Two Weeks Isn’t Rest: Burnout, Screens, and the Forgotten Art of Unplugging

I used to think burnout meant you were overwhelmed or overworked or maybe just bad at managing your time. Now I understand it’s something quieter and more dangerous than that. Burnout is what happens when your nervous system never truly gets to stand down. When the mind is always slightly on alert. When even your “off” time is filled with low-grade stress, background noise, and the subtle pressure to stay available.

In North America, we’ve built a culture that treats exhaustion as a badge of honor and rest as something you have to justify. Self-appointed experts tell us to work our 9-5 job and then spend the evening hours and sometimes our weekends working our side hustle. At the same time, they stress the importance of proper rest and sleep. Rest and sleep? When? In many places, the legal minimum for vacation is two weeks a year. Two weeks. That’s supposed to be enough to recover from twelve months of deadlines, financial pressure, emotional labor, screen time, traffic, noise, and the constant low-level anxiety of trying to keep up. It isn’t recovery. It’s barely decompression.

What makes it worse is that those two weeks often aren’t even real time off. We bring our laptops. We keep our phones on. We “just check in.” We tell ourselves we’ll relax after answering one more email, one more message, one more small fire that suddenly feels urgent because we’re the ones who always put them out. So even on a beach or at a cottage or visiting family, part of the mind is still at work, scanning, waiting, bracing.

We’ve trained ourselves to live in a state of constant input, and then we wonder why we’re tired all the time. People expect us to respond to texts in minutes, not hours.

Burnout isn’t just being busy. It’s being busy without true recovery. It’s when the body never fully relaxes and the mind never fully rests. It shows up as irritability, brain fog, low motivation, emotional flatness, and that strange feeling of being both exhausted and restless at the same time. You’re tired, but you can’t quite sleep deeply. You have time, but you don’t feel restored. You take a day off, but it doesn’t touch the fatigue.

Part of the problem is guilt. We’ve been conditioned to feel that rest has to be earned, and even then, only in small doses. If you’re not producing, improving, building, responding, you’re “wasting time.” So when we finally stop, a voice in the back of the mind whispers that we should be doing something. That we’re falling behind. That we’re being irresponsible. It’s hard to relax when you feel like you’re breaking some unwritten rule.

I look at cultures where long vacations are normal, where entire countries slow down in summer, where being unreachable for weeks is not seen as laziness but as healthy. It’s not that people there don’t work hard. It’s that they understand something fundamental: sustained output requires sustained recovery. You can’t live in a permanent state of push without eventually paying for it in your health, your relationships, your spirit.

And then there’s the phone. The small glowing rectangle that keeps us tethered to everything and everyone at all times. It’s a remarkable tool, and it’s also a leash. It makes it possible to work from anywhere, which quietly turns into working from everywhere. Bedroom. Couch. Kitchen table. Vacation. Even the moments meant for rest are now potential work zones. The boundary between on and off has blurred to the point where many of us don’t remember what fully off even feels like. On vacation? Gotta post seven pictures every day on Facebook and Instagram. Exactly why are you doing this? Why not take the pictures but post them when you get back, if at all?

Real rest is different from distraction. Scrolling isn’t rest. Binge-watching isn’t always rest. They can be pleasant, but they don’t necessarily calm the nervous system. Real rest is slower. Quieter. Sometimes even a little boring at first. It’s walking without headphones. Sitting with a book. Going on a hike. Staring out a window. Letting your thoughts wander. Letting your body feel unneeded and unhurried.

Two weeks a year, tethered to a phone and a laptop, is not enough. Not for the pace we live at. Not for the mental load we carry. Not for the emotional wear and tear of modern life. We need more time, yes. But just as importantly, we need to relearn how to actually take it. To unplug without anxiety. To be unavailable without apology. To rest without feeling like we’re doing something wrong.

Burnout isn’t a personal weakness. It’s a signal. A message that the system, the pace, and the expectations are out of alignment with how human beings are built to live. And until we start taking real time off—and learning to truly disconnect when we do—we’ll keep calling chronic exhaustion “normal” and wondering why so many of us feel worn down in a world that never seems to power off.

Thinking about my old college housemates

I was thinking about my college days recently, harkening back to a time when I shared a house with two other people. One was awesome, while the other was, shall we say, a bit rough around the edges and prone to double standards, but overall a person I could tolerate.

