Dear Fall, I've Missed You

 

We're almost there.

Technically, fall doesn't begin until September 22, and I understand that seasons have official dates and the Earth's axis doesn't particularly care about my opinion.

But I don't need a calendar to tell me when fall is here.

You can feel it.

There will be a morning sometime soon when I'll walk outside and immediately notice that something is different. 

The air will be cooler. 

There will be a little breeze. 

Maybe I'll actually consider grabbing a jacket before leaving the house. 

And after spending the last several months walking outside and immediately wondering why human beings ever decided that temperatures above 85 degrees were acceptable, I'll have the same thought I have every year:

There it is.

Fall.

The greatest season of the year.

And before anybody accuses me of bias, I would like to make it perfectly clear that my birthday happens to be in October and that has absolutely nothing to do with this completely objective and scientifically rigorous ranking of the seasons.

Moving on.

Fall has something the other seasons don't.

It has a feeling.

And yes, obviously every season feels different. 

Summer is hot. 

Winter is cold. 

Spring is the season where New England spends three months deciding whether it's still winter.

But fall changes everything.

It changes the temperature. 

It changes the trees. 

It changes what we eat. 

It changes what we wear. 

It changes what we watch. 

It changes what we do on the weekends.

It even changes what the air smells like.

And you know exactly what I mean.

Fall has a smell.

Cool air. 

Leaves. 

Rain. 

Fireplaces. 

That slightly earthy smell you get when you're walking through a pile of leaves that have been sitting on the ground for a couple of days.

Nobody walks outside in February, takes a deep breath and says, "Man, February smells incredible."

Fall gets that.

And living in New England means we get the full version of it.

For a few weeks every year, roads you've driven down a thousand times suddenly look completely different. 

Entire hillsides change color. 

Trees go from green to yellow, orange and red, and eventually you get that perfect stretch where there are just enough leaves on the ground to make everything look like fall without reaching the point where you're thinking, "Great, now somebody has to rake all of this."

Even the temperature seems specifically designed for actually existing outside.

Summer has plenty going for it, but there comes a point every year where I've had enough. I don't want to walk outside and immediately start sweating. 

I don't want to get into a car that has apparently been preheated to the surface temperature of Mercury. 

I don't want humidity.

Fall fixes all of that.

Give me 55 or 60 degrees.

Give me a hoodie.

Give me a cool breeze.

Give me the kind of night where you can crack the bedroom window and actually want the outside air coming in.

That first legitimately cool morning after months of summer?

Beautiful.

And while we're talking about finally being able to enjoy being outside again, we need to discuss one of fall's greatest contributions to society.

The bugs go away.

And I cannot overstate how satisfying this is.

All summer long, we're apparently required to share the outdoors with mosquitoes, gnats, flies, wasps and every other tiny flying creature that has decided my personal space means absolutely nothing.

You want to sit outside and enjoy a nice evening?

Mosquito.

You want to eat something outside?

Fly.

You want to take a walk without having something inexplicably fly directly toward your eyeball?

Best of luck.

But then that crisp autumn air finally arrives, the temperature drops, and one by one they all seem to get the message.

Party's over. 

Go home.

Back into your holes. 

Under a rock. 

Into a tree. 

Wherever it is you all go for the winter, I don't particularly care.

I'll see you in the spring.

Actually, that's not true.

I'd be perfectly happy if I didn't.

There's something incredibly satisfying about realizing you've reached that point in the year where you can stand outside at night without becoming an all-you-can-eat buffet for mosquitoes. 

You can open a door without immediately having to defend your home from a fly that has been circling the entrance waiting for its opportunity. 

You can walk through the grass without wondering what is currently crawling up your leg.

It's like nature finally activates pest control.

And yes, I understand that bugs are important to the ecosystem. 

Pollination. 

Food chains. 

Decomposition. 

All of that good stuff.

I respect your contributions.

From a distance.

Please enjoy your winter vacation.

Take your time coming back.

And then there's the food.

Apple cider.

Cider donuts.

Apple pie.

Cinnamon.

Soup.

Chili.

Thanksgiving dinner.

Star Bread.

So much Star Bread.

All of those heavier comfort foods that technically exist twelve months a year but somehow "don't feel right" when it's 92 degrees outside suddenly return to the menu.

Don't let those people fool you, eat what you want, regardless of the temperature outside.

You can eat a bowl of chili in July.

You can also wear a winter coat to the beach.

I'm not going to stop you.

Then October arrives and the entire month basically gets its own aesthetic.

Pumpkins everywhere. 

Halloween decorations. 

Candy aisles taking over stores. 

Horror movies suddenly appearing everywhere. 

Houses covered in fake spiderwebs and skeletons. 

Kids deciding what they're going to be for Halloween.

Even if you're well beyond the age where you're personally going door-to-door asking strangers for miniature Snickers bars, it never hurts to try.

Plus, you have to "check" those candy bars for quality assurance.

And that's before we even get to sports.

Football is back.

Which means Fantasy Football is back.

Baseball reaches the postseason.

162 games have led to this.

Postseason Baseball just hits differently.

Hockey starts.

My love of Hockey has been rekindled over the past few years.

This year, I'm committed to getting up to speed with all of the current players in the NHL.

Most of my reference points are from the early 2000's when I seriously watched, so it's time to fix that.

Basketball starts.

I still think the whole "load management" thing is ruining the game, along with the flopping, but I digress.

By October, if you're a sports fan, there is basically always something happening.

And then, just as October ends and the leaves really start disappearing, November brings Thanksgiving.

One giant holiday built almost entirely around family and eating an irresponsible amount of food.

Fall knows how to go out.

But I think there's another reason I've always loved this season, and it's something I've appreciated more as I've gotten older.

Fall still feels strangely familiar.

When you're a kid, the seasons aren't just changes in weather. 

They're chapters of your life.

Fall meant going back to school. 

It meant seeing friends every day again. 

It meant Halloween was coming. 

It meant my birthday was coming—which, again, has absolutely nothing to do with my ranking of the seasons.

It meant Thanksgiving.

And somewhere in the distance, Christmas was waiting.

Obviously my life doesn't operate on a school calendar anymore. 

I don't spend September wondering who my teacher is going to be. 

I don't need to decide on a Halloween costume. 

My birthday doesn't carry quite the same anticipation it did when I was counting down the days until turning ten.

Just kidding, I have adult money now, so the anticipation for my birthday every year has only increased!

But here's the strange thing.

That first cool fall morning still feels almost exactly the same.

There aren't many things in life that can do that.

You grow up. 

