A conversation with a man in treatment challenged the way I think about identity. We all carry labels, but they don’t have to define who we are. This reflection invites us to ask a simple question: Who are you today?
Even after years of recovery and public speaking, the voice of self-doubt still visits me. I’ve learned that growth isn’t about making that voice disappear. It’s about learning that I don’t have to believe everything it says. Fear may still come along for the ride, but it doesn’t have to drive.
Earlier today, I caught myself mentally rehearsing a conversation that might happen later in a recovery meeting. The interaction itself had not happened. There was a decent chance it would not happen at all. But that didn’t stop my mind from building the whole thing anyway.
A morning on the shore of Lake Michigan led me to realize something I wasn’t expecting: we rarely know when we’re doing something for the last time. This reflection explores change, gratitude, and learning to honor one season of life while remaining open to the next.
One of the lessons recovery has taught me is that support and understanding are not always the same thing. The people who love us most may not fully understand our experience, while those who understand it may not be part of our everyday lives. Both matter. Both have value.
A few days ago, I received some difficult news. What stayed with me wasn’t just the news itself, but the reminder that we can see progress on the outside without knowing what is happening on the inside. This reflection explores compassion, hidden struggles, and the limits of what we can truly know about another person’s experience.
Mostly because every once in a while, I say mine out loud and still feel slightly surprised by it. Sixty-four. Cue the Beatles song.
For much of my life, I tied my identity to roles, titles, and achievement. This reflection explores what happens when those identities begin to soften — and the quiet freedom of learning that worth does not depend on performance or external validation.
Beginning again used to sound like something dramatic to me. But lately, I’m realizing it often looks much more ordinary: noticing when I’ve drifted, reacted, or carried something longer than I needed to — and learning how to come back without turning it into failure.
After running marathons, I often felt an emotional letdown once race day was over. Lately, I’ve realized the journey of publishing my memoir has felt surprisingly similar. A reflection on finish lines, ordinary life, and what comes after the big moment passes.