There is a special kind of tension that exists only in shared living spaces. Not the dramatic, door-slamming kind. Not the screaming-match kind. The low-grade, passive-aggressive, “who moved my stuff and why is the sink suddenly a crime scene?” kind.

It usually starts with something small. Harmless, really. Like leaving a couple of dishes in the sink overnight like I did. We didn’t have a dishwasher so if you used the dishes, cups, and utensils, you washed, dried, and put them away. Two plates, maybe a mug. You know, the kind of thing any reasonable adult would look at and think, “They’ll get to it in the morning.”

But no. Apparently, this is not a minor oversight. This is a moral failure.

You are informed—politely, but with unmistakable judgment—that dishes were left. As if the kitchen had been violated. As if hygiene itself had been disrespected. You nod and apologize. You accept your role as the flawed human in the household ecosystem.

Then, a day or two later, you walk into the kitchen and discover both sinks completely full. Not “a plate and a fork” full. I’m talking archaeological dig full. Pots. Pans. Bowls with hardened mystery sauces. Utensils forming a tangled stainless-steel ecosystem. Water glasses with rings like they’ve been abandoned since the Ford administration.

So let me get this straight.

Two dishes overnight = unacceptable. Both sinks packed like a football stadium on Super Bowl Sunday = apparently fine. The rules, it seems, are not about cleanliness. They’re about whose mess it is. And then there are the disappearing objects.

At one point, a J-cloth lived in a ceramic frog that sat by the sink. The frog was decorative but also functional, like a whimsical little butler holding cleaning supplies in its mouth. A noble creature. A symbol of order. Then, one day, the J-cloth was gone. You replaced it, but that one disappeared too. You replace it again and yes, number three goes missing. You’re replacing what you shouldn’t have to unless it has seen better days. They weren’t dirty or torn up, they were just gone. And so was the frog that mysteriously hopped away. Then the kitchen clock vanishes. It wasn’t moved to another wall (it was my clock), it just disappeared. It wasn’t expensive but it was mine. I don’t know where it is, said my rougher housemate, but curiously, it was back on the wall two days later.

It’s like the house itself occasionally shed belongings into a parallel dimension. A Bermuda Triangle for small domestic items. You half expect my awesome roommate to casually ask, “Hey, have you seen the toaster and the microwave?”

But nothing quite matches the audacity of the toilet paper announcement. We each had our own bathrooms. Separate domains, sinks, showers, and supplies. Independent nations, if you will. And yet, one day, the proclamation arrives: “We’re running low on toilet paper.” Not “I’m running low.” “We’re.” Collectively.

As if this were a communal resource managed by a central planning committee. As if my roll had been secretly contributing to some invisible household TP stock exchange. No. You are running low. I am not. My bathroom is fine. My shelves are stocked. My paper situation is stable. I do not require emergency rations.

I understand there’s an implied spirit of sharing in housemate situations. Milk or cream for your coffee and tea, sure. A roll of toilet paper during a genuine crisis. Sure. But this wasn’t a crisis. This was a supply-chain oversight being rebranded as a group responsibility.

And finally, the couch. The shared sectional that was larger than a few small countries. The one that absorbs everyone’s crumbs, body heat, and existential sighs. This is not a bedroom. It is not a personal nap zone. It is not a semi-permanent nesting area complete with blankets, pillows, and the subtle territorial claim of “I was here first.”

There is something psychologically unsettling about waking up and finding someone has essentially moved into the living room overnight. Like discovering a raccoon has made itself comfortable on your sofa and now regards you as the intruder. Go to your room. That is what rooms are for. Privacy. Sleep. Horizontal existence without witnesses.

The couch is for sitting, talking, and watching TV with maybe a snack. None of these things, on their own, are catastrophic. No friendships are ended and no leases are broken. No dramatic confrontations unfold. But they accumulate. A dish here. A vanishing frog there. A body camped out on communal furniture like it’s a studio apartment.

And what you realize, living with other adults, is this: Shared space is not really about cleanliness or supplies or furniture. It’s about unspoken rules. And the quiet, ongoing negotiation over whose version of “normal” gets to win.

The Morning Tug-of-War And Why Every Day Starts With a Quiet Battle

Since today is Monday (and this is likely my last post of 2025), I figured the timing of this was appropriate.