Your responsibilities change. 

Your routines change. 

The people around you change. 

Places change. 

You change.

And yet sometimes you'll walk outside on an October morning, feel that cool air hit your face, smell the leaves and see the trees changing color, and for just a second it feels exactly like it did when you were a kid.

Maybe that's part of what makes fall special.

It isn't just nostalgia.

It's continuity.

It's one of those little reminders that even though your life looks completely different than it did 20 or 30 years ago, some things still have the ability to reach across all of those years and push exactly the same button.

Unfortunately, fall also has one major flaw.

It's way too short.

Summer can drag.

Winter can really drag.

Fall?

Fall shows up, gives you about three perfect weekends, and immediately starts packing its bags.

One minute the trees are exploding with color and you're thinking about how perfect the weather is.

Then you blink.

The trees are bare.

It's dark at 4:30.

You're scraping frost off your windshield.

And suddenly we're having the annual conversation about whether it's too early to start playing Christmas music.

Maybe that's part of why we appreciate fall so much.

It never overstays its welcome.

It arrives, gives us a few weeks of beautiful weather, incredible scenery, great food, holidays, sports, traditions and memories, sends every mosquito in New England back to whichever pit it crawled out of, and then gets out of the way before we have the opportunity to get tired of it.

So yes, I know it's still August.

I know there are probably still a few hot days waiting for us.

I know the calendar says we've still got a few weeks to go.

But we're close.

Soon I'll walk outside one morning and feel it.

The temperature will have dropped.

The air will smell different.

Maybe there will be a few leaves on the ground.

And there won't be a mosquito anywhere near me.

Without checking a calendar, I'll know.

There it is.

Fall.

I've missed you.

Until next time!

The People You Don't Have To Perform For

 

I've realized that I put a lot of pressure on myself to be "on."

Not necessarily in the sense that I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. 

If I'm making people laugh, giving someone advice, listening when they need to vent, or trying to keep a conversation going, that's all genuinely me.

The problem is that sometimes I convince myself that I have to be doing one of those things.

There's a little voice in my head that likes to periodically check in and ask what exactly I'm contributing to the situation.

Have I been too quiet?

Should I say something?

Am I being boring?

Is there something I could be doing right now?

Am I doing enough?

And that's an exhausting way to live if you never learn how to turn it off.

I think we spend so much time talking about the importance of "being yourself" around people that we sometimes overlook what that actually means. 

Being yourself isn't always about feeling comfortable enough to say what you're thinking or act a certain way.

Sometimes it's about feeling comfortable enough to do absolutely nothing.

Think about the version of yourself that exists behind closed doors when nobody else is around. 

You're not worried about whether you're being entertaining. 

You're not thinking about whether you've been quiet for too long. 

You're not trying to make anybody laugh. 

You might be watching TV, scrolling through your phone, going for a walk, or just sitting there doing absolutely nothing of consequence.

There's no audience, so there's no performance.

And I think there's another level of trust that you eventually reach with certain people where they can walk through that metaphorical closed door and you don't suddenly feel the need to turn the performance back on.

They get backstage access.

You can go for a walk together and barely say anything. 

You can sit in the same room doing completely different things. 

You can drive somewhere without feeling like every second of the trip needs to be filled with conversation.

And the silence doesn't mean either one of you would rather be somewhere else.

If you wanted to take that walk alone, you could have.

If you wanted to sit by yourself, you could have.

Instead, you chose to be there together.

That can be enough.

There's a huge difference between an awkward silence and a comfortable silence, even though from the outside they look exactly the same.

An awkward silence is filled with thoughts.

I should probably say something.

This is getting weird.

Are they bored?

What should we talk about?

A comfortable silence is filled with...nothing.

You're not desperately searching for the next topic because you aren't even thinking about the fact that nobody is talking.

That's peace.

And maybe that's what I've been slowly learning: not every moment needs to be optimized.

I don't always need to extract something from a moment or contribute something tangible to it. 

I don't need to make somebody laugh every five minutes to justify being around them. 

I don't need to have some deep piece of advice ready whenever there's a problem. 

I don't need to keep a conversation alive simply because silence showed up.

Sometimes the contribution is just being there.

That's not to say relationships shouldn't require effort. 

Of course they should. 

You should want to make people laugh. 

You should listen when someone needs you. 

You should be willing to offer advice, help somebody through a difficult situation, or put effort into maintaining the relationships that matter to you.

But effort shouldn't feel like an admission fee for someone's company.

There's a difference between wanting to do something for somebody and feeling like you constantly need to do something for them in order to justify your presence.

One is something you give freely.

The other starts to feel like a performance review.

And I think that's why reaching this level of comfort with someone feels so different. 

Eventually, that little voice in your head stops asking whether you're doing enough.

You already know the answer.

You know this person likes you. 

You know they want you around. 

You know ten minutes of silence isn't going to suddenly make them reconsider the entire relationship.

You don't need to continually gather evidence that everything is okay.

And here's the funny thing: sometimes I still do this even around the people I'm the most comfortable with.

I'll find myself putting this completely unnecessary pressure on myself to be "on" in some way. I feel like I need to give people their money's worth.

Maybe it's a witty joke at exactly the right moment. 

Maybe it's some random fact that somehow became relevant to the conversation. 

Maybe it's pointing out something ridiculous that nobody else noticed. 

Whatever it is, there's this part of my brain that feels like I should be providing something.

And mind you, nobody is asking me to do this.

Nobody handed me a microphone when I walked through the door. 

Nobody bought a ticket. 

Nobody is sitting there thinking, "He's been here for seven minutes and I haven't laughed yet. What gives?"

It's entirely self-imposed.

Somewhere along the way, I think I connected being good company with actively contributing something to the experience. 

If I'm making you laugh, telling you something interesting, giving you advice, or even just being the person you need to vent to at that particular moment, then I can clearly point to what I'm bringing to the table.

But if I'm just...there?

That's when that little voice occasionally starts asking whether I'm doing enough.

The strange part is that this can happen around people who have given me absolutely no reason to feel that way. 

These are people I know. 

People I trust. 

People I've known long enough that I certainly don't need to audition for the role of their friend anymore.

And yet sometimes it still takes my brain 15 or 20 minutes to remember that.

Eventually something clicks.

You're good.

You've always been good here.

You can power down.

And almost immediately, there's this sense of relief.

I don't suddenly become a different person. I'll still make the joke if something funny pops into my head. I'll still throw out the random fact because, let's be honest, that's probably not going anywhere. I'll still have the conversation if there's a conversation to be had.

