Don’t miss me. I found myself.

“If you miss me, just remember I’m as far as you pushed me.”

And to be honest, that got me to thinking: I let you push me that far.

I kept standing in spaces that had no room for me. I kept handing out second chances like peace was something I could afford to lose. You didn’t lose me in one big moment, you lost me slowly. In the texts you ignored. In the effort I excused. In the boundaries I kept promising to set, but didn’t. And that’s on me.

Because I taught you how to treat me. I showed you that my forgiveness came with no consequence. I thought love meant staying, when it really meant knowing how to stop trying.

So if you ever start to miss me, don’t romanticize the memory. Because what you miss isn’t me, it’s the version of yourself that felt seen by my patience. You miss the peace that covered your chaos. The grace that made your guilt feel gentle.

But I miss something too.

I miss the version of me that thought love could fix people. For real.

I miss the innocence that confused endurance with loyalty.

I miss the peace I sacrificed just to say, “I tried.”

I’m not angry. I’m just aware. And awareness will free you faster than bitterness ever could.

So if you ever start to miss me, miss me knowing this: I’m not better than you. I’m just better at recognizing when I start betraying myself.

And this time, I choose to be loyal to my healing instead of my history. Because the truth is, I didn’t walk away out of pride. I walked away because my peace was starving in a place my pain kept feeding.

So if you ever start to miss me, just remember I’m standing exactly where your distance left me. But for once, I’m not waiting on you to reach me.

I finally reached myself.

And that’s the version of me I’ll never lose again.

The hurt that love brought

“There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled.”

For the past year or so, I’ve been living in ambiguity. Not knowing what was real. Second-guessing my instincts. Trying to make sense of things that never quite lined up.

It messes with your head, you know? Your body. Your sense of self. Nothing makes sense. I started to think I was going crazy carrying a weight I can’t even describe.

People say, “what you seek is seeking you.” Usually they mean purpose or some big life treasure. For me, it was the truth.

And once it’s revealed, you can never unsee it. And for me, for the first time in a long time the weight of ambiguity lifted. The downside: what was left wasn’t relief, it was emptiness. All the dreams, ideas, visions, hopes, and love… gone.

In an instant.

I’m grateful, but the price paid hurt. What’s left are echoes of what was supposed to be, but never was.

This isn’t a love story anymore. It’s about what love taught me, and the hurt it brought with it.

What’s next? I don’t know. But I do know the truth.

And it set me free…even if it left scars that will last a lifetime.

The Wilderness & The Whispers

I slept in my car, traveled the country three times, and even got lost in the desert.

In the years since starting over, I volunteered on a farm, managed a small grocery store in the middle of nowhere, lost my dog, found my way, and started my own company.

When I look back on my previous life, I don’t see this version of me. There’s arrogance, ego, incompetence, daydreamer. I didn't truly understand life. 

“If only I knew then what I know now.”

This more complete self was born from the former one, but was refined through necessity and humility. It’s a strange, difficult space to be in. I love the man I am now, and I wish I could have been that man back then.

Butterflies never go back to eating leaves. Once transformed they enjoy the delectable sweetness from flowers and fruits. Grateful for it’s former self that worked hard, ate leaves, avoided predators, and made the cocoon in preparation for this new self. The butterflies new purpose? Teach, share, and create more caterpillars. 

I'm meant to build something of my own from this new foundation. I'm ready to taste the nectar from the blooms of this new life.

surviving the confliction of self

Nobody tells you how hard it is to outgrow yourself. That’d be nice to know. I can tell you this: it’s exhausting. Between who I’m learning to be and the memories of who I was, I feel like I’m going crazy. “Old memories are like corpses, the more you dig them up the worse they look.”

Five years from now I hope I won’t recognize the man I used to be. But right now? Right now, it’s hard. Every day I feel like I'm at war with myself. It’s a messy, painful, slow kinda growth. It ain’t glamorous. For real, half the time you’ll doubt it’s even worth it. Wait, hold up…

Tiny footsteps. 

Small voice: Hi.

Life interrupts. 

I guess that’s what it is. The spiral. The confusion. The doubt. It’s the step in the direction of my choosing. I know what it’s like to leave, to run, but this time, I’m staying. I’ve never seen this side of me before. 

And I like it.

A house is not a home

How do you bring calm into an environment that’s been running on survival? When you’re trying to build something steady with tools that were designed for something else entirely?

Something I’ve noticed: when the environment around me isn’t perfect, aligned, or familiar, a different version of me starts to emerge: a pioneer.

