September 1 Is When Summer Suddenly Feels Different

There is something about September 1 in Southern Ontario – and I’m sure in much of the northern USA and the rest of Canada – that happens every year.

It can be 78 degrees outside. The trees are still green. You can be wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The forecast might even call for another stretch of high-70s temperatures.

And yet, somehow, it feels different.

I noticed it again this year on the last afternoon of August. After spending nearly two days mostly inside working (Yeah, I got stuck working all day Sunday), I finally decided I had to get out of the house Monday afternoon because I was getting cabin fever. It was warm outside, but overcast and rainy – which seems to be almost an annual August 31/September 1 tradition around here.

It occurred to me that Mother Nature was providing a little preview: Here’s what the next several months are going to look like – she seemed to be saying – so buckle up because it’s all downhill from here.

We’re just giving you the warm version today.

Of course, there is absolutely nothing meteorologically significant about flipping a calendar page. Nature doesn’t know it’s September 1. A cold front doesn’t arrive at midnight because August has expired. 

But psychologically? September 1 is enormous.

August 31 is summer. September 1 is…well, technically summer, and it will be officially for another three weeks, but we’re starting to negotiate the terms of its departure.

Suddenly you notice things you weren’t paying much attention to a few weeks earlier.

It’s getting dark earlier and the evenings are cooler. The sun isn’t as high in the sky or as intense. You may start seeing the first few leaves changing color.

NFL football is back. US Open tennis is on, the baseball playoff races are heating up, and Labor Day is approaching. Cottage weekends become something to squeeze in rather than something seemingly stretching endlessly ahead. No one comes up here for a week or two anymore. The whole town feels different. Even a beautiful warm day feels different.

We can get some spectacular September weather in Southern Ontario. Sometimes October isn’t bad either. There can be afternoons of 75 or even 85 degrees when you’re sitting outside wondering what all the fuss was about.

But those days somehow feel borrowed.

An 86-degree day in May feels like the beginning of something. There are months of summer ahead.

An 85-degree day in late September feels like somebody at the weather office made an accounting error, and we’d better enjoy it before they notice.

Maybe that’s what September really changes: our relationship with good weather.

In June, we expect it, but as the days roll on in September, we’re grateful for it.

And somewhere around this time of year, I also start thinking about vitamin D and my SAD light again. The bottles come out, my SAD lamp comes out of the box again, and I remember what happened last year when winter seemed reluctant to surrender even as the calendar moved well into spring. I also remember that I inexplicably didn’t take Vitamin D or use my lamp until January – far later than normal and far too late for the benefits to kick in fully. 

It is also demoralizing to reach May and still wonder when it’s actually going to get consistently warm. That was the story of May 2026 until we hit the long weekend three weeks in. Screw you, El Niño, El Nina, or whoever was responsible for that weather anomaly. 

November? Fine. We knew what we signed up for.

January? It’s Canada. Nobody is expecting patio weather. We know we will get clobbered by deep cold or gray skies – or both one right after the other. 

February? Awful, but we’re grinding through it and the days are noticeably longer and brighter – though they are still cold, with probably one or more of those winter cold warnings popping up all over the place. 

March? Surely we’re almost there. 

April? Any day now.

May? It can be 42 degrees one day and 82 the next, then maybe 53, and then two days later it hits 80 again. Then four days of rain.

Which brings me to the question I seem to ask myself with increasing seriousness:

Why the heck do I still spend full winters here?

I don’t have livestock to tend. Nobody needs me to remain on the homestead guarding the greenhouses. I work remotely and have no office to go into any day of the week.

There are airplanes. There is Wi-Fi.

There are places where December through February do not involve scraping ice off things.

And it’s not as though I’ve been regularly escaping winter for a week or two. I haven’t gone south in winter for even a week since February 2019. COVID and life circumstances got in the way.

But maybe the next time I go, I won’t bother with a week or two. Maybe it’ll be a month. Or two, or even three. 

Long enough that it isn’t really a vacation at all – just life somewhere warmer while Southern Ontario does what Southern Ontario does.

