Putting the Past Behind You and Moving Ahead, And What That Really Looks Like

You’ve heard the advice a hundred times and maybe even here a few times. Let it go. Put the past behind you. Move forward. Move on. It sounds clean and empowering—like something you’d see on a motivational poster or hear in a graduation speech. However, that advice is useless if it doesn’t come with a “how.”

You don’t just decide to move on from trauma the same way you decide what to have for dinner. The past doesn’t stay buried just because you tell it to. If it did, we’d all be emotionally light, free of baggage, and sleeping soundly. Instead, most people carry their past like a ghost in their backpack that is present, invisible to others, and far heavier than it looks. The thing with emotional trauma is that others can’t see it. It’s not like a broken leg where you are hobbling along on crutches for a few weeks. Everyone sees that. Only you can “see” emotional trauma within you and how it may affect you to this day. 

How do you actually put the past behind you and move forward? Here’s a roadmap. It’s not linear, and it’s not magic. But it’s real.

Stop pretending it didn’t happen. One of the most common coping mechanisms people adopt is denial. “It wasn’t that bad.” “I’ve moved on.” “Other people have it worse.” But trauma doesn’t disappear because you downplay it. It waits. And it leaks into relationships, decisions, employment, habits, moods, and even physical health. Ignoring it only delays the healing. The first step isn’t about moving on. It’s about looking back honestly without sugarcoating or comparing your pain to other people.

It’s about looking back without judgment and acknowledging that it hurt and it did shape you, and you may still carry all or at least part of it. It’s a wound, or wounds, you have to look at before treating it, just like a physical wound. 

Grieve what was lost. Trauma often comes with loss; not just of people, but of trust, identity, innocence, safety, and dreams. And you have to grieve those things before you can move forward. Grief isn’t a one-day process and doesn’t stick to a schedule. On that last point, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you should be over something by now, according to their timetable. I had one jackass tell me that after a traumatic event and I’ve barely spoken to him since. Trauma doesn’t always involve tears. Sometimes grief shows up as numbness, burnout, anger, apathy, depression, anxiety, poor sleep, procrastination, fatigue, frustration, or withdrawal. Sometimes all of those at the same time, or one right after the other. Let yourself feel it. All of it, right down to the core you, the deepest part of you. And understand that grieving doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human. It means you’re clearing space. Without suffering what was, you can’t fully embrace what could be.

Name the impact. Ask yourself: How has this trauma affected me? Do I struggle to trust people? Do I avoid closeness? Do I overwork to distract myself? Do I sabotage good things? Do I blame myself for things that weren’t my fault? Write it down. Say it out loud. Talk it through with someone you trust, whether that be your concept of a higher power, a close friend, or both. Naming the impact doesn’t reinforce victimhood; it reclaims power. It makes the invisible visible. And once you know what’s broken, you can start to rebuild.

Choose healing over numbing. Moving ahead doesn’t mean stuffing the pain down and distracting yourself with productivity, achievements, or addictions (yes, even “good” ones like work and fitness can be used to avoid healing). At some point, you have to choose healing over numbing. That could mean therapy and journaling. It could mean trauma-informed coaching, group support, EMDR, or just carving out time every week to check in with yourself emotionally. Yeah, it will feel awkward and even self-indulgent. But it’s the difference between surviving and truly living.

Let go of the timeline. You don’t heal on a clock, yours or anyone else’s. You don’t “get over” betrayal or abuse or abandonment in six weeks. Some wounds take years to scar over. Others never disappear entirely—they just stop bleeding. Release the pressure to be “done.” The goal isn’t to forget. The goal is to live fully what happened, not because of it, nor in spite of it, but with it as part of your story. This isn’t a sprint or even a marathon. It’s a lifelong practice and a series of choices. And you don’t have to, and won’t, get it perfect to make progress. 

Redefine yourself without the trauma. Eventually, you reach a place where you get to ask: Who am I without this pain as my primary identity? For a long time, your trauma might have defined you. And in some ways, it may have even protected you. But healing means growing past it, not staying trapped in it. Start small: What do I value now? What brings me joy? What do I want my future relationships to look like? How do I speak to myself now that I know better? You’re not erasing the past—you’re integrating it. You’re making peace with it so it doesn’t write your future chapters for you.

Build a life that supports you because this is the practical side of healing. Once you’ve done the inner work, you have to align your outer life with it: Set boundaries with people who re-trigger your pain, you may have to cut them off for your protection; leave environments that keep you stuck; pursue work, hobbies, and relationships that reflect your growth; let yourself have good days; allow laughter; welcome peace, even if it feels unfamiliar. Don’t just “move ahead” in theory, build ahead in practice.

