Tag: personal growth

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Rebirth of the Living Dead

It was the morning of his 42nd birthday. Early spring in rural Oklahoma. A day and season marked by desperate longing. Both pinnacle and gulley. Both beginning and end.

Today was the day she would give herself to him.

***

The sight of her made him sick. But he couldn’t help himself.

For weeks, every Friday he would wait patiently for her to arrive at the coffee shop owned by the only gay couple in town. The coffee was below average and the service worse but there was a table in the corner with an ergonomically perfect chair that relieved the pain from the worsening CTS in his left wrist just enough to make the experience worthwhile.

But she, she was glorious.

He studied her over the top of his company-issued HP Elitebook. He noticed the crook of her neck with its pale supple skin. He noticed the peacoat brought out of storage a month too early because it was too cute not to. He noticed how little she picked up her phone to scroll. An utter lack of fidgeting. No sideways glances.

She commanded the room in stillness. No one else seemed to notice. He couldn’t stop.

She would walk by his table once, or twice if he was lucky, on her way to the restroom. He contemplated sending anonymous drink after anonymous drink to get the numbers up. Perfectly timed deep nasal breath to catch her scent. ‘Evian skin cream agent Sterling,’ he said almost too loudly from behind the screen.

And then one day as she was leaving she looked him square in the eye and waved with a smile. He was on a call dumbfounded. Wanting to puke he brought his hand to his mouth while his cheeks expanded under sudden pressure.

He blacked out.

He didn’t know for how long but it didn’t matter. There was no evidence of actual vomit anywhere. There was a scrap of paper containing a phone number and the initials JL as the nose of a smiley face.

He stopped sleeping. He wrote poems about her instead. Deleted and blocked for her. Stayed home sick about her. Sweat through sheets in her name.

She would let him see her on their usual Fridays but prioritized work. She would respond to his text messages but only after several hours. Sometimes days. She was 29 and wouldn’t date anyone with kids or more than five years her senior.

Two strikes but still swinging.

He knew she wanted a full-time family. Not the time-share model. But her boundary served only as a levee for the rising tide of his relentless pursuit to ultimately overwhelm. He had put in six semen-retaining months. He would make it twelve more hours.

She had agreed to submit for at least five unadulterated minutes in exchange for full immunity from future advances. One final wave to wash one or both of them to sea.

She had picked the hotel on the county road next to the pull tab bar. He had wanted the casino resort but it was too far to drive. He had accepted coffee instead of dinner, motivational texts instead of nudes, poetry instead of pussy. The Thundermine Motel wouldn’t break him any more than she already had.

Childless men of her age didn’t approach. Chinless incels with grey eyes and rectangular hips. Or, naval gazing gym bruhs too drunk on the scent of their own steroid shrunken scrotums to notice.

The traditional mean had been obliterated by the progressive extreme.

She followed the playbook of a bygone era. Kempt hair. Book clubs and coffee shops. Portrait quality posture. Firm feminine physique. Holding back her hoe for her husband. Even managed vanity into obscurity.

She was too good for the times. But she was lonely and his writing made her wet.

She wasn’t caving, she was paying bank rates on loaned love. She would wear the outfit he sent and follow the included instructions. She would get out of the experience what she could and give him what he needed

It wasn’t easy picking an outfit for a goddess. He wanted her to stand before him in all her splendor, provided for and proud.

He had settled on a white crop top hoodie from Anthropologie with Burberry skirt. She would take these off and leave on the knee-high stalkings, thick cotton panties, and custom-made JL pendant.

What he wanted most was her three-month-old muff. They had grown them out together. He would salivate thinking about pulling thick cotton aside to bury his being in her heavily wooded hobbit hole.

***

He woke in a panic. What time is it? Hadn’t slept in months and his fucking birthday is the day his accursed soul sanctions him to miss! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK how did he doze the day away!

The nightstand reads 9:19. Quick math. He can make it by 10:00 if he didn’t shower and didn’t get pulled over. The AWD in the Subaru will help on the dirt roads. He thought, ‘Maybe she will like my musk,’ as he pulled pre-planned outfit over clammy skin.

Text ding as he peeled out of the neighborhood read, ‘I will be here and ready when you arrive.’ Heart tapback and ‘omw’ reply.

It helped that he had made several planning trips to lock in the best room and negotiate special housekeeping measures with Bernice the motel manager. He could make this drive in his sleep.

He parked the car at the far end of the Thundermine directly in front of room 115 at exactly 9:59. The light was out in the room. The only other car in the parking lot was Bernice’s town car out front of the office.

Wim Hof breathing to reduce his heart rate as he approached the grey panelboard door. One last inhale to find his center as he turned the knob and stepped into the dark rental.

Before he could flip the light he was met with the hiss of what sounded like an aerosol can but was not Secret deodorant spray. Something wasn’t right. He was dizzy. Losing vision. Legs like spaghetti.

***

When he came to everything was according to his instructions. Almost.

The red bulbs had been inserted into the two nightstand table lamps and were the only light in the room. Red silk sheets and pillowcases on the bed perfectly made. Champagne on ice for affect that neither of them would drink. Shostakovich’s Symphony #6 rising ominously from the Bose Soundlink he had sent ahead. Crop top hoodie and Burberry skirt on the floor.

However, he was naked on his knees at the foot of the bed. Bare ass resting on heels with hands tied behind back. Rope around his neck and anchored above to the canopy bedframe. Tight enough to keep him upright, loose enough to keep him alive.

He looked down in front of him. His phone was ringing. Vision not yet 100% but he was certain it was her. By rising up on his knees and leaning to the left he was able to swing his right leg out from under him and land his big toe on the answer button. Successfully sliding it to the right on the fourth attempt in time to accept the FaceTime request.

‘Nice cock. Too bad you’re incapable of listening,’ came her measured tone over the speaker as a shadowy figure emerged from the bathroom.

‘Jackie, we had an agreement.’

‘Yes we did. Fortunately for you, Bernice has grown quite fond of you and will take care of all of your needs. She will give you what you REALLY wanted and I will see you Friday for coffee.’

Reality too unreal to believe and dreams too good to be true, he closed his eyes and let the waves wash him away.

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My First Father’s Day Without You, Pops

No son thinks of a day when his dad isn’t there. For a young man, his father is a fixed entity who will go on forever – whether he likes it or not – moving the world to make it safe for the tribe.

A son imagines growing to be the man his father would be proud of, stepping either into his shoes or over them, but never absent his influence. His father is like gravity to his young consciousness, inescapably drawing him into the form he must become.

And now my dad is dead and I am left to finally answer the question every father demands of their sons:

‘Who are you without me?’

-fathers to their sons-

But without you here, the answer I worked all those years for now eludes me, leaving behind a mixture of anger and desperation in its wake.

Like the man who traveled a long distance to end up where he began, holding only a map to nowhere.

I started working towards autonomy around the age of twelve when I landed my first five-figure job. Around that same age, I began regularly testing my physical limits via manual labor, various athletics, general fitness, and diet. As a sophomore in high school, I weathered my first ‘La Noche Obscura,’ with a half-dozen more to follow over the years, each time emerging more spiritually whole. Mentally and emotionally, I have done my fucking work wrestling my shadows.

Bike Crash

Relentlessly I strived,
getting up early to grind. 
Even sat on the cushion and cried, 
refusing the instinct to hide. 
And now you rode off and died
leaving me untied.

Yet, beyond the burning horizon of my anger, I know there’s more to our story than a dead end.

I know a man’s journey is helix shaped, stretching out as we circle round, and that I am neither lost nor defeated. I know that your passing has indeed brought me home, that this is a good thing and brings with it another, richer perspective.

I know that I can now hold a looking glass to our history and absorb whatever it is I see without a point to protect.

I can now see how you maintained a silent steadiness about you, consistently working away like a windmill to deliver power to those nearby. I see how you would engage with almost anyone who rode your bus but chose your circle carefully. I see where you would measure a man’s intentions against his contributions, weighing his character in the balance. I see how you searched for the truth behind the facade and freely shared all you could discern. I see that you pressed on down the trail of life, striving for inner stillness through tireless motion. I see whenever you fell, you got up.

All except this last fall from your fat tire Specialized. The fall which claimed your life on the banks of the Minnesota River at age 79. From this fall it is I who must get up on your behalf.

So get up I will.

Rest in peace pops, Happy Father’s Day.