The difference is that I'm no longer searching for those opportunities because I feel obligated to provide them.

I'm not trying to earn my place in the room anymore.

I'm just in the room.

And sometimes I need to remind myself that, with the right people, that has always been enough.

You can turn that part of your brain off.

And being able to turn that part of yourself off might genuinely be one of the greatest feelings in the world.

Because not everybody gets to do that.

Some people spend almost their entire lives putting on a show in one way or another. 

Maybe they've tried opening up to somebody before and had it used against them later. 

Maybe they let their guard down and discovered that the person they trusted wasn't nearly as safe as they thought they were. 

Maybe they tried to "turn it off" around somebody, only to feel ignored, brushed aside, or like they suddenly weren't interesting enough anymore.

Eventually, you learn from those experiences.

You learn which parts of yourself get the best reaction. 

You learn how to keep people entertained. 

You learn when to make the joke, when to tell the story, when to keep the conversation moving, and when to hide the parts of yourself that haven't always been received particularly well.

And before you know it, you're always performing at least a little bit.

That's why finding people you can truly turn everything off around is so valuable.

There's a vulnerability to letting somebody see you when you're not trying to give them anything. 

You're trusting that they don't need the funniest version of you. 

They don't need the most insightful version of you. 

They don't need the version that's ready with advice, a story, a joke, or something interesting to talk about.

They just need you.

And when you find people who genuinely like that version too, hold onto them.

Because the people who really know you aren't just the ones who have seen you when you're dialed all the way up. 

They've seen the other end of the spectrum too. 

They've seen you when you're tired. 

They've seen you when you're quiet. 

They've seen you when you don't have anything particularly interesting to say. 

They've sat beside you when neither one of you was doing much of anything.

And somehow, the company was still good.

That's something I don't think we appreciate enough.

Finding like-minded people who enjoy you exactly as you are, regardless of where the dial happens to be that day, is truly priceless.

Sometimes you're dialed up to high heat.

Sometimes you're barely at a low simmer.

The right people don't need you boiling all the time.

Maybe five minutes later one of you says something ridiculous and you both start laughing.

Maybe something comes up and suddenly you're having a deep conversation for the next hour.

Or maybe neither of those things happens.

Maybe you just keep walking.

None of those outcomes is more successful than the others.

I'm starting to think that's one of the greatest levels of comfort you can reach with another person. 

It's not necessarily finding somebody who always brings out the funniest version of you, or the smartest version, or the most interesting version.

It's finding people around whom being yourself requires no effort.

People who don't need you to entertain them.

People who don't need you to fill every silence.

People who don't make you wonder whether you're doing enough.

People you can simply exist beside.

Because some of the closest people in your life aren't necessarily the ones you always have something to say to.

Sometimes they're the people you know you don't have to say anything to at all.

As always, thanks for taking the time to read this!

Until next week!

Life Gets Better When You Stop Keeping Score

 

Relationships aren't math problems.

At least, they shouldn't be.

But sometimes we treat them that way.

I texted them last, so now it's their turn.

I drove last time, so they're driving this time.

I bought dinner last time.

I've invited them out three times, and they've only invited me twice.

I remembered their birthday, but they forgot mine.

I spent more money on their Christmas gift than they spent on mine.

At some point, you have to ask yourself a question.

Are you in a relationship with this person, or are you keeping their books?

Because life gets a whole lot easier when you stop keeping score.

I think one of the biggest mistakes we make with relationships is assuming everything has to be perfectly equal at all times.

It doesn't.

Healthy relationships aren't necessarily equal at every individual moment.

They're reciprocal over time.

There's a big difference.

We love to talk about relationships being "50/50."

Sometimes they are.

Sometimes they're 80/20.

Sometimes they're 90/10.

Sometimes you're going to have to carry almost the entire load for a little while.

Life happens.

Maybe your friend is going through a divorce.

Maybe someone lost their job.

Maybe they're grieving.

Maybe they're struggling financially.

Maybe they're simply overwhelmed and don't have much left in the tank.

Maybe life is happening to them too.

There are going to be times when someone you care about needs more from you than they're capable of giving back.

That's okay.

Because eventually, you might be the one who needs them.

Imagine supporting your friend through the worst six months of their life and keeping track of every single thing you did for them.

"I listened to you complain about your ex for 73 hours, so technically you still owe me another 14."

That's ridiculous.

That's not friendship.

That's accounting.

When I do something for someone I care about, I don't want that person walking away thinking they now have a debt that needs to be repaid.

If I buy you dinner because I want to buy you dinner, you don't owe me dinner.

I bought you dinner because I wanted to buy you dinner.

No strings attached.

Maybe you'll grab the next one.

Maybe you won't.

Maybe six months from now you'll help me with something that has absolutely nothing to do with money.

That's how relationships work.

Or at least, that's how I think they should work.

There is a huge difference between saying:

"I'm doing this because I care about you."

And saying:

"I'm doing this because now you'll owe me."

The second one isn't really generosity.

It's an unspoken loan.

And the other person didn't even know they were borrowing anything.

The problem with keeping score is that once you start looking for an imbalance, you're probably going to find one.

I called first.

I drove farther.

I stayed longer.

I spent more.

I helped them more.

I made the plans.

I checked in first.

But relationships aren't built using one universal currency.

Maybe you're usually the one who drives, but they're the person who will answer the phone at two in the morning.

Maybe you're the one who makes most of the plans, but they're always the first person to show up when you need help.

Maybe you spend more money on gifts, but they give you more of their time.

Maybe you're better at checking in, but they're better at listening when something is actually wrong.

I have friends I've known for decades. 

There have been times when I've done more of "X" and times when they've done more of "Y." 

I couldn't possibly tally everything we've done for each other over all those years, nor would I want to.

Not everything valuable can be measured using the same currency.

But trust me when I tell you, in a healthy friendship, you won't need to keep score to know it's balanced.

That's why reducing a relationship to individual transactions can make you completely miss what the other person is actually bringing into your life.

I know each and every one of my friends by what they choose to do on their own, not by what I might be able to "do for them."

Now, there's an important distinction here.

Stopping the scorekeeping does not mean allowing people to take advantage of you.

There's a difference between saying:

"I paid for lunch twice and they've only paid once."

And realizing:

"Wait a minute. I'm always the one calling. I'm always making the plans. I'm always driving. I'm always helping. I'm always checking in. And whenever I need something, this person is nowhere to be found."

That's not keeping score.

That's recognizing a pattern.

And patterns matter.