Two weeks in the sun is wonderful, but there is a cruel streak to it. You spend the first couple of days decompressing, finally get accustomed to sunshine and warmth, and then it’s time to fly home before you know it. I remember one year coming back from two weeks in Phoenix. Our flight was closing in on Toronto and the sky was crystal clear. Then I remembered that we were still above the gray clouds. Talk about deflating. 

A month or two would be different. I could and would still work. I could still write. I could still have perfectly ordinary Friday afternoons when nothing particularly interesting happens. Except at the end of the workday, I could walk outside into 85 degrees instead of 14 degrees and a wind chill.

Every year I think about doing it, and every September Southern Ontario starts presenting its case for why I finally should. It begins gently. A warm but gray August 31. A slightly cooler evening and the sunset arriving noticeably earlier. Nothing alarming. Just little reminders of what’s ahead.

I’m convinced that’s why September 1 feels so different, even when the thermometer says it shouldn’t.

Summer isn’t over. There are beautiful days ahead, leaves to change, warm afternoons to enjoy, and probably at least one stretch when we’ll complain that it’s too hot.

But September 1 changes things. June says summer is coming and September says winter is coming. And every year, right about now, and especially as things have seemingly stabilized for the most part, I wonder why I keep spending the entire winter here.

More and more, I can’t come up with a particularly good answer.

What Does the Sign Say?

I was sitting at a picnic table outside the local convenience store, enjoying a coffee and the lake view while also watching the steady parade of summer visitors. Beside the store is a small cabin where they sell live bait and all sorts of fishing paraphernalia.

Well…sort of.

The cabin isn’t actually staffed. If you want bait, there’s a sign on the door.

Actually, there are two signs. Both say exactly the same thing:

“Please ask for assistance in the main store.”

Simple enough. Or so I thought.

In the half hour I was sitting there, three different people walked up to the cabin. Each one grabbed the locked door handle. Each one looked confused. Then each one turned to me.

“Do you know if anyone’s here?”

I smiled and said, “I don’t work here, but you’ll have to ask inside the main store.”

They thanked me and headed over. Now, I don’t mind helping people. What made me smile wasn’t that they asked me. It was that the answer was literally on the door they had just tried to open. Twice.

It reminded me of something I’ve noticed more and more over the years. People don’t read signs.

Restaurants have giant signs saying, “Please Wait to Be Seated.” People walk right past them. Stores have arrows showing which door is the entrance and which is the exit. Someone inevitably pushes against the wrong one. Construction crews put up “Sidewalk Closed” signs. People step around the barricade and keep going anyway. 

It’s almost as if our brains have decided signs are part of the wallpaper. We’re so focused on where we’re going that we stop noticing the information that’s been put there specifically to help us.

Maybe it’s because we’re all distracted and looking at our phones. Or it could be something else. 

Whatever the reason, it’s amazing how often the answer to our question is already sitting right in front of us.

The funny part is that most of these signs aren’t trying to tell us what not to do. They’re trying to make life easier. The restaurant host wants to seat people in an organized way so servers know who’s in their section.

The bait shop wants someone to unlock the cabin for you. The store’s entrance sign is trying to prevent people from bumping into each other. They’re not there to boss people around. They’re there because somebody, somewhere, learned through experience that if the sign wasn’t there, chaos usually followed.

Of course, as this little episode reminded me, sometimes even the sign isn’t enough.

There’s a broader lesson here, too. How often do we miss obvious things because we’re moving too quickly? How often do we ask questions before taking ten seconds to look around? How often is the answer already there if we simply stop long enough to notice it?

Life has become incredibly noisy and busy. Perhaps that’s why something as simple as reading a sign has quietly become harder than it should be.

As I sat there watching another customer head toward the bait cabin, I found myself wondering what would happen next. Sure enough…Door handle. Locked. Confused expression. Then the familiar question.

“Do you know where I get bait?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“The sign says go inside for help.”

Kyle Shanahan’s Refreshing Lesson in Accountability

Kyle Shanahan’s accident report was recently released, and it got me thinking about the bigger picture. 

It’s not often a celebrity or high-profile sports figure makes a mistake and immediately says, “That was my fault.”

No blaming the weather or pointing fingers at the other driver. No carefully crafted statement written by a team of lawyers and public relations experts.

Just this: I screwed up.