Pioneers start their journey carrying the basics they think they need and letting go of everything they don’t. Along the way, they trade what they’ve known and mastered for new ones. They build their home with whatever they learn to carry next.

This new life has been that for me — trading in my old tools for new ones I never expected to use. And somehow, those are becoming the tools I’ll need for the home I’m growing into.

So what if “home” isn’t what we were taught?

Not a place.

Not a room.

Not a shared set of habits.

What if home is a direction — a becoming.

Not found, but grown into.

Built in the questions, not the answers.

I’m learning the new tools.

I’m learning the new version of me.

And maybe the real work — the quiet, uncomfortable, necessary work — is becoming someone who can build a home from the inside out.

No right.

No wrong.

No villain.

No hero.

Just someone trying to build something in real time.

Home sweet home.

Inside the Cocoon: Life, Death, rebirth

Right now, I’m in a strange place. Quiet. Confusing. A little foggy. And I’m not in a panic (although in the past I would’ve been).

You know how the Stoics say, “focus on what you can change”? I’m there but not in the “focus” part; I’m in the part after that. The “there’s-nothing-else-I-can-do-now-what” part. The silence. The wait.

Some days it feels like endurance. Other days like capitulation. Where is the balance in that? What is the balance? When there is truly nothing left to do, depending on where you are in your life, the answer to either question can be soul-crushing.

For the first time, I’m not chasing answers, forcing meaning, or trying to figure out the whole map. I’m just sticking to the basics and letting that be my yardstick. Movement. Stillness. Brick-building. Because even when everything around me feels unclear, these small things remind me I still have choices. It’s not the events against me. It’s me learning how to navigate them.

I’m forced to confront myself.

This. Is. Not. Easy.

For the first time, you see what everyone else saw. And depending on your awakening, the reckoning is deep. Sometimes devastating. Ask me how I know!

Because of this, it’s why most never start personal change. This fire burns hotter than any other. Your old self will die. In the minds of others, it will die a thousand times over. You may change, but who you were will live in their versions of hell forever. Condemned. Misremembered. Misjudged. That’s part of the cost.

But for the rare and brave few who push through, the reward: the birth of the butterfly.

The old you must dissolve. The destruction before the rebirth. Remember: the caterpillar builds its own cocoon. To survive, it must evolve. So it sacrifices its comfort and its entire identity to grow. To truly live, it must die first. This is the way.

What a confusing life, right?

Thankfully as humans our death is spiritual; metaphysical. The transformation, no less painful. The reveal, no less beautiful.

So I’m praying for strength while I lean into the basics. Confusion is part of the evolution.

I trust the process.

revealing me. discovering love.

You know what’s so strange about life? Some chapters matter so deeply, but aren’t meant to last.

Lessons I’ve learned lately:

Show up as myself. For myself.
Stop shrinking to make something work.
Listen to my own needs, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Let go of what I wanted to hold onto.

But the biggest lesson I’ve learned is the difference between wanting love and becoming someone who can carry it. You only get as close to love as you’re willing to get to yourself. The right things come when you’re ready, not when you’re lonely.

Honestly, I’m not sure I was prepared for how difficult this part was. Maybe that’s the whole point: love expands when you do.

Drifting vs. Choosing

Lately I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to slip into autopilot. Some days I don’t even realize I’ve drifted until something catches me off guard. Days blur together, routines take over. I’ve lived whole stretches of my life like that without noticing.

I keep hearing all these messages about growth, hustle harder, be obsessed, stay hungry, but when I do my internal gut check, I’m not sure that’s what growth is. What it feels like right now is mostly like noticing; paying attention.

Some days I catch a pattern and think, “Okay…maybe that’s something.” Other days I’m not sure any of it means anything. Like, I’m learning, but I’m still wondering. I’m seeing shifts, but I don’t always understand their significance.

I’m realizing there’s a difference between drifting on autopilot and choosing it.

Maybe autopilot is me learning to check in on myself — to step away from the controls and take inventory of where I’m headed, how I’m feeling, what’s changed, what hasn’t. Am I on course or off course? And crucially, may I rest for a bit? I don’t have to be non-stop. That’s not how this works. I just need to check in more often — make sure my route and routine are going smoothly. Anticipate what I can, but be open to everything.

preparing without performing

There are people I love deeply who I may not hear from for a while. Maybe a long while. Life shifts like that sometimes — without ceremony, without closure, without a final conversation to make sense of it.

I used to think love meant staying close. Now I’m learning it also means holding space from afar.

People grow in different directions. Sometimes they need distance for reasons you may never know. Sometimes the separation isn’t personal, it’s just part of the path.