You deserve a future that isn’t held hostage by your past. The past may have shaped you and done some severe damage, but it doesn’t get to own you. You can put it behind you. Not by forgetting it and not by pretending it never happened. But by facing it, processing it, grieving it, learning from it, and then, slowly but surely, choosing something better every day. You’re allowed to move forward and don’t have to carry the whole weight with you when you do.

How to Get Unstuck From Overthinking, Overplanning, and Underdoing 

Have you ever spent hours, days, or even months planning something, only to realize you haven’t started, or if you have, you haven’t done all that much? Maybe you have a dozen notebooks filled with ideas, A Word or Google doc of tasks, or a list of goals so long and detailed that it feels overwhelming to look at it. If you do, you’re not alone. Overthinking and overplanning often disguise themselves as productivity, but they’re actually just mental roadblocks. They create the illusion of progress while keeping us stuck in the same place. And yes, I am writing from experience. The real challenge isn’t coming up with ideas—it’s executing them. So, how do we get unstuck? How do we break free from analysis paralysis and take meaningful action?

One of the biggest traps of overthinking is wanting to do too many things. You might have ten different goals, all equally important in your mind. You may want to start a new business, write four books, lose 60 pounds or more no matter how old you are, travel, relocate to a warmer and sunnier climate, and learn a new language, all at the same time. But trying to do everything at once leads to decision fatigue, frustration, and ultimately, inaction. Instead of spreading yourself thin, prioritize. What’s the one thing that matters most right now? Not forever; just right now. Ask yourself: What will impact my life most if I start today? What is truly urgent, and what can wait? What excites me the most? Choose one primary focus, and let the rest sit on the back burner. Once you gain momentum, you can tackle other goals.

The problem with overplanning is that it makes things feel bigger than they are. A goal like “write a book” or “start a business” can feel massive and impossible. Instead of looking at the entire mountain, take the first step. Set a rule: Break every goal into the smallest possible action you can take today.

Momentum builds from small wins yet the hardest part is often just starting.

Planning is proper, but only if it leads to action. If you find yourself constantly refining your plan, researching endlessly, or waiting for the “perfect moment,” set a time limit. Decide: I will spend no more than [X] hours planning before taking action. Give yourself one week to research a project and then start. Allow 30 minutes to plan your day and then execute. Spend one hour outlining your book and then write the first page. The key is to make planning a tool, not a crutch.

One of the biggest reasons people get stuck in overthinking is the fear of failure. What if it doesn’t work? What if it’s not good enough? What if people judge me? Nothing will be perfect on the first try. No book is flawless in the first draft or even the fourth. No business launches without hiccups. No fitness journey is mistake-free. You’ll never start if you wait until you have all the answers. Take sloppy, imperfect action. Learn as you go. The faster you start, the quicker you can adjust and improve.

Most people set outcome-based goals, like: “I want to lose 50 pounds.” “I want to write a best-selling book.” “I want to make $120K this year.” However, outcome-based goals don’t tell you what to do today. Instead, set execution-based goals: Instead of “lose 60 pounds,” → “I will eat less, and exercise for 30 minutes daily.” Instead of “write a book, → “I will write 500 words every morning.” Instead of “make $120K, → “I will pitch three clients per week.” Execution-based goals give you control. You can’t control the outcome, but you can control your effort.

It’s easy to procrastinate when no one is watching; the antidote to this is to create accountability: Find an accountability partner who will check in with you. Announce your goal publicly– Social (media) pressure can be motivating, but remember not to overdo it. Use a habit tracker; seeing your progress visually can keep you going. When others expect you to follow through, you’re less likely to make excuses.

Overthinkers tend to say, “I’ll start tomorrow” or “next Monday will be better.” But waiting doesn’t make things easier. Yesterday was the best time to start, and now is the second-best time. When you catch yourself hesitating, ask: “What small action can I take in the next five minutes?” “If I had to start right now, what would I do first?” “What’s stopping me from taking action today?” More often than not, the answer is simple: nothing but fear or perfectionism. You don’t need the perfect plan; you just need to start and take it one day at a time. What’s one small step you can take right now?

Rant No. 2: The People Who Sit Right Next to You in an Empty Restaurant

It’s time for my weekly rant, which, like all the others in this series, is based on experiences I’ve had more than once over the years.