You don't need to maintain a spreadsheet in your head to recognize when a relationship has become completely one-sided.

If someone constantly takes and never gives, eventually you're going to notice.

If someone only calls when they need something, eventually you're going to notice.

If someone disappears every time you're the one who needs support, eventually you're going to notice.

Having boundaries isn't the same thing as keeping score.

You can be generous without being a doormat.

You can give people grace without giving them unlimited opportunities to take advantage of you.

You can understand that someone is going through a difficult season while also recognizing when "a difficult season" has turned into the permanent nature of your relationship.

The difference is whether you're judging individual transactions or looking at the overall pattern.

And I think that's where a lot of unnecessary resentment comes from.

Sometimes we become so focused on making sure everything is perfectly fair that we forget to ask whether we're actually happy.

If you have a friend who has been there for you for twenty years, does it really matter who bought lunch last Tuesday?

If someone has answered the phone every time you've genuinely needed them, does it really matter that you're usually the one who sends the first text?

If you know without hesitation that someone would drop what they're doing and help you when it actually mattered, do you really need to count how many favors you've done for each other?

Probably not.

Because the best relationships aren't 50/50 every single day.

They're 60/40.

They're 30/70.

They're 90/10.

And then someday, when life changes, those numbers flip.

Nobody sends an invoice.

Nobody pulls out the receipts.

Nobody says, "Remember that time I helped you ten years ago? You still owe me."

You just show up for each other.

That's the part that matters.

I've reached a point where I'd much rather judge the relationships in my life by their patterns than by their transactions.

I don't need everything to be perfectly equal.

I don't need every favor returned.

I don't need every dollar accounted for.

I don't need to win some imaginary competition over who has done more for whom.

I just need to know that the people I care about care about me too.

Over enough time, you'll know.

You won't need a scoreboard to tell you.

So buy your friend lunch.

Send the first text.

Make the plans.

Drive this time even though you drove last time.

Help someone because you want to help them.

Be generous because you want to be generous.

And when somebody you care about needs 80% from you because they only have 20% to give, give it to them if you can.

Because someday you might only have 20%.

And hopefully, you'll have someone in your life who isn't standing there with a calculator.

Relationships aren't supposed to be perfectly balanced every moment.

They're supposed to be reciprocal over time.

Stop measuring every transaction.

Pay attention to the pattern.

And if the pattern is good?

Put the scoreboard away.

As always, thanks for reading this!

Until next week!

Don't Forget To Enjoy The Harvest

 

I want you to think about something for a second.

When was the last time you did absolutely nothing productive?

Not when you went on vacation but still checked your work email. 

Not when you had an unexpected 15 minutes between meetings. 

Not when you finished everything early and decided to sit down for a few minutes before finding something else that needed to be done.

I mean actual free time.

Time where you weren't working, weren't thinking about working, weren't preparing to work, and weren't sitting there feeling guilty because there was probably something more "meaningful" you could be doing.

If you genuinely have to stop and think about the answer, this blog is probably for you.

And before anyone misunderstands what I'm saying here, I'm not against working hard. 

I'm not against having a career that you're proud of. 

If you've spent years getting degrees, earning certifications, winning awards, climbing the ladder, building a business, or becoming successful in your field, that's fantastic. 

You should absolutely be proud of what you've accomplished.

But I have one question:

When do you actually get to enjoy it?

Because at some point, the farmer has to eat the food he's been growing.

Think about it. 

A farmer can spend all day planting, watering, tending the field, pulling weeds, fixing equipment, harvesting crops, and preparing for tomorrow. 

And when he's finished, I'm sure he could look around and find another hundred things that could still be done.

But eventually, he has to put the tools down.

Eventually, he has to sit on the porch.

Eventually, he has to eat.

Otherwise, what exactly was he growing all of that food for?

And I think some of us have forgotten that part when it comes to work.

We spend so much time building careers, making money, earning benefits and preparing for some hypothetical future where we're finally going to enjoy everything we've worked for that we forget we're supposed to be enjoying some of it now.

I'm especially talking to the people who don't know what to do with themselves when there's no work to be done.

You know exactly who you are.

Your calendar says:

1:00 PM - 3:00 PM: FREE TIME

And somehow you've managed to turn free time into another appointment.

Then 1:00 comes around and instead of relaxing, you're stressed because you don't know what you're supposed to do with those two hours.

"Maybe I should answer some emails."

"I could get ahead on that project."

"There's probably something productive I could be doing."

"I don't want to waste the afternoon."

If that's you, I'm begging you:

Waste the afternoon.

Seriously.

Watch a terrible movie. 

Play a video game. 

Go for a drive. 

Sit outside. 

Take a nap. 

Call a friend. 

Go bowling.

Stare at the ceiling for twenty minutes. 

I don't care.

Not every second of every day has to produce something.

You are a human being, not a factory.

And I think we've gotten ourselves into this weird mindset where "productive" and "meaningful" have somehow become synonyms.

They're not.

Time doesn't have to produce something to have value.

Spending an afternoon laughing with your friends might accomplish absolutely nothing from a productivity standpoint, but I would have a very difficult time calling that afternoon meaningless.

Those are the afternoons that money can't buy.

And these shouldn't be rare events, either.

If I ask you when you last had some genuine free time and your answer is something like:

"Well, three weeks ago I took an extra fifteen minutes after lunch..."

No.

That doesn't count.

That's a rounding error.

Free time shouldn't be some historical event that you have to search your memory for.

If you have to constantly remember to schedule "free time", then your schedule is too full.

There's nothing wrong with planning activities during your free time. 

In fact, I recommend it. 

Plan the vacation. 

Buy the concert tickets. 

Schedule the tee time. 

Make dinner reservations. 

Get tickets to the game.

But there's a huge difference between scheduling what you're doing during your free time and having to schedule the existence of free time itself.

And there's an even bigger problem if, once that free time arrives, you can't enjoy it because you feel guilty that you're not working.

At that point, I think it's worth asking yourself a much bigger question:

Do I have a life outside of my work?

Because your job can absolutely give you purpose.

It can be part of your identity.

It can be something you're genuinely passionate about.

But it shouldn't be your entire reason for existing.

You shouldn't be "bringing the work laptop just in case" on the family trip this year.

Keep the work laptop at home, turn the work phone off, leave an automatic "out of office" reply for your work e-mail, and fully enjoy your life for once.

I actually have a perfect example from my own life.

As I'm writing this, I'm going into work later today for four hours of overtime.

By choice.

So apparently I've decided to write an entire blog telling people to stop working so much on the same day I'm voluntarily going to work. 

