Prediabetes, Carbs and Working-Out

Man, do I ever love carbs. Bread, potatoes, rice—especially rice. Carbs are warm, soft-edged joy. They’re edible comfort. They’re a hug that doesn’t ask questions. So it was something of a heartbreak a few years ago when my pancreas and I stopped seeing eye to eye. I had been struck with pre-diabetes, the precursor to full-blown diabetes. It’s kind of like a warning shot across the bow, telling me if things don’t change, my body will put me in a world of hurt.

Type 2 diabetes runs in my family. You would never guess it, since none of us are particularly obese or even overweight. Maybe we just drew the short straw in the genetic lottery. As such, I have a hard time losing weight, always hungry and sleepy with a generous side of brain fog, after indulging in some carbohydrates.

Which meant I had to break up with carbs. Or at least dramatically reduce our time together. And yeah, the difference was immediate. The afternoon crashes that used to hit like a tranquilizer dart? Gone. The brain fog that made me feel like I was slogging through a pool of molasses? Also gone. Having a salad for lunch in lieu of a sandwich seems to work just fine.

And still, the siren call of carbs beckons. Whispering like an ex promising all the starchy goodness that we once shared.

But something odd happened the other day. I caved. I had pizza. A full slice. I braced myself for the crash, for the brain to power down like a dying phone. But… nothing happened. No fog. No food coma. I was fine. Alert, even.

That night, while scrolling past videos of cats doing taxes or whatever the algorithm thinks I need, I stumbled on something that made sense. A reel about how muscle mass improves insulin sensitivity. My exercise routine has changed over the past couple of months to incorporate more resistance training. I am by no means in contention for Mr. Universe, but I feel stronger.

I don’t know if this is why the pizza didn’t knock me out, but if working out means that I can return to the sweet embrace of sugar and starch (at least with moderation), then it's definitely worth lacing up my shoes and doing a few squats.

Incidentally, I’m no longer pre-diabetic… so I guess that’s also good.

Wiggling My Ears

I can wiggle my ears.

It’s not something I list on résumés or bring up at dinner parties, but it’s true. A strange little skill acquired, not through practice, but through aaccidental curiosity. I remember standing in front of the mirror as a kid—eight, maybe—and thinking, I wonder if that’s possible. So I tried. And to my surprise, the ears wiggled. Just a little.

I think I saw it on TV—maybe a puppet?—and in the unquestioning logic of childhood, decided it was a life skill worth having. No one told me it was pointless. No one told me it wasn’t possible. So I just… tried.

Now, as an adult, I don’t try things like that. If such an idea crossed my mind today, I’d probably dismiss it immediately: not worth the time, not particularly useful, kind of silly. I’d much rather stare mindlessly into my phone, watching cat videos.

But the fact remains: I can wiggle my ears.

It makes me wonder what else I’ve dismissed before even giving it a shot. There have been moments—little ones—when a mentor suggested I try something that felt just a little ridiculous. Visualization exercises. Daily affirmations. None of it seemed practical at first. But I tried. And oddly, they seemed to work, or at least correlated with desired outcomes.

Of course, this isn’t magic (is it?). I’m sure it is just letting myself believe in the possibility of change long enough for change to sneak in. But it almost feels like I found a secret superpower.

I wonder what would’ve happened if someone had told eight-year-old me that I could learn how to grant myself wishes—not by hoping, but by trying. Not by waiting, but by translating an idea into action.

I still think wiggling my ears is kind of cool.

But self-belief? That’s the real party trick.

Magic in the Mundane

There’s something quietly magical about light. It doesn’t just let us see— it illuminates, breathes life, brings warmth, and protects us from the dark. Right now, I’m sitting in my favorite neighborhood boulangerie and for the first time I’m noticing how beautiful it looks with the sunlight streaming through. And—how have I never noticed this?

Sunlight is spilling in through the front windows, bouncing off the tile floor, catching on the crown molding, bringing warmth and dimension to details once hidden. It’s the kind of light that makes you fall in love again, even if only for a minute—bringing magic to the mundane. I’m surprised that I’ve only now noticed how beautiful this space is. I wonder how many other details have passed me by.