Commemorative tweet from the location where he was found, the Minnesota Valley National Wildlife Refuge
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This Should Have Been A Love Story

image credit: http://wp.production.patheos.com/blogs/formerlyfundie/files/2016/04/AdobeStock_93801562.jpeg

Pop culture tells me I ought to love myself and thrive but my imprinted degenerate prefers self-loathing to survive.

So instead of offering you a heartwarming love story, here’s yet another cautionary tale from yet another dysfunctional dreamer. I do promise, in my telling, to refrain from all woe-is-me-isms, both general and specific gnashings of teeth, and bro-hemian style sausagry of any kind. What you have here is just a simple serving of the facts with a side or two of retrospect baked in for anyone craving deeper nourishment, petulant as it may be.

The relationship could be summarized with four basic strokes: it began with a brush stroke, then some key strokes, followed by a bunch of breast strokes, and culminating in one abrupt back stroke.

I’ll explain more below, but suffice to say here, I loved her from the first and, in fact, still do. So much so, I fell to pieces and pushed her away. Hear me out, I know it sounds dumb, but let me explain, I bet it’ll be instructive or at least entertaining.

Returning to the self-loathing I mentioned above, it’s not just imprinted, but insidious as well for when the sun shines brightest, most subtle then are the shadows. What I mean is, my demons dress like daytime deities and soothe like sirens. So the sweeter life starts to look, the more happiness I’m stacking, the more them demons really get to schemin’.

for when the sun shines brightest, most subtle then are the shadows

Like, for example, when I fall in love. Right when it starts getting momentum, that’s when the feelings of anxiety, inadequacy, and insecurity creep in claiming she brought them. Gnawing away at the edges of my confidence until I’m convinced the best thing to do for both of us is to break it off (back stroke).

Spoiler: as it turns out, you can’t project deep-seated internal narratives onto other people, cut those people out of your life, and hope the narratives don’t bother you anymore. My Christian history should have taught me this as even the salvation equation requires an ongoing relationship in exchange for mercy.

you can’t project deep-seated internal narratives onto other people, cut those people out of your life, and hope the narratives don’t bother you anymore

But I’m now a couple strokes ahead of myself.

So what happened was, she stole my heart with her art. No, seriously.

It was a late afternoon in early autumn when I saw a painting of an old friend of mine on Insta that looked like it knew him better than I did (brush stroke). Bonus: the artist was tagged in the post, single, and smokin’ hot. That was more than enough for me, I needed to know her, or at least know that she knew how talented she is.

Into her DM’s I dove (key stroke). Surprisingly enough, right back she responded. We exchanged a few messages and even set up dinner and an art show later that week. I was stoked. Unbeknownst to me, my baggage was about to begin unpacking itself in a full force feindish frenzy.

She arrived at my place precisely two minutes ahead of schedule in a dress I’ll never forget. But it was her eyes that sealed my fate. Somewhere between green and blue stirred a sea of wonderment breaking hard against all attempts at composure. Then she smiled and I exhaled, realizing too late that I was clammy and the vibe awkward. ‘Come on in,’ I managed while leading her to the dinner table, buying time to collect myself while shifting the focus to highlight my homemade handiwork.

Perched on the table was a less than memorable meal of more-than-bite-size beef stew, crusty cornbread, and a crème that wouldn’t brûlée due to failure of the culinary torch (likely operator error). She was graceful. We joked and took turns teasing each other until my cheeks were sore from smiling. Two hours passed as effortlessly as the levity in our laughter. Time to hit the art show.

Perched on the table was a less than memorable meal of bigger-than-bite-size beef stew, crusty cornbread, and a crème brûlée that wouldn’t brûlée

I don’t remember much from the show aside from how sweet the fruity pebble cocktail we shared at Glacier Chocolate was and how natural it felt to take her hand in mine. We walked and talked and didn’t look at a single piece of artwork. Nothing could draw our attention from each other. At the end of the evening, I closed my eyes and went in for a kiss, which landed, and sparked a physical chemistry that would prove electric (breast stroke).

A couple of weeks later we made it FB official. A few days after that we held each other close and exchanged, ‘I love you’s.’ This was the first time these words had passed audibly through my lips in over seven years to anyone other than my three children. I fell hard and I fell fast.

She had recently taken the plunge out of corporate America to focus 100% on two things: her art and her daughter. That was crazy sexy to me as I was contemplating something similar with my writing but was still too scared to launch. We started to imagine a future together with our kids crawling over canvas’ in a country homestead, her painting, me writing, no one fully dressed. I remembered what it felt like to not be alone. A problem I hadn’t even realized I had seemed suddenly solved. We planned a weekend getaway to Broken Bow to celebrate our new relational wealth. Life was all heat and light, at least for a hot minute.

We started to imagine a future together with our kids crawling over canvas’ in a country homestead, her painting, me writing, no one fully dressed.

Insert insecurities. I told myself that it was for the best, but the reality was I lost my cool with my boss who turned me over to HR, first for a suspension, then separation. For the second time in as many years I found myself involuntarily terminated without a plan. You could say the universe was helping me into the entrepreneurial world, which helped to make me feel better but did little to pay the rent. The funk had found it’s way in and wouldn’t fight fair going forward.

To my credit, I did push back a little against the demons. For a while at least. The experience was like playing catch with a boomerang, only the boomerang is outfitted with a running chainsaw that explodes if you hold it too long or put it down. For example, I would notice myself in a funk and, rather than blaming her, would evaluate my environment. Often one of my support legs would be broken, like my diet or workout routine, at which point I would work to repair it before the funky boomerang came back and chopped off another one.

The experience was like playing catch with a boomerang, only the boomerang is outfitted with a running chainsaw that explodes if you hold it too long or put it down.

After several rounds of this behind-the-scenes battle, I began to slip into a suspicion that it was the relationship itself that was doing the damage. Not my employment situation, mood disorder, or traumatic history correlated with this time of year. Instead, I began to entertain the doubt, ‘Maybe this isn’t my future?’ And, ‘Haven’t I got into trouble in the past when ignoring my gut?’

Looking back from my current vantage point and given the self-work I had yet to do, it feels like it was always destined to fail. Like the demons just gave themselves a sixty-day handicap to make more of a sport out of it. Whatever the case, the lesson landed, which was, ‘Your ass belongs to us.’

75 days after our first date I succumbed to a feeling of utter powerlessness and quit, over text.

Young Pablo

Not that it always has to be that way. In the future, I could work a program in cooperation with my partner, much like the one above where the couple stands to get stronger, not weaker, during tough times.

You both wholeheartedly agree that loving each other incredibly well and healing yourselves should be your top priority

Since it’s still fresh I find myself yet digging, but I think that’s the real lesson my demons didn’t see coming.

Relationship work happens in real life, not in my head and no matter how strong the demons feel, their only staying power is that which I concede in isolation.

I’ll sign off for now, but drop this heavy heart a healing line and let me know how your relationship handles conflict. Let’s get some ’22 momentum rolling in the right direction.

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Dearly Departed – Lessons in Love For Anarae on Her Birthday

Queen

ANARAE – you have been on my mind, as you always are, this time of year. Sadly, we can’t spend your 29th birthday together, so I have chosen to type out my thoughts and, even if I can’t hold you while you read them, perhaps they will wrap themselves around another, warming them in hope or help or healing, as you were so apt to do, in even the most unlikely of moments.

I love you Anarae.

I don’t mean in the conventional, familial, expected-because-we-share-blood kind of way. I don’t mean it in the sappy, manufactured, Hallmark way. Nor in the distant, 1000-yard-smile way that you probably remember from your childhood as I, a decade older, ran off to chase girls my age leaving you behind to work on your chess game. And most definitely not in the sentimental, ‘love-what-you-can-no-longer-have,’ kind of way.

See, love has taken on an entirely new meaning in my life of late. It feels as if a fortress of stone has crumbled down from around my heart, opening me up to a new type of existence, one defined by gratitude, peace, and joy. My entire being has begun moving into this space as if it were a seasoned traveler taking a new trail in an ancient wood. As I feel my way through fresh, yet familiar surroundings, I have begun to taste the reality of all you have taught me, of how you have cared for, even carried me through, so much darkness over the eight years since your passing, a darkness that I all too often blamed on your untimely departure.