Great timing.

But here's the important part:

I'm not doing those four hours because I can't stand having the day to myself.

I'm doing them because I'm taking the overtime as comp time.

I have a vacation coming up in October, and because I took some additional time off earlier this year, I'm currently about 11 hours short of what I'll need to take the entire vacation I already planned.

So I'm working four extra hours today specifically so I can not work later.

That's the entire point.

I'm giving up four hours today because those four hours are buying me four hours of my vacation back.

Between now and October, I'll make up the rest of the hours that I'm currently short, and keep my whole vacation.

The work is serving my life.

My life isn't serving the work.

And that's a distinction I think is incredibly important.

Sometimes working extra makes perfect sense.

Work the overtime because you're saving for a vacation.

Pick up an extra shift because you're trying to pay something off.

Spend a few difficult years getting the degree that's going to open doors for you.

Put in some extra hours because you're building toward something you genuinely want.

There's nothing wrong with temporarily sacrificing some free time for a purpose.

But there eventually has to be a later.

You can't spend your entire life preparing to eventually enjoy your life.

I see this with annual leave at work all the time.

I have coworkers who end up in "use or lose" territory at the end of the year. 

They've accumulated so much annual leave that if they don't use some of it before the year ends, they're going to lose it.

And some of them actually do.

They just let the hours expire.

I cannot comprehend this.

You're telling me that my employer is giving me a choice between:

A: Come to work and get paid.

or

B: Stay home and get paid.

And if I don't pick B soon enough, B disappears forever?

I'M PICKING B.

Every single time.

That's free money to not be at work!

Having been at my current job for 18 years, I'm now at the point where I accumulate a nice chunk of time off.

I'm fortunate enough to be able to take four vacations a year. 

Basically one every three months. January, April, July, and October.

That is by design.

I spread it out that way so that every quarter, I know I'm going to have extended time off away from work, where I can fully decompress for at least 9 straight days.

I don't feel guilty about that.

That's what my annual leave is for.

I earned it.

It's part of my compensation.

I could technically take longer vacations, but then I wouldn't have them every three months.

The key for me is spreading it out. 

That's how I stay sane.

But here's the thing about my annual leave balance.

The number sitting in my leave balance isn't the benefit.

Using it is the benefit.

Having a random Tuesday morning where my coworkers are getting ready for work and I'm still asleep is the benefit.

Going somewhere is the benefit.

Spending time with friends and family is the benefit.

Not having to set an alarm for an entire week is the benefit.

Having an entire day where my biggest concern is figuring out what I want for lunch is the benefit.

Having hundreds of hours of leave sitting on a pay statement that I'm apparently never going to use doesn't impress me.

And letting those hours expire because I was too busy working to use my paid time away from work?

Absolutely not.

Imagine our farmer again.

He spends all year growing food.

His pantry is overflowing.

He has more food than he can possibly store.

At the end of the year, anything he hasn't eaten is going to be thrown away.

So you tell him:

"Why don't you eat some of it?"

And he responds:

"I don't have time. I'm too busy farming."

That's insane.

Eat the food.

Because there's another resource involved in all of this that doesn't accumulate.

Time.

There will always be another email.

There will always be another project.

There will always be another shift you can pick up.

There will always be another meeting, another deadline, another opportunity to get ahead, another certification you can earn, another dollar you can make and another thing that needs to be done.

Work is renewable.

Your time isn't.

Once today is gone, it's gone.

You can make more money tomorrow.

You cannot make another August 7, 2026.

And this becomes especially important when you listen to people who have spent time around those approaching the end of their lives. 

Palliative and end-of-life care workers have written about hearing people regret how much of their lives they gave to work and how they wished they'd spent more of that time with the people they loved.

I think that's worth paying attention to.

Very few people reach the end of their lives wishing they'd answered a few more emails.

They're not lying there thinking:

"If only I'd picked up that Saturday shift in 1997."

"I really should've attended more meetings."

"I can't believe I wasted all those afternoons hanging out with my kids."

No.

They want more time.

Another conversation.

Another vacation.

Another birthday.

Another afternoon with their friends.

Another completely pointless Tuesday where absolutely nothing important happened.

And unfortunately, by the time you realize how valuable those moments were, you can't buy them back.

So work hard.

Build the career.

Earn the degree.

Get the promotion.

Win the awards.

Make the money.

Be proud of what you've built.

Plant the crops.

Water them.

Pull the weeds.

Tend the field.

Grow something incredible.

Just remember why you're doing all of it.

Because eventually, you need to put the tools down.

Eventually, you need to sit on the porch.

And while you're still here to enjoy it:

Don't forget to eat what you grew.

Things I Understand At 40 That I Didn't Understand At 20

 

A funny thing happens as you get older.

You don't wake up on your 40th birthday suddenly feeling wiser than you did at 39. 

There isn't some magical switch that flips overnight. 

If anything, you slowly accumulate little realizations over the years until one day you look back and think, "Huh... I never used to think that way."

I don't have life figured out. 

Far from it. 

I still make mistakes, still overthink things, and I'm sure there are plenty of lessons that won't truly make sense to me until I'm 50 or 60.

But there are some things that have finally started to click.

Here are a few of them.

If you say it, you should mean it.

Your words should carry weight, so don't just throw them around.

Keeping your word is one of the simplest forms of respect you can show another person. 

Anyone can make a promise. 

Following through on it is what builds trust. 

Over time, people stop listening to what you say and start expecting what you'll do.

Sleep isn't wasted time. 

When I was younger, staying up late almost felt like a badge of honor. 

Now I realize that sleep is one of the best investments you can make. 

Everything seems easier when you're well-rested, and everything seems harder when you're not.

I'm still a night owl, I always will be, but even still, good sleep is a non-negotiable.

Your body keeps score. 

You can ignore it for years, but eventually it starts reminding you that the choices you make today don't disappear tomorrow. 

Taking care of yourself isn't about vanity. 

It's about giving your future self the best chance to enjoy life.

That's why water, walking, and strength training will be mainstays of my life from now on.

One day at a time.

You don't have to attend every argument you're invited to. 

Not every disagreement deserves your time or your energy. 

Sometimes the strongest response is simply deciding that your peace is worth more than proving you're right.

If I have to stoop to someone else's level just to "get the last word", it isn't worth it. 

It never was.

Boring isn't necessarily bad. 

In fact, boring often means stable. 

A steady paycheck. 

A reliable car. 

A quiet evening at home. 

Healthy relationships. 

There was a time when I thought excitement was the goal.