San Francisco 49ers head coach Kyle Shanahan took full responsibility for a July car crash that left him with a concussion, broken ribs, a broken nose, a broken hand, and dozens of stitches. The accident happened because he reached down to retrieve a phone that had fallen between the seats. In those few seconds, his truck drifted into oncoming traffic.

He didn’t have to admit that publicly.

In fact, early reports suggested the other driver may have been responsible. Many people in Shanahan’s position could have stayed silent and let the misunderstanding continue. Instead, he spoke up because he didn’t want a young woman to carry the blame or get lambasted in social media for something he had done.

That deserves respect.

Notice what he didn’t do: He didn’t say everyone drops their phone or argue that it was only a split-second distraction. He didn’t complain about modern vehicles or poor road design. He didn’t make excuses.

He simply accepted responsibility. There is a lesson here that goes well beyond football.

Distracted driving doesn’t always mean someone is texting, watching videos, or scrolling social media. Sometimes it’s something that seems completely harmless. A phone slips off the seat. A cup of coffee spills or sunglasses fall onto the floor. You reach for something without thinking.

For those two or three seconds, you’re no longer driving. At highway speeds, that’s hundreds of feet traveled essentially blind.

Most of us have probably been tempted to do – or actually did – exactly what Shanahan did. We hear the phone hit the floor and think, “I’ll just grab it quickly.”

The problem is that “quickly” can change lives forever. In Shanahan’s case, he was fortunate. He suffered several injuries but survived. The other driver escaped serious injury. It could have been much worse.

That’s why his honesty matters. Owning a mistake doesn’t erase the consequences. It doesn’t heal broken bones or repair damaged vehicles. But it does acknowledge reality, and that’s becoming surprisingly rare.

We live in an era where responsibility often comes with an asterisk.

“I’m sorry, but…”

“I apologize to anyone I offended.” Huh? 

“It wasn’t entirely my fault.”

“I was under a lot of pressure.”

“The circumstances…”

Sometimes there are legitimate explanations and sometimes there aren’t. Sometimes the right response is simply, “I made a bad decision.”

Imagine how much easier life would be if more people did that. Businesses. Athletes. Politicians. Celebrities. Even the rest of us in everyday life.

We all make mistakes. The real measure of character isn’t avoiding every one of them. It’s what we do after they happen.

Kyle Shanahan’s story is ultimately less about football than it is about accountability. He made a dangerous mistake. He admitted it and accepted the consequences without trying to soften them.

That’s a lesson worth remembering. And the next time your phone slides off the passenger seat while you’re driving or your phone rings or buzzes with a text? Leave it until you arrive at your destination. 

The Sign Isn’t There to Decorate the Entrance

There’s a little ritual that plays out almost every time I’m at my local hangout – and it gets worse when the tourists show up. 

It starts with two signs. One is a sandwich board outside. The other sits right where the host usually stands. Both say exactly the same thing in large, impossible-to-miss letters:

Please Wait to Be Seated.

And yet, almost every time I’ve been there this summer, at least one group strolls right past both of them.

They head straight to the patio, find a table, sit down and then start looking around as if they’re wondering why no one has come over to greet them. Sometimes they wait patiently. Sometimes they start waving at a server. Occasionally, you can almost see the frustration building because they think they’ve been forgotten.

Maybe this bothers me more than it should because I used to work in restaurants, and I’ve gotten to know many of the staff over the past couple of years and a few stayed with the place when it changed owners and underwent a name change and redesign. I’ve watched them work during quiet afternoons in the winter and packed summer days. I’ve seen the organized chaos that keeps a busy restaurant running, and I’ve come to appreciate something most customers never notice.

Restaurants have a rhythm. The host isn’t standing at the front because it’s some old-fashioned tradition. They’re the traffic controller. Every table that comes through that front door is assigned for a reason. One server might have just been sat with a party of eight. Another may have food coming up for three different tables. Someone else might be ready for another group. The host knows all of that. 

When people bypass the host and take their own seats, that rhythm gets disrupted. Seriously, how many restaurants, aside from the quick-serve ones, do you know where people can sit wherever they want – unless they are told they can. 

The server assigned to that section may not even realize someone is sitting there. Another server might assume someone else has already greeted them. Five or ten minutes pass before anyone notices, and suddenly it’s the restaurant’s fault that service was slow.