There’s a moment every morning — usually before the alarm, before the coffee, before you’ve fully returned to yourself — when life feels heavier than it has any right to be. You lie there in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, staring at the ceiling while your brain quietly pours every problem, every task, every loose thread of your life into the room with you. Bills that are probably in your inbox, messages you haven’t answered, and errands you don’t want to run. Even the good things somehow feel like obligations when you’re still half-asleep.

It’s amazing how unfair your mind can be before sunrise. A simple phone call or scheduled interview feels like a mountain to climb. A typical workday feels like an insurmountable burden. Even brushing your teeth and showering feels like too much effort sometimes. And yet, it’s not long before you’re moving through those same tasks without panic or drama, wondering why they felt impossible from under the blankets. That shift from dread to manageable says something honest about the human experience. In those quiet waking moments, you’re confronted with a deeper conflict that we rarely talk about: the constant tension between wanting your life to be entirely your own and knowing you still need some kind of purpose to feel grounded.

Most of us want the same simple thing: more time to ourselves. Time to breathe without deadlines chasing us around. Time to let the day unfold slowly instead of leaping into responsibility the moment our eyes open. It’s not laziness. It’s a longing for autonomy and the ability to decide, moment by moment, how your life is spent. Even when you love your work or enjoy your routines, there is still an undeniable desire for a day without structure, a morning without pressure, a life that doesn’t constantly ask for something from you.

But human beings are funny creatures, because this wish for endless freedom has another side we rarely acknowledge. Look at the number of retirees who dream for decades about the day they’ll no longer be tied to a schedule, only to find themselves going stir-crazy after a few months. They sleep in, enjoy leisurely breakfasts, do some traveling, play plenty of golf, catch up on hobbies — and then something starts to shift. The days blur. The spark dulls. The lack of direction becomes a different kind of burden. Many end up going back to work part-time, volunteering, or finding a new project or cause because having nothing but free time ends up feeling less like a gift and more like drifting. Even boredom has a purpose: it points us toward meaning.

And that’s the strange truth we all live with. We crave freedom, yet too much of it makes us restless. We crave purpose, yet too much of it makes us feel trapped. So we spend our lives walking the line between the two. In the morning, before the thinking brain fully returns and the emotional shields go up, that conflict is at its sharpest. You want to stay in bed and claim the day as your own but there is some deeper instinct, some quiet voice that says, “You still have things to do. You still have a place in the world.”

Getting out of bed becomes more than a physical act; it becomes a tiny moral decision. You’re choosing to show up for your life and to move forward, not get paralyzed. You’re choosing purpose over avoidance, even if your purpose isn’t world-changing or glamorous. There’s a kind of bravery in that — in deciding, again and again, that the day is worth walking into.

And once you do get moving, once the coffee is poured, the light changes, and the first small task is handled, something softens. Your thoughts stop shouting. The problems go back to their normal size. That impossible to-do list reveals itself as just another Tuesday. You’re not magically happier; you’re simply in motion, and motion has a way of pulling you back into yourself.

What’s interesting is that both the dread and the relief are telling the truth. You really do want more autonomy, and you really do need purpose. Those desires don’t cancel each other out — they coexist, competing and cooperating in equal measure. And maybe that’s the real story of adulthood: learning to live in that tension without expecting it to resolve. Learning that freedom feels good because purpose gives it contrast. Learning that purpose feels meaningful because freedom is what we reach toward when we’re tired.

So the next time you wake up with that familiar heaviness pressing on your chest and legs (mine always seems to show up in my thighs for some reason), don’t judge yourself for it. It’s not a sign of weakness, or age, or failure. It’s just your humanity announcing itself before breakfast. It’s a reminder that you are a person balancing needs that will never entirely stop pulling in opposite directions. And we never “catch up” because, retired or not, there is always something you have to do, whether it’s taking out the garbage, replacing the brakes on your car, or doing laundry. You want the day to be your own, and you also want to matter and feel useful. 

And somehow, despite or likely because of that constant tug-of-war, you get up anyway.  

Why You Should Start Your New Year’s Goals Now And Not January 1

Every December, millions of people make the same promise: January 1 is when everything changes. It’s a comforting idea: a fresh year, a fresh start, a fresh version of ourselves. “Yup, this is it. This year I will lose weight, start a business, write a book, save more money, cut the amount of time I surf and scroll and go online…” But there’s a problem with waiting for a date on the calendar to begin. In the days between now and January 1, life continues. Habits continue and routines continue. And the pivot you think you’ll suddenly make in the new year? It rarely appears out of thin air and doesn’t last.