If I wasn't "constantly doing something", it felt like a waste.

I was always looking around to see what everyone else was doing, as if I had to do it too.

But that's their lives, not mine.

I am more than content with my hobbies, my friends, and whatever I choose to do with my time. 

Now I think peace has become much more appealing.

Silence can be truly golden sometimes.

A few close friends are worth more than hundreds of acquaintances. 

The older I get, the more I value people who consistently show up over people who simply show up occasionally. 

Quality wins every time.

Take the pictures.

Not because your social media needs updating, but because memories fade faster than we like to admit.

Years from now, those ordinary pictures of ordinary moments often become the ones you treasure the most.

My Ultimate Photo Album is a constant reminder that snapshots of time are one of the best keepsakes you can possibly have.

I can look at each and every picture and know where the picture was taken, when it was taken, and what my relationship was like with each and every person in each individual photo.

Starting this photo album has truly been one of the best decisions I have ever made.

The best purchases aren't always the flashiest ones. 

Sometimes the smartest thing you can buy is something that gives you back your time, reduces stress, or simply makes everyday life a little easier.

Motivation is unreliable. 

Habits are dependable. 

Waiting until you feel like doing something is a losing strategy. 

The people who accomplish the most aren't necessarily the most motivated—they're often just the most consistent.

The end goal should always be discipline, because once you get the discipline to stick with something, the motivation is no longer necessary.

Saving money feels different than spending it. 

There was a time when buying something exciting felt like winning. 

Now watching a savings account grow or paying off debt brings a satisfaction that lasts much longer than another impulse purchase ever could.

It should always be a balance.

I'm not saying save every penny, but save enough that when you do decide to spend, you've got a nice safety net in case you need it.

That's a very reassuring feeling.

Never underestimate the value of a walk. 

Sometimes you're not looking for exercise. 

You're looking for clarity. 

It's amazing how many problems seem smaller after you've simply spent some time moving.

A good walk with some relaxing music can remove mountains of stress.

Your parents won't always be the age you remember them. 

That's one of the hardest realizations to accept. 

Somewhere along the way, the people who always seemed larger than life begin to slow down. 

Time doesn't ask our permission before it moves forward.

That train is still leaving the station no matter what.

Nobody has everything figured out. 

When you're young, adults seem like they have all the answers. 

Then you become an adult and realize most people are just doing the best they can with the information they have.

With that being said, you also can't teach experience.

I used to wonder why the younger generation always had the higher car insurance rates.

Now, after having been a driver for over half of my life, I totally understand why.

Inexperience.

Peace is underrated. 

There was a time when I thought happiness meant constantly chasing the next big thing. 

Now I think there's something incredibly valuable about simply feeling content.

I will protect my peace at all costs.

If anything or anyone poses a threat to my peace, they will not be in my life for very long.

There are so many things in this life that we cannot control, but protecting our peace should never be one of them.

Protect it.

Embrace it.

Don't let anyone else take it.

People remember reliability longer than charisma. 

Being entertaining can open doors. 

Being dependable keeps them open.

Being someone others can count on is rarer than gold these days.

Most people aren't judging you nearly as much as you think they are. 

They're usually too busy worrying about their own lives, their own insecurities, and their own problems.

You may think all eyes are on you, but it's all in your head.

Once you realize that most people aren't thinking about you nearly as much as you think they are, it's liberating.

Your hobbies aren't a waste of time. 

They're part of who you are. 

The things you choose to do when nobody is making you do them say a lot about what you truly enjoy.

That's why you'll catch me at the bowling alley, or the disc golf course, or the ice skating rink.

It's also why I'm writing this very blog as we speak, and recording my weekly podcast as well.

Changing your mind isn't weakness. 

Sometimes it's evidence that you've learned something new. 

I'd rather be someone who's willing to grow than someone who's determined to always be right.

You rarely appreciate good health until something interrupts it. 

It's easy to take feeling normal for granted. 

It's only when that normal disappears that you realize how valuable it really was.

Being doubled over in pain in the ER with a 5 mm kidney stone was the absolute worst pain that I have ever felt in my life.

I couldn't put thoughts or words together, I just wanted the pain to stop.

When it finally did, I couldn't have been more grateful just to feel normal again. 

Finally, I've learned that life isn't about avoiding responsibility.

It's about choosing responsibilities that are worth carrying.

The responsibilities that come from loving people.

From pursuing meaningful goals.

From taking care of yourself.

From building something you're proud of.

Those burdens don't make life worse.

They give it purpose.

If there's one thing these forty years have taught me, it's that wisdom isn't collecting all the answers. 

It's slowly replacing certainty with perspective.

Ask me again when I'm 50.

I hope the list is longer.

More importantly... I hope it's different.

As always, thanks for reading this!

Until next week!

The Hidden Skill Of Being Reliable

 

There are a lot of qualities that people admire.

Talent.

Intelligence.

Confidence.

Charisma.

Success.

Those are the qualities that usually get the spotlight. 

They're the ones we notice first, and often the ones we spend the most time trying to develop.

But there's another quality that quietly holds so many of those others together.

Reliability.

It isn't flashy.

It doesn't make headlines.

It probably won't earn you a standing ovation.

Yet if you asked someone to describe the person they trust the most, chances are they wouldn't start by talking about how talented or charismatic they are.

They'd probably describe someone who is reliable.

Someone who shows up.

Someone who follows through.

Someone whose word actually means something.

To me, keeping your word and honoring your promises are the backbone of reliability.

It's one thing to say you're going to do something.

It's another thing entirely to actually do it.

In fact, if I had to choose between someone who constantly tells me what they're going to do and someone who quietly does it without fanfare, I'll take the second person every single time.

That's why the old saying has stood the test of time:

Actions speak louder than words.

Words create expectations.

Actions create trust.

I've realized over the years that this is one area where I know myself really well.

If I tell someone we're going somewhere or doing something together, that commitment immediately finds its way onto my mental schedule. 

Once we've agreed on it, it's no longer just an idea. 

In my mind, it's a promise I've made to another person.

By the time that day arrives, very little else matters until I've honored that commitment.

My mind is already there.

I've also learned something about the way I schedule my life.

I don't schedule around my free time.

I schedule around my commitments.

Those two things might sound similar, but to me they're completely different.

Once I've told someone I'll be somewhere, that commitment becomes one of the anchors of my day.

 Everything else gets scheduled around it because keeping my word has already become the priority.

If someone asks me what I'm doing later that same day, I'll often tell them I already have plans. 

If I expect those plans to be over by the afternoon, I'll gladly say I should be free afterward. 