On my way back to the hotel from a day of sightseeing during a two-week vacation, I parked my rental car and walked into a quiet, seat-yourself restaurant for dinner. There were twenty-four booths, a bar, and zero customers because it was still too early for the dinner crowd. I figured I would have at least twenty minutes to myself; it was peaceful, and I was looking for solitude and pre-hotel room unwind time. I slid into a booth at the far end of the establishment with my back to the entrance, ready to enjoy my beverage, my chicken salad wrap and soup, and some time for reflection.

And then … they arrived. A group of four walks into the restaurant, and out of all the booths available, they choose the booth right behind me. Out of all the real estate they could have claimed, including at least a dozen booths with a better view, they decided: Right. Behind. Me. Why? Just … why? They had options. They had a sea of clean, untouched booths, a corner booth on the vacant other side, or four tables on the empty, small patio on a deliciously warm and sunny afternoon. But no. They saw a lone diner at the back and collectively thought, That’s the exact proximity we want. Close enough to share germs and body spray molecules and close enough so that the lone diner can hear us eating our chicken wings like pigs and slurping our beverages. 

This isn’t assigned seating; it’s common sense and universal. The rule is simple: maximize the space. We’re not in a mosh pit. You won’t hear any secrets from my booth because I am dining alone. Somebody’s head is now a foot from mine.  Your group sat down, and suddenly my personal space shrinks by 84 percent. A laminated board and a thin layer of regret separate us. If I lean back, my head touches someone’s backwards cap. I now know who uses Axe Dark Temptation body spray; frankly, I didn’t need to.

You’re not just too damn close — you’re annoyingly loud. You didn’t come in for a relatively quiet dinner, or even a moderately noisy one. No, your group is loudly and proudly sharing every lip smack, every detail of a root canal, co-worker drama, new girlfriend someone finally slept with, and vacation photos and videos. Meanwhile, I’m trying to enjoy my meal without learning about the unfortunate shape of your cousin’s latest tattoo. Were you folks hoping to engage in conversation with me? Maybe you saw me and thought, He must want company. I don’t. And it’s too late to move, nor should I have to. I’m sitting where I am and with my back to anyone who comes in because I want to just relax and eat before the evening rush. I’m in a great mood, at least I was until you sat where you did, but if I wanted a community dining experience, I’d be at a food court. If I wanted conversation, I’d chat with the bartender. I came here for a booth to myself, and possibly even dessert. Not for your group to narrate your lives and loudly suck on your fingers near my ear canal.

There is a reason the server looked at you funny. They saw your group bypass every other booth like you were on a mission, and they saw me roll my eyes with a You gotta be kidding me! look and sigh when you sat down. They’ve seen this before and they know better. Your group? You’re new to the game or just ignoring the playbook completely. Give me a two-booth buffer; three or four is better. Give me and us a neutral zone and a personal-space demilitarized zone. You wouldn’t park beside someone in an empty lot or use the urinal next to a guy when there are eight empty ones in the same row. The rules are the same here. 

So the next time you walk into a quiet and nearly empty restaurant and have, besides my booth, your pick of the place, remember: just because I’m here doesn’t mean I want to guess your shampoo brand in five whiffs or less. Sit somewhere else and remember the buffer zone.

Why Some Folks Start Over After a Few Bad Days And Why They Shouldn’t

Most of us have said it at one time or another, especially after a few setbacks. “I’ll start fresh on Monday,” “Tomorrow is a new day,” or one of my favorites, “I’m resetting everything next week with new goals, a better attitude, and a stronger commitment this time.” Escaping the “start over” trap can be difficult, especially if we have done it several times. 

It sounds hopeful and exciting — maybe even productive — but it can also be a trap and a vicious cycle; a clever, emotionally dressed-up form of procrastination. It sounds hopeful because behind the “start over” mentality is often a quiet kind of shame. You had a few bad days and spiraled; you lost your rhythm, focus, and motivation. However, instead of just rejoining the path where you left off, you return to the starting line because “This time will be different,” even though history says it never is. Not once. 

You start a new journal, online or handwritten, set up a spreadsheet to track everything, incorporate a new set of rules and a new plan to be flawless … and we mean flawless. No screw-ups, no bad days, no missing the mark of perfection by a millimeter or one less step or one more morsel of food than you were supposed to take today. 

But here’s the truth I’ve learned: You don’t need to start over; you just need to keep going. There is no magic formula, nor do you need another paid guru, another newsletter, or a magic start date for the seventy-third time.  When we constantly restart, we teach ourselves that mistakes erase progress — and they don’t. Life isn’t a video game with a reset button. It’s a long hike along a trail. Sometimes you stumble over that rock protruding from the ground, take a water break, sit on a rock or stump, or walk in circles for an hour because you went down one of the side trails and got distracted. However, the main trail is still there, and the only way forward is forward. 