However, here’s the truth most people overlook and I did until recently: now is actually the best time to start your New Year’s goals. Not because it’s convenient but because it’s effective.

When you start today, you give yourself a runway. By January 1, you’re already at least two weeks into the behaviors you want to build. You’re not wrestling with day-one resistance. You’ve already lived through the awkward first attempts, the “this feels weird” stage, and the initial growing pains that derail most people before January even hits double digits. 

Habits form through repetition, not resolution and determination. Momentum happens after you start, not before. If you’ve already repeated the behavior for a couple of weeks or more, you’ve built a rhythm that New Year’s Day can’t magically give you.

There’s also a psychological boost in being ahead of the crowd. When January rolls around, most people are dragging themselves into new routines with a mix of optimism and dread. You, on the other hand, are already moving. You’re not starting—you’re continuing. And continuing is always easier than beginning. There’s less friction and fewer excuses. You’ve built just enough momentum that abandoning it feels harder than sticking with it.

Starting now also forces you to confront a core truth: time doesn’t grant discipline but action does. Waiting for a date to motivate you is like waiting for perfect weather before going for a walk. It sounds reasonable, but it’s really another form of procrastination dressed up as preparation. If the goal matters, waiting rarely helps. Doing does.

Another bonus? Starting early exposes what needs tweaking before the year begins. If you plan to cook more at home, you’ll quickly learn what groceries you need on hand. If you want to walk daily, you’ll discover which time of day actually works with your energy levels. If you’re aiming for better sleep, you’ll find out that your late-night scrolling habit is a bigger enemy than you realized. These small insights make the official “goal” feel far smoother because you’ve already ironed out the wrinkles.

The other upside is emotional. Beginning now signals to yourself that you’re taking your own life seriously. It sends a quiet message: I care enough about my future to not wait for the perfect moment. There is no perfect moment. That alone is powerful.

So while everyone else is gearing up for a January 1 reboot, you could be gliding into the new year with some real traction under your feet. Your goals won’t just be ideas—they’ll already be part of your life. And that, more than any resolution, is what creates genuine change.

Start now. Stumble if you must. But start. By the time the world picks up on January 1, you’ll already be miles ahead. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I started in on my 2026 goals today. 

Café Disruption: The Loud Ladies Club Experience

You always think you’ve timed it perfectly. You find a quiet table in the corner of the coffee shop, settle in with your drink, open the laptop, and start knocking off your to-do list. Usually, you’d be at home working, but a temporary power outage has forced you to run your laptop on battery power, and I was moving into “20 minutes” left territory with four hours of work still to do. The library was also without power, yet curiously, the coffee shop wasn’t – don’t ask me how grids are mapped out. 

The early birds are quietly reading or just preparing for the day; the freelancers are focused; and the retirees are sipping their caffeine in peaceful silence. You think, “Perfect. Productive morning ahead.”

And then the door swings open. A gust of cold air rolls in. A familiar vibration rattles the pastry case.

The Loud Ladies Club has arrived.

You know them the moment they appear: mid-morning, matching jackets, giant purses, and a collective volume level that could disrupt the migration pattern of Canadian geese. They don’t just enter a room. They announce themselves like a Broadway cast making its opening-night debut. Somehow, they all have the same loud cackle for a laugh. 

“HELLOOOOOO!” one of them bellows, despite the barista standing two feet away. Another laughs — loudly — at absolutely nothing, like the joy is shooting out of her in uncontrollable bursts. Chairs scrape. Cups clatter. Three conversations start simultaneously, each woman determined to speak over the others. It’s like watching a panel discussion where no one realizes they’re all panelists.

You try to stay focused. You really do. But then comes the kicker: the straggler. The lone late arrival, marching through the door like she’s trekking into base camp at Everest.

“HEY, WE’RE OVER HERE!!” The entire café turns and thinks, Yeah, no shit! Because how could you not? 

The thing is, the café is about the size of a generously proportioned shoebox. She could have found her group by simply rotating her neck 30 degrees. They weren’t exactly hard to spot because they’ve been broadcasting to the entire Western Hemisphere and parts of the Eastern Hemisphere since their arrival. But no, protocol must be observed. The ritualistic group greeting must be delivered at stadium volume.