But I intentionally avoid promising an exact time until my original commitment has been fulfilled.

I'd rather tell someone, "I'll let you know as soon as I'm done," than confidently promise something I may not be able to keep.

I never want to be in a position where keeping one commitment forces me to break another.

I know everyone is wired differently, and I'm certainly not saying this is the only way to approach life.

It's simply the philosophy that's worked for me.

I think part of that philosophy also comes from the season of life I'm in.

I'm single.

I don't have a spouse or children.

Outside of work, my schedule is generally very predictable. 

I know what days I work, I know what time I get out, and beyond that, most of my calendar starts as free time unless I've already committed to something.

Many of my friends are in a very different season of life.

They have husbands or wives.

They have children.

Their calendars are already filled with school schedules, sports practices, doctor's appointments, family dinners, and countless responsibilities that naturally come with raising a family.

I don't look at that and think they're any less reliable.

If anything, I'd argue the exact opposite.

Being a good spouse and a good parent requires reliability every single day. 

Your family depends on it. 

You don't wake up each morning wondering if you feel like showing up. 

You show up because the people you love are counting on you.

The difference isn't reliability.

The difference is where our commitments begin.

Their calendars are built around their families.

Mine usually starts with free time.

That's why I take the commitments I choose to make so seriously.

I've actually seen this play out with some of my own friendships.

We'll throw around ideas, settle on a tentative date, and everyone is genuinely excited to get together.

Then the day gets closer.

A child gets sick.

A spouse gets called into work.

Someone realizes there was already another family commitment on the calendar that they forgot about.

Suddenly, the plans have to be postponed.

Do I get disappointed?

Of course.

I was looking forward to seeing my friend.

But I don't hold it against them.

How could I?

Those aren't excuses.

They're responsibilities.

Sometimes I even catch myself wondering if I should bother making plans, knowing there's a decent chance they'll end up being rescheduled anyway.

But then I remind myself that this really isn't about reliability.

It's about reality.

When your life is full of standing commitments, sometimes you don't even realize how full your calendar already is until something overlaps. 

What looked like free time a month ago suddenly disappears because life happened.

That doesn't make someone unreliable.

It simply means they're carrying commitments that I don't currently have.

It also reminds me to appreciate the flexibility I do have.

If I have the ability to be somewhere, and I've given someone my word that I'll be there, then that's exactly where I intend to be.

Ironically, this mindset also means I probably get more excited about plans than the average person.

Once I've committed to something, I've already started looking forward to it.

So when plans unexpectedly fall through, I genuinely feel disappointed.

Not because I'm angry.

Not because I think someone let me down.

But because I'd already mentally committed to the experience long before the day arrived.

In fact, I sometimes joke that I'm more excited about the plans than the person I'm making them with.

As funny as that sounds, I think it reveals something deeper.

When I commit to something, I don't just put it on my calendar.

I put it in my priorities.

That's how trust is built.

One kept promise at a time.

Every time you do what you said you were going to do, you're making another small deposit into the trust you've built with the people around you.

Most people won't notice each individual deposit.

But over weeks...

Months...

Years...

They add up to something incredibly valuable.

And here's the part I think we sometimes overlook.

The reason actions speak louder than words isn't because words don't matter.

It's because actions are what give your words their value in the first place.

When someone consistently backs up what they say with what they do, something interesting begins to happen.

Their words start carrying weight.

If they tell you they'll be there...

You believe them.

If they say they'll finish something...

You stop wondering whether it'll actually happen.

Their reputation has already answered the question.

I think of it like a play-action pass in football.

A play-action pass only works if the defense genuinely believes the offense is willing and able to run the football.

If a team has established the run over and over again, the defense has to respect it. 

They react to the fake handoff because they've repeatedly experienced the real thing.

But if the offense never runs the ball?

The fake doesn't fool anyone.

Reliability works the exact same way.

Your actions establish the run.

Every promise you keep.

Every commitment you honor.

Every time you follow through when you said you would.

You're establishing a pattern.

Eventually, people stop questioning your words because your actions have already proven they can trust them.

In other words...

Actions may speak louder than words.

But consistent actions are what make your words worth listening to.

Unfortunately, the opposite is also true.

Trust can be damaged much faster than it's built.

A broken promise.

Repeated excuses.

Consistently saying one thing while doing another.

Those withdrawals can erase years of deposits.

That's why reliability isn't something you earn once and keep forever.

It's something you continue earning every single day.

Now, being reliable doesn't mean being perfect.

Reliable people make mistakes.

They forget things.

They miss deadlines.

Life happens.

The difference is what comes next.

A reliable person owns the mistake.

They communicate honestly.

They apologize when necessary.

They make every reasonable effort to make things right.

Reliability isn't about never falling short.

It's about refusing to hide from your shortcomings when you do.

I've also noticed that truly reliable people rarely spend time convincing others they're reliable.

They don't need to.

Their actions have already done the talking.

At the end of the day, talent might open a door.

Charisma might leave a great first impression.

Success might attract attention.

But reliability is what keeps people coming back.

Because reliability earns something that can't be demanded and can't be bought.

It earns trust.

And trust is built one kept promise at a time.

Maybe one of the greatest compliments a person can ever receive isn't,

"They're incredibly talented."

Or,

"They're incredibly successful."

Maybe it's something much simpler.

"If they said they'd do it... they'll do it."

To me, that's a reputation worth building.

As always, thanks for reading!

Until next week!

The Weight You Can't See

 

When most people hear the word "weight," they immediately think of a number on a scale.

Trust me, I've spent enough time paying attention to those numbers over the past couple of years.

But lately I've been thinking about a different kind of weight. 

The kind that doesn't show up on a doctor's chart. 

The kind that can't be measured in pounds.

Because some of the heaviest things we carry aren't physical at all.

They're invisible.

The weight of worry.

The weight of regret.

The weight of things left unsaid.

The weight of expectations.

The weight of comparison.

The weight of uncertainty.

The weight of responsibility.

The weight of decisions.

The weight of tomorrow.

The weight we put on ourselves.

The funny thing is, if someone asked you how much these things weigh, you couldn't give them an answer. 

Yet most of us know exactly what it feels like when we're carrying too much of them.

Have you ever spent an entire day worrying about something that hadn't even happened yet?

A medical test.

A financial problem.

A difficult conversation.

A family member going through something.

A car repair.

A car inspection after said car repair.

Wondering if the reason someone isn't messaging you back is because they're mad at you.

Worrying about some random pain, and where it may have come from, and assuming the worst.