Except it wasn’t. The system was working exactly as it was designed until someone decided the rules didn’t apply to them. 

I’ve never understood it. If a place has signs saying “Please Wait to Be Seated,” why assume they don’t mean you? They’re not decorative. They’re not suggestions. Their instructions are designed to make everything work more smoothly – for the staff and for the customers. I’m sure you have waited for a restaurant table before and you will do so again.

It’s the same at this place with another sign that makes me smile or maybe a bit angry. 

The patio entrance has large signs asking customers to enter through the main door. They’re hard to miss. The patio access is blocked off for a reason. Yet every so often, someone ducks around the sign anyway. Again, I find myself wondering what goes through their mind. Do they think the rule is for everyone else?

Or do they simply not notice? I’m thinking they do notice they just don’t want to wait, so they squeeze around the sign or jump the border lights that separate the restaurant patio from a public area. 

We’re all guilty of operating on autopilot sometimes. We’re thinking about meeting friends, ordering lunch or escaping the heat. It’s easy to miss things when we’re focused on ourselves. But I’ve also noticed that the people who work in restaurants spend most of their day focused on everyone else.

Servers are constantly scanning their sections without looking like they’re scanning. They’re watching drink levels, checking whether food has arrived, noticing who needs the bill, remembering allergies, timing appetizers and entrées, answering questions, clearing plates and somehow keeping a smile on their face through it all.

The host is doing the same thing on a larger scale, quietly directing traffic so the dining room and patio don’t become a disorganized mess. When customers ignore the system, it creates work that never needed to exist – and yet these customers are the first to complain about the slow service. 

It’s a small thing, but small things add up over the course of a busy shift. The older I get, the more I notice work that often goes unseen: The bartender who remembers regulars’ orders before they’re spoken and the server who somehow keeps six tables happy at once, the cooks working behind the scenes while everyone compliments the meal but never sees the person who prepared it. The host who quietly prevents the whole operation from turning into chaos. Most of us only notice these jobs when something goes wrong. I find myself noticing them when everything goes right.

Maybe that’s why those signs catch my eye. They’re not really about where to stand or which door to use. They’re reminders that there is a system in place, created by people who do this every single day and know what they’re doing far better than I do.

Following that system isn’t about blindly obeying a sign. It’s about respecting the people behind it.

So, to those who don’t think the rules apply to them or bring their big city attitude to cottage country, just stop for a moment, read the sign, and wait to be seated. You can do it. 

The Rhythm Behind the Bar

Most people go to a restaurant or bar for the food, the drinks, or the company. So do I.

However, sometimes I spend part of my time there just watching the staff work. Not in a creepy way where I hit on them or leer at them when their backs are to me. I don’t. And not in a “gotcha” way where I’m looking for mistakes. Quite the opposite.

I find it fascinating to watch skilled people doing what they do well.The other day, I spent a few hours at a lakeside patio. I wasn’t in a hurry. I had nowhere else to be. As I sat there watching the afternoon unfold, I found myself paying less attention to the customers and more attention to the bartenders and servers.

Most customers see only their own experience. They see whether their drink arrives quickly, whether their meal is hot, and how long they’ve been waiting for the bill. What they don’t see is everything happening around them. The bartender isn’t simply pouring drinks. He’s keeping track of open tabs, remembering who ordered what, watching for empty glasses, chatting with regulars, coordinating with servers, and somehow knowing who is next despite three people waiting at the bar.

The servers are doing something similar. One table needs another round of drinks. Another is ready to order. A third wants the bill. A fourth has questions about the menu. The kitchen is calling for food pickup. New customers are arriving at the host stand. All of this is happening simultaneously. Yet the best servers make it look effortless.

What struck me wasn’t just how hard they were working. It was the rhythm of it all. Everyone seemed to know where to be. They moved around one another, almost like dancers performing a routine they had practiced hundreds of times.

There were no dramatic moments or collisions. No panic. Just a steady flow of activity that somehow kept everything moving. At one point, I mentioned this to the bartender. His response surprised me. He told me he actually enjoys it when things get busy because he gets an adrenaline rush. A lot of people would hear that and think he’s crazy. Why would anyone enjoy a room full of customers wanting drinks, food, attention, and service all at the same time?