So I’m learning not to chase anything. Not connection. Not reconciliation. Not explanations.

I’m learning to focus on who I’m becoming without performing it for anyone. My work now is to build a life with room in it. A life that’s grounded enough to be found, if ever needed. A life that’s living, not waiting.

Maybe one day our paths cross again. Maybe they don’t. Love doesn’t disappear either way. It just changes shape.

All I can do is choose the kind of person I’m becoming in the meantime. Let the work shape me, root me, ground me into someone I’m proud of; someone steady, someone whole.

Someone worth returning to, if life ever opens that door.

rest today

Sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

It’s been a helluva year. The universe reminded me:

Even in stillness, things are unfolding. Rest.

She is always right.

A Life That Fits Me

I was born in what kids now call the “late 1900s.” Back then, it felt like life was supposed to be defined by something big, something historic, something unforgettable. We didn’t have social media, we had human achievement to chase. That was the story we grew up with. Greatness was public. Loud. Recognized. Your name had to end up somewhere: in a record book, on a list, on a screen.

So I spent years chasing that idea of “big.” Titles. Accomplishments. Breakthroughs. If I wasn’t doing something extraordinary, I wasn’t doing enough.

Then one day I finally stopped long enough to look at the life I had built and the truth: most of what I was chasing wasn’t my calling. It was just the story I inherited from a world obsessed with spectacle.

What I didn’t do enough of was the quiet work; the part nobody sees. The part where you slow down, get honest, learn your rhythms, understand what actually matters to you. The part where you build a foundation instead of sprinting toward the next badge of honor. If I want a life that feels intentional, a grand achievement won’t define me.

The lesson: movement without purpose is chaos.

I’m not trying to chase a peak anymore. I’m trying to build a life that actually fits me.

What the fire made room for

There’s no easy way to say this: you have to go through the fire.

I can’t tell you what your fire will look like. I can only say that avoiding it doesn’t save you, it just keeps you stuck.

Honestly, I’m still in the fire myself. I’m not on the other side of anything yet. I’m still being shown things; still being shaped. As uncomfortable as it gets, I’m learning to get familiar with what is revealed.

The more honest you become, the less the fire feels like destruction and the more it feels like forging; shaping you into someone who can stand in their own truth.

I don’t know what the next version of me will look like. But I’m learning to trust the heat. And if you’re standing in front of your own fire, all I can offer is this: don’t fear it. Walk through.

I’m starting to find myself in here. Maybe you will too.

cold hands, quiet work, long nights

Six months in a cooler stocking cold and frozen goods, working 10-hour shifts. Cold hands, compressors humming in the background. It wasn’t allowed, but I would wear noise-canceling earbuds to drown out the sound from them. It was rarely music I listened to. My playlist was full of audiobooks and lectures. I probably could have learned a language, but I learned about life. And I kept a journal. In one that I found recently, here are some of the things I captured during that time. Whenever something hit me — a line, a thought, a reminder — I wrote it down; these were the things that kept me centered.

Notes from the Cooler

Goals are signposts. Purpose is the road.

“Start” is the goal made visible.

Don’t bargain with outcomes.

Work to a standard, not for applause. Let results speak.

Choose pace over push. Patience over panic.

Consistency isn’t a promise — it’s proof.

Serve where you stand. Measure by what gets better because you were there.

Hold a dream big enough to outlive you. When the work is bigger than you, time stops being the boss.

Let it change today — how you move, what you practice, how you treat people.

Stop asking how long will it take? Start asking how deeply can I serve?

Keep your voice louder than the crowd’s noise.

Silence teaches. Listen.

Rest. Step back. Breathe. Return.

the weight of listening

I’ve been doing a lot of work on myself these past few years; steady, intentional work. More aware. More honest with myself. More willing to look at what’s actually going on inside of me. And I’m learning how to trust it.

Life hasn’t stopped being life. There are challenges, frustrations, doubts. But the way I approach them is changing. I’m not fighting myself anymore. Not fixed, not perfect, just present. More connected. More open. The more I listen, the more “me” I reveal.

I’m not trying to live above the world, I’m trying to live better in it. The weight of listening is being awake enough to notice the difference. To see through the noise without disconnecting from the people and moments that make life worth it. Getting close to myself has brought my closer to the truth behind my reactions, my stories, my fears.

That’s where I am right now. Listening. Learning. Letting myself evolve. There’s more depth to discover. More of the infinite to experience. And I’m finally in a place where I’m not rushing it. I’m accepting it. Living. Growing.