Nothing physically changed about your day, but by the time your head hits the pillow, you're exhausted.

Why?

Because carrying weight is still carrying weight, even when nobody else can see it.

Then there's regret.

Most of us have something in our past we wish we could redo.

Something we should have done.

Something we shouldn't have done.

A decision we would change if given the opportunity.

The strange thing about regret is that it can follow you for years. 

The event itself may have lasted only a few minutes, but the weight of it can stick around much longer if you let it.

I have a whole blog dedicated to one of my biggest regrets.

But there are also regrets for the things you didn't do.

Maybe you didn't go to that outing with your friends but you really wish you had.

You put off getting gas, and now you're running late, but you need to stop for gas now.

You ordered a chicken sandwich, checked under the top bun to make sure there wasn't a pickle, then you took a big bite.

Surprise, the pickle was underneath, and now it ruined your first bite.

Now you regret not checking underneath.

Then there's the weight of things left unsaid.

Maybe it's an apology you never gave.

Maybe it's a thank you that somebody deserved to hear, but you never got around to saying it.

Maybe it's telling someone how much they meant to you.

Maybe it's telling someone how much they hurt you.

The older I get, the more I realize words have weight.

Not just the ones we say.

The ones we don't say too.

Sometimes we convince ourselves there will always be another opportunity.

I'll call them tomorrow.

I'll text them later.

I'll tell them next time I see them.

Then life happens.

And suddenly tomorrow isn't guaranteed anymore.

Sometimes the words we never say end up weighing more than the words we do.

Expectations can be heavy too.

Sometimes they're expectations from other people.

Sometimes they're expectations we've placed on ourselves.

The pressure to have everything figured out.

The pressure to be successful.

The pressure to always have the right answer.

The pressure to somehow become the perfect version of ourselves.

There's nothing wrong with having goals. 

But there comes a point where expectations stop motivating us and start weighing us down.

I throw a bowling ball that I expect to be a strike, and it leaves the ten pin.

Life can leave a lot of ten pins.

The thing is, you can still pick up the spare, and move on to the next frame.

Then there's the weight of comparison.

This one is especially easy to carry nowadays because social media practically hands it to us.

Somebody else is making more money.

Somebody else is in better shape.

Somebody else is married.

Somebody else has kids.

Somebody else has a bigger house.

Somebody else seems to have their entire life figured out.

The problem is that we're comparing our everyday life to somebody else's highlight reel.

Nobody posts the arguments.

Nobody posts the anxiety.

Nobody posts the sleepless nights.

Nobody posts the mistakes.

We're seeing the final score without watching the game.

And comparison is a game nobody wins.

No matter how much progress you make, there will always be somebody ahead of you in something.

If your happiness depends on catching them, you're signing up for a race that never ends.

As the saying goes, "Comparison is the thief of joy".

Then there's the weight of uncertainty.

Sometimes the problem itself isn't what weighs on us.

It's not knowing.

Not knowing what the doctor is going to say.

Not knowing what the mechanic is going to find.

Not knowing whether the bill is going to be $50 or $500.

Not knowing how a conversation is going to go.

Now knowing if that person is going to want to take a picture with you for your photo album.

Not knowing if you're going to have a good or bad day at work.

Human beings are remarkably good at filling in the blanks.

Unfortunately, we usually fill them in with worst-case scenarios.

I've lost count of the number of times I've spent days worrying about something, only for it to work itself out in five minutes.

Sometimes uncertainty weighs more than reality ever does.

Responsibility is another interesting one.

Being responsible is generally a good thing. 

In fact, it's something most people strive for.

But responsibility has weight attached to it.

Being the person others rely on.

Being the dependable friend.

Being the one who shows up.

Being the one who has to make the difficult decisions.

Being the one who organizes the game nights. 

Those are good burdens to carry, but they're still burdens.

Then there's the weight of decisions.

I don't think anybody talks about this one enough.

When you're younger, most of your decisions are relatively small.

Do I want the soda or the juice with my popcorn at the movies?

Do I want the Candy Apple or the Caramel Apple that my neighbor makes every Halloween?

Do I go to my 1st Grade crush's birthday party and risk getting cooties, or stay home and play my Game Boy instead?

Do I want to rent a movie or a video game from Blockbuster this weekend?

Do I want strawberry or grape jelly for my PB &J Sandwich? 

As you get older, the stakes start getting higher.

Should I take this job?

Should I move?

Should I stay where I am?

Should I spend the money?

Should I save it?

Should I take the risk?

Should I play it safe?

Every decision feels like it closes the door on another possibility.

Sometimes we become so afraid of making the wrong decision that we end up making no decision at all.

But indecision has a weight of its own.

Eventually you realize there is no such thing as a life without mistakes.

The best you can do is make the decision with the information you have, learn from the results, and keep moving forward.

Then there's the weight of tomorrow.

I think this is one that catches a lot of people.

How many times have we spent today worrying about something that might happen next week?

Or next month?

Or next year?

I've certainly been guilty of it.

We take tomorrow's problems, drag them into today, and then wonder why we're tired.

The future eventually arrives on its own. 

It doesn't need our help getting here faster.

Tomorrow is already going to be tomorrow, it doesn't need to be today too.

There's also the weight we put on ourselves.

Have you ever noticed how much kinder you are to other people than you are to yourself?

A friend makes a mistake and you tell them everybody messes up.

You make the exact same mistake and suddenly you're replaying it in your head for the next three days.

A friend falls short of a goal and you encourage them to keep going.

You fall short of a goal and you start questioning whether you're capable of reaching it at all.

We extend grace to other people all the time.

Sometimes we're terrible at extending it to ourselves.

I've spent plenty of time criticizing myself over things that nobody else even noticed.

Carrying around mistakes.

Carrying around failures.

Carrying around expectations that only existed in my own head.

That's a lot of unnecessary weight for one person to carry.

What's interesting is that over the last couple of years, while I've been losing physical weight, I've noticed other things getting lighter too.

Not disappearing completely.

Just becoming lighter.

Financial stress.

Self-doubt.

The feeling of being stuck.

The feeling that change wasn't possible.

The scale was measuring one type of progress, but it wasn't measuring everything.

Some of the most meaningful improvements in life never show up as a number.

They show up in the way you think.

The way you react.

The way you sleep.

The way you carry yourself.

The way you look toward the future.

So here's the question I've been thinking about lately:

If someone could see all the weight you're carrying—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—how heavy would it be?

And more importantly...

What are you still carrying that you no longer need to?

As always, thanks for taking the time to read this, until next week!