Then I thought about it. The same thing happens in many professions. Newsroom editors thrive on deadlines. Sports photographers often come alive during the biggest moments of a tournament. Broadcasters love the excitement of a live event. Some people don’t simply tolerate controlled chaos. They thrive on it. When everything speeds up, their focus sharpens. The outside world disappears. They enter a zone where instinct, experience, and skill take over. To an observer, it looks stressful. To them, it feels energizing.

That may be why I enjoy watching people work, although being an inquisitive writer is also part of it, as is my natural curiosity.

There is something satisfying about seeing competence in action. In a world where so many interactions are automated, rushed, or hidden behind screens, there is still something impressive about watching people do their jobs well. The customers may never notice the dozens of small decisions made during a shift. They may never appreciate how many moving parts are involved in getting food and drinks to the right place at the right time. But if you sit quietly long enough and simply watch, you begin to see it. You see the rhythm and the teamwork. You see the experience behind the smiles and casual conversations. Most importantly, you gain a new appreciation for the work of people whose contributions are often taken for granted.

The next time you’re sitting on a patio enjoying a meal or a drink, take a moment to look beyond your own table. Watch the staff and the flow. Watch the choreography. You might discover that one of the most interesting things on the menu isn’t the food at all. It’s the people working behind the scenes to make the whole experience happen.

The Faucet That Didn’t Work

The other morning, I turned on the tap and nothing happened.

No water. No shower. No shaving. No brushing my teeth. No flushing the toilet. Ugh. Suddenly, my comfortable little home in the Kawarthas felt a lot more like a rustic campsite.

Apparently, the water system was being shut down for maintenance. It happens from time to time around here. One of the realities of living in cottage country is that you occasionally discover just how much of modern life depends on something you rarely think about until it’s gone.

Fortunately, I had filled a couple of two-liter water bottles the night before. Pure luck. I also had some leftover coffee from yesterday that could be reheated. Not ideal, perhaps, but when the alternative is no coffee at all, yesterday’s coffee starts looking pretty good.

So there I was, sitting at home working, rationing water as if I were preparing for an expedition into the wilderness rather than a typical Wednesday morning.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, a blog idea appeared. That’s usually how it happens. Not when I’m staring at a blank screen, telling myself I need something to write about, or when I am searching through a news feed looking for inspiration. Neither does it happen when I try to force it. 

The ideas almost always arrive when I’m busy doing something else. I’ve noticed this pattern for years. A walk by the lake becomes a reflection on why people are drawn to water. A couple of loud patrons at a restaurant turns into a piece about public behavior. Watching bartenders and servers work through a busy evening or weekend becomes a story about rhythm, routine and professionalism. Tourists taking photos of places I pass every day becomes a reflection on the difference between visiting somewhere and actually living there.

None of those moments arrived with a flashing sign that said, “Future blog post.” At the time, they were just ordinary moments with the meaning showing up later. 

I think that’s because writing, at least the kind of writing I enjoy most, isn’t really about ideas. It’s about observation. The world is constantly handing us material. Most of us just don’t notice it because we’re too busy looking for something bigger.

We think inspiration should arrive like a lightning bolt. Sometimes it does but way more often than not, it arrives disguised as a broken faucet. 

When I first started writing all those years ago, aside from corporate writing that has to follow a certain style, I assumed successful writers sat down every day and generated brilliant ideas on command. After all, that’s what professionals do, right? The longer I’ve been doing this, the less I believe that, because the best ideas tend to sneak up on you: they arrive while you are people-watching, walking, going to the gym, waiting for a corporate assignment, and just living your life without trying to document it.  

That’s one reason I enjoy writing slice-of-life pieces so much. They force me to pay attention. The world becomes more interesting when you’re looking for stories rather than headlines. And at the same time, you are just being. 

A noisy dam separating two lakes prompts a thought about why people find water calming, even though it’s often loud. A group of tourists photographing a local landmark becomes a reminder that people travel hundreds of kilometers to see what you see every day. A water outage becomes an appreciation of modern plumbing and a lesson about creativity.

