A Journal, a Lie, and a Blog Launch

I’ve been appreciating life a hell of a lot more lately.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m making the right choices. FOMO creeps in — and I think it does for everyone. That No muscle is hard to build but crucial. Lately, I’ve been looking back on the past few years, almost like a Doctor Strange moment — peering into the timeline, watching a younger version of myself who had no idea what was coming.

He couldn’t have known how things would unfold. That his journaling would become a kind of canvas — a leap into the unknown. He just kept writing, trying to make sense of things. It’s only now, through the magnifying glass of time, that I see how deeply connected those moments were. Like Paulo Coelho’s idea of a golden thread tying together all of humanity — invisible, but present.

It’s strange how much non-fiction got me into journaling. That habit stuck — more than most. Ironically, so did lying. I don't say that with pride. But something shifted when I started to write consistently. My lies started to thin out. Slowly, but surely. There’s something about writing to yourself — the honesty it demands, the accountability it holds.

We all put on facades. We all carry these appealing fictions. The addiction we know isn't good for us, but sneak anyway. The attention we crave from people we don’t actually care about. The friendships we maintain on the surface while gossiping behind closed doors. We wear masks. But journaling helped me strip some of them away. Not all — I still believe a few of my own fictions — but I’m working on it. And finding grace in that process has been tough, but necessary.

When my parents came into town recently, I was excited. They flew in early, picked up a few things for me from Sam’s, and we were off to a typical start: a small argument in the elevator. But strangely, I missed it. It felt nostalgic. As I sat at a bar later that day, crossing things off my to-do list, I realized just how much I’d missed that family dynamic. The nagging, the jokes, the little pokes and prods — all laced with love. I want that in my own future family someday: the ability to laugh, bicker, and still love without condition.

I also noticed something else. I’m more like my mom than I thought. Her perfectionism, her anxiety — I see those traits in myself. And I understand her a bit better now than I used to. That understanding brings with it something surprising: grace. Grace for her. Grace for my dad. Grace for my brother. And, slowly, grace for myself. That’s been one of the only paths to real self-relief I’ve found — genuinely trying to understand others.

The next day, I took off work to spend more time with my family. We had a great day — but by evening, I felt this familiar anxiety creeping in. The guilt of not working. Self-judgment whispering in my ear. But I also had this proud moment — I showed my family something I’ve been working on for over a year. My blog. One of my personal projects. I launched it, finally. My mom didn’t react the way I hoped. But honestly, launching it at all felt like a personal win. I’d been delaying it for too long, trying to perfect every feature.

Later that night, I explained the blog to a regular at a coffee shop. No fluff. No hesitation. It just came out naturally. That felt good — like the work is finally starting to become part of who I am. Still, I’ve had some weird thoughts lately. Like the world is out to get me. That people are always scheming behind the scenes. Maybe it’s paranoia. Or maybe it’s just the company I tend to keep.

But something shifts when I’m around people who are focused. When I’m in environments where people just work, it calms me. I’m in a season of work, and I’m trying to shed the bad habits that have piled up. Even my thinking is different — more analytical, more focused on understanding psychology and behavior. I want to understand why people do what they do. Why I do what I do.It’s wild to look back a year and remember where I was. Music festivals. Chaos. Things that could’ve derailed me. I’ve been told I’m like my uncle — and I see it. But I also see who he used to be. That awareness gave me a chance to make a different choice. And I’m so grateful I did.

A lot has changed. Quietly. Subtly. But meaningfully.