And then, once she joins them (after scraping her chair as loud as an F1 pit stop as she pulls it out), the decibel level hits its peak. You don’t just hear their conversation. You hear the conversations they had last week, the conversations they will have later today, and probably the ones they’ll have in 2027. It’s the only time in life you can overhear multiple past, present, and future conversations all at once.

The best part? They absolutely do not realize they’re loud.

Not even a hint of awareness. Not even when someone at the next table gives them the Look™ — you know the one: the slow head turn, the raised eyebrows, the silent plea for mercy. Doesn’t matter. They just keep going, confident that the public café is actually their living room, or better yet, their own private social club where the rest of us are temporary props.

Every three minutes, a new eruption of laughter detonates like a sonic boom. Everything brings a loud, collective cackle. Those two ducks on the water who are minding their own business? Group cackle. One French fry is nearly burned rather than that golden color? Group cackle. Those fallen leaves blowing in the wind? Group cackle. The barista has now raised the volume of the café music twice; the poor kid in the corner, pretending to study anatomy, is aging in real time; and the one quiet customer who came in for peace is now holding their mug like a stress ball.

Meanwhile, you’re sitting there with your laptop, proud that you got your work done before the flock descended, because there’s absolutely no chance of accomplishing anything once they land. Productivity? Forget it. Your brain is too busy decoding overlapping stories about grandchildren, vacation plans, a neighbour’s cat, a sale at Winners, and something vague involving someone named Brenda.

But there’s one undeniable truth: As much as they hijack the soundscape of the room, they’re harmless. Loud, yes. Obnoxious, absolutely. But they’re also having the time of their lives. And really, who hasn’t wished they could laugh that freely every once in a while?

Still, next time, you’re sitting far, far away, preferably in a different area code.

Exploring the Unique Culture of Buckhorn

There’s something I’ve noticed about living in Buckhorn that didn’t hit me until recently. It’s not profound or life-changing, but it explains a lot about how people interact around here and why, every now and then, I feel like I stick out a little. Buckhorn is, at its core, a blue-collar town. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a practical, grounded, “you work with your hands and you get things done” kind of way.

Most of the year, the people you see in the restaurants are the same crowd: forestry workers, renovation crews, builders, landscapers, sand and gravel operators — all of them coming in with beards, ballcaps, steel-toed boots, and the kind of exhaustion that comes from lifting, hauling, hammering, and tearing things down. They talk shop because their work is real work — work you can point to at the end of the day and say, “I built that,” or “We cleared a lot of fallen branches after the storm.” Even most of the servers and bartenders are part of that rhythm, having grown up around it or married into it.

And then there’s me.

Not in the sense that I’m better or worse — just different. My world revolves around writing, communications, interviews, technology, media, features, and trying to explain things like PoE switches to people who don’t know they exist. I don’t walk into the restaurant with sawdust on my boots or drywall dust on my hoodie or coveralls. I walk in with a laptop bag and an inbox I’m mentally sorting through. I’m not the only non-blue-collar person here, but I’m definitely in the minority. The only three locals (I know) who are similar are a real estate agent who deals in commercial properties, a lady who works in HR and talent acquisition, and an investment broker. Four people in the whole town whose work lives are built around conversations rather than construction.

Maybe that’s why we stand out.

But what’s fascinating is how the whole dynamic changes when summer rolls around. Suddenly, Buckhorn fills up with university students looking for seasonal work — and the students couldn’t be more different from the blue-collar backbone of the town. One is studying nursing. Another’s in neurobiology. Someone else is in business, education, or environmental science. They show up in April or May, work hard all summer at a restaurant making a small fortune in tips, and head back to campus in the fall like nothing ever happened.

And here’s the interesting part: the students relate to me immediately.

It doesn’t matter that there’s a 40-year age gap. They hear “writing,” “tech,” “media,” or “journalism,” and instantly recognize that I’m part of the world they’re heading into — the world of ideas, strategy, creativity, and career paths. They’re thinking about internships and future jobs. They’re trying to build résumés and figure out life. I’ve lived the road they’re preparing to walk. And because of that, the conversations feel natural. Easy. Familiar.

Meanwhile, the year-round locals — the forestry guys, the gravel guys, the builders — float in and out like clockwork, seeing these students for just a few months before the whole crowd turns over again.

