soggy. Cheesesteaks can be served with dry, flavorless steak. Suddenly the neat little piles blur together — gummies melting into a sticky mess, tacos losing their crunch, cheesesteaks tasting like a carne asada sandwich. Once in a while the chaos surprises you with something good. Most of the time, it just ruins the meal. Either way, you’ve got to keep eating.

And maybe that’s the point. Politics isn’t so different. Most of us don’t taste every flavor before choosing a favorite — we inherit them. Just like religion, or the town we grew up in, or the family recipes passed down without question. We’re products of our environments, handed a bag already half-sorted. And even if we change flavors later, even if we switch parties or creeds or teams, we sometimes carry the same old prejudices with us.

Maybe gummy bear politics is just a reminder that no matter how much we cling to our tribes, we’re all made of the same sugar in the end. Melt us down and we’d lose our colors, our shapes, our stubborn separations. Bears and worms alike. We’d just be — one sticky, messy, unrecognizable whole.

The question is: would that be progress, or just a melted mess? Wasn’t that the American experiment — the so-called “melting pot”? Or maybe it was never about melting at all. Maybe we’ve always been more of a mixed bag: bright, clashing, uneven, and somehow still surviving together… and tasting magical.

Progress or melted mess — maybe the real politics is in how we taste it.

Part three of the Morning Drift series — Tides and Truth: No single tide, no single truth…

Morning Drift #4: Owning the Morning

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…

Morning Drift #5: The Need to Fix What Isn’t Broken

This is the sixth 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.

The Balance Between Steering and Floating

It’s about 5:18 a.m. on, I believe, the 15th of October, and I’m on my way to work.
I’m thinking about control versus mitigation — mitigation meaning trying to control the possible bad things that could happen in a situation, as far as trying to control the situation itself.

Sometimes I want to control everything, but I convince myself I’m just mitigating — reasoning through it, keeping it aligned with my way of doing things.

I see that as something I’m really trying to understand about myself.

All of those philosophical sayings and Stoic ideas about “It’s not the things that upset you — it’s how you let them in” are kind of touching on me. I’m trying to figure out where that lies and what I’m trying to let go of.

Ever since I was a kid, my first instinct has been to put foam on the corners — to childproof, to fireproof. That’s always been my way of looking at things: fireproofing the room before I even walk in.

I was that kid who was always blamed, always in trouble. Once, I was even accused of stealing twenty dollars from a teacher’s purse. They called my mother about punishing me, but I’d been home sick that day. No apology. Just, “Oh, okay.”

Maybe that’s when it started — trying to stay one step ahead of blame, making sure nothing could be pinned on me, nothing left unprotected.

When I go into a situation, I want to make sure everything is right — or at least what I think is right. But when do I stop? When do I let go of that?

How do I tell the difference — when I’m trying to control something, and when I’m just trying to mitigate it?

Reference Note

The Stoic sentiment above derives from Epictetus, Enchiridion §5:
“It is not things themselves that disturb people, but their judgments about those things.”

The 7-Eleven Coffee Hunt

Letting go of issues — I’ll give a silly example.

I’ve been to about five different 7-Elevens in the past couple of days, just looking for this one product called Stōk — a little caffeine additive, like a shot of espresso. I use them at work. I’ll grab a coffee at 7-Eleven, pick up five or six of those, and add them into my work coffee through the week.

Lately, though, 7-Eleven has these new coffee grinders / makers — actually really good ones. They’ve got about three or four different types of coffee beans on top. You push a button and choose if you want a cappuccino, a double espresso, caramel latte, macchiato — whatever. It grinds the coffee right there.

Instead of paying six to nine dollars at Starbucks or Better Buzz or Dutch Bros, you get it for about three bucks. You can make it your way — add cinnamon, caramel, whatever you want. I wouldn’t say it’s as good as Dutch Bros, but for three bucks, I’m all about it.