But, as you know, nothing which happens in the past can be at fault for actions taken in the present. I am sorry for carrying so much pain and heartache in your name for so many years. I know now it was your presence, your spirit, and your compassion that, through it all, was gently and patiently warming the cold embers of my heart inside a healing hearth.

Today, looking back with eyes you helped open, I struggle even to see the sorrow separate from the saving.

I love you Anarae.

I love you through and through. I love you raw – unguarded, unfiltered, and unapologetically. I love you with the same love that created the universe and moves it still – day, night, heaven, hell, pleasure, pain, and everything in between. And, even though we fell short of consciously sharing this bond while you were still here, I need you to know I feel you now.

game changer

But more than my feelings about you and life as a whole, I want to share back what you’ve taught me, my top three transformative takeaways if you will. Call it my moment to admit a small but rewarding defeat as if to finally throw my hands up and say, ‘Yes Anarae, I hear you.’ See, even this stubborn ole mule can grow up for the better, despite, or rather because of, your unrelenting nagging. So, for your birthday this year, I give you my top three, attempting yet again to take credit for your work while throwing but a few sparse accolades back in your direction:

1. acceptance is not surrender

2. the destination is the journey

3. hope is happening

top 3 transformative takeaways over the 8 years since your passing on to a new plane
getting together

–acceptance is not surrender–

Anarae – you are the most accepting person I have known and that is not just my opinion, everyone agrees. You had a way of drawing out the best in people and, like a self-fulfilling prophecy of awesome, pointing to it and saying, ‘See, I knew you had it in you!’ This was most especially annoying when you did it to me despite my best efforts at resistance.

Maybe it was the ten-year age gap, but in our years together, I had a different relationship with the concept of acceptance, one which seemed to be hardening like petrified wood as I ‘matured.’ So, it would be fair to say neither of us were surprised by my hesitation to embrace you dating anyone, much less an ex-con whom you were convinced was on a path of reformation, one whom you believed you were chosen to support. You accepted, I resisted.

Harder yet to accept was the ‘I-told-you-so-reality’ of his taking of your life less than a year later, a pill so alive with hatred, agony, and utter despair it took several years for me to fully digest and almost swallowed me whole more than once.

Back then, I had yet to learn that you become the ideas and emotions you swallow, the spiritual equivalent of the old adage, ‘You are what you eat.’ I was clinging desperately to my idea of justice, as well as the emotions of what should have been had you just listened to me, had the bar not let you in as a minor, had the cops acted more quickly, had the world been a better place. And on and on. I felt righteous, believing that if I simply held on tighter to my version of what should have been that I could actually change the past. If only I just kept pushing.

So push on I did. I pushed my wife of eight years to divorce me, I pushed away from my three young children for almost a year, I missed my brother’s wedding, went broke, and landed in jail for DUI. Hatred of my history was eating my future from the inside out. I needed to change my diet, it was time to let go of my resistance and begin exploring the acceptance that came so naturally for you.

‘Hatred of my history was eating my future from the inside out.’

It wasn’t easy, especially as stubborn as I am, and as wounded as I was, but I began to let new ideas and emotions in which lead to new experiences, new beliefs, and in time, the new way of being I describe above. So much so, that a month ago, on the anniversary of your death, I finally accepted the man who took your life, and fully forgave him.

No more hate. No more agony. No more despair. I could breathe again. I was both lighter and stronger than before. Strong enough to accept that the differences between Shavelle and me (pictured above) pale in comparison to the likenesses and that only love has the power to heal us both. Turns out, accepting a difficult history and forgiving the man who took so much from our family wasn’t surrender at all. In fact, it may turn out to be the greatest triumph of my life for never again will darkness be able to gain such a footing on my heart.

Accept your past, fall in love with it even, lest it limit your future

–the destination is the journey–

Anarae, you mastered chess at a very young age and stuck with it, going on to compete nationally and racking up an impressive array of hardware in the process. But it wasn’t the trophies you were after. You loved chess itself, checkmate being just a passing mile-marker on the road of endless games, growth, and gratitude.

The irony being that the most celebrated masters of any discipline tend to be the ones who, rather than obsessing over the podium, relish in the repetition of relentless practice, and focus on the gritty day-in-day-out grind and the lessons it has to offer. You mastered this approach not just in chess but in life as well.

When you were tutoring younger kids in math or chess, you focused on the relationship, not the test result, working to ensure the student felt safe and secure enough to succeed. It was the same with sports and musical endeavors, you innately sought out and nurtured the tender moments, surfacing the sweet from the sweat of struggle. You knew how to work hard and have so much fun in the process that, from the outside, it looked like you were hardly working.

‘you innately sought out and nurtured the tender moments, surfacing the sweet from the sweat of the struggle’

I, on the other hand, was more apt to sprint to the finish line only to start another race. School was about the shortest path to the highest marks, sports about earning the letter, friends more about what circle they ran in over who they really were, work was about the money, and on and on. In fact, I remember at a job interview in my early 20’s, not long after moving back home from college, a total stranger after speaking with me for only a few minutes, interrupted me to say, ‘I don’t think you in this role is a fit for either of us at the moment and if I had one piece of advice to give you young man, it would be to SLOW DOWN.’ I always had a suspicion that you had secretly set up the interview and told him to say that.

Whatever the case, fifteen years later, I am beginning to listen. I am teaching myself to cook and how to laugh and learn through all the delicious missteps. I am back in the weight room, this time for the enjoyment of pushing myself more than the muscles. I am reading and writing almost as much as when I was a kid and for the same reason; because I enjoy it. I am even letting Max and Christian teach me how to skateboard at age 39, mainly as an excuse to get to hang out with them all day at the park, but also to show them that it is ok to suck and keep trying.

It must be that at some point not long ago I accepted the fact that the roses are going to smell good with or without me, so I might as well slow down enough to add that small joy to my life. That working hard wasn’t worth it unless I could find the fun and share it with others. And that each goal, dream, and destination is just the starting point of the journey to the next one. Or, to summarize, moving slow and steady down an endless, uncharted, but chosen path is infinitely more likely to produce happiness than sprinting along the provided public pavement.

‘each goal, dream, and destination is just the starting point of the journey to the next one’

–hope is happening–

A former leader of mine, whom I very much respected at the time and still do, once introduced himself to an auditorium full of hard-working, blue-collar machine operators, technicians, and floor leaders by saying, ‘Hope is not a strategy.’ He then paused, instinctively waiting for the moment to land, and land it did, to snickers which grew into a swell of uproarious laughter.

He knew his audience; masters of the moment, skilled tacticians well versed in solving real-world problems under duress where abstract ideology and flowery philosophy fail to turn hardened steel crankshafts and 450 horsepower motors.

This was my clan then, and for as long as I can remember stretching back to my early days of 40+ mile bike rides, 10k+ runs, and early mornings in a canoe on the MN river with my dad from age eight to when I graduated to baseball, basketball, football, track, and various hard labor jobs shoveling rocks and wheeling wheelbarrows uphill; in all these endeavors I learned you either put up or shut up. Words were nice but they didn’t get the job done, and if you couldn’t outwork me, I didn’t care what you had to say.

It was as if I was working the writer right out of me. The questions I hadn’t answered, or much less asked were; why I was working so hard? To what end? What was it all for and where was it taking me?

‘It was as if I was working the writer right out of me.’

Losing you caused me to start asking these questions and begin digging for meaning.

Helping me along was a deep, unshakable hope that wouldn’t give up on me which, like a still small voice, kept urging me forward through it all. It was a hope that the real me, long ago buried by various hurts and hangups, would be rediscovered, revived, and gradually re-emerge from the depths made stronger by weathering weakness. It was a hope that would do whatever it needed to in order to get me to listen, travel down whatever path, refusing to quit prior to manifestation. It was the same spirit that animated your life and breathes life into these words.

This hope may not have been a strategy as much as a lifeline, but without it, I wouldn’t have made it. The way I see it, in your final exhale was a gust of hope that was carried by a steady breeze of which I inhaled just enough to begin my rebirth.

And now, on your birthday, after eight long and winding years of struggling through the re-birthing canal, I find myself feeling more and more at home in my own skin. With what was once a thin wisp of hope for a better future, now filling my chest with confidence that it will be. Confidence that I can live out and up to your legacy of love in action for all of my days to come. Hope is happening, I am home.

Anarae, I love you.

Rest in peace lil sis.