Then there are the summer tourists. That’s another world entirely. People from Toronto, Ottawa, Boston, or wherever else roll into town on boats, in SUVs, or spend the summer in rented or owned cottages. They’re business owners, managers, professionals, and retirees with time and disposable income. They bring a different energy. Different conversations. Different expectations. The whole restaurant shifts when they show up: it becomes a blend of blue-collar, white-collar, students, vacationers, and locals, all sharing the same space.

Maybe that’s why I feel more “at home” in Buckhorn in the summer, while at the same time, enjoy the quieter seasons. The population temporarily swells with people from the same kind of career landscape I do. People who have lived through layoffs, deadlines, presentations, job interviews, commutes, and industries that shift under their feet every few years. They’re people who understand what it’s like to make a living with your brain instead of your back. And just like that, the whole place feels a little more familiar.

And yet, I’ve learned to appreciate both worlds. The year-round blue-collar crowd has a grounded, no-nonsense way of moving through life. They don’t overthink things. They work until the job is done and often on weekends. They take pride in what they build. There’s a simplicity to that mindset that I admire. And the summer crowd — with their business degrees, nursing programs, and neurobiology textbooks — brings a pulse of curiosity, ambition, and conversation that makes the town feel connected to the bigger world outside the Trent-Severn waterways.

Somewhere in the middle of all that is where I live — not entirely blue collar, not fully summer tourist, not fully student. Just someone who came here during a hard part of life, started over, and ended up observing very different worlds collide in a surprisingly harmonious way.

Maybe that’s the beauty of Buckhorn. It’s a place where people who build things and people who think things can sit in the same restaurant, order the same wings, nod to each other, and coexist without ever needing to fit into the same mold.

And that’s why I’ve learned to appreciate this place more than I ever expected.

The Loud Lickers is a Dining Mystery I’ll Never Solve

There are certain things in life I will never understand: why printers jam only when you’re late, why the grocery store has only one cashier during rush hour, and why — in a restaurant full of empty booths — someone always chooses the table right next to me. It’s like a gravitational pull. The universe sees me settle into a quiet corner with my coffee and my laptop and says, “Send in the couple. Yes, that couple. They look hungry. And loud.”

Now, most days I can handle the proximity. People are people. They sit where they sit. But there is one behavior that sits firmly at the top of my personal list of Dining Red Flags: the phenomenon I call The Noisy Finger Lick.

Let’s cut to the chase: chicken wings are messy. Ribs are messy. Anything that requires a stack of napkins is messy. I accept that. But what I cannot wrap my head around is the performance some people put on when cleaning their fingers. Somewhere along the way, a segment of the population began licking sauce from their fingertips with the enthusiasm of someone trying to siphon gasoline from a lawnmower. It’s less of a lick and more of a ceremonial slurp, complete with sound effects that could wake a sleeping bear.

And here’s the thing: there is a perfectly quiet way to do it. Insert finger. Swipe slowly as you bring it out. Done. No theatrics, no audio track, no impression of a shop vac trying to pick up the last Cheerio under the couch. Just a simple, silent, socially acceptable gesture.

But for some reason, many people go straight to the loud version, the version that suggests they’re about to win a medal for “Most Audible Consumption of Sauce in a Public Setting.” I’ve sat near folks who lick one finger at a time like they’re starting a five-part series. They pause between each one, inhale dramatically, and then smack and slurp to the next. And the worst part? They always look so pleased with themselves afterward, like they’ve just executed a flawless sommelier-level manoeuvre.

Maybe it’s cultural, habit, or blissful obliviousness. But sitting there, trying to write or think or simply enjoy a quiet meal, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been unwillingly drafted into someone else’s sensory experience. There I am, mentally composing an article for publication or a sports rant or a blog entry about the nature of confidence, and suddenly my train of thought gets derailed by the unmistakable sound of someone trying to vacuum their own hands.

And it always seems to happen in clusters. One loud finger-licker finds the booth next to me, and before long, it’s like the universe has opened the floodgates for every single decibel-loving eater within a 10-mile radius. The wings arrive. The sauce begins its journey. The soundtrack begins. Some days I swear I can hear it echoing off the tabletops.

What fascinates me is how unnecessary it is. You can be as messy and enthusiastic as you want — that’s between you and the napkin — but there’s no requirement that you announce each step of the process to the rest of the restaurant. Nobody in the building needs real-time auditory updates on how well the sauce is sticking to your hands.