I’ve lived in that loop: “Bad” few days = New plan Monday. Fall off again = “Okay, next week for real and perfect execution every day.” Repeat until exhausted, frustrated, and convinced I’m just not disciplined enough. However, what I really needed wasn’t more discipline. It was more compassion. To forgive myself for a few rough days without deciding my whole life needs a reboot. I needed to stop overcomplicating things and say, “That happened. Now I keep going.” It’s not fancy, and there is no dopamine rush from that mindset. But it is the only thing that actually works long-term. So, don’t wait for Monday if you’re reading this on a random Thursday where you stuffed yourself at lunch or a my life sucks Friday that included a complete meltdown. Just rejoin the path with no fanfare and no starting-over mentality. 

Three Days Off Writing and I Lose My Mind (and My Mojo)

There’s a rhythm to writing that’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived it. It’s not about flow, productivity, word count, or even deadlines; it’s about movement. That sense that your mind, even on a nature walk, is turning over, processing, sorting, sharpening. Even when the words don’t seem quite right, at least you know the engine is running. It may be on cruise control or in first gear, but it’s running. 

When I write regularly, almost daily, I feel grounded. I feel awake and present. But things start to unravel when I don’t, especially over a long stretch like a three-day weekend (yes, three days is a long time for me not to write). The engine stalls and the rhythm breaks. And I don’t feel a little off—I feel like I’ve lost something important.

The last long weekend in Canada, May 17-19, I gave myself permission to rest. Full stop for three days. No deadlines, no personal or professional projects, no word counts, no blogs, no notebook and pen, no pressure. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was, well, … uncomfortable. I read once that Stephen King not just likes, but has to write every day or he goes a little crazy. The story, perhaps apocryphal, reflects the mind of many writers. I’m not in his league, but I understand where he comes from. 

Day one? Fine. Yeah, it’s nice to visit friends, do a nature walk, read a print publication, stare out at the lake or off into space and not think about anything; just let my mind go where it goes as long as it doesn’t go into negative territory because the way my mental circuitry is, negative thinking tends to spiral. Day two? Another nature walk, a few errands, more reading, and hanging with a different group of friends. I am a little restless, but it’s manageable. Day three? Forget it. I felt like I was crawling out of my own skin. Not from boredom, but from the absence of something I’ve come to rely on: the act of writing. Not for show, not even always for public consumption —just writing as a way to breathe through this thing we call life. It was nice to rest my eyes from looking at the computer and phone for three days, and they did need it, but damn it, where was my notebook and pen. 

I’m not saying I can’t take a break. I’m saying I shouldn’t take too long of one. Because somewhere between “well-deserved rest” and “completely unplugged” lies a dangerous place for me: disconnection. My brain doesn’t slow down just because I stop typing. When I stop writing, it starts spinning harder. Not out of control racing thoughts, serious stress harder. More like a controlled, thoughtful spin. Thoughts pile up like unread emails and I lose my rhythm, my clarity, my sense of direction. I get antsy and frustrated, and feel like I’m stagnating. On day four, like the working Tuesday after the holiday Monday, it’s a struggle to find my rhythm again, and I do what I call piecework and grinding it out —a bit of this, a bit of that. I’m fine by the afternoon, but Tuesday morning, while I do get stuff done, is haphazard. I don’t have my best stuff workwise, or for more personal writing and blogging. I realize everyone eases back into things after a long weekend, but for me, this can be any three-day stretch of not writing. So, do I bring my laptop when heading to a sun-soaked destination for a week or more? Sometimes, but it usually stays dark. However, I do bring something to read, my phone for photographs, and a notebook and pens to jot down the memories from the trip and whatever else comes to mind.

Some people restore themselves through silence, sleep, or solitude. I need a few words on a page. Not a masterpiece; just movement. That’s the key. It’s something to signal that I’m still in motion and still in the game. Still connected to that part of me that makes sense of this world by stringing letters into thoughts and thoughts into something worth holding onto. And when I skip that process for too long, everything else feels just a bit off. It’s a surreal place that makes me feel as if I exist in a parallel universe I don’t belong in. 

The irony? I believe in rest and sometimes grumble that I need a break. I’ve run on empty. I’ve been burned out more than once. I mean, truly burned out, check yourself into a hospital severe exhaustion, where even writing was a chore (which is when I realized how deep into the hell I was) burnout. And in the last few years, I’ve dealt with several things that are categorized as trauma, some that defy explanation, and both my mind and body have responded accordingly (Maybe I will write about that publicly someday, and maybe that surreal, parallel universe feeling comes partly into play here as a trauma response). I know what happens when you push too hard for too long. I just think there’s a difference between resting and disconnecting from what centers you. And for me, writing—however small, however sloppy—is what brings me back to myself.

