or, rather, Mineshaft by Dessa, which is wildly appropriate for the story i'm about to tell you. i recommend you give it a listen.

i found god this year.

like, actually.

not in a church-y way, or a "i read a self-help book and now i say namaste" way. i mean i genuinely touched something that felt like the divine, and it swallowed me whole, day after day, for months.

it took my hand and led me to meaning and wholeness and connection to something greater.

and then it asked me to wait.

and then it gently escorted me back out into the world and told me it was my turn.

let me back up.

the list of things i used to be is longer than the list of things i am

for most of my life, i didn't really want to be alive.

not in a dramatic, cry-for-help way. more like... i just didn't see the point? i was going through motions. not even trying to prove anything — i didn't have the shelving to put that kind of self-esteem on. it wasn't misguided effort, there just wasn't any effort. life felt kinda meaningless, and i didn't care enough to pretend otherwise.

and then, earlier this year, something shifted.

i realized i wanted kids.

which sounds so simple when i write it like that. but it wasn't simple at all. it was the first time in thirty years that i actually wanted something. not because it would look good, or because someone expected it, or because it seemed like the logical next step.

i wanted to pour myself into something. to protect and provide for people who depended on me. to build something bigger than myself.

and that wanting? it lit me up like a fucking lightning rod.

every decision became clear. every morning had purpose. i was ON FIRE, in the best possible way.

you can share a fine laugh and you can send me back to the bottom of the mineshaft

and then i met someone.

and she was remarkable. genuinely. smart, curious, health-conscious, spiritually inclined. the kind of person that makes you want to be better just by existing near them.

there was just one thing.

she didn't want kids.

and i chose her anyway.

i told myself the energy was still there — that i could redirect it into other channels. into business. into being an uncle. into showing up for the people already in my life.

and maybe that was true.

but what i didn't realize was that i wasn't just trading one dream for another.

i was trading my foundation.

some folks know how slow that trap closes

here's the thing about giving up your north star for someone:

you don't notice it happening.

it's not one big moment. it's a thousand tiny ones.

it's adjusting your values so they fit better with theirs. it's dimming your own light so you don't outshine their comfort zone. it's telling yourself "this is compromise" when really it's... contortion.

i became malleable. undirected. i started running on what i can only describe as "meaningless discipline" — doing the right things, but without any felt sense of why.

and i didn't even see it.

until my body decided to intervene.

i've been here before, i know where it goes

i tore my meniscus.

again.

almost exactly a year to the month. same knee. same tear. surgery last October, and now here i am, scheduling another MRI for another surgery.

and here's the thing: last time, i didn't commit to the recovery. i did the surgery, sure. but the physical therapy? the slow, boring work of actually rebuilding? i half-assed it. i was impatient. or worse: i was lazy. i wanted to do what I wanted to do.

and that's part of why it tore again.

the parallel isn't lost on me.

i wasn't committed enough to myself — to my recovery, to my values, to the person i was becoming — and i got wrecked. twice. in the exact same way.

and, at the time, i told myself the second injury was an opportunity. that in a year, i'd understand why it needed to happen. that it would be exactly what i needed.

but there was a another thought i kept shoving away:

is this punishment?

for giving up on myself? for choosing someone else over the purpose i'd finally found? did the universe just... literally knee-cap me for chasing something shiny but misaligned?

i don't know if i believe in that kind of cosmic retribution.

but i do know this: the injury made the contortion unsustainable.

i couldn't be an adventure buddy anymore. i couldn't keep up. and without that, the cracks in the foundation became impossible to ignore.

and now? now it's a do-over.

not just for the knee. for everything.

this time, i understand what commitment actually looks like. the slow, boring, unglamorous work of showing up every day. not half-assing the recovery because i'm impatient. not abandoning myself because something shinier came along.

the lesson is the same in both dimensions: if you don't commit to the rebuild, you'll just tear it all down again.

the relationship ended.

twice, actually. which is a whole thing i won't get into.

but here's what surprised me:

i didn't feel devastated.

i felt... relief.

not because she was bad, or because the relationship was toxic. it wasn't. she taught me things i desperately needed to learn — about taking care of my body, about rest, about presence, about what it feels like to be desired.

the relief was because i could feel myself coming back.

the version of me that had been boxed up and pushed aside. the one with fire and direction and purpose.

he was still in there.

and he'd been waiting.

if we've come a long way then i suspect it's sideways further from our origin, no closer to our destination

here's where it gets tricky.

because my brain wanted to make this a simple story. "she was wrong for you. bullet dodged. moving on."

but that's not quite it.

the truth is messier:

i needed that relationship to learn things i couldn't have learned any other way. the struggle was the curriculum. i wouldn't have found yoga if things hadn't been falling apart. i wouldn't have learned to get out of my head and into my body. i wouldn't have understood how much work i still had to do.

and also... i think i needed to lose myself in it — really, fully lose myself — to understand what happens when you abandon your own foundation for someone else.

both things are true:

the relationship was necessary and unsustainable.

the lessons were valuable and painful.

i grew and i got lost.

so now i'm rebuilding. again

not just recovering. reconstructing.