It’s not exactly the sort of thing they teach in journalism school, but it’s true.

Some of my favorite pieces began with the smallest observations. The challenge isn’t finding ideas; it is noticing them. That’s why I don’t worry when I don’t have anything to write about at the moment.  Experience has taught me that several ideas are already on their way.

Maybe it’ll come from overhearing a conversation on a patio or watching a guy fish on a boat on a lake. It may happen while I’m grocery shopping or seeing a car drive by. Or maybe, like the other day, it’ll appear while standing in front of a faucet that refuses to cooperate. The water eventually came back on. I took my shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, and forgot all about the inconvenience.

But the idea it sparked will stick around a little longer. It is funny how that works. 

Sometimes the most ordinary moments end up giving us stories. And sometimes all it takes is a morning without running water to remind us that inspiration tends to show up when we’re not looking for it.

Why One Person Talking Drives Me Crazy But a Hundred Doesn’t

There is something about human beings – or maybe it’s just me – that seems to make absolutely no sense.

Put me in a room with 100 people talking and I can work just fine. Put me near one person talking loud, and within minutes I’m wondering if duct tape is still sold by the roll and thinking, “shut the **** up.”

I first noticed this years ago while covering professional golf tournaments. The media centers at major events were often packed with reporters, photographers, broadcasters, and public relations staff. Hundreds of people would be moving around, conversations would be happening in every direction, televisions would be on, phones would be ringing, and laptop keyboards would be tapping away.

Yet somehow, I could sit down and write without a problem. The noise became part of the background. It was almost comforting in its own way. The room had a rhythm to it. Nobody expected complete silence because everyone was working. The collective hum of activity blended together into something my brain could easily ignore.

Then there is the opposite experience. Every office seems to have that one person. You know the one. The person who conducts conference calls at their desk instead of booking a meeting room.

The person whose voice somehow cuts through every other sound in the department – that person can drive me absolutely insane. The strange thing is that it often isn’t a volume issue. A crowded restaurant can be louder than a single office conversation. A sports bar can produce far more noise than one conference call.

Yet the crowd doesn’t bother me. The single voice does. I suspect the reason is that a crowd becomes background noise. Your brain recognizes that dozens of conversations are happening simultaneously and quickly decides that none of them are particularly important.

However, one voice is different. Your brain keeps trying to listen even when you don’t want to. 

Whether you like it or not, your attention keeps getting dragged away from whatever you’re trying to do. For people who work with words, that interruption feels even worse.

Writing isn’t like changing a tire or mowing a lawn. When you’re in the middle of an article, your brain is juggling facts, research structure, wording, transitions, and ideas all at once. There is a flow to it.

When somebody interrupts that flow, you don’t simply lose thirty seconds. You lose the thread. You have to find your way back.

That’s why I could sit comfortably in a golf media center with two hundred journalists around me and remain productive for hours, yet one nearby conversation in an office could make me want to relocate to another floor of the building.

The older I get, the more I realize this isn’t really about noise. It’s about attention. A crowd asks nothing of you; it simply exists. One voice demands your brain’s attention, even when you’d rather be doing something else.

So if you ever see me happily working in a busy café, airport lounge or sports bar, don’t be surprised. Just don’t sit down beside me and launch into a forty-minute monologue about your vacation plans or that your car is making an odd sound. 

At that point, the hundred strangers in the room will suddenly seem like the quiet ones.

The Vicious Circle of Wanting What We Don’t Have

Years ago, drummer Charlie Watts was asked about life with the Rolling Stones.

His answer wasn’t about fame, money, sold-out stadiums, or celebrity. Instead, he described a problem that many people understand immediately. Because of his work, he had to leave home and spend long periods on the road or in a studio somewhere. The problem was that he liked being home.

Then, after being home for an extended period, he would become restless and want to get back out there again. He called it a vicious circle that had always been his life. 

The older I get, the more I think that circle applies to far more than touring musicians. It applies to me. I’m not talking about the hiatus I took for two years or so due to burnout, a serious car accident and some other challenges. I’m talking about under normal, everyday circumstances. 

When work becomes overwhelming, I dream about free time. I just want to “get it done and get out of there.” I tell myself that if I could just slow down, take a break, spend more time at home, or escape the daily things I have to do, life would feel better. Then something happens. The workload temporarily eases, and the schedule clears. I finally get the free time that I wanted. For an afternoon, it feels wonderful. Then I get restless and want to do something – like write. I miss the sense of purpose and momentum that work provided.

Suddenly, the thing I wanted so desperately is no longer enough.

The same pattern appears everywhere. People living in cities dream about escaping to the country. People living in the country sometimes wish they had easier access to the excitement and convenience of the city.

People with demanding careers fantasize about retirement. Many retirees eventually discover that endless leisure isn’t quite what they imagined.

People in relationships miss their independence, while single people miss companionship. People who travel constantly want to stay home. People who stay home too long want to travel. The circumstances change, but the pattern remains. 

Human beings seem to need two things that often pull in opposite directions. We need stability and variety. Too much instability creates anxiety. Too much routine creates boredom. Too much responsibility feels exhausting, while too much time on our hands can feel aimless. We spend much of our lives moving back and forth between these competing desires.

The mistake many of us make is assuming that one side of the equation contains the answer. If I just had more free time, work, lived somewhere else, made more money, had fewer obligations, but more opportunities. The goalposts keep moving.

We finally arrive at the place we thought would make us happy, only to discover that we brought ourselves with us. The restlessness didn’t disappear; it found a new target. 

This doesn’t mean goals are pointless, nor does it mean people shouldn’t try to improve their circumstances. After all, sometimes a new job or a move really is better. Sometimes, more money genuinely reduces stress.

But no external change seems capable of eliminating the tension entirely. The circle remains.

The healthiest approach is not to try to escape the circle but to recognize it. When work becomes overwhelming, it helps to remember that endless free time may not be the paradise we imagine. When boredom starts creeping in, it helps to remember how recently we were wishing for a slower pace.

Awareness doesn’t eliminate the problem. It simply prevents us from believing that happiness is waiting on the other side of one more change.

There is a reason people often look back on certain periods of life with surprising affection. The years themselves weren’t perfect. There were frustrations, pressures, disappointments, and uncertainties. What they remember is not the absence of problems but the balance they seemed to have – although nostalgia can mask how they really felt at that time. 

Like Charlie Watts, we often discover that the very thing we are longing for today may be the thing we are trying to escape six months from now. That is not a character flaw – it is simply part of being human.

The trick is recognizing the circle when it appears and understanding that neither side contains all the answers.

Why I Rarely Drink Is None of Your Business

One of the oddest social questions people ask is why I rarely drink. Not whether I want a drink. Not what I’d like instead. But why. As if there must be some dramatic backstory.

“No, really. Why don’t you drink?”

The assumption seems to be that there has to be a reason. Maybe I’m a recovering alcoholic. No. Maybe alcoholics run in my family, and I want to be careful. Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Maybe I had some terrible experience (aside from not showing up for work one day while in college, no). Maybe I’m on medication. Yes, but who isn’t as you get older and none say I can’t drink. Maybe I belong to a religion that forbids it. No. 

The full, larger reason is much less interesting. I simply don’t drink very often. That’s it.

What I find interesting is that people rarely turn the question around.

Why do you drink? Now there’s a question. I actually did turn it around on someone who asked why I don’t drink and the puzzled reaction I got was priceless. He never did answer me. 

Most people aren’t drinking because they enjoy conducting a detailed tasting analysis of the subtle notes in a craft IPA. They’re drinking because it helps them relax. It helps them unwind after work. It helps them forget about deadlines, bills, politics, traffic, family drama, or whatever else is rattling around inside their heads.

In other words, they’re looking for exactly the same thing I am. The only difference is how we get there. Some people pour a glass of wine or go for a walk. Some people read a book or spend an afternoon fishing, playing golf, going for a drive, or spending an hour or two in a coffee shop talking with friends. We’re all trying to accomplish roughly the same thing: take the edge off life for a while.

I have nothing against people who enjoy a drink. Have one. Have two. Enjoy yourself. What puzzles me is the assumption that anyone who doesn’t drink much needs to explain themselves.

Nobody interrogates the guy ordering a gin and tonic or a beer. Nobody demands a detailed justification from someone enjoying a glass of red wine. Yet order a club soda, iced tea, or coffee and suddenly you’re being cross-examined like a witness in a courtroom.