I’ve been prolific recently, perhaps it is the unshackling I spoke of in an earlier blog. This is all that stuff, good and bad, that has happened in my 60+ years being pumped to the surface in one form or another. Eventually, it may all come out in published form, much of it is still unpublished, some visceral and some not so much. A friend asked me about all this writing spewing out of me over the last few months, as I’ve slowly recovered from burnout and those traumatic events I mentioned. He asked, “Why now?” “I don’t know,” I responded. “Maybe it’s just time for it to come out.”

So no, I’m not complaining about the long weekend. But I’ve learned this: I need to write five days a week, six is better. It’s not about pressure; it’s about a pressure valve and peace. If I go too long without it, I don’t relax. I unravel. Writing isn’t just how I earn a living. It’s how I stay sane and how I process the hard stuff and find the beauty in the quagmire.

And that’s the thing I’ll carry into the next long weekend. I can rest. I should rest. But I also need to scribble down a thought or two, maybe even shape a paragraph. Not because anyone’s waiting for it, but because I am. I don’t write to impress; I write to stay alive. And three days without it? That’s pushing my luck.

Rant No. 1: The Screeching, Hellish Kid in the Restaurant 

I’m happy, easygoing, and optimistic, but like most people, certain things get under my skin—not always, just sometimes. With that in mind, a multi-part Rant Series begins, designed to get a few things off my chest every Tuesday, with maybe some attempt at humor thrown in. Without further delay …

You’re out for dinner with a friend because you’ve both earned this. A hot meal you didn’t have to cook, a drink in hand, and maybe a little peace and quiet. Then you hear it. A scream. A high-pitched, glass-rattling, ear-piercing screech that echoes off the overhead lamps, the walls, and deep into your bones. You may even jump from your seat. There it is: The Screeching Restaurant Kid. He’s got a straw and a full-size drink cup, and he’s going to slurp every last molecule, even when it’s empty, especially when it’s empty, because the straw slurp is just the soundtrack to his chaos.

The screeching isn’t cute; it’s annoying to everyone else. It’s not a giggle and it’s not a laugh. It’s a noise that cuts through conversation like a foghorn in a broom closet. And every time the kid does it, the parents nod and say, “Oh, he’s just full of energy today!” No. He’s full of Coca-Cola and pure sonic destruction that shattered a window two blocks away. The slurping? That will never end. There’s nothing left in the cup. You know it. I know it. The parents and the server know it. But that straw keeps going — echoing like a clogged drain in a horror movie. It’s like they gave him a megaphone and said, “Here, play with this at full volume to irritate as many as possible in the restaurant.”

The table looks like an F5 tornado went through it. There are lime wedges on the floor, grease-laden finger smudges on the window, a half-eaten meatball on the seat, sauce and spaghetti everywhere, eight open but not used sugar packets on the table, and crayons in the water pitcher. This isn’t dinner, but it is a parenting philosophy test, and right now, the philosophy is “Let lawlessness reign and the hell with the fellow diners.” The kids are under the table one minute, climbing the booth and staring into the neighboring booth’s diners the next, and then back on the sticky floor they go.

Meanwhile, the parents are in their own world and smile sweetly, saying, “They’re just tired.” “They are just expressive,” or “This is how kids learn boundaries.” Is it? Or are you just letting them train for a demolition derby in a place where people are trying to eat and servers are trying to serve without being tackled? We’re not saying leave. We’re saying Parent. Nobody expects perfect behavior because kids are kids, and some noise and mess is expected. However, there’s a difference between a child acting up and a parent checking out. Set a limit or offer a distraction. Take a walk outside with them. Don’t just sip your drink while the dining room becomes an amusement park.

Restaurants aren’t daycares with menus; they are places where people celebrate an anniversary, a birthday, a job promotion, decompress after a hectic day, or commiserate. Your child or children may be the center of your world, but when they are screaming, and we mean screaming mid-meal, they’ve become the center of everyone’s attention and not in a good way. 

So next time you’re out, and your kid starts to reenact The Battle of Endor from the Star Wars franchise in the middle of the main course, ask yourself: Is this cute or chaos that is grating on everyone in the place? If they’re slurping into a straw that’s been dry since the appetizer and yelling loud enough to shift glassware … we already know the answer.