physically: there's an MRI scheduled. surgery coming. months of rehab ahead.

emotionally: learning to convert grief into something useful instead of letting it crystallize into fear or anger.

spiritually: finding my way back to that door. the one that leads to meaning and connection and something bigger than myself.

and here's the thing i've landed on — the mantra that's actually sticking:

for agin' Caden.

why eat well? for the version of me that exists in five years.

why rest? for future me.

why show up, even when it's hard? for the person i'm becoming.

it's not as dramatic as "because my kids." it doesn't light me up the same way.

but... it's mine. it doesn't depend on anyone else. it works whether i end up with a family or not, whether i'm in a relationship or not, whether my business succeeds or not.

it's a foundation that can't be traded away.

because it's just... me.

a few things, if you're still here:

i spent a lot of time ignoring signals that something was off. my body knew. it tried to tell me in a hundred small ways. i just wasn't listening.

learn to listen.

my body speaks to my brain in feelings, and my brain translates it into words. i'm good at that part.

but going the other direction — converting my brain's understanding into something my body can feel? that's a skill i'm still developing. warm showers. chest rubbing. yoga. it's a limited vocabulary, but i'm learning.

i used to think standing firm in my truth was selfish. that bending for others was generosity.

but people don't actually want you to bend. they want someone grounded enough to tell them the truth. someone rooted enough to lean on.

being malleable isn't kindness. it's abandonment — of yourself, and ultimately of them.

life asks us to be certain of what we want in order to manifest it. to be steadfast. to commit.

but it also asks us to be open. to receive with grace. to allow things to unfold differently than we planned.

both are true. the tests shape us. the shaping tests us.

i'm back on the path.

it's not the same path i was on before. i'm not chasing the kids dream with the same intensity. i'm not sure i'm ready to pick that back up yet.

but i'm communing with myself again. honoring my needs. discovering what makes my body happy instead of just what keeps it alive.

i'm finding joy in wandering a grocery store looking for grapes i like.

i'm letting myself cry in the shower when my body needs to release something.

i'm going to yoga and treating it like a prayer in front of a door i'm slowly learning to open again.

and i'm writing this.

prose is closest i've ever been to feeling like i found it

because maybe someone else is in the middle of their own contortion. trading their foundation for something shiny. ignoring the signals their body is sending.

and maybe it helps to know:

you can come back.

you can rebuild.

the version of you that got boxed up? they're still in there.

they've been waiting.

today, i'm starting again from where i am.

finding meaning in what i have now, not the life i'll have in a year.

working on it little by little.

having faith that this work will lead to greater things.

and for once?

that feels like enough.

or, rather, Mineshaft by Dessa, which is wildly appropriate for the story i'm about to tell you. i recommend you give it a listen.

i found god this year.

like, actually.

not in a church-y way, or a "i read a self-help book and now i say namaste" way. i mean i genuinely touched something that felt like the divine, and it swallowed me whole, day after day, for months.

it took my hand and led me to meaning and wholeness and connection to something greater.

and then it asked me to wait.

and then it gently escorted me back out into the world and told me it was my turn.

let me back up.

the list of things i used to be is longer than the list of things i am

for most of my life, i didn't really want to be alive.

not in a dramatic, cry-for-help way. more like... i just didn't see the point? i was going through motions. not even trying to prove anything — i didn't have the shelving to put that kind of self-esteem on. it wasn't misguided effort, there just wasn't any effort. life felt kinda meaningless, and i didn't care enough to pretend otherwise.

and then, earlier this year, something shifted.

i realized i wanted kids.

which sounds so simple when i write it like that. but it wasn't simple at all. it was the first time in thirty years that i actually wanted something. not because it would look good, or because someone expected it, or because it seemed like the logical next step.

i wanted to pour myself into something. to protect and provide for people who depended on me. to build something bigger than myself.

and that wanting? it lit me up like a fucking lightning rod.

every decision became clear. every morning had purpose. i was ON FIRE, in the best possible way.

you can share a fine laugh and you can send me back to the bottom of the mineshaft

and then i met someone.

and she was remarkable. genuinely. smart, curious, health-conscious, spiritually inclined. the kind of person that makes you want to be better just by existing near them.

there was just one thing.

she didn't want kids.

and i chose her anyway.

i told myself the energy was still there — that i could redirect it into other channels. into business. into being an uncle. into showing up for the people already in my life.

and maybe that was true.

but what i didn't realize was that i wasn't just trading one dream for another.

i was trading my foundation.

some folks know how slow that trap closes

here's the thing about giving up your north star for someone:

you don't notice it happening.

it's not one big moment. it's a thousand tiny ones.

it's adjusting your values so they fit better with theirs. it's dimming your own light so you don't outshine their comfort zone. it's telling yourself "this is compromise" when really it's... contortion.

i became malleable. undirected. i started running on what i can only describe as "meaningless discipline" — doing the right things, but without any felt sense of why.

and i didn't even see it.

until my body decided to intervene.

i've been here before, i know where it goes

i tore my meniscus.

again.

almost exactly a year to the month. same knee. same tear. surgery last October, and now here i am, scheduling another MRI for another surgery.