The problem is, just like ice-cream machines at McDonald’s always seem to be broken, these 7-Eleven machines are always down lately. For a good three months they were fantastic — now they’re not.

It’s like the novelty wore off for the owners or the workers. They’re high-maintenance. They need to be refilled and cleaned. So this morning, I thought I’d give it one more shot — one more stop to get me a good coffee and grab a Stōk before I head in, maybe grab a couple of them for the week.

And once again — machine is broken.

My first response? Pull up Google, maybe Yelp. That old impulse — review it, critique it, vent. But lately I’ve slowed down on that. I still like writing reviews; it was a hobby. I had over 900 of them at one point. But now, Yelp feels more like a complaint center than a community.

I actually shut my account down — which is crazy when I think about it. But that was another kind of mitigation. I was mitigating my own emotional response — not letting something as small as a broken coffee machine set the tone for my morning.

I can’t control that situation. I’ve tried — choosing one store over another, tracking which ones break most often. But still, I walk in, and the machine’s down again.

Memphis in the Morning

My dog, Memphis, has decided that now he likes to go pee around 4:30 a.m.

And I’ll admit — I’m the one who started it. When I was teaching him to go outside, I didn’t want him getting too used to the yard. I’m moving into an apartment soon, and there won’t be one right outside the door — it’ll be a short trot to the dog park and lawn area.

So now he wakes me up at 4:30. And I’m thinking, “Really? I’m usually getting up at five.”

I realize I can’t control when a dog decides he has to pee — that’s nature.

But I also figure, what’s the point of going back to bed for forty-five minutes or an hour? It’s not productive. I’d rather just go to bed earlier.

So there I am at work by 5:30. Normally I’d just be getting up, but now I’m already there.

And that’s what made me start thinking about all of this — am I controlling things, or am I mitigating an issue?

Closing Reflection — Letting the Day Be What It Is

I can’t control everything. Not the machines. Not the timing. Not the dog.

But I can mitigate what it does to me.

I can leave earlier. I can plan around it. I can let the moment be what it is instead of forcing it to match what I expected.

Maybe that’s the quiet line between control and adaptation — not trying to steer the whole current, just learning how to float without losing direction.

Some days that looks like being at work by 5:30. Some days it’s finding a working coffee maker. Some days it’s just Memphis at 4 a.m. reminding me that nature doesn’t wait on my schedule.

Either way, I’m learning that the tide moves whether I fight it or not.

Part six of the Morning Drift series — Tides and Truth: No single tide, no single truth…

Morning Drift #6: Gratitude, Taken for Granted

This is the fifth 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.

Gratitude and Gratuity

It is Friday morning, October 3, 2025, and I keep turning over the word gratitude. Then gratuity.

Gratitude is the feeling of thankfulness and appreciation, from the Latin gratus — “thankful, pleasing.” Gratuity is the outward form of that feeling, a tip, a small payment left behind as recognition. In American culture especially, gratuity has become tied to service, wages, and social pressure — a near expectation, whether we admit it or not.

But somewhere in that twist, the meaning changed. Gratitude isn’t supposed to be a checkbox at the bottom of a receipt. It’s not guilt, it’s not transaction.

And while tipping isn’t always welcomed in other countries, gratitude itself is often built more deeply into the culture — shown in words, gestures, or presence instead of money. That contrast makes the point clearer: gratitude is bigger than a tip.

Gratitude is work. It takes noticing. It takes effort. And maybe the cleanest way to say it is this: gratitude is a gratuity you give yourself. A tip for paying attention. A reward for doing the work of being present.

When Lists Turn Redundant

I envy people who can keep gratitude lists.

I’ve tried, but mine always cycle back to the same things: a shower, hot water, a bed to sleep in. Important, yes — but repetitive. After a while it feels hollow, like I’m just checking boxes instead of actually feeling it. The words lose weight.

At a SMART meeting, I met someone who approached it differently. He was more of a writer, while I tend to wander and circle back later. He kept a spreadsheet of his gratitude list. Six months long, maybe more. No repeats.

His method was to take one thing and stretch it outward. Start with water. Then hot water in the shower. Hot water for cooking and cleaning. The heater that makes it possible. The pipes that carry it. The technology that lets me turn a faucet and expect it instantly.

That kind of thinking forces you deeper.

Being grateful doesn’t mean cherry-picking the easy items. “I’m thankful for deodorant.” But how did that deodorant even get here? Who saw the need, created it, and put it into my hands?

That’s where the perspective lives.

Gratitude as Work

That’s why I lost interest in the simple lists. They felt too easy. Gratitude, if it’s real, takes work.

It isn’t passive. It’s intentional. You have to notice things you’d usually skip over, turn your attention away from what’s wrong and actually look for what’s good. That shift alone takes effort.

It’s like planning a vacation. Saving money, coordinating schedules, working around a budget. All of it takes energy, but the payoff is obvious — a trip, a memory, a picture.

With gratitude, the payoff is quieter. It lives inside your head, in the conscious and the subconscious, and it changes how you move through daily life. The benefit is real, but you only feel it if you do the work.

Mile Markers

Driving to work this morning, I caught myself feeling thankful for the freeway.

It sounds silly, but then I thought about it. Traffic laws that most people actually follow. Lane lines, markers, barriers. Reflectors spaced so carefully to keep us reminded and in our lanes. Signs telling us how far we are, or how close.

That’s what gratitude feels like — noticing the markers that keep me present.

In my last post I wrote about going to the beach.

It’s three miles away, but I often forget it’s there. When I go, I’m reminded that gratitude isn’t just about listing the obvious — it’s about focusing on what I usually overlook. Learning to notice.

Gratitude, for me, is showing up at places like that more often, being aware enough to take them in instead of assuming they’ll always be there.

Cookies and Gratuities Everywhere

Gratuities are everywhere. And I don’t just mean the 18% box on a receipt or slipping a dollar to a valet.

Sometimes it’s as simple as saying thank you when somebody hands you a cookie. At my office, two days a week there are baked cookies — Wednesdays and Fridays. We have a kitchen, and the cookies are baked there, fresh, and put out for everyone. A little perk. Some people just grab one and move on.

Me, I stop and think about it. I’m grateful for the cookies themselves. For the science of baking. For chocolate. For the cocoa plant. For the person who figured out how to harvest it, roast it, and turn it into something that ended up in my hands. For the employee who started the perk. For the company that allows it and encourages it. And the list goes on.

It’s not just a simple cookie… but simply, it is… just… a… simple cookie.

That’s gratitude too — tracing things back, realizing how much work and how many hands are behind even the smallest gift.

Technology and Gratitude Lost

It’s easy to keep chasing the next thing. The flashy, the distraction, the squirrel. But when I slow down and really look at it, even the most ordinary parts of life are stacked with science, effort, and human hands. Hot water. Deodorant. Chocolate. Freeways. Logistics. Nature.

It’s humbling when you break it down.

Even this blog — the fact that I can type on a device, send it through networks, and share it instantly. Phones. Video. FaceTime. Platforms connecting everyone to everyone. We live in a crazy, connected age where everyone can be a journalist, a food critic, a broadcaster.

And yet somewhere in that twist, we’ve lost our gratitude for it. We treat it like it’s nothing.

For me, this writing is a way to reclaim that meaning — to see the unfiltered gratuity in the everyday.

Gratitude, Reclaimed

Gratitude gets lost the same way holidays do. Christmas turned into retail. Valentine’s Day into a Hallmark necessity. Memorial Day from honoring fallen heroes to celebrating the start of summer.

Gratitude. Gratuity.
Not a list. Not a checkbox.
Just the effort of noticing, and the reward of knowing it mattered.

Part four of the Morning Drift series — Tides and Truth: No single tide, no single truth…

Morning Drift #7: Drifting Forward

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.