Summer Memories – How the Smallest Things Leave the Biggest Impressions

There’s something magical about summer. Maybe the longer days, the warmth in the air, or the slower pace invite us to soak it all in. But what is interesting about summer is how the most ordinary moments can be etched in our memories for years or even decades.

Big trips or extravagant events often make lasting impressions. And yes, those are wonderful. But ask anyone about a favorite summer memory, and more often than not, it’s something simple: the smell of a campfire, the feel of grass under bare feet, the taste of a dripping ice cream cone on a hot day.

Summer is an experience of the senses, and that’s part of what makes it so memorable. Think of the smell of freshly cut grass (love it), the taste of grilled corn on the cob drenched with butter (oh, yeah) or the cool relief of a breeze after a scorcher of a day (ahhh, it feels great) these small sensations get stored deep in our brains and linked to feelings of joy, comfort, or nostalgia.

Sometimes we put pressure on ourselves to create the perfect summer, packed with activities, road trips, and Facebook and Instagram-worthy moments. However, some of the best memories are born when we’re not trying so hard.

It could be a spontaneous swim in the lake. A quiet cup of coffee on the deck before the world wakes up. Or a story shared during a neighborhood walk just as the sun sets and the fireflies start to glow. Even the messier moments of sunburns, sudden rainstorms, or dropped hot dogs (inevitably, someone always drops a hotdog on the patio or lawn and the dog gets an unexpected treat) can turn into favorite stories later. 

The key to capturing summer magic is being present and slowing down enough to notice the little things. Our lives are so often busy, and during other seasons, we’re stuck in routines. Summer gives us a chance to loosen the grip a little. You don’t need a plane ticket or a packed schedule. A backyard, a porch, or a drive with the windows down can be a setting for something quietly unforgettable. Let your phone sit inside. Watch the clouds. Pick berries. Let the dog get wet and muddy. Let the kids stay up past bedtime just once. These are the moments you’ll remember.

As summer unfolds, think less about what you should be doing and more about how you want to feel: connected with people, not devices, calm, energized, joyful. Then, look for the moments that deliver those feelings, even in small doses. Instead of scrolling, try stargazing in a remote location. Instead of planning every hour of a weekend, leave space for spontaneity. Instead of chasing the “perfect” summer, embrace the real one with barbeques, bonfires, avoiding mosquito clouds, fishing, and the simple things. 

What will you remember about this summer five or ten years from now? Chances are, it won’t be the perfect photo or the expensive activity. It’ll be a moment that surprises you. One that made you feel at ease, alive, or connected to something bigger than yourself. The best summer memories aren’t always made on purpose. But they do tend to show up when we’re paying attention.

When a First Date Becomes a One-Man Show

So, a client/friend and I are sitting in a family restaurant several weeks ago and we weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but some performances are loud enough—and too tragically awkward—not to witness. Across from us, a couple, probably in their late forties, were clearly on a first date. You could tell by the awkward energy, the slightly-too-formal shirt he wore (untucked but trying), and the hopeful-but-resigned look on her face that screamed, “Please let him be normal.”

He wasn’t. From the get-go, this man launched into what can only be described as a monologue that would have made Shakespeare proud, if Shakespeare had been into bad romantic-comedies, a review of every Pink Floyd album, and extended metaphors about life through the lens of 1990s movies. We shouldn’t have, but we quietly laughed and clocked it—eighteen minutes straight without pause except for taking quick bites. No questions. No conversational handoffs. Just him, flapping his gums and waving a burger like a baton as he spoke, and explaining why “The Godfather III is actually misunderstood.”

Meanwhile, his date sat there like a polite hostage. Nodding occasionally, sipping water like it was whiskey, and glancing toward the restroom with the longing of a woman who’d just remembered she left the oven on at home. She took two bathroom breaks in half an hour, which we all know is code for “I need a breather before I gnaw my own arm off.”

We watched him try to reach across the table to touch her hand; a bold move for a guy who had yet to let her finish a sentence. She smoothly retracted it like a blackjack dealer clearing the felt. Hand gone and interest gone. Her mind? Probably hovering over the exit, waiting for her body to catch up. And you could feel it. That slow, sinking ship of a date. The kind where you imagine her texting a friend in the bathroom: “This date sucks big time. Give me an excuse to get out of here fast.”

Eventually, she reemerged, powered through the rest of her meal in silence, and when it came time for the check, she stood up first. No lingering. No “this was fun” fakeout. Just a quick “thanks” and a beeline for the door and her car. Alone. It looked like someone fleeing the scene of a crime. He stayed behind, looking confused. He probably wondered if he could have improved his chances by bringing up his conspiracy theories about the decline of CDs after dessert instead of during the appetizer.