“Come on. There must be a reason.”

There is. I don’t feel like drinking. That should be enough.

The Signs You’ve Outgrown Your Current Life

There are moments before change happens when life starts feeling strangely unfamiliar, and I’ve been experiencing it lately – a lot.

It’s not a dramatic moment like a plot twist in a movie. It’s more like a slow internal shift that makes old routines feel heavier, old conversations feel emptier, and old environments feel harder to tolerate. You can’t always explain it. You just know something no longer fits.

I think a lot of people mistake this phase for failure. But sometimes it’s growth.

Before major breakthroughs, life often gets uncomfortable first. Not because you’re being punished, but because you’re being stretched beyond the version of yourself that once felt safe.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately because, honestly, it feels very familiar right now.

There’s this strange time people go through where things begin falling apart at the exact same time new possibilities quietly begin appearing. Old systems stop working. Motivation shifts. Relationships change. Certain people disappear. Others suddenly enter your life and energize you in ways you didn’t expect.

At first, it feels chaotic. You wonder if you’re losing your grip.

But it’s likely what’s actually happening is that life is clearing space.

We cling tightly to routines, identities, and situations that once served us, even when we’ve clearly outgrown them. We stay because they’re familiar, predictable, and comfortable. Even when they drain us.

Then one day, something changes internally, even though it has been brewing for a long time. You walk into the same room, and it no longer feels like your room.

You have the same conversations and feel disconnected from them.

You look at your work, your habits, your schedule, even your environment, and think: I can’t keep doing this the same way anymore. And I don’t want to.

That realization can feel frightening because growth rarely arrives with certainty. It usually arrives with disruption.

I’ve also noticed that during these periods, your awareness of people changes dramatically. You suddenly become sensitive to energy.

Some people leave you inspired and lighter after talking to them. Others leave you exhausted. Conversations you once tolerated become unbearable, and surface-level interactions start feeling hollow. You begin craving depth, honesty, creativity, peace, momentum – something more aligned with who you’re becoming.

It’s almost like an invisible filter switches on. And that’s likely because your old role no longer fits your future.

Then comes the thought that keeps returning quietly in the background: I can do more than this.

It’s not arrogance or fantasy; it’s the feeling that it’s time to feel whole again – but in a different way because you are a different person. 

It’s a realization that you’ve grown through pain, setbacks, failures, and experience – even if the outside world hasn’t caught up yet or some feel this shouldn’t have taken you this long – their problem, not yours. You start seeing possibilities that once felt unreachable. You begin imagining larger goals, bigger projects, better environments, healthier relationships, and a life that actually reflects who you are becoming instead of who you used to be.

That feeling matters because many breakthroughs begin internally long before they appear externally. 

I think another sign of real change is brutal honesty. Eventually, you stop pretending. You stop saying “I’m fine” when you’re miserable. You stop convincing yourself that survival is fulfillment. You stop shrinking your desires to make other people comfortable.

And maybe most importantly, you stop apologizing for wanting a different life. That honesty changes everything. Yes, you needed the rest, the – from outward appearances – slower pace that some may even call laziness (it isn’t, it’s recovery according to what works for you, not well-meaning but occasionally mean friends who have never, and will never, walk in your shoes).

Because movement begins the moment denial ends.

The thing is, growth rarely feels clean or polished. Most of the time, it feels messy, disorganized, all over the map, uncertain, emotional, and uncomfortable. It feels like standing between two versions of yourself – the familiar one you’re trying to leave behind and the future one you haven’t fully stepped into yet.

That middle ground can be exhausting, but it is also necessary in the long run, because the uncomfortable times often produce the strongest transformations.

Looking back, most of the major turning points in life didn’t begin when things felt secure. They began when things felt unstable, confusing, different, and awkward. That’s usually when something deeper is trying to emerge.

So if life feels messy right now… if old patterns are breaking down… if your environment suddenly feels too small… if a voice inside keeps whispering that you were meant for more…

You’re not falling apart. You’re finally growing into the next version of yourself. And never forget that no one can, or should, set a timetable for how long it takes you to become a different person. Never.