But here’s the upside: I’ve learned to turn these moments into material. These little human quirks — the booth-choosers, the loud finger-lickers, the people who talk on speakerphone in a public house — they’re all part of the never-ending buffet of slice-of-life absurdity. And packaged properly, they become stories, observations, and rants. The small, relatable things that make people nod and laugh and think, “Yes, I’ve seen that too.”

So if nothing else, the next time someone settles into the booth beside me in a half-empty restaurant and begins their own personal rendition of The Finger-Licking Philharmonic, I’ll remind myself: it’s all content.

When New Opportunities Don’t Feel Real

There’s a strange moment that happens when things finally start turning around. After years of grinding, rejection, physically and mentally recovering from a car accident and malignant narcissist abuse, burnout, or instability, your first instinct isn’t excitement; it’s disbelief. You question whether it’s luck, timing, or just another mirage.

But when opportunities start showing up, people reaching out, small projects trickling in, old contacts resurfacing, it’s not random. It’s the result of everything you did when no one was watching. Every article, every email, every small act of persistence sent quiet ripples outward. Now they’re coming back.

It doesn’t feel real because your nervous system is still wired for survival mode. But the proof is in front of you — your name circulating again in various industries, regular assignments with several clients that quietly orbit your skill set.

This isn’t a reset; it’s your second act taking shape. And it doesn’t need to resemble a traditional 9-to-5 career rebuild. Multiple income streams, creative autonomy, and selective partnerships — that’s the new definition of success for a seasoned professional who’s been through the fire and learned what matters.

So when something new lands and you think, “This feels unreal,” try reframing it: it’s not unreal, it’s just unfamiliar. Real progress feels strange after a long drought. But it’s happening.

The Surreal Distance Between What We Do and Who We Are

Ken Dryden admitted in his book The Game, that he could never quite connect with the fact that he was the goalie for the Montreal Canadiens during their glory years of the 1970s – the goalie, the one whose name was engraved on the Stanley Cup six times, and Vezina trophies, who shared a dressing room with legends and stood in goal during some of the most memorable moments in hockey history. He knew it was true, but it felt almost as if it had happened to someone else.

Even though I’m not as good a writer as he was a goalie, I understand that feeling completely.

Over the years, I’ve seen my name in magazines, online features, company websites, and press releases. I’ve interviewed prominent figures in sports, business, and technology, written for organizations I once only read about, and helped shape stories that reached audiences in ways I’ll never fully know. Yet every time I see my name attached to something, there’s this strange moment of distance, like I’m looking at a parallel version of myself, living in a different reality.

It’s not disbelief or false modesty. It’s more like an inability to feel that the person behind the byline is me. I know I wrote the words. I can remember the research, the interviews, and the editing process. But the moment something goes live, it almost ceases to belong to me. It becomes the work of “the writer” or “John Berkovich” but not myself.  

That disconnect is real, surreal, and humbling.

I’ve been pondering this and similar thoughts a lot lately, as readers of this blog likely noticed. And it’s not just what I do now, but the span of the last two decades or so. The countless projects, ghostwritten pieces, daily reporting on golf tours, campaigns, case studies, features, and more that shaped careers or captured stories, often without my name attached, except as a “For more information contact John Berkovich” at the bottom of a press release. For years, my voice existed publicly but invisibly. I wrote under other people’s bylines, watched their names appear where mine would have been, and took pride in the craft, even without the credit.

Now, when I see my own name again in an article on a regular – even daily basis – both consistent and visible, part of me still hasn’t recalibrated. My brain, more than ever, hasn’t caught up to the reality that the person people are reading is me. 

Writers inhabit a peculiar space between visibility and invisibility. We pour hours into something in isolation for the most part, with early mornings, late nights, and weekends sometimes, quiet rooms, noisy rooms, rewrites – then send it out into a world we never truly see. We know people read it, but we rarely, if ever, witness that moment. And at the same time, we don’t think anyone reads it. We don’t see the expression on their faces, the pause in their thoughts, or the quiet nod when something resonates. So even when someone comments, shares, or emails about a piece, it feels abstract, as if feedback from another world to another person, an alternate reality and version of me. That’s what makes it surreal.

A reader’s connection is real, but the writer’s experience of it is distant.

I think that’s why confidence can be such a fragile thing in creative work. You can have a long, successful track record and still feel like an imposter. You can look at your own portfolio and think, Who wrote all this? You know what the answer is, but for me at least, it doesn’t connect. Because in a way, the act of writing pulls something from you that exists beyond daily consciousness. The best work feels almost channeled, not constructed.

When I wrote recently about confidence, I realized it’s not just about believing in your abilities; it’s about reuniting with your own accomplishments. It’s recognizing that the person behind the laptop keyboard deserves to feel the weight of what they’ve done.

For years, I brushed off compliments or milestones as “just part of the job,” and I moved from assignment to assignment without stopping to acknowledge the path I was building. But looking back now, I see a body of work that’s been consistent, resilient, and honest even through burnout, self-doubt, and reinvention.

Maybe that surreal distance isn’t something to fix, but something to understand; it’s just the natural consequence of doing work that lives in the world longer than the moment it was created.

Ken Dryden may never have fully connected with the idea of being that goalie, and that’s okay. Perhaps that kind of disbelief keeps us grounded and is a quiet reminder that it is not the ego, but the work, that endures.

After more than two decades, I’m still learning to live with the strangeness of it: to see my work and (almost) accept, with a slight smile, that yes, it’s really me. And that even if it still feels like a parellel universe I move in and out of, and probably always will, it’s one I’m grateful to inhabit.

Rant No. 18: Do You Ever Shut Up?

Some people don’t just talk – they broadcast. It’s like they’re narrating a movie about themselves in surround sound, and you, unfortunately, got a front-row seat. They speak in that choppy, overconfident, I’m-an-expert-on-everything tone that carries across rooms, restaurants, and coffee shops alike. You’re not eavesdropping; they’re forcing participation.

It always starts the same way. You’re trying to eat, read, or simply exist, when a voice cuts through the background hum: “WELL, HERE’S THE THING.” And just like that, you’re trapped in someone else’s lecture on dock repairs, city taxes, or how no one understands the actual cost of lumber.

They don’t just talk – they perform. Their words come in bursts, chopped into dramatic little pieces to highlight just how important they are. “I HAVE to do this. I PUSHED and PUSHED until it happened. I REPAIRED my dock instead of REPLACING it.” Every syllable hits the air like a hammer on metal. You start wondering if they practice this cadence at home, maybe in front of a mirror labeled Audience of One.

And without fail, they always have food in their mouth. Half their sentences come out muffled through mashed potatoes, fries, or a chicken sandwich. Nothing like hearing a passionate rant about the cost of decking lumber while bits of coleslaw are making a break for freedom. They wave their fork around for emphasis, mid-sentence, bite, and keep talking without missing a beat as if breathing is a hobby, but speech is life.

These people exist everywhere. In cafés, turning a cozy background murmur into an unsolicited podcast. In libraries, where “quiet” apparently means “use your loud voice, but reverently.” And in restaurants, where they dominate entire sections, oblivious to the pained glances around them.

You can tell they think they’re fascinating. Their voice rises, they lean back, and they punctuate every thought with self-satisfaction. The confidence is bulletproof. They could be wrong about 90 percent of what they’re saying, but you wouldn’t know it from the delivery. They talk with the conviction of a scientist and the accuracy of a dart thrower in a windstorm.

What’s most impressive is their utter lack of awareness. You could stare directly at them, eyebrows raised, silently begging for mercy, and they wouldn’t notice. They’re too busy reenacting the heroic saga of their dock repairs. Meanwhile, their dining companion sits motionless, nodding just enough to appear engaged while slowly retreating into the safety of their soul.

Sometimes I think they fear silence. A pause may feel too much like insignificance. The quiet may expose the thought they were avoiding. So they keep going – louder, faster, mouth full, convinced the world would stop turning without their narration.

But for the rest of us, sitting nearby, it’s a slow descent into madness. You can’t focus on your food, your book, or even your thoughts. You start counting the beats between their words, hoping for the sweet mercy of an ending. You fantasize about leaning over and gently asking, “Do you ever shut up?” but you know that would only cue up another half-hour story about “this one time someone told me to shut up.”

So you take a deep breath, stir your drink, and accept your fate as an unwilling extra in their ongoing monologue. After all, they’re not just talking, they’re teaching. And in their mind, the world is lucky to listen.

So, for emphasis, I’ll repeat: Do you ever shut up?