And look, I’m not trying to be cruel here. Dating is hard at any age. It’s awkward, vulnerable, and full of weird energy exchanges. But, gentlemen—and I say this with a voice that hopes you find happiness with someone: she is not a prop in your life story. She’s a human being with a voice, so let her use it. Ask a question and then another question based on that answer. Be genuinely interested, or fake it if the topic bores you. At the very least, chew with your mouth closed and don’t conduct the Boston Symphony Orchestra with your burger mid-sentence. Conversation is not a TED Talk. It’s a two-way street. If one person is doing all the talking and the other is slowly Googling emergency exits with their eyes, you’re not on a date—you’re holding someone hostage in your dinner theater.

And it’s not just about romance. This is true for life in general. If someone is sitting across from you, engage with them. Ask about their day, thoughts, and favorite type of cheesecake; be curious and present. Or at least be brief. That night was a masterclass on what not to do on a first date. If your date goes to the bathroom twice in thirty minutes and leaves without a goodbye, your burger soliloquy needs some serious editing.

When Noticing Is A Strategic Asset

“You notice things most people don’t.” The words hung in the air, a casual observation that landed with surprising weight. At first, I shrugged it off. Didn’t everyone see the chipped paint shaped like an iguana on the park bench, the subtle shift in the barista’s demeanor, the way a particular song could instantly transport someone back in time and the look on their face when it did.

But the comment lingered, a quiet hum beneath the surface of my daily life. And the more I pondered it, the more I realized there might be a kernel of truth in that simple statement. It wasn’t about being exceptionally intelligent or possessing some kind of photographic memory. It was more about a particular way of engaging with the world, a heightened awareness of the subtle textures that often fade into the background for others.

For me, the world isn’t just a stage with broad strokes and loud pronouncements. It’s a tapestry woven with intricate details, whispered nuances, and unspoken stories etched into the everyday. I find myself drawn to the periphery, the fleeting expressions on faces in a crowd, the almost imperceptible tremor in a hand, the way sunlight catches dust motes dancing in the air, the way trees seem bare one day and full of leaves the next.

It’s not a conscious effort, not a deliberate act of scrutiny. It’s more like a natural inclination, a tuning of the senses to a frequency that often goes unheard. While others might focus on the main event, my attention often drifts to the supporting cast, backdrop, and quiet moments that reveal so much about the larger picture.

This can manifest in countless ways. I might notice the specific shade of blue of a child’s forgotten toy lying in the grass, and a wave of untold stories washes over me. I might pick up on the barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere of a room, sensing tension or excitement before it’s explicitly voiced. I might hear the faint melody of a bird call that others seem oblivious to, and for a moment, everything else fades away. I’m the guy who goes to a concert or sports event and is almost as interested in how they put the stage together or how the baseball grounds crew does their job. Yeah, I watch the Zamboni, sometimes two now, go around the ice between periods. Not just one lap, most of them. 

Sometimes, this heightened awareness feels like a secret language, a private conversation between me and the world. I see connections and patterns that others might miss, weaving together seemingly disparate observations into a richer understanding of a situation or a person. It’s like having access to a hidden layer of reality, a subtle commentary playing beneath the surface of the obvious.

Of course, this way of perceiving the world isn’t mine alone and isn’t always a walk in the park. It can be overwhelming at times, with a constant influx of sensory information that can feel like a low-grade hum of anxiety. The weight of unspoken emotions, the awareness of subtle shifts in mood, and the constant awareness of small imperfections can sometimes feel like a burden. I’m the guy who comes up with a blog idea, which then begets several more on different topics or perhaps an entire series on one topic and all from an observation.

There are moments when I want to tune it all out, glide through the world with a more selective filter, and focus only on the big picture. But then, I would miss the quiet beauty of a single raindrop clinging to a leaf, the unspoken understanding in a shared glance, and the resilience and experience etched in the lines of an aging face. I would also miss golden opportunities to write about it, right down to an article about how the patio crowd is different, or whatever else I store in my mind and then transfer to the keyboard. 

And there are moments when this ability proves surprisingly insightful. I might notice a flicker of hesitation in someone’s eyes that contradicts their confident words or a subtle inconsistency in a story that raises a quiet alarm bell. It’s not about being judgmental or suspicious but about recognizing the subtle cues that often betray the truth.