and here's the thing: last time, i didn't commit to the recovery. i did the surgery, sure. but the physical therapy? the slow, boring work of actually rebuilding? i half-assed it. i was impatient. or worse: i was lazy. i wanted to do what I wanted to do.

and that's part of why it tore again.

the parallel isn't lost on me.

i wasn't committed enough to myself — to my recovery, to my values, to the person i was becoming — and i got wrecked. twice. in the exact same way.

and, at the time, i told myself the second injury was an opportunity. that in a year, i'd understand why it needed to happen. that it would be exactly what i needed.

but there was a another thought i kept shoving away:

is this punishment?

for giving up on myself? for choosing someone else over the purpose i'd finally found? did the universe just... literally knee-cap me for chasing something shiny but misaligned?

i don't know if i believe in that kind of cosmic retribution.

but i do know this: the injury made the contortion unsustainable.

i couldn't be an adventure buddy anymore. i couldn't keep up. and without that, the cracks in the foundation became impossible to ignore.

and now? now it's a do-over.

not just for the knee. for everything.

this time, i understand what commitment actually looks like. the slow, boring, unglamorous work of showing up every day. not half-assing the recovery because i'm impatient. not abandoning myself because something shinier came along.

the lesson is the same in both dimensions: if you don't commit to the rebuild, you'll just tear it all down again.

the relationship ended.

twice, actually. which is a whole thing i won't get into.

but here's what surprised me:

i didn't feel devastated.

i felt... relief.

not because she was bad, or because the relationship was toxic. it wasn't. she taught me things i desperately needed to learn — about taking care of my body, about rest, about presence, about what it feels like to be desired.

the relief was because i could feel myself coming back.

the version of me that had been boxed up and pushed aside. the one with fire and direction and purpose.

he was still in there.

and he'd been waiting.

if we've come a long way then i suspect it's sideways further from our origin, no closer to our destination

here's where it gets tricky.

because my brain wanted to make this a simple story. "she was wrong for you. bullet dodged. moving on."

but that's not quite it.

the truth is messier:

i needed that relationship to learn things i couldn't have learned any other way. the struggle was the curriculum. i wouldn't have found yoga if things hadn't been falling apart. i wouldn't have learned to get out of my head and into my body. i wouldn't have understood how much work i still had to do.

and also... i think i needed to lose myself in it — really, fully lose myself — to understand what happens when you abandon your own foundation for someone else.

both things are true:

the relationship was necessary and unsustainable.

the lessons were valuable and painful.

i grew and i got lost.

so now i'm rebuilding. again

not just recovering. reconstructing.

physically: there's an MRI scheduled. surgery coming. months of rehab ahead.

emotionally: learning to convert grief into something useful instead of letting it crystallize into fear or anger.

spiritually: finding my way back to that door. the one that leads to meaning and connection and something bigger than myself.

and here's the thing i've landed on — the mantra that's actually sticking:

for agin' Caden.

why eat well? for the version of me that exists in five years.

why rest? for future me.

why show up, even when it's hard? for the person i'm becoming.

it's not as dramatic as "because my kids." it doesn't light me up the same way.

but... it's mine. it doesn't depend on anyone else. it works whether i end up with a family or not, whether i'm in a relationship or not, whether my business succeeds or not.

it's a foundation that can't be traded away.

because it's just... me.

a few things, if you're still here:

i spent a lot of time ignoring signals that something was off. my body knew. it tried to tell me in a hundred small ways. i just wasn't listening.

learn to listen.

my body speaks to my brain in feelings, and my brain translates it into words. i'm good at that part.

but going the other direction — converting my brain's understanding into something my body can feel? that's a skill i'm still developing. warm showers. chest rubbing. yoga. it's a limited vocabulary, but i'm learning.

i used to think standing firm in my truth was selfish. that bending for others was generosity.

but people don't actually want you to bend. they want someone grounded enough to tell them the truth. someone rooted enough to lean on.

being malleable isn't kindness. it's abandonment — of yourself, and ultimately of them.

life asks us to be certain of what we want in order to manifest it. to be steadfast. to commit.

but it also asks us to be open. to receive with grace. to allow things to unfold differently than we planned.

both are true. the tests shape us. the shaping tests us.

i'm back on the path.

it's not the same path i was on before. i'm not chasing the kids dream with the same intensity. i'm not sure i'm ready to pick that back up yet.

but i'm communing with myself again. honoring my needs. discovering what makes my body happy instead of just what keeps it alive.

i'm finding joy in wandering a grocery store looking for grapes i like.

i'm letting myself cry in the shower when my body needs to release something.

i'm going to yoga and treating it like a prayer in front of a door i'm slowly learning to open again.

and i'm writing this.

prose is closest i've ever been to feeling like i found it

because maybe someone else is in the middle of their own contortion. trading their foundation for something shiny. ignoring the signals their body is sending.

and maybe it helps to know:

you can come back.

you can rebuild.

the version of you that got boxed up? they're still in there.

they've been waiting.

today, i'm starting again from where i am.

finding meaning in what i have now, not the life i'll have in a year.

working on it little by little.

having faith that this work will lead to greater things.

and for once?

that feels like enough.