There was a time when I noticed everything. I remember being a kid, hypnotized by raindrops racing down windows or tiny rivers carving paths along the curb after a storm. I could lose hours watching the world do absolutely nothing.

It makes me wonder—when did I stop looking? I’m curious: in the search for the new, have I somehow forgotten how to appreciate the now? Maybe in always trying to move forward, I’ve forgotten how to just be where I am.

The sun’s moved now. The warm light is pulling back, retreating toward the window, leaving behind a softer, cooler glow. And yet, the patterned floors, the muraled walls, and the knickknacks in random nooks now seem more evocative of a Parisian café.

Maybe the morning light has illuminated more than just the café. I guess sometimes the brightest thing in the room isn’t the sun. Maybe it’s the fact that—for a moment—I remembered to look.

Sleep Hygiene

A funny thing happens when you stop going into the office: time gets weird. Not time in the abstract, space-time-relativity kind of way, but in the deeply personal, why-is-it-2-a.m.-again kind of way.

Since leaving my usual routine, I’ve been going to bed later. And waking up later. And then going to bed even later. Eventually, I find myself drifting off at some ungodly hour of the night. It’s a slow slide, like erosion—barely noticeable until you’re standing at the edge of a cliff that used to be a gentle hill.

To be fair, I used to be a bit of a night owl. In college, I stayed up with friends until the late hours of the night, then stumbled through the next day powered mostly by caffeine and stubbornness. I guess old rhythms have a way of creeping back when no one’s watching the clock.

Lately, though, I’ve been trying something new. I sit and meditate for twenty minutes—sometimes successfully. Then I listen to an audiobook read in a voice so calming it might as well be a lullaby. I try to read a few pages from a real, old-school paper novel. I still check my phone before bed. I’m not proud of it. But maybe, one day, I’ll finally cut the cord and stop doomscrolling before sleep.

I hope these small changes will matter. On the nights I sleep well—really well—I wake up with a mind that feels sharper, like someone finally cleaned the windshield. The road ahead doesn’t change, but at least I can see it clearly. I feel focused. Like maybe I can actually meet the day instead of just survive it.

And maybe that’s all I’m chasing—more energy, more ease, a little more lightness in the morning. And if all it takes is putting down my phone before bed, well… that seems like a fair trade.

Scheduled Maintenance

I was born to be an engineer.

The way a border collie lights up at the sight of sheep, I light up at the sight of anything with screws.

My parents eventually had to start hiding the screwdrivers. They learned the hard way that if a VCR blinked the wrong way or a toy car made a suspicious clicking noise, I would consider it an open invitation to perform exploratory surgery. I didn’t set out to destroy things—if anything, I wanted to fix them. But I have to confess: my efforts often left behind a minor trail of destruction..

Ultimately, I had the good fortune of spending most of my career as an engineer, which only fueled my love of troubleshooting. Few things compare to the ridiculous, disproportionate satisfaction of being handed a broken widget and walking away with it humming again. In my head, I got to be a hero. Not the cape-wearing kind. More the thick-glasses, pocket-protector, graphing-calculator-wielding kind. A hero nonetheless.

But somewhere along the way, I realized the machine I spent the least time troubleshooting was myself. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate that my body could use some maintenance too. I figure if you spend 47 years running a system, you can expect to hear an odd rattle or two. For the most part, my body is still running smoothly, but I recognize that some things are starting to fall apart. And while I’m not exactly in need of an engine rebuild, a tune-up seems wise. Maybe even overdue.

Taking care of myself—physically, mentally, emotionally—feels a little like routine maintenance now. Oil changes instead of emergency repairs. It’s less glamorous than swooping in with a solution and a self-satisfied grin, but it’s probably the more heroic thing in the long run.

I still feel (and hopefully look) much younger than what my age seems to suggest. I’m hoping that if I keep taking care of myself, keep taking it in to the ‘shop’ for regular tune-ups, there’ll be many more years of smooth, trouble-free driving ahead.