Ultimately, noticing what others might miss isn’t about being superior or different. It’s simply a different way of experiencing the world, a lens through which reality is filtered. It’s about finding wonder in the mundane, meaning in the minute, and stories in the silence. It’s about appreciating the intricate beauty of the everyday, the quiet hum of the unseen that often holds the most profound truths. And while it might sometimes feel like carrying a little extra weight, it also enriches my life in countless, immeasurable ways, reminding me that the world is always speaking, if only we take the time to listen and truly see.

The Power of Showing Up When You Don’t Feel Like It

There are days when everything in you says, “Not today.” When your energy is low, your motivation is in first gear, and your mind yells “What’s the point?!” or “I don’t care anymore.” On those days, it’s easy to disappear and avoid the world. To skip the to-do list, cancel the project, or crawl back into bed. We’ve all been there and yes, sometimes we do need to shut it down for a couple of days, and we do need vacations. But here’s something I’ve learned the hard way: The most powerful changes in life don’t come from perfect days—they come from the days you show up anyway and, as Nike used to say, “Just Do It.” 

This took me a long time to accept and apply in my life. I expected, no, internally demanded, every day to be perfect or nearly perfect and felt like I had let myself and others down when it wasn’t. I expected to start every day at 5 a.m. No, not wake up at 5, be going at top speed at 5 a.m. Try and sustain that during the dark, freezing mornings of winter with an icy wind howling and rattling the windows. Not anymore, not for a long time. All the experiences and life lessons I have gained are serving me better now than had my life been smooth sailing. I’ve had great jobs that I loved and done jobs that I hated just to keep money coming in during rough patches. I’ve washed dishes, bussed tables, done roofing work including the tear off, cleaned office buildings, retail stores, and toilets at 2 a.m., and hand-bombed rocks into large baskets all day for weeks for flood control, among various jobs. I’ve overcome many things, including numerous bouts of depression, anxiety, and a few things I won’t get into here, but maybe I will some other time. I’ve changed stuff I could and learned to accept things I can’t change, albeit reluctantly so. This is not to brag or lament but to say I speak from experience. 

Motivation is nice when it’s there, but it’s not reliable. It’s tied to mood, food you consumed, weather, sleep, blood sugar, and a million other unpredictable things. Waiting for it can lead to weeks or years of stagnation. You don’t need motivation. You need a reason. A purpose bigger than how you feel in the moment. That might be your health. Your freedom. Your peace of mind. Your family. Your dream. Your spiritual healing. Your integrity. Even if you don’t feel “fired up” and wake up late, you can still take one small action today. And that one action leads to two, three, and maybe more. You’re building something, even if it doesn’t look like much today.

Showing up doesn’t mean going full throttle every day. Sometimes, showing up means sending one email, walking for 10 minutes instead of 60, and eating one healthy meal when you’ve had a rough week. But showing up, especially when you don’t feel like it at first, keeps the fire and the habit alive. It’s about keeping the commitment alive. It tells your mind that “I am still in this, and I am in it for the long haul.” 

Consistency wins where intensity burns out. The writer who keeps writing, even a paragraph, when uninspired, improves. The entrepreneur who sends emails during dry spells still builds momentum. The professional tennis player who still hits the practice court for only half an hour rather than the usual two or three, even when he doesn’t feel like it. The person rebuilding their life who keeps moving forward and finds strength they didn’t know they had.

The hardest part is that showing up often feels like it’s not working. You’re not seeing the changes fast enough, and you’re not getting the work, the feedback, or any response that tells you you are putting in the time and effort. It feels like you’re pouring into a black hole and not even making a dent. But that’s when it matters most. You’re developing something under the surface: resilience, discipline, a steely resolve, character, and inner strength. Growth happens quietly and slowly, and the weight you’re lifting or losing might feel small today. The weight you want to lose, especially if it’s a big number, seems like a Mount Everest-like task, but over time, you’ll realize it was never really about the weight. It’s about progressing one step and day at a time, and it was about becoming the kind of person who doesn’t quit. If you show up every day, the desired result will come. 

If you take one thing from this, let it be this: You don’t need to be perfect and won’t be. You just need to be present. You don’t have to crush it. You just have to keep going. You’ll have bad days, days when you are dragging and that one draft you write feels like you’re writing War and Peace, and days when you stumble and screw-up. That’s human. But the fact that you keep returning to the work, to the healing, to the effort—that’s what changes your life. And if you’re in a season where it feels like you’re crawling? Keep crawling. Don’t discount small victories. They count.

You don’t have to wait for the stars to align or for motivation to appear at your door. Show up messy. Show up tired, irritable, and wearing yesterday’s shirt. Show up uncertain. Just show up. Because the person who shows up—especially when they don’t feel like it—is already ahead of 90 percent of people still waiting to “feel ready.”