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Transforming Trails Of Trauma Into A Future Focus

Grab ‘n Go Version

On the transformative journey, we often wander through the halls of our histories, yet do not dwell on where you have been or even where you are, what really matters is where you are headed

Storytime

My dad was incapable of being a great father because he never overcame his own trauma. Instead, he ran from it, quite literally, leaving his first wife and three kids at age 26 to become a marathon runner. For him, the running was a form of penance where the more suffering he subjected himself to, the more balanced the scale would be. He ran barefoot through the city. He ran in subzero temperatures through Minneapolis, returning home often looking like the abominable snowman. He ran his age every year on his December birthday from 30 until he was 50. Unfortunately for him, reconciliation in human relations doesn’t work at a distance, and as a result, he spent most of his adult life either transmitting his still unprocessed trauma to people who would accept it or overcompensating around people who wouldn’t. Avoiding pain is how it is spread and he discovered this reality the hard way.

mini-lesson:

if we do not transform our pain, we transmit it

He wasn’t malicious, just hurting and misguided.

His and I’s relationship was shaped by his mood which, from a very young age, I internalized as my responsibility. I learned that whether he was happy or sad or anything in between, it was my fault. As I grew older I started to desire recognition from him for all the great work I was doing to keep him happy. He withheld, I worked harder. He got angry, I worked harder. By my misguided calculations, I deserved the punishment when I failed, so I should, by the same logic, deserve the recognition when I triumphed. Spoiler: it didn’t play out according to my contrived formula and, hence, my striving escalated well into my adult life.

This strategy was successful in many ways for surviving childhood, but left two lingering programs running on a loop in my head which I would have to unpack later in life:

  • I was not important
  • I was not good enough

Embarrassingly enough, until well into my thirties, nearly everything I did was designed around earning HIS validation or scorning it; my life was not my own. At some level I understood this was not a healthy dynamic yet was unable to articulate it and, hence, my anger, resentment, and shame for not being myself got buried deep down. My conscious, internal wiring was dominated by this programming.

Until one day not long ago, after dozens of failed attempts over the last decade to clear the air, I finally found the right words at the right moment to say to him. It was as if a 39 year old chasm opened up inside me and an outpouring of deadly truth bombs came busting out, each with father-destroying heat seekers programmed in. My verbal ‘justice’ spewed out for no less than 5 min when, finally, he looked me in the eye and said,

‘I hear you.’

Instantly, I calmed down, sat down, ceased yelling, thanked him for enduring the onslaught, and apologized for being so yelly. I went on to explain that it was simply a long-buried part of me that needed to be voiced, but that it was over now and it was safe for us to resume normal conversations. I was excited about this exchange for many reasons and couldn’t wait to tell my therapist about the break thru:

I had finally received some validation from my father!

The following Saturday, I sat down in Andre’s chair with the whole story laid out, rehearsed, and ready to go. I drew it out in spectacular fashion, hit all the right notes, and delivered the punch line flawlessly. At which point I paused for his feedback as if he were to applaud or something. He looked up from his notepad and uttered a three-word question,

‘And now what?’

I was baffled. He was persistent and noticed I wasn’t following. So he clarified, ‘And what if you went thru all that and he hadn’t said anything? Do you really think the message in your rant was for him, designed just right to get just the right response from him such that it would fix all your problems? I mean what do you think the odds are of that? Isn’t it more likely that the message was, and always has been, to you?’

He continued, ‘Look, you are important, you are good enough, but the problem is that YOU don’t believe it, not that your father doesn’t. Nothing he, I, or anyone else can say will change your beliefs, only you can do that for you.’

I wept.

I had spent over ten years analyzing my past, in therapy, in rehab, and in various hospitals and institutions, trying to find the key that would free me from my prison, the balm that would heal all the wounds, the medicine that would make it all right.

But now I know my father is not my jailer, I am, my wounds have long ago scared over, leaving powerful reminders of healing lessons, and I never needed medicine for I was never sick.

Maybe none of what Andre was telling me would have made any sense if I hadn’t gone thru the 10-year struggle. Maybe digging thru the past in an effort to find the right keys was a necessary activity to unlock a clearer vision for the future. Maybe it is indeed a requisite requirement of a full rehabilitation to touch all the historical pain points. I guess I will never really know.

mini-lesson:

know your history, live in the present

All I know for sure is what’s important now, and that it’s all out in front of me.

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Breathing Gold: My 3-Step Method to Free You From Decision Prison

Ever found yourself imprisoned by indecision in a pivotal moment with your heart and mind playing tug of war over which direction to go? Perhaps, you’ve walked a path of decisive action, following your instincts with gusto only to now be wondering, ‘What if?’ Maybe you’ve adopted the role of spectator and can no longer shake the question, ‘Who is really living my life?’ If any of these scenarios apply, or if you are simply interested in a new approach to decision making – specifically momentous, life-altering decisions – you are in the right place

‘…if you are [simply] interested in a new approach to decision making – specifically momentous, life-altering decisions – you are in the right place.’

I am going to introduce my 3-Step method below, but first we are going to set the stage by traveling back in time to the birth of this blog and the OldSchoolMillennial’s origin story for some helpful context. Buckle up, this Delorean is taking off.

When I started this blog over three years ago I had no idea what I was doing, only a vague sense that I needed to write. I was traveling back from a weekend in D.C. where three of my favorite thought leaders had all taken turns speaking and fielding questions from a colorful collection of 500+ action-oriented event attendees. As the night carried on, I became intoxicated with the energy in the room. These folks were moving the world. I, on the other hand, was living life in my head, where I would meet big ideas with a steady stream of, ‘Yeah, but…,’ excuses – reserving action for the small and familiar.

‘I…was living life in my head, where I would meet big ideas with an assault of, ‘Yeah, but…,’ excuses – reserving action for the small and familiar.’

Somewhere around midnight, four hours into this electricity emersion, it hit me: for the better part of 36 years my mind had been avoiding the doldrums of life by escaping to clouds of interesting, but isolating abstractions, a self-made outsider, and now, finally, I had found my tribe. Their most striking characteristic was that each had traveled back from the clouds, pushing through the re-entry resistance, and landing their visions decisively in the real world. People of this caliber and in this number had not existed in my life prior to that moment, but I knew then with absolute certainty that I could never go back, not really, to the world of the, ‘Yeah, buts…’

However, I now had the question of how to get off the sidelines of my own life. I had no idea what to do, just that I felt as if I now needed a solve to this problem more than any other I had ever encountered.

But how does one answer a question that has never been asked before? Once answered, how does one know if the path chosen is the right one? For me, in what felt like the most pivotal moment of my life, where the entire universe seemed to be urging me to a new level of being, I was utterly overwhelmed by the onslaught of thoughts and emotions assailing my consciousness, I had no idea what to do.

‘…I was utterly overwhelmed by the onslaught of thoughts and emotions assailing my consciousness, I had no idea what to do.’

What happened next was akin to a bolt of lightning that struck me with similar 1/500,000 odds: I was going to start a blog.

I can’t take credit for the idea as it hit me more than I worked it out, and I had very little reason to believe it was plausible, much less possible, as I had never published anything of import, had no idea how to design/manage/market a website, and had absolutely no vision for what I would write about or why anybody would care. But, in that moment, all those concerns paled in comparison to my need to do something, and, alas, I had no better ideas. Hence, the OldSchoolMillennial was born into a storm of uncertainty; naked, shivering, and alone.

Image credit: https://blog.noodle.ai/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/shutterstock_1069268519-1200×675.jpg

Yet, three and a half years later, I’m still here, pushing the idea forward, building the airplane on the fly so to speak, all with a growing level of certainty that I have indeed made the right investment of time, tears, and talent. It’s as if the decision-making process has played out over a long, drawn-out series of micro-decisions rolling up and supporting the over-arching, largely unknown, trajectory as it gradually crystallizes in my mind. The level of paralysis and indecision reducing as the story unfolds at the cost of daily outlays of faith and will to stay the course. I am sure if you have read this far, you can relate.

In the quiet moments, I have often wondered at the possibility of pulling the decision-making horizon from the distant and uncertain future into the present, as I long for a method to manifest a key of sorts that would open the cell of decision prison in real-time. The primary benefit being the liberation of precious energy from the effort of continually re-convincing myself I am on the right path for input into the actualization of the vision itself. I can’t help but imagine where I would be if all the competing thoughts and super-charged emotions fighting for my attention were actually aligned within me in one clear, purposeful direction.

‘I can’t help but imagine where I would be if all the competing thoughts and super-charged emotions fighting for my attention were actually aligned within me in one clear, purposeful direction.’

But enough wondering. Now that the stage is set, let’s dive in and find out. I promised three steps, here they are, we’ll go deep on each below:

1. Breathe

2. Receive

3. Begin

Three steps to decisive freedom

1. Breathe

Human life begins with the breath and can’t continue without it. From the moment we emerge from the womb, we are hard-wired to pull air into our lungs, extract the oxygen we need, impart it to the blood, and pump it to all our vital organs and systems, thereby animating our hearts, minds, and bodies. This ingenious design is automated to where it runs in the background so reliably that we expend next to none of our attention managing or maintaining this most essential, life-giving, and sustaining function.

In this sense, it is the breath that is unconsciously woven into the truth of who we are more integrally than any experience, idea, action, or feeling we might possess at a conscious level. After all, it is the breath alone that has been constant in our lives since the beginning and will be with us until the end, steadfast in its support for every bit of change and growth we may undergo along the way.

This is helpful because it is the truth that we are after – our personal truth. The single idea that is wholly who we are. This truth is the key out of decision prison. The key which lies inside and has been with us since the beginning, since our first breath, and there it yet remains.

I know we just covered a lot of ground in a short amount of time, but the gist of what I am asking you to accept is that the process of self-discovery is one of uncovering something you already possess moreso than one of discovering anything external. Just as the breath has been with you since the beginning, so has your truth, even if only at a mostly unconscious level. The task at hand is to consciously surface both.

From this vantage point, we can now follow the breath back inside to our deepest, oldest self, and let our decisions be guided by what we uncover there.

To answer the question of how to get started on this journey, I would point you to any one of many conscious breathing exercises, but the method I have personally had the most success with was designed by the Ice Man himself, Mr. Wim Hof. Of his many books, documentaries, and online videos, I liked this audiobook the best as a colorful introduction to man and method. But, if you are just looking for a concise overview of the breathing exercise itself, I have summarized the main points below with enough content to get you started.

And that is it, simply build thirty min of conscious breathing into your morning routine and you have mastered step one.

On to step two.

2. Receive

If you are anything like me, as you get started with your breathing routine, you will, in short order, notice the absolute absurdity of thoughts intruding on what would otherwise be a quiet and relaxing sit. The simple act of attempting to focus on your breath and associated bodily sensations may become exhausting, frustrating, even anxiety-provoking – stay with it, your conscious mind just isn’t used to being quiet enough to listen, not yet anyway. Think of it like any exercise, you will get better with effort and repetition, the mental muscle of intentional bodily focus getting stronger over time.

‘Think of it like any exercise, you will get better with effort and repetition, the mental muscle of intentional bodily focus getting stronger over time.’

As we get stronger, we learn to just listen to the breath, we are simultaneously learning to quiet the conscious mind, opening up a space to receive a deeper form of knowing from our true self.

The process I am describing is not new, as it is akin to the many forms of mindfulness training which are at least as old as the Buddhist tradition, stretching back over 2500 years. However, ancient does not equate to extraneous as the fight for our attention in this age of information overload offers no shortage of opportunities for cluttered thinking. So, if you find yourself struggling here, you’re not alone, literally nothing in our post-modern culture has prepared you for this. Don’t quit, there’s gold yet to mine.

Thankfully there are a plethora of qualified guides who have charted well-worn courses through these murky mines. My current favorite is Michael A. Singer and his book, The Untethered Soul. What I appreciate most about Singer’s work is how thoughtfully he articulates the idea that you are not your thoughts, differentiating them from a deeper knowing. He goes on to explain how this deep knowing is accessible to us all if we can learn to receive it.

Conscious breathing is the process of learning to receive. Let me attempt to illuminate by sharing a recent sit with you.

It was a hot Saturday in Oklahoma and I had woken up later than intended, so I had to skip my breathing exercise in order to make my therapy appointment. At the end of another insightful session, my therapist asks me how the podcast is coming. Having not remembered him asking previously, I responded with, ‘What podcast?’ Quickly attempting to cover my insecurity with, ‘But I have always liked that idea!’ Undeterred, he fired back, ‘You have a lot to say, feels right for you,’ knowing an observation of this variety would usher me into a silent contemplation.

I am making my way thru the parking lot where the heat from the asphalt is thickening the air in dense, visible waves, when my phone goes off. I wipe my sweaty thumb on my shirttail and unlock my phone. It’s a message from a good friend thanking me for some recent advice and encouraging me to start a podcast.

A chill ran thru me as I drove straight home to my cushion in search of a deeper knowing.

I have been consistent with my conscious breathing practice for almost two months at this point and have achieved a modest level of mental muscle. Even so, as I settled into my sit, my conscious mind was abuzz with activity. ‘You should buy such and such a microphone.’ ‘Title the show such and such.’ ‘Have such and such guests.’ And on, and on. I keep breathing, let the thoughts pass while thanking the mind for its enthusiasm and bringing my attention back to the breath.

I make it to my fortieth breath and inhale deeply. My mind has quieted and I am able to fully feel my blood circulating thru my body carrying with it a deep sense of gratitude for the peace and plenty it supplies.

And then a deep blue washes over me. It’s more than a vision, it’s more of an immersion that lasts as long as my breath, roughly three minutes. I exhale, inhale and hold my recovery breath for a full fifteen seconds, then start on the next forty.

Inhale. Hold. Gold. Again it’s a full-on immersion of sensory overload to the extent I am even tasting gold for every bit three minutes. I keep going. On each successive fortieth breath a new experience: a thickening tongue which filled my mouth to the brink of bursting, a devouring hunger akin to have never eaten in all my 39 years, and, finally, my three-year-old Australian Sheppard nestling in my lap.

What does it all mean relative to any potential podcast in my future? For now, that is for me to know and you to find out in time, but, no matter, that is not the point of our present story. I am enumerating my experience with you in order to draw out the knowing process, to illuminate the stark difference between the way in which our conscious and unconscious minds communicate with us, My unconscious is very sensual and experiential, rarely speaking, rather offering full body meals for me to digest in due course. To discover how your unconscious communicates I suggest you get started learning to listen.

Think you got the idea? On to the final step.

3. Begin

As you settle into your practice, learning to listen to your unconscious, it will communicate with you. Fact is, it has always been trying to get your attention, to pull you back to your true path. It will always be your biggest ally in the face of life’s onslaught of trials, tribulations, and traumas. It has tried to get your attention in dreams and delirium, deja vu and visions, attempting to jolt away your awareness from the constant chatter of the ever-present conscious mind.

We just haven’t been listening.

What we are going to do now is invite our unconscious to take its proper place at the head of the table. We are going to let our breath be our maitre d’ as our oldest and greatest ally. We are going to feast on a five-star buffet of timeless wisdom.

Imagine having an all-access pass to on-demand dreams designed just for you.

So, what are you waiting for? Let me know how it goes in the comments below.

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Addicted: The Long, Hard Road That Led Me to the Gates of the Golden Age

After weathering the first six months of COVID19 as a boots-on-the-ground, eye of the storm, essential worker, I now, like 12.6MM other Americans, find myself unemployed (this figure is down from the peak of 20MM back at the pandemic’s onset in March). So, although I know I am not alone, no longer having a source of income, a familiar routine, and a clear, prescribed sense of purpose hits different. Perhaps you can relate.

In this article, I will share the story of how I came to be unemployed for the first time since age twelve. As we dive in, I’ll use the lens of addiction to color what I’ve learned in the first three weeks, including a sneak peek at an exciting project on the horizon. So keep reading if you’re curious to learn how to tunnel thru addiction, heartache, and loss towards your very own Golden Age.

Let’s get started.

If you know me at all, you know I pour myself into my work, always have. It was no different when I started with Kimberly-Clark in January 2012 as a senior mechanical project engineer bringing with me eight years of prior engineering experience split across two separate industries. Over the subsequent nine years, I earned six separate promotions, each with increased scope and compensation, the third catapulting me from the technical world as an individual contributor, and into leadership, with my largest team comprised of over 300 members.

Behind the scenes, however, life took some pretty dark turns. In late 2013 I lost my baby sister. Twelve months after that, my eight-year marriage dissolved, quickly consuming every penny of my savings and estranging me from my three young children for over a year as I worked thru the grief. If that wasn’t enough, I cut ties with my parents and even landed on the news for DUI. Legal and medical bills pushed me far into debt. By Thanksgiving 2015, I had arrived at what the recovery community calls, rock bottom.

Work was literally the only thing that worked for me, I clung to it like a shipwrecked captain to driftwood on a dark and stormy sea

Image credit: https://mustbethistalltoride.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/stormy_seas_by_bkhook.jpg

It was as if everything I lost at home, compelled me to dive deeper at the office. 60, 70, even 80 hour weeks were not uncommon. I was all in, whatever it took. The results and accolades started piling up, people were noticing, and who was I to say no – what else did I have to do? The question I wasn’t asking – much less answering – was, ‘Is this healthy? Sustainable?’

Let’s pause here for a definition and some additional context. I warned you early on this article would center around addiction, which, according to Dr. Donna Marks, is defined as anything a person keeps doing in spite of negative consequences. Notice the word anything broadens a more traditional definition confined to, say drugs and alcohol, to include everything from food to work, religion, sex, social media, status, exercise, and even recovery itself. The key to understanding addiction is that, fundamentally, it is not about the substance or behavior, but rather one’s relationship to the substance or behavior.

In her book, ‘Exit the Maze,’ Dr. Marks goes on to describe the underlying nature of addiction to be one of trying to fill an emotional void caused by prior trauma and/or dysfunction, most often occurring in early childhood. For the addict, of which Dr. Marks estimates there are over 100MM in the US alone, the substance or behavior starts as the solution, a much-needed, but only momentary, relief from the underlying pain. Over time, as the negative consequences of the addiction take root, a desperate wrestling match between relief and recovery ensues, in which sobriety is only the first step as the addiction will often morph into the next ‘drug’ of choice. This game of ‘whack-an-addiction-mole’ will continue until the emotional void is accurately named and eliminated.

Podcast with Dr. Donna Marks & Stefan Molyneux on, ‘Exit the Maze’

For a condensed overview on the nature of addiction, see the podcast above. For now, however, let us get back to the story at hand.

As 2016 kicked off, I committed to rebuilding but knew I had my work cut out for me. I decided to leverage the area of my life with the most success, my career, to right the ship and start making my way back to shore. This approach was effective in several areas as I paid down debt, built a support system of caring co-workers, and focused on consistent routines. With this momentum, I was able to reunite with my children and broaden my efforts into other areas of well-being, including a genuine commitment to cognitive behavioral therapy, diet, exercise, and creative outlets such as this blog.

Even so, as 2018 was coming to a close, more storm clouds were forming on the horizon. See, even though, on the surface, my life appeared to be improving, I was yet to truly name and eliminate my emotional void and, in turn, failed to notice the unhealthy relationship I had developed with several of my new behaviors and the turbulent emotional undercurrent gaining hold.

In short order, I arrived at an impasse with a new manager over differing visions for the team. Having errantly attached my identity to my vision during my rebuilding process, I struggled to compromise. In fact, I flat refused, telling myself to do so would be to, quite literally, die. Unsurprisingly, the situation escalated to the brink of separation. Desperately trying to avert disaster, I called in a favor and secured a transfer to a sister facility before I could be managed out of the organization. From a career perspective, this felt positive. However, it came at the cost of putting 180 miles between myself and my children, who remained with their mom in Tulsa, leaving me to commute.

It’s March of 2019 and the stormy sea of my still largely unconscious emotional void had washed me ashore in Paris, TX.

Not having fully learned my lesson from my recent bump up with management, I charged into my new work environment, eager to play hero and rescue a struggling operation (see link for a more in-depth account written in early 2020).

My vision was simple: One Roof. Essentially, no matter what uniform, crew, function, gender, ethnicity, title, etc., we were all going to come together under the same one roof to achieve our shared goals. What I liked most about this goal were the concepts of home and family embedded in the Roof mnemonic. One Roof was a clear reference, easily recalled, with nearly infinite depth of meaning to mine as appropriate. Simple to say yet hard to achieve, as anyone who’s ever worked in large, high paced groups will attest.

Two things escaped me which ultimately led to my downfall:

wrong moment

wrong family

Wrong moment because the established leadership team was too buried in existing cultural turmoil to seriously consider any additional risk. It was ‘batten down the hatches’ mode due to ongoing litigation and precipitous safety issues. The resultant leadership focus lying almost exclusively on policy adherence and structure. Cultivating interpersonal relationships was hard to measure and therefore low priority.

Wrong family because my subconscious was using my new team as a surrogate to repair broken relationships from my childhood. News flash: if you want to repair a relationship, you have to do it with the actual person, no substitute will do. Nonetheless, I forged ahead in search of the connection and validation I never got from my parents and still hungered for unknowingly.

Blinded by my vision, it was only a matter of time until the scenario imploded, and implode it did. Short of divulging all the gory details, my unchecked expectations, lack of awareness of the moment, failure to recalibrate my approach, and insistence on continually doubling down, lead to increasing frustration on both sides. Eighteen months into the assignment, I got the call that I was no longer employed. And that was that. Nine years boxed up and discharged in an instant.

But here’s the thing: I would have worked myself to death before ever considering walking away. And at what cost along the way? I had stopped writing, struggled to complete my MBA program postponing graduation several times due to needing extensions to complete my capstone project, even my relationships with my dogs were suffering. Not to mention the emotional poison – frustration & resentment – that were accumulating at work due to misdirected emotional energy. Long and short of it is:

Recreating dysfunctional childhood relationships in adulthood can feed an emotional addiction but not nourish a soul

So, in peeling back this layer of the addiction onion, two gifts have emerged for me: 1) clarity on where my next area of emotional healing needs to be focused and 2) clarity on where the next leg of my career journey needs to take me.

Which brings me to the Gates of the Golden Age, assuming I don’t starve to death first. What I mean is, without all the stress associated with solving the problems fed to me by my former corporate masters, I have an opportunity to funnel all my energy into solving the problems I decide are most important, most rewarding, most value added. I believe I have a long enough run way to launch my writing into profitability and maybe, with your help, turn a pastime into the life of my dreams, thereby entering what I call my very own Golden Age.

Image Credit: https://i.ytimg.com/vi/-sLVqc7DfR4/maxresdefault.jpg

Interested to learn more about my upcoming launch? Please enter your email and a comment or two into the form below and I’ll be sure to keep you up to speed. Cheers!

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How I Got to Wherever I Am – A Tribute to Anarae

I never know how I am going to get somewhere until I actually get there. For me, life’s an experiment and the fun is in the discovery. In order for the discovery to be worth sharing, the experiment must follow a consistent approach, this post is about mine.

But first a little background info.

In Enneagram language, I am a gut-centered person who instinctively feels his way through life – see Reformer below. Whether its in my personal or professional life, I rarely need more than a hunch that things are on the up and up before committing to at least try.

Image credit: https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/enneagram-personality-types-diagram-testing-map-multiple-colors-mandala-46795112.jpg

At work these traits can be great assets, for example, when decisive action is needed to lead a group out of a slump. They can also pose challenges when, say, trying to sell a project to senior leadership on instinct and energy alone.

In romantic relations I have been told I am a passionate lover but impossible partner. Reference my failed marriage: I proposed at age 24, only five months into a long distance relationship. I was confident we could build the airplane on the fly and spent almost no time pondering what could go wrong. Problem being, not everyone is up for that kind of challenge, no matter how good the ‘turbulence’ feels 🔥.

Did I mention that Reformers can be a bit grandiose? n-e-wayze…

As I move into the second half of my life, I have curated a four step approach to channel my instinct and keep me moving in a positive, consistent direction. As you read more about my four step approach to personal development, notice how it can help you regardless of whether you’re erratically over-zealous, irrationally timid, or anywhere in between.

Aaaaaaand, here’s the cliff notes version, drum roll please 🥁:

  1. Bag a Big Idea (know where you are going)
  2. Ground Your Gut (connect your where to your deepest why)
  3. Get Going (do the next right thing, repeat indefinitely)
  4. Reflect Religiously (checkin, adapt to what is)

Now let’s go deeper, one step at a time.

1. Bag a Big Idea

– know where you are going –

I am referring to priority one, the mission that everything else in your life orients itself around. It should stretch you well out of your comfort zone without being complicated – simple enough to share in three seconds to a stranger. The idea of it might scare you at first. Your fight/flight/freeze impulses may be triggered. This is part of the process, keep going. You will know you’re there when you are oscillating between shortness of breath and a quiet, confident smile.

This exercise is an essential first step in avoiding the common traps of chasing inherited task lists, building the busybody resume, or being stretched thin by historical programming only to find yourself exhausted and empty at the end of the day. A famous quote from the 20th century comes to mind:

“stand for something or fall for everything”

– read this interesting article to learn more about the origins of this quote –

Here’s the big idea I bagged recently:

to live with my children in a home they can be proud of

chow time

Simple but not easy, this vision encompasses foundational changes in my lifestyle, finances, career, custody arrangement, relationships, and geography. Simply put, I can’t think of any aspect of my life that isn’t impacted, nor can I think of anything that would make me more happy.

Even so, the most essential quality of my big idea is that sets a direction but not a course, making failure only possible if I quit. This is an example of a system, not a goal. Scott Adams illuminates the difference in his 2014 book entitled, ‘How to Fail at Almost Everything and Still Win Big.’ Generally speaking, a goal would be to loose 20 lbs. where a system would be to live a healthy life. With a goal you are constantly failing until you achieve it and then, just like that, it’s over. A system allows continuous successes and limitless improvement as long as you keep moving.

Quick Summary: your big idea needs to be directional (not dictatorial), stretchy (not safe), and easily articulated (not easily achieved).

Now that your head is high in the clouds, it’s time to:

2. Ground Your Gut

– connect your where to your deepest why –

Most of us have had a big idea, maybe a New Years resolution or new business venture, that never quite materialized. Perhaps an initial burst of energy and inspiration ran out, bad luck got the best of you, life took a new direction; a list of road blocks to a new path could circle the equator in 8 pt font. But obstacles are not unique to failed missions, success stories are rife with them as well. So, what separates achievement from failure?

It is the quality of your ‘why’.

Let me put it this way, if I had to bet my life savings on the success or failure of a big idea and had only one question to ask, it would be, “what is your why?” In my view, launching a big idea without a connected why is like taking off on a transatlantic flight with only one engine and no aileron.

Image credit: http://im.rediff.com/news/2009/jun/08sld5.jpg

The two parts of a good ‘why’ are Passion and Principle.

Passion is your engine, the more you have, the further you’ll go and the more likely you’ll keep going. Principals are your aileron, keeping you from entering a full roll when the jet stream of life gusts unexpectedly. Let me color this by elaborating a bit on my ‘why.’

‘To live with my children in a home they can be proud of,’ probably sounds like an obvious aspiration of any single parent with every-other-weekend visitation; but my ‘why’ runs deeper than desire for biological proximity.

As you might remember from a previous post, my younger sister was murdered on this day in 2013 at age 20 near our childhood home in Burnsville, MN. Without replicating the post here, I’ll summarize by saying that Anarae and I left a lot on the table in terms of what our relationship could have been. I learned, in retrospect, how a stronger, more intimate bond could have insulated her from the human predator that took her life. Six years ago today, as my sister passed away, my passion and principles were born anew.

Anarae’s death hard wired my passion for seeing people for who they are over how they make me feel or what they can do for me. Her death also permanently ingrained the NAP (non-aggression principle). Simply stated, it’s immoral to initiate force, coercion or threats. Inclined in these directions since birth, but not fully enacted, I could no longer accept anything less than my best effort in these directions.

So now, when I get a big idea that requires extensive foundational change, I put it to the 2P test: does it fuel my passion for people and can I achieve it without violating the non–aggression principle? The second part of the 2P test leading into step three in my system.

3. Get Going

– do the next right thing, repeat indefinitely –

Now that you’ve got a where and a why, it’s time to take off. Easier said than done. How many great ideas have you had that never got off the ground? If you can empathize, chances are you’ve experienced something like paralysis of analysis.

Breathe, the fact you’re nervous means you care and that you are invested in the outcome. This is healthy and natural, but not enough as inaction will lead to regret.

Call me an idealist but I think, deep down, we all know the next right thing to do. It’s just that, occasionally, we can get bogged down by the details and turn to consequentialism as a rationalization for not trying.

You ever met a consequentialist? Someone who, no matter how clear a decision, they find a way to interject doubt in the form of the insatiable, ‘yeah but, what if?’ Great chess players look several moves ahead, calculating dozens of possible outcomes, but they still make their move.

My Sister Anarae is a legend of the Metcalf Masters Chess Club, info: http://www.metcalfchess.com

Be the grandmaster of your life. Remember, even grandmasters miscalculate. Again, the key is to keep moving. Let me give you an example.

As I start out on my mission, I live 180 miles from my kids, have burned bridges with my company which would otherwise facilitate a transfer back home, have massive debt, no savings, average credit, and emotional baggage that, to date, over $15,000 in therapy has far from resolved. And guess what? Imma go forward anyways.

The secret is not what you do, but how you frame it. For me, cold showers are about mental toughness, something I’m gonna need to overcome inevitable hardships along the way. Diet and exercise are about stamina for the long road ahead. Meaningful relationships are about building a robust support system. New responsibilities at work and pursuing my MBA are about building my skill stack. Ongoing therapy is about getting out of my own way. This blog is about creating future financial possibilities. You get the idea, I frame everything I do, every small step, in terms of getting home to my kids.

I give myself permission to climb the mountain one step at a time and to misstep every so often, even to take a rest, but never to stop climbing all together. In fact, at this point, I don’t think it is even possible for me to quit.

The way I see it, each aspect of your life that you connect to your big idea and support with your core passion and principles, acts as a lifeline in tough times. Loose your job? Supportive friends and family step in. Relationship woes? Therapy to process and refocus. Work stress getting the best of you? Exercise to clear your mind. Etc, etc.

Healthy, connected outlets keep the course, but not without awareness, bringing us to the fourth and final step.

4. Reflect Religiously

– checkin, adapt to what is –

In case I didn’t make it clear, step three is about automating the process of progress. But what happens when auto-pilot malfunctions and you find yourself unprepared and in unfamiliar territory? Or, perhaps, it’s all too familiar, but unwanted ground.

Image credit: https://stevevernonstoryteller.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/lost-in-the-woods.jpg

Time to turn steps 1 – 3 into questions: ‘where am I going?’ ‘why am I going there?’ ‘what is the next right thing to do?’

Easy right? Not exactly. IRL, the stickiest traps are the ones we can’t see and, by definition, are unaware of. What I am going to say next is going to sound like circular logic, and it kind of is, but bear with me: automating progress is the best insurance against sleep walking into a dead end.

You’re probably thinking, ‘first he tells me to reflect my way out of an automated dead-end and then he tells me automation will prevent getting stuck in the first place, I can’t believe I read this far!’

Fair, but hang tight, I’m almost finished. Life tends to work in circular patterns, what I’m recommending is more of a helix. Let’s get back to my story to explain and wrap up.

Recently I put my heart out there in the dating game again (you can read about my first date here). Short story, my heart ran away with me, undermining my attempts to reflect while checking most boxes in my automated progress process. I was in deep.

Initially, when I reflected about where I was going, why, and what next, I could easily answer something like, ‘dating a girl close to home with great energy would help pull me towards my kids and further stabilize my base.’ When I checked in with my support structure, I noticed it easier to eat healthy, work hard at the office and on my blog, be more social, etc.

What I couldn’t see was that I was angling after someone who was ultimately unavailable, an old pattern of mine designed to keep me both hungry for love and far from it. This awareness came from a well timed therapy session, but not directly.

The wisdom was, in my words, the right person will appreciate things about you that surprise you, they will be fascinated by parts of your personality you don’t even notice. I had a new angle which helped me understand, and get first hand confirmation, that I was over extended without the possibility of reciprocation.

In this case therapy, part of my automated system, triggered a new reflection which, ultimately, illuminated the path out of a historical trap and allowed me to get back to business.

A misstep – even an incredibly enjoyable one – should not be lingered on nor provide an excuse to quit. But as far as this post goes, I am gonna quit.

Anarae – I love you, thank you for the clarity, rest in peace.

OSM in Living Color
Living the Journey
Posted on

Cage Fight

It’s about to get dark y’all – click away if you’re looking for ‘chill vibes,’ the keystrokes that follow aren’t for you. For those who remain, I write to release. Buckle up, keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle, and let’s see if we can’t extract something helpful.

It’s the weekend and this is the story of how the pressure pummeling my sinuses since Monday transformed from physiological to spiritual and nearly suffocated my soul in the process.

Last chance to turn back, no apologies, you’ve been warned.

Monday: wake up, no alarm, 5 hours sleep, walk the dog, read two chapters of Great Expectations, 10 min workout, cold shower, coffee, work by 6. Open the lobby door with a smile, hit the floor with intent, lead meetings with purpose, rewrite strategy, engage, motivate, empathize, energy, email. Power thru a sinus infection. Leave when the work is done, not earlier. Puppy to the park. Cook dinner. Couple hours on my MBA. Can’t sleep. Read. Twitter. Wake up, no alarm, 5 hours sleep…

The descent started Friday night. Or was it last week? My therapist tells me the ascent – when we climb carelessly – is the beginning of the fall. Balance, he cautions, is the key. Easy to say, but harder to practice when you’re managing bipolar disorder without meds.

Image credit: https://www.123rf.com

From your side of the screen this routine might throw some flags, but I hardly notice, I feel good. On Tuesday I take a small risk and ask a girl to dinner. She accepts. On Thursday, over salmon specials, we chat for three hours, part ways with a hug and talks of round two. Excited. Can’t sleep. Journal. Wake up, no alarm, 5 hours sleep….

Friday feels fine, mostly. Take one extra energy supplement to be sure. I need to finish the work week with a bang, but I can’t shake a swirling undercurrent of fatigue and it starts to show.

I snap at my boss in the morning team meeting when I feel slighted. Moments later, I direct lingering frustration towards two co-workers when I learn I was left out of a problem solve.

Smile. Everything’s ok. Apologize and keep moving. Reflect on the week, plot the course ahead. Call it quits after only 10 hours. Hit the pool for some self-care.

Wiping a bead of 93 degree sun-screen infused sweat from my brow, I brush the corner of my eye. At the same time, a painful thought bubble bursts in my brain. The simultaneous sting strikes my conscious like a Mike Tyson uppercut. I don’t know if I’m crying from physical or emotional pain, or both. Toweling the sun screen from my left eye, I regain sight but can’t shake the thought – all this and I’m still alone.

Edge of the deep end

It escalates quickly; of course you’re alone you phony, who could ever be with you, you’re unloveable, you’re intolerable. That was 17:03 Friday afternoon.

I leave the pool for safer surroundings. I prop myself up on the bathroom sink but can’t raise my eyes to the mirror. I pace in my apartment, mind racing. Looking for an escape, I cycle through available options:

  • try to land a second date?
  • write it out over a beer at the bar across the street?
  • keep it lite, watch the World Cup
  • power thru some studies
  • light some candles, take a bath, slit my throat

Wait, what? Where’d that come from? It’s just a thought, it’ll pass. It doesn’t mean anything, I’m fine, get back to the list, find something to do.

Second date isn’t an option, football doesn’t interest me, I can’t focus on my studies, or anything for that matter, writing is off the table. WTF is wrong with me? Suicide hasn’t been in play for years now, I thought I beat it.

Need more options. Are there any strip clubs in Paris? Where’s the nearest cash machine? I need to slow down, open a beer. Need something stronger, stores are closed. Maybe I’ll drive to Tulsa, connect with old friends. Bad idea, too much temptation.

I’m afraid

I feel boxed in by frantic thoughts on the offense. I’m fighting them off, but then, suddenly, utter exhaustion smashes thru like the Kool-Aid Man. I collapse on the couch, it’s 20:00, everything stops. Self-loathing wears me like a body suit.

Thin black shell

This is why you’re alone, who could ever be with you like this? All the work you’ve done? Pathetic. You might as well spend your whole paycheck at the strip club, that’s the closest to love you’ll ever get. Do yourself a favor and take that forever bath, wash the stain that is you off the face of the earth.

Despite being twenty pounds lighter this year, my body presses into the sofa with all the weight of the universe’s Biggest Loser. Paralysis keeps me from taking action, consciousness fades in and out. Wake up, no alarm, uncertain sleep….

I breathe in, rise, feet on the ground. I’m still here, the fight continues. Rely on my routine. Walk the dog, read, 10 min workout, cold shower, coffee. It’s not enough, the assault continues. It’s only 06:30. Headphones on, Kanye at volume. Writers block, can’t study, it’s 08:00. Text kids I love you, check IG. Get some calories, start laundry. It’s 10:00, pool’s open, seek sunshine.

But the sun bakes me blacker, I can’t escape, I phone a friend. The message comes back from my therapist as a question; ‘can you love yourself, even now?’ I bury my face in my towel as a tear rolls from my left eye. My suffocating soul gasps for air, I catch my breath, I whisper, ‘I love you.’

My soul, sensing safe harbor, lends me strength to stand. I know what to do for the first time in 24 hours, it’s time to write.

And here we are, the pressure vessel that was my mind has mostly released and I feel calm. Clarity seeping back in.

Three things before I wrap up with a final thought:

  • Don’t try this at home. If you are suffering from bipolar, depression or similar disorder, seek professional help. I’ve been through several rounds of medication in the past and have a decade of therapy under my belt. I’m not playing at hero and you shouldn’t either.
  • When I say I’m ok, I mean it, this isn’t a cry for help. I write to document a reference point if I should ever go thru this again, and, hopefully, to encourage others in a similar struggle.
  • I understand that this level of authenticity is not only tough to stomach but also could be weaponized against me for a variety of unsavory reasons. The only thing worse would be my voluntary silence. My truth is my strength and I knowingly speak it into existence.

Final thought:

The demon is your defense, he warns of danger and will be heard. The cage is your real enemy and is entered by choice with closed ears

Let me know if you’d like to talk, I’m here.

Posted on

Victimized by Love?

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I walked out of my therapists’ office this morning with a new mantra:

“Don’t be a victim of love”

– Andre Campbell

But let’s start at the beginning.

I stride in, all black threads, fresh from a cold shower and focused by fast-induced hunger only slightly subdued by 16 ounces of nitro. Think, Dark Night vs. Bane right before Bruce wakes up in the Pit.

I was prepared; had rose early to review my journal, collect my thoughts, and was ready to offer up a condensed version of the last 6 weeks for evaluation. But that’s not quite how it works in this office.

Cooly perched in his plush arm chair, Andre patiently notates while I cover my material – my first month back at school, my new job, my writings, my text exchange with my long-estranged mom…wait, let’s pause there. ‘Tell me more,’ he says. Then the dreaded, ‘how do you feel as you’re telling this story?’

But after 5 years on the adjacent burgundy leather loveseat, I see this coming; ‘ambivalent,’ I say through my teeth.

He counters, ‘Are you being honest with yourself?’

Persistent, I think before launching into a heady regurgitation of the carefully balanced pros and cons of meeting up with my mother after 5 years apart.

‘I don’t think she’s ready and here’s why,’ I conclude, pointing to the text where she indicates she wants to give me a hug.

She hasn’t even offered an apology; this hug – in my mind – represents a covering up of historical wrong doing – a far cry from the atonement I feel I deserve. Not to mention, the last time I went through this, she bailed at the buzzer.

I’ve worked too hard and have come too far – I tell myself – to go back to that place.

But you’re still there, Andre says with a look, and then, ‘it’s as if you’ve built a beautiful house, carefully manicured the lawn, but can’t go inside.’

I’m reeling, struggling to regain composure; the words cut deep.

He continues, calmly inquiring, ‘why are you playing victim to love?’

‘I’m not playing’….I trail off, my tongue goes limp, my vocal cords dry and taught. I assume a listening position while he explains how I’ve been here before, circling but never facing my real need: self-love.

He goes on. One who loves themselves with abandon – think child running arms open wide – cannot be victimized.

I realize I have been longing for my mother to provide this love since I was a child. I am now avoiding the interaction because I am afraid she won’t live up to my expectations and I’ll be hurt, again, as a result. The ‘house’ I’ve been building has become an icy monument to perpetual victimhood.

He reminds me that only I can give myself the love I’ve been both seeking and avoiding from her.

Time’s up.

He repeats the mantra and we schedule our next session.

The theme of the mantra is simple:

internal strength built on a foundation of love and abundance can’t be compromised

– Me

To be continued…