A Little Easier, Every Day

I’m a sucker for cartoons. Adventure Time, Rick and Morty, Archer—anything weird, slightly unhinged, and smarter than it first appears. They remind me, in a world that often demands we take everything seriously, that absurdity has its own kind of wisdom. But sometimes wisdom hits much harder than expected.

My favorite line from BoJack Horseman is from the Jogging Baboon:

“Every day it gets a little easier… But you gotta do it every day — that's the hard part. But it does get easier.”

He says it to encourage BoJack to keep running—as BoJack is sprawled out on a lawn, winded from a comically short jog. In a show that wrestles with addiction, depression, and the weight of being alive, the line feels less like advice and more like survival instructions.

That line gives me hope. It’s a reminder that forward movement doesn’t have to be heroic. It can just be stubborn. It can just be showing up. Even when I fall. Even when I don’t really want to. Especially then.

I’m someone who loves a good challenge—sometimes a little too much. I've scraped knees and bruised pride to show for it. But when I look back I realize I’m much farther ahead than I once was. Not because I sprinted. Not because I always succeeded. But because I kept moving.

I’ve failed more times than I care to count. But failure feels less like a defeat now and more like a field note: something you scribble down and carry with you to the next climb. I’m starting to care less about the summit and more about the hiking boots, the badly packed snacks, the wrong turns that led to better views. I’m now more interested in the process rather than the goal. There are only so many things in the universe that I can control, but what I can control is the decision on whether to start and whether to keep moving forward, day after day, learning from what works and what does not.

I can choose whether I take the first step.

I can choose whether I take the next one.

Doing it every day is still the hard part. But discovering who I’m becoming along the way makes it worth the while.

Late-Night Zoomies

Growing up, I loved animals and wanted a pet desperately. But my parents, knowing me too well, limited the options to goldfish and hamsters—creatures that, if forgotten, wouldn’t stage a coup in the living room.

As an adult, though, I’ve allowed myself something bigger. Cats. (I briefly considered a dog once, but after a few honest conversations with myself about responsibility and the state of my laundry pile, I decided against it.)

My first cat, who has since passed away, was a sweet brown tabby. She would greet me at the door with a sleepy headbutt and even sit and roll over on command, which is, in the cat world, basically wizardry.

I adopted her when she was already considered elderly—11 years old, an age when most shelter visitors pass by the glass without pausing. She had waited in the shelter for a year after her former family introduced a dog into the house—something she clearly did not approve of. Though she had been through a lot, it was clear she still had a lot of love to give. So I adopted her, with the intent of making her golden years her best years.

She lived another ten years. Twenty-one in all. Even in old age, she remained defiantly young. Late at night, to my bleary-eyed dismay, she would tear through the apartment at full speed, singing the songs of her people. I made sure she had regular checkups, professional teeth cleanings, and more catnip than was medically advisable.

I hope she had a rich life. I like to think the years we shared—the vet visits, the catnip, the late-night zoomies—outweighed the shadows of her past. That maybe, even after everything, she remembered how to be a kitten again.

She taught me that it’s never too late to remember how to be young. That age is just a state of mind, not a number. She taught me how to never stop chasing the good things, even when the world tells us to slow down.

Love you, Fergie.

Creaky Floorboards

I went to bed late last night, woke up early to the sound of my neighbor’s baby crying, and now the sleep debt is catching up. This morning marked the first time in seven weeks I didn’t work out. I just couldn’t summon the will. I feel kind of glum. Heavy, even.

It’s strange how tightly the body and the mind are stitched together. I used to think they were mostly separate—like neighbors waving across a fence. But lately, I’m realizing they’re more like housemates, sharing a creaky floorboard. When one stumbles, the other feels it. I think it’s called interoception—the process by which the brain senses and interprets signals from the body (like heart rate, breathing, gut sensations) and folds them into emotional experiences. I’m sure that’s why exercise can often play a meaningful role in treating depression: it generates positive somatic feedback—faster heartbeat, heavier breathing, muscles remembering their own strength.

The emotional benefits are one of the main reasons why I exercise regularly. Being strong—and not becoming morbidly obese as I overindulge in my favorite hobby of eating—are just nice side effects. I know antidepressants help a lot of people. But for me, I’ve found that healthy living seems to be enough. At the very least, get to experience a fuller range of emotions, while being able to actively regulate them (to some degree) when things get a bit too intense.

Today, though, there was no lifting, no grunting, no small victories. But I think I’ll forgive myself for not working out. Not every day has to be a sprint. Maybe today is for resting. Tomorrow will be another day. And maybe, with a little more rest, another small victory too.

Outies, Innies, and the In-Between

I just binge-watched two seasons of Severance, which is saying something because I’m usually more of a YouTube kind of guy. But this show—this show is unnervingly good. The writing is sharp, the premise is unsettling in the best way, and the character development sneaks up on you like an emotional freight train. To me, it’s basically a masterclass in what happens when we mistake escape for closure.

Without spoiling too much, the show centers around a company that offers its employees a radical form of work-life balance. You get a brain implant that severs your consciousness in two—your work self (an “Innie”) and your personal self (an “Outie”) have no memory of each other’s lives. So your Outie drops you off at the elevator, and the next thing you know, you’re back at the elevator again, having already completed the workday—no memory of the spreadsheets, the meetings, or the soul-sapping water cooler conversations.

It’s a concept that plays like wish-fulfillment—at least at first. The dream of skipping the grind and just arriving at the part where you get to go home. And I get it. I’ve wished for that, too. Imagine, enjoying the fruits of one’s labor without remembering the labor. I guess it is kind of similar to fast-forwarding through the awkward therapy sessions and the nights spent replaying every mistake on loop—just to arrive at the part where I’ve finally figured it all out.

But the show doesn’t let you off that easy. It raises an uncomfortable question: can we really escape by simply running away?

Would I want to have an Innie? Tempting, but probably not. Not just because I’m squeamish about brain surgery (which I am), but because I’m starting to believe that life isn’t something to be partitioned. It’s meant to be felt in full—tedium, trauma, joy, and all.

Skipping the middle would mean missing the meaning. And for better or worse, that’s where most of life happens.

Waking-up to Onions

To my dismay, I woke up to the smell of onions in my bedroom this morning.

Last night, I made curry. I’ve been cooking more lately—partly to be more frugal, partly for the simple joy of making something tasty. And curry, in my opinion, demands onions. They bring life to a dish—sharp and sulfurous and unapologetically present. But they also cling—not just to the pan, but to your clothes, your walls, and apparently your pillowcases.

I didn’t expect the smell to linger. Just like I didn’t expect a conversation I had weeks ago to still be looping in my head. But here we are: trying to live in today while yesterday hangs around like it owns the place.

I like onions—especially when they’re part of something bigger, something bold and layered. But I’m realizing that if I don’t let them breathe, they end up in places they don’t belong. The problem isn’t the onions. It’s that I didn’t open a window.

So this morning, I cracked a few open. I breathed in some fresher air and let yesterday’s dinner quietly drift through. The scent of onions is still here, but less so. Fortunately, I’ve still got some leftovers.

Canada Geese: Agents of Rage and Mayhem

Canada Geese scare me.

I say this with the full knowledge that I am an adult who outweighs a goose by at least a hundred pounds and has access to technology and opposable thumbs. But still—geese. They possess the energy of something deeply wronged in a past life. Rage, fury, and hellfire all packaged into a neatly feathered and honking bird.

Having been born and raised in Canada, one would think that I would share an affinity with my avian brethren. One would expect that they’d sense I’m one of their own and nod politely as I walk by. But no. Every time I see one, the birds turn their beady little eyes at me warning me to stay away. In truth, I know not why they’re so angry. Maybe their babies are near by. Maybe they’ve got some unresolved trauma from an overly affectionate toddler. Maybe they’re just hangry.

But the truth is, I’ll probably never know. And I’m starting to think that’s okay. Some things in life—like goose rage —just aren’t meant to be fully understood.

Just like I wouldn’t charge at a goose mid-hiss, I probably shouldn’t charge into a heated moment mid-trigger. I’ve heard a little breathing helps. A small pause that reminds me to consider my actions first and to check-in on my emotions. Perhaps a little empathy could help too. Maybe during my next encounter, I’ll talk to the birds to see how their day was or maybe give them a peace offering of some bread?

Or maybe I should just read the park signs and leave the animals alone.

Chatter

There’s a kind of chatter in my mind that’s hard to describe unless you’ve heard your own. Not quite a voice, not quite a thought—just this steady, uninvited narration that grows loudest when everything else gets quiet. It tends to arrive in the in-between moments: right before sleep, in the shower, waiting in line without my phone to offer me a hit of dopamine.

I don’t remember when it started. Maybe it’s always been there. Maybe it just got louder as the world did too.

Lately, I’ve been trying to meditate. It feels a bit like trying to still a lake while someone keeps throwing pebbles into it. But every once in a while, there’s a moment—just a flicker—when the water settles. When the chatter pauses, and the silence doesn’t feel empty but full. It’s in those moments that the world comes back into focus.

Right now, I’m sitting next to a large window in a café, sipping a hazelnut latte. The latte art is on point—a perfectly crafted tulip. It’s something I’ve aspired to master, but so far have only managed to create sad, amoeba-like blobs. There’s quiet music overhead, a woman singing softly in Spanish, and someone nearby is lamenting their midterms. Outside, the flowers are in bloom—reds and yellows bursting like they forgot winter ever happened.

And for just a second, everything feels vivid.

When I meditate, I sometimes glimpse this version of the world—unfiltered, unscrolled. I feel calm. Still. A little more like myself. I wish I could carry that feeling with me throughout the day. I think the human experience—including my human experience—is kind of beautiful.

Why I'd let the noise drown this out is beyond me.

Lighting a Match in a Dim Room

When I work out, I write things down—reps, sets, weights. Partly because it helps me track progress, but mostly because, without the numbers, I forget what I’m capable of. When I do forget, I’ll do a set of curls or squats based on what feels right, and inevitably fall short.

It’s strange, really. The data is right there, telling me what I’ve already done. But my brain seems to have this odd tendency toward underselling me. Like it’s a cautious advisor, always urging moderation, always whispering: “Maybe not today.”

Expectations, it turns out, are powerful—both preconceived and actual.

I think about this a lot when I mentor people early in their careers. Most of the time, they don’t need a checklist or a strategic framework. They already know what needs to be done. What ends up being most impactful is simply being their cheerleader, their motivator—someone to tell them it’s okay to chase their dreams and go forth without apology. There’s something electric that happens when another human being believes in you. It’s like lighting a match in a dim room—suddenly, everything looks different.

There’s that famous study by Dr. Jeff Stone on stereotype threat, where athletes performed differently depending on whether a task was framed as a test of physical ability or mental acuity. And then there’s the (possibly apocryphal) story of the Olympic weightlifter who unknowingly broke a world record, thinking he was lifting less than he actually was. Our beliefs seem to shape our performance. And how we perform ultimately shapes what we become.

So I keep chasing lofty goals—not because I’m confident I’ll achieve them, but because I know I’m capable of more than I sometimes let myself believe. I’ve learned that the gap between possibility and achievement often narrows when I trust myself enough to take the first step.

I won’t always succeed. But I’ve seen what happens when I aim too low. And frankly, I’d rather fail at something extraordinary than succeed at something small.

Sucking the Marrow of Life

My friend lamented turning 30 today. She despaired the end of her youth and her inevitable decline into old age. Being 47, I found her both hilarious and a little heartbreaking. I did my best to console her, which is a challenge given that I’ve recently developed strong opinions about fiber.

I find it funny how often we treat aging like a cliff we accidentally walk off, rather than a road we’re lucky enough to still be on. I understand the fear, but as I’ve gotten older, my dreams have become even bolder, and life has proffered even more possibilities.

Part of that, I think, is luck. A lot of it, maybe. But I’d like to believe some of it is also the result of years choosing curiosity over cynicism.

Though life has thrown more complications and challenges my way than I would like, I genuinely feel much younger than my age. I still have the thirst and passion for adventure, and I still aspire to accomplish my Big Hairy Audacious Goals (Built to Last, Collins and Porras, 1994). I still want to live deeply, in the Thoreauvian sense—just not necessarily in the cabin-in-the-woods sense. I still appreciate the comforts of running water, electricity, and the internet.

My body, of course, occasionally reminds me that I am not 25. It does this through mysterious joint noises and an evolving list of foods I can no longer eat after 8 p.m. But despite that, I don’t feel old. Not really. I’ve come to realize that even my body can be convinced to deteriorate a little more slowly—and perhaps more gracefully—as the years roll on by. I now appreciate my green vegetables, working out, and facial lotion with SPF. I’ve come to value quality sleep and taking my vitamins. I’ve come to appreciate what my body has to offer—and its need to be taken care of.

Would I want to be in my 20s again? Yes, absolutely. Was that when I peaked? Hardly.

I believe the best has yet to come.

Tenacity Personified

It is the weekend of the Boston Marathon.

Living in the heart of Boston, this is something you can’t really ignore. It announces itself. Streets close, helicopters hover, and crowds pour into the city as if drawn by something magnetic. The usual rhythm of Boston life pauses, and for a day, everything shifts—louder, kinder, more open.

Before I lived here, I didn’t realize the Marathon was actually a series of races. I assumed it was one race, one start, one finish. But the very first group to take off from Hopkinton, MA isn’t the professional elites—it’s the Wheelchair and Para Athlete Division.

Athletes with physical, visual, and intellectual impairments gather at the starting line—some with guides, some in racing chairs—all aiming for the same finish line. They move with strength and purpose, uphill and down, past roaring crowds and silent moments, across 26.2 miles that don’t make exceptions for anyone.

These athletes defy physical limitations, push the boundaries of human performance, and often do so without the same level of recognition as the able-bodied elites—yet they consistently inspire spectators, fellow runners, and the broader sports world. Witnessing them race is witnessing the embodiment of pure discipline and determination. There’s something about watching someone push their body against every obstacle—and still keep going.

They cross the line with the same quiet power they began with. There’s no speech at the end. No spotlight. Just the sound of the crowd rising as they pass, marveling at these incredible human beings.

Saying that I’m moved by these extraordinary people is akin to saying that the ocean is damp and root canals are mildly irritating. It’s hard not to be changed by it, even a little. They don’t just show me what’s possible—they reveal how much strength lives quietly within.

Letting Go of the Buzz

I love coffee. I love the taste. I love the smell. I love the ceremony of it—the slow bloom of a pour-over, the hiss of a milk frother, the comforting clatter of cups behind a café counter. I love that it brings people together and the conversations that it catalyzes. I even find the sound of a roaring grinder as soothing white noise while I tap away on my laptop. Coffee is art, science, and culture all mixed into one beautiful ritual for a morning brew.

What I don’t love is caffeine. Or, more accurately, what caffeine does to me. I’m one of those beings who vibrate like a tuning fork after a single cup and then stare at the ceiling at 2 a.m., contemplating the heat death of the universe.

For a while, I tried to outmaneuver the problem. I would also excuse my inability to sleep as simply being a night owl. But eventually, I noticed I couldn’t fall asleep without some melatonin. And so I decided to let go of the caffeine and stop trying to negotiate with my nervous system. Shortly thereafter, I found that the quality of my sleep improved, my mind was clearer in the mornings, and I could fall asleep without medicated intervention.

I still drink coffee. Mostly decaf now. It’s not the same, not entirely. I miss the rush—the small, warm high that used to light up my mind like a switchboard. But strangely, in giving up the jolt, I found more joy in coffee itself. The flavor. The story. The community. The quiet poetry of it all.

I think I might love coffee even more now—not for what it does, but simply for what it is.

Confessions From a Chronic Procrastinator

With all this unstructured time on my hands, I’ve started making daily to-do lists. It’s less about productivity and more about preservation—an attempt to keep myself from dissolving into a social media–consuming degenerate. I’m basically redirecting the part of my brain that craves little dopamine fireworks from Instagram toward the slightly less destructive satisfaction of crossing things off a list.

So far, it’s going okay. I’ve journaled four days in a row, which I think is a personal record. There’s a kind of relief in that—a reminder that I’m still capable of forming a habit, even if it’s just checking things off.

But there’s one task I keep skipping. Every day I write it down, and every day I quietly migrate it to tomorrow’s list: clean the apartment. And every day, it looms a little larger. I’m not entirely sure why it feels so impossible. The idea of it makes me anxious, like I’m being asked to walk into something much heavier than just clutter.

Maybe it’s the endless stream of tiny decisions, but I think, deep down, it feels like cleaning is a kind of reckoning. Each mess is a breadcrumb left by some past version of myself who was overwhelmed, distracted, or too tired to care—a trail of postponed decisions and half-hearted intentions.

And now, here I am. The future version, finally catching up to all those laters.

I think I’m going to try something new today: instead of writing clean apartment on my list, I’m going to break it down into something smaller. Wipe down the bathroom counter. Fold one load of laundry. Just one. And maybe—just maybe—that’s the trick to shrinking this soul-crushing mountain down until it’s nothing more than just a series molehills.

Just an Adult Channelling His Inner Pro Wrestler

It’s funny what I find motivating—and the odd things I sometimes do to push myself.

I wasn’t really feeling it during this morning’s workout. Halfway through a set of lunges, I could feel my life force ebbing away like a slow-draining battery. The temptation to call it quits was growing stronger. But somewhere inside, I also knew I had a little more to give.

So I started flexing, breathing deeply, and channeling my inner ’80s Hulk Hogan.

When I was a kid, I used to watch pro wrestling. I never fully understood the storylines, but I remember Hulk Hogan. Specifically, the moment when he’d be on the brink of defeat—shoulders slumped, eyes glazed—and then, somehow, he’d summon the collective energy of his Hulkamaniacs. The crowd would roar, he’d start shaking like a malfunctioning toaster, and you knew the match had just turned. He wasn’t just back—he was invincible.

This morning, for reasons I don’t entirely understand, I tried to channel that same absurd, over-the-top energy. There was no audience, no villain, no championship belt on the line. Just me, in my room, battling low motivation and mild disinterest. But it worked. Somehow, flexing like a nostalgic maniac gave me just enough momentum to finish my workout.

I often think of health as a set of habits: nutrition, exercise, sleep, and so on. And yes, those matter. But sometimes, I think it’s also about finding small, strange ways to keep going when motivation evaporates. Sometimes, it looks like flexing in your bedroom like a buffoon and whispering, “Whatcha gonna do, brother?”

Still No Abs, But Feeling Good

This morning I did some yoga. Not in a sunset-on-a-mountain kind of way, but in my bedroom, on a mat that’s definitely seen better days. It’s part of an old set of exercise videos I’ve been doing off and on for years—the kind that crams resistance training, cardio, and yoga into one neat package.

I first got these videos in my twenties because I wanted six-pack abs and to lose some weight. I did lose the weight. The abs, however, still remain elusive. But somewhere along the way, I stopped doing the workouts for reasons of vanity, but rather because… I just feel better. I have better posture, I stay stronger, I sleep better and I’ve kept most of the age-related creaks at bay.

The most surprising benefit I found was mental clarity. I don’t know if it is all the huffing and puffing I do when I work out, or the focused breathing while doing my downward dogs, but all the noise and chatter in my head just disappears (at least for a while). What’s strange is that I didn’t even realize how foggy my mind was—until it wasn’t.

I’ve never really been a jock. I was always more of a nerd (I’m sometimes surprised that my lack of coordination hasn’t killed me yet!), but over time, I’ve come to genuinely appreciate what exercise gives me. On some days, especially when I take care of myself, I still feel like I’m 25, all invincible, ready to take on the world and seize whatever amazing experiences life has to offer.

And while I’m well aware that I’m no longer invincible, I do feel more alive. I’ve come to realize that working out and health isn’t something I do once to earn a trophy, but rather maybe it’s more like an ongoing dialogue—sometimes quiet, sometimes uncomfortable, but always worth having. On the good days, when I move and breathe and show up, something shifts just enough inside to reveal what may have been there all along. Not perfection. Not youth. Just me as I am.

And I think that feels enough.

The Liminal Space of Letting Go

It’s sunