Working Through the Fog

This week, I’ve been doing the work, but I haven’t been feeling it. You know that difference, don’t you? When the motions and mechanics are there – emails sent, words typed and submitted, and based on the feedback, gold star work, appointments set, boxes ticked – but there’s a hollowness behind it, almost like I’m watching myself from the outside.

I can’t even put my finger on what’s wrong. Nothing catastrophic has happened. The bills are still due, the deadlines are still there, the freelance pay will arrive in my account when it’s time (but man, am I ever impatient, especially at the end of the month), and life hasn’t thrown me a curveball big enough to explain the weight. And yet, something inside me feels muted.

Sometimes the hardest part is not quite knowing why. If I could say, “Oh, I didn’t sleep last night” or “I’m stressed about that one thing,” at least it would have a name. But when it’s just a vague heaviness, I start to question myself. Why am I like this? Why can’t I snap out of it?

That self-questioning only deepens the fog. It makes the day feel longer, the work feel heavier. And it’s frustrating, because I want to care (and deep down, I do, which keeps me going and prevents me from missing deadlines, as my professionalism always kicks in). I want to feel fired up. But the spark just isn’t catching. Perhaps I do know what’s wrong, but I don’t want to admit it. My spirituality has been lacking this week. I mean, nothing at all this week, which doesn’t help and makes matters worse. 

However, what’s been helping me is breaking things into tiny steps. Not “write the article.” Just “open the file.” Not “tackle the whole to-do list.” Just “pick one thing.”

It’s almost comical how tiny I make it. But it works. Because in the middle of this mental drag, a small start feels possible. And once I start, momentum usually comes in.

This week has also reminded me to stop expecting my best on my worst days. I wouldn’t demand a friend to perform at 100 percent if they admitted they were struggling. So why do I demand it of myself? The fog will pass eventually, but beating myself up won’t make it pass any faster.

There are little lifelines I’ve grabbed, such as stepping outside for air on day three without any sun (maybe that’s another reason why I feel shitty – no sun), walking around the block, blasting a song that shakes me awake for three minutes. Sometimes I even talk it out loud to myself: “I’m not feeling it today, but I’m here anyway, grinding it out.” It sounds silly, but voicing it makes me feel less trapped inside it.

The biggest comfort is remembering that one bad stretch doesn’t define me. A foggy week doesn’t erase years of work or progress. It’s just a patch of road I have to walk through. And maybe that’s the lesson: sometimes we’re not meant to sprint, or even jog. Sometimes we just keep moving, step by step, until the heaviness fades.

This week hasn’t been about brilliance. It’s been about endurance. And that, in its own quiet way, is enough.

Why the Creative Mind Both Thrives and Suffers

It’s always struck me how many of the world’s greatest artists carried heavy shadows. Charles Schulz, creator of Peanuts, often battled depression. Hemingway’s brilliance came with darkness that eventually swallowed him. Beethoven poured both fury and beauty into his music while fighting deafness and despair. And that list could stretch for pages, featuring writers, painters, actors, and musicians, all leaving legacies marked by both genius and struggle.

Why is it that so many creative people wrestle with what we now call mood disorders? Is it a coincidence, or is there something in the creative mind that makes the highs higher and the lows lower?

If there’s one common thread among creatives, it’s sensitivity. We notice things others don’t. The slight hesitation in someone’s voice. The way light filters through blinds. The rhythm of a city street. That sensitivity is the engine of creativity, allowing us to capture truth in words, images, or sound.

But heightened perception cuts both ways. It means joy can be ecstatic, but sadness can feel crushing. Where others shrug off a slight or a setback, a creative mind might carry it for days.  I don’t know how many times I’ve been creative and productive while in the throes of mental health struggles.

There’s also the way we think. Most people swipe a credit card and forget about it. I’ve read about, memorized, and internalized what actually happens in those milliseconds behind the scenes: the authentication, the bank checks, the virtual handshake between machines, “Yeah, he’s good for it.” Ninety-nine percent of people don’t know or care how it all works. 

That relentless curiosity – a desire to understand how everything works – fuels creativity. It’s the drive that makes us dig until we hit something deeper. But it also makes us prone to overthinking. Instead of letting thoughts pass, we endlessly turn them over, analyzing them from every angle until they feel “right.” But they seldom do unless we force our mind to shift elsewhere by sheer act of will. A small problem becomes a sprawling labyrinth.

I’ll give a recent example. I was posting a story for a client and spent over an hour deciding which image they provided would be the main one. I had a choice of four and went back and forth many times. Is this the right one? The background is a touch fuzzy. Is this the better one – yeah, but it doesn’t tell exactly what I want – almost, but not quite. And on it went. Actually, any of them were acceptable to the editor but even after publication (and I did make the right choice, judging by what went live), I was like, “Well, you know, this one …” No wonder my hair started going gray in my twenties. It would likely have been worse had they been my own photos instead of the submitted ones. I don’t usually go quite as far as I did this time, but on occasion, I do. 

For many creatives, it’s not enough for something to simply work; it has to mean something. Schulz didn’t just draw a boy, the neighborhood kids, and his dog; he created a world where loneliness, longing, and hope lived side-by-side with laughter. Hemingway’s prose wasn’t only about fishing trips or war – it was about isolation, courage, and the cost of being human. Beethoven didn’t write music just to fill silence; he poured his soul into symphonies that still make us feel his struggle centuries later.

When your craft depends on plumbing emotional depths, you don’t just dip your toe in the water; you dive. And sometimes, you stay under too long.

Creatives often feel “different.” We see the world at a slant. That’s part of what allows us to bring fresh perspectives, to notice the absurdities, to challenge the obvious. But difference can be isolating. The sense of being on the outside looking in can spark art but it can also feed a part of you that is never fulfilled and probably never can be.

Isolation is fertile ground for mood struggles. The more time we spend in our own heads, the easier it becomes to spiral out of control. And yet, paradoxically, that same sense of otherness is what gives our work its edge.

Of course, it’s not all philosophical. Science has weighed in, too. Studies have shown links between creativity and mood disorders. Creative brains often show irregular patterns in dopamine regulation, higher activity in regions tied to rumination, and sleep cycles that don’t match the rest of society’s. In plain terms: the same wiring that allows a creative leap can also destabilize mood. It’s like running a race car engine. The power is incredible but it’s also more prone to breakdowns.

So what do we make of all this? Should we envy those who “never seem to get down,” the ones who appear steady no matter what? Maybe. But maybe not. Because those who don’t feel the lows may also never experience the same highs.

The creative mind thrives in tension. We suffer because we feel deeply but we create for the very same reason. Our art stems from sensitivity, from analysis, from the relentless search for meaning, from the outsider’s perspective, and even from our neurochemistry. The struggle isn’t separate from the creativity; it’s interwoven with it.

Like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind (the movie version), we learn over time to practice a “diet of the mind” and choose which thoughts to feed, which to starve. It’s not perfect. The shadows don’t disappear. But with practice, the creative learns to live with them, even to turn them into fuel.

The next time you think of Schulz, Hemingway, or Beethoven, don’t see only the suffering. See how they channeled it. They didn’t escape their struggles, but they transformed them into art that continues to move us.

And that’s the quiet truth about creatives: we don’t just endure the lows. We convert them. The same mind that spirals can also rise, create, and leave behind something that helps others feel less alone. That’s not weakness, that’s alchemy.

When Silence Becomes a Necessity

I don’t know exactly when it happened. Somewhere in the last couple of years, I went from tolerating the usual everyday noise of kids running around and doing laps in an establishment, stomping their feet while their parents do nothing, music playing a bit too loud, and a crowded room humming with conversation, to being flat-out sensitive to it. Now, I long for dead quiet. It’s as if my whole nervous system has decided it’s had enough of the clatter and wants to retreat to a monastery in Tibet or become a complete recluse. 

The list of irritants is growing. Kids screaming and stomping around in restaurants and libraries. Cars blasting music as they roll down the street. People eating like pigs, slurping and chomping with no regard for others. Others talking so loud so they can be heard in the next county. Crowds that once felt lively now feel suffocating. Even background music in stores, which I used to tune out, can grate on me. I catch myself wondering: when did I get this way? Am I turning into the cranky old man yelling, “Get off my lawn,” or is there something deeper going on?

For most of my life, noise was just part of the atmosphere. You dealt with it, maybe rolled your eyes, and moved on. Now, it’s like every sound cuts closer to the bone. I’ve read that as people age, their tolerance for noise can decrease. Our hearing changes, our stress levels compound, and what we once brushed off becomes a trigger. But it feels like more than just age. It feels personal, like my system is begging for peace after years of overstimulation. Interestingly, years ago, before we were all connected, a column in the Globe and Mail addressed how someone actually looked forward to winter. Why? Because everything was quieter. Car windows were rolled up, not down. People on the street were scarce because of the cold, and, yes, people actually seemed to have more common courtesy during the colder months.

The last few years, marked by COVID-19, uncertainty, financial strain, and the endless churn of news (which I don’t indulge in much), have made me crave control. And since I can’t control the big things, I latch onto the small. Noise becomes the intruder I can identify and resent, the thing standing between me and a sense of calm.

And yet, life rarely offers silence. It’s a scarce commodity and is becoming more so all the time. Even campsites have turned into music festivals where several visitors crank the tunes until well past the 11 p.m. curfew on noise. Which means I either have to fight for it or adjust my expectations. It’s likely the latter, and I know the traumatic events I have experienced, one piled on top of another in short order, have definitely made me more sensitive when it comes to noise. Believe me, when you are going through a major adverse event, you crave silence to regroup.

Here’s the other piece: noise isn’t always just about sound. Sometimes, it represents what I dislike in people. Kids shrieking in restaurants? It’s not the sound alone – it’s the parents who don’t step in. Music blaring from cars? It’s the self-absorption of thinking everyone else wants to hear it. People eating with their mouths open, their phones on speakerphone, and their loud conversations (which may in part be due to the foreground music in restaurants now)? It’s a lack of basic respect that I know is gone for good. So, the sensitivity isn’t just to decibels – it’s what the noise says about the world around me.

Crowds once meant energy and togetherness. Now, they can feel like chaos, each voice demanding space in a room that’s already full. Maybe it’s because I’m at a point in life where I value quality over quantity: fewer people, fewer conversations, fewer obligations. More quiet moments, more meaningful interactions, more room to just relax and exist without the noise from the (un) civilized world.  

I don’t think I’ll ever love noise again. But I can learn how to live with it. Noise-canceling headphones help. So does walking in nature, where the sounds are gentler. Those sounds don’t irritate me; they soothe me. They remind me that not all noise is bad. Some of it reconnects you to life, rather than draining you.

I’ve also realized I can control more than I thought I could. I can choose where I sit or go. I can avoid peak hours. I can take breaks from crowded environments without feeling guilty about needing space. Most importantly, I can recognize that my sensitivity is a signal, not a flaw. It’s my mind and body saying, “Enough. You need a break. You need peace.”

Strangely, this new sensitivity has made me appreciate silence in a way I never did before. A quiet morning. A still afternoon. Even the brief pause between passing cars. Those moments feel like gifts now, slices of calm in a noisy world.

Maybe that’s the lesson. Noise will always be there: kids talking non-stop, music, crowds, life carrying on. But silence? Silence is precious. And when you finally notice how much you need it, you stop taking it for granted.

When Did We Stop Teaching Kids How to Behave in Public?

I’ve written about this before, but this is really starting to piss me off. The other night in a crowded restaurant, a friend and I found ourselves dodging squeals, shrieks, climbing on the bar (yes, you read that right), and running around from toddlers who had turned the place into a playground. Grandparents and dad sat by, doing absolutely nothing but smiling indulgently – which made my blood boil – while the rest of us tried to eat through the noise. Many patrons were clearly annoyed. It got me thinking about how different things were when I was growing up.

I don’t mean to sound like the “back in my day” guy, but the contrast is stark. When our parents took us out, there were rules. We weren’t perfect — no kid is — but the boundaries were clear: you don’t scream, you don’t run around, you don’t nearly knock over the server walking by as she balances three plates full of food, and you don’t disrupt everyone else’s meal. If you did, there were consequences, and not just an eye roll from the next table.

My parents drilled it into us: being in public meant showing respect. We sat at the table until the meal was done. We spoke in voices that didn’t carry across the room. And yes, if we tested those limits, there were repercussions – now, and probably later. Some might call that harsh, but I’m grateful for it now. It taught us that other people’s comfort mattered too.

I’ll never forget when my parents were once told they could bring their kids (us) to Buckingham Palace, because we were so well behaved. That’s how seriously they took it, and how much pride they felt in raising children who could handle themselves anywhere.

So when did that change? When did the pendulum swing from “children must adapt to the space” to “the space must adapt to the children and the hell with everyone else”?

Some of it comes down to shifts in parenting styles. Discipline has become a loaded word. Many parents are reluctant to correct their kids in public, worried they’ll look too harsh or that setting firm boundaries will be seen as outdated. “Gentle” or “hands-off” parenting has its place, but when it translates to letting children run wild in restaurants, it’s everyone else who pays the price.

There’s also a cultural shift around customer service. In the past, if your kid acted out in public, you’d be embarrassed. Today, the expectation is flipped: the restaurant, the staff, the strangers around you – they’re the ones expected to tolerate whatever your kids are doing. That sense of shared responsibility for public spaces has eroded.

And then there’s social media. We’ve normalized “cute chaos” by posting videos of kids running amok in places they probably shouldn’t be. What used to be considered disruptive is now reframed as entertaining – but only for those behind the camera. For everyone else, it’s just noise and annoying as hell.

What gets lost in all of this is the lesson kids miss out on. Public manners aren’t about being uptight – they’re about learning how to share space respectfully. A child who knows how to sit through dinner without screaming is a child who will grow up understanding that their actions have an impact on others. That’s not just good etiquette; that’s basic citizenship.

I’m not calling for the return of wooden spoons or draconian discipline. However, I do think we’ve swung too far in the other direction. Kids need boundaries, and adults need to remember that letting children run wild in public isn’t doing them any favors. It just teaches them that rules don’t apply outside the home. And the parents and grandparents are even worse for allowing it to happen.

Restaurants, airplanes, theaters, and grocery stores are shared spaces. Everyone in them has a right to a baseline of peace. Teaching kids that isn’t punishment; it’s preparation for the real world.

So when I think back to the other night, to my friend and I in the far corner of the restaurant, trying to escape the shrieks, I can’t help but think we’ve lost something important. Somewhere along the way, the pride in raising well-behaved kids in public has given way to a shrug and a smile.

And frankly, I miss the days when parents cared enough to teach their kids that the world doesn’t revolve around them.

The Myth of Doing It All Before 7 a.m.

Scroll through LinkedIn or Facebook, and you’ll see no shortage of “rise and grind” posts. Someone is at the gym before 5 a.m., someone else has read a book, sent fifteen emails, meditated, cooked breakfast for their family, and outlined their daily goals – all before you’ve finished your first coffee. The message is clear: if you’re not doing as much as they are, as early as they are, you’re not successful.

But here’s a question I keep coming back to: how many people can really keep that pace up for years? My guess is very few.

Indeed, anyone can push through several months or a year of intense effort. I’ve done it. We’ve all had those bursts of adrenaline with big goals, the critical project, the “I’ll sleep later” phase. However, building a life around constant pre-dawn productivity requires more than just willpower. It requires sacrificing rest, relationships, and sometimes even one’s health. And even when people can sustain it for a while, the long-term cost usually shows up eventually.

What I suspect is that many of those “look at everything I do before 7 a.m.” every day posts are more about image than reality. Social media thrives on performance. You don’t post the mornings you say the hell with it, or the days when the weights feel too heavy, or the times your kids need you more than your planner does. You post the highlight reel. And after a while, even the people posting it start to confuse the performance with the truth.

That’s where the danger lies for the rest of us. We scroll, compare, and can feel behind. If they can do it, why can’t we? And the cycle of “more, more, more” spins up again. We forget that real productivity isn’t about squeezing more into the day – it’s about doing the right things with focus and energy.

The older I get, the less impressed I am with constant hustle and the more I respect sustainability and pacing.

Anyone can sprint, but few can run a marathon. And life is closer to a marathon. You can burn yourself out with two-hour 5 a.m. workouts and nonstop tasks, or you can find a rhythm that allows you to keep showing up day after day, year after year.

That’s why I keep circling back to the idea of enough. Enough doesn’t mean lazy. It doesn’t mean lacking ambition. It means you’ve chosen a pace you can live with, a standard that doesn’t eat you alive. It means you measure success not by how early your alarm clock goes off, but by whether your work and your life actually move in the direction you want them to.

So the next time you see a start at 5 a.m. “grind” post, take it with a grain of salt. Ask yourself not, “Why am I not doing all that?” and feel like a failure, but “Do I even want to live like that? Is it sustainable? Is it necessary?”

For me, the answer is no. My do-everything, all-the-time days are behind me. Now, progress looks like steady effort, healthy boundaries, and knowing when to take a break. Maybe that doesn’t make for a flashy social media post. But it does make for a life I can actually live.

A Dog in the Library

As I’ve written about before, libraries were once considered sacred. Whisper-only zones. The quietest public space you could find outside a soundproof room. You came in, grabbed your books, or settled down at a table, and the unspoken agreement was simple: silence. Respect the space and others. Respect the idea that not everything in life has to sound like a company cafeteria at lunch hour. However, it appears that the agreement has expired.

Okay, this one is partly on me because I forgot my noise-cancelling headphones. Still, I was already gritting my teeth the other day because the librarians themselves—yes, the very people who are supposed to protect the quiet—were talking as if they were catching up over brunch. Forget hushed tones and leaning in. You know, like you’re supposed to do in a library. No, this was regular conversation volume, ten feet from me and bouncing off the walls. Meanwhile, I’m trying to work, surrounded by the exact same people who would tell me to lower my voice if I dared to answer a call or not wear my earbuds during a conference call. The irony practically wrote itself.

And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it happened.

A man walked into the library with a dog. Yes, a dog. Not a service dog, not a guide dog, not a dog with any visible vest or badge. Just a regular, everyday dog, padding along beside him like this was the park or his living room. I did a double-take. Surely, I thought, I must be imagining this. Surely the staff would step in. Surely there were rules, signs, something. Nope. He sat down with his dog. And, of course, because dogs do what dogs do, the animal started barking. Not yipping once, not a polite “ruff.” I mean barking loud enough that the very walls of this supposed sanctuary of silence rattled with every woof. I love dogs, but in a library? Come on!

I looked up, and our eyes met. And in that moment, I know my face said it all: You’ve got to be kidding me; what the hell are you doing? This is a library. I must have looked like I was about ready to climb over the table and toss him and his dog out myself, because he got the message. Without a word, he got up and left. And I sat there thinking, ‘What happened to reasoning?’ What happened to logical thinking, ‘If I bring a dog in here, what may happen, and am I even allowed to do so?’

I don’t bring my blender to the library. I don’t fire up a leaf blower next to the checkout desk. I don’t play music at ear-splitting volume. And I certainly don’t drag in a living, barking creature that has no business being there. Why? Because I respect the space and I understand the concept of a social contract. Because I know that my presence isn’t supposed to make everyone else’s experience worse.

But that is gone these days. Everything’s casual, everything’s “why not?” No boundaries, no rules, no common courtesy or common sense. People act like wherever they are is just another extension of their living room, and if anyone has a problem with it, well, that’s on them. The truth is, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. A barking dog in a library. Not a children’s story time, not a special event—just a regular day, with a regular guy, treating the library like a pet-friendly coffee shop.

So here’s my question: if the librarians can talk as loud as they want, kids don’t have to stick to the play area of the library but are allowed to run everywhere, while I’m reminded, with a sign, to use earbuds on video calls, and people can stroll in with their dogs, what’s next? Someone grilling hamburgers in the biography section? A guy flying a drone between the shelves? A rock band rehearsing for its next gig? At this rate, nothing would surprise me. 

I miss the old days when you could count on a library for peace. When the only sounds were pages turning, pencils scratching, and the occasional polite cough. Now, the soundtrack includes loud, hypocritical librarians, out-of-control kids, and the sharp bark of a dog echoing down the stacks.

You can’t make this stuff up.

The Danger of Always Doing More When Enough Is Actually Enough

This entry is the first in a two-part series. Part two will be published September 15.

I’ve been guilty of it more times than I can count. The nagging voice that says you could be doing more. More work, more hustle, more output, more proving yourself. It sneaks into my spiritual life, my business life, even my personal habits. And for a long time, I treated that voice like a tyrannical coach urging me forward. But I’ve come to realize something: always doing more isn’t discipline; rather, it’s a trap.

We live in a culture that glorifies being busy from dawn until well into the evening, yet simultaneously promotes the benefits of sleep, the consequences of sleep deprivation, and the importance of downtime. Suppose you’re not juggling nine projects at once, side hustling, reading twelve newsletters, listening to podcast after podcast, and somehow squeezing in a seven-mile run and an hour at the gym pre-dawn. In that case, according to some, you may be “falling behind” or “not getting ahead.” Which begs the question, who am I racing? It’s a competitive illusion. More doesn’t always mean better – it often just means exhausted.

I’ve seen this first-hand in my own career. There have been stretches when I said yes to everything: extra assignments, side gigs, volunteering, late nights chasing perfection. On the surface, it appeared to be productivity. Underneath, it was stress, burnout, and a creeping sense that I wasn’t actually happy. The irony is, the more I tried to do, the less satisfied I felt.

Why? Because “more” has no finish line. You don’t get to the end of the to-do list, exhale with relief, and declare victory. As soon as one thing is done, the mind rushes in with the next demand because the list never ends. It’s like being on a treadmill that speeds up every time you think you’re about to catch your breath. 

The real danger of always doing more is that it blinds you to what’s already enough. I’ve had moments where I realized the work I had done was good, the effort was sufficient, and the box was checked. But because I was conditioned to keep pushing, I robbed myself of the satisfaction of calling it finished. Instead of “done,” I defaulted to “what else?”

The shift for me has been learning to recognize “enough” as its own kind of success. Enough doesn’t mean lazy, or settling, or giving up. It means you’ve given what the moment requires, and you trust that it’s sufficient. For example, a solid, clean, factual story filed on deadline is enough. It doesn’t need another two hours of tinkering, another three quotes, or perfection to prove its worth. The work stands on its own.

In fact, the discipline of stopping is often more complicated than the discipline of grinding. Anyone can fill time with “more.” But to pause and look at what you’ve done and say, “this is enough,” that takes clarity and confidence. It means you’ve silenced the noise of comparison and the addiction to busyness long enough to stand on steady ground.

Most of us don’t need to add more. We need to subtract. We need to cut away the overthinking, the endless tweaking, the compulsion to prove ourselves by sheer volume while expecting perfection. What remains after the subtraction is focus. And focus, more than hustle, is what gets meaningful work done.

There’s freedom in embracing enough. It frees your energy to move on to the next task without dragging perfectionism behind you. It frees your mind to enjoy the present instead of being drawn to the next demand. And most importantly, it frees your spirit from the shame of feeling like you’re always behind.

So here’s my reminder to myself, and maybe to you: More isn’t always better. Sometimes, more is the very thing that steals joy from what you’ve already achieved. Enough isn’t a consolation prize; it’s the goal.

And today, in a world that constantly pushes us to do more, choosing “enough” might just be the boldest move of all.

Rant No. 13: The Chaos at Self-Checkout

Self-checkout was supposed to make shopping faster, easier, and more efficient. Supposed to. Instead, it’s become a full-contact sport, a test of patience, and a reminder that sometimes, technology makes life more complicated, not better.

First off, there’s the machine itself. You scan an item, and it yells at you like a cranky teacher: “Unexpected item in bagging area.” Really? The item I just scanned is now an “unexpected” item? What did you expect me to do — buy it and then juggle it in midair or punt it toward the exit? You remove the item, and it scolds you again. You put it back, and it’s the same thing. Before long, you’re trapped in a loop, arguing with a box of wires and sensors like it’s a stubborn toddler.

And then there’s produce. Scan a box of cereal, no problem. Scan bananas? Suddenly, you’re on a quest. Is it a “banana, organic,” “banana, regular,” “banana, Brazil,” or “banana, Guatemala”? You see images of every kind of fruit imaginable, desperately searching, while the line behind you starts to grow restless. By the time you find the right button, you’ve aged five years, and you’re wondering why you didn’t just go to the cashier like a normal person.

Self-checkout was always meant to be the modern-day express lane: ten items or fewer, quick in and out, no fuss. But somewhere along the line, people decided it was also the perfect place to unload a week’s worth of groceries for The Brady Bunch. Nothing slows down the system faster than watching someone with seventy-eight items in their cart try to scan and bag every last one while the machine has a meltdown over bagging space. “Excuse me, attendant. Can you help me lift this 50-pound bag of dog food so I can scan it?” Meanwhile, the rest of us with one lonely carton of milk are standing there, questioning our life choices.

And then there’s the aforementioned attendant. The one human left in this sea of machines. Their job is to swoop in with a key card every time the computer throws a tantrum – which is roughly every thirty seconds. Romaine lettuce purchase? Key card. Coupon scan? Key card. The machine froze because you dared to bring your reusable bags rather than purchase them so the store can make even more money? Key card. By the time you’re done, you’ve had more interaction with the attendant than you would’ve with a cashier in the first place. You know her so well now that you ask her if she has any dinner plans next Friday. 

Payment doesn’t make it any easier. Swipe your card the wrong way? Error. Does your debit chip have a microscopic scratch? Error. Tap too early? Error. Half the time, you’re standing there tapping, swiping, inserting, and praying to the retail gods for approval. When the screen finally flashes “Remove Card,” you feel like you’ve survived a major life event.

In theory, self-checkout was supposed to save time. In practice, it’s a gauntlet of flashing lights, shrill beeps, frozen screens, impatient crowds, and robotic voices scolding you for existing. The stress of getting through it makes you nostalgic for the days when a cashier rang you through, made small talk about the weather, and sent you on your way.

So yes, I still use self-checkout. But every time I do, I wonder if it’s worth the headache. Because self-checkout isn’t self-checkout at all, it’s self-doubt, self-loathing, and self-destruction – all rolled into one.

The Struggle With What Holds Us Together

It’s always struck me as strange — the very thing that holds me together is also the thing I wrestle with the most. For me, that’s my spiritual side. It grounds me, lifts me, and gives me perspective, and yet it’s been a struggle for twenty years.

I’ve asked myself countless times: Why would something so central to my well-being feel like a battle? Shouldn’t it be easy, natural, automatic? But I’ve come to realize the answer is simple: the things that matter most are often the hardest to maintain.

We don’t struggle with things that don’t matter. We don’t wrestle with things that don’t shape us. It’s the core pieces of our lives — faith, relationships, health — that demand the most effort and, often, the most patience. They’re also the places where setbacks sting the most, because we know how much is at stake.

For me, spirituality isn’t just a matter of belief; it’s a matter of survival. It’s the anchor I return to when everything else feels like it’s slipping. And maybe that’s why the struggle exists: because I know how much I need it. The enemy of my peace isn’t in the outside world; it’s in the small, daily choices of whether I show up, read, pray, attend, or drift. It’s also the battle in my mind that I must fight every day.

The struggle itself isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that the fight is worth it. If something has held me together this long, even imperfectly, it deserves my persistence.

So yes, I wrestle with my spiritual side. But I also know it’s the very reason I’m still here to wrestle at all.

Rant No. 12: Menus I Can’t Read and Meals I Can’t Pronounce

Dining out is supposed to be simple: you sit down, look at the menu, order your food, and enjoy. But somewhere along the way, restaurants decided that clarity was boring and mystery was chic. Now, half the time I open a menu, I feel like I need a magnifying glass, a flashlight, and maybe a translator just to figure out what’s for dinner.

Let’s start with the fonts. Who decided that 8-point script, printed in gray ink on an off-white background, under candlelight, was a good idea? Yes, I’m getting older but I’m squinting so hard I look like I’m trying to crack a code. By the time I’ve deciphered the appetizers, my eyes are watering, and I’ve lost the will to eat.

And then there’s the dish names. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate international cuisine, but sometimes the menu reads like a foreign language exam. Am I ordering pasta or a Harry Potter spell? The server comes by and suddenly I’m rehearsing pronunciations in my head, only to panic and point at the menu with a sheepish, “I’ll have this one.” Nothing says confident diner like playing the world’s least exciting game of charades.

Even when the names are readable, the descriptions can get out of hand. I don’t need a novella about where the mushrooms were foraged or the emotional journey of the cow that became my steak. Just tell me what it is and why I should eat it.

A menu should make me hungry, not stressed. If I need reading glasses, Google Translate, and a deep breath before ordering, something has gone wrong. Restaurants, take note: food is the star. Keep the menu readable, pronounceable, and mercifully short. Trust me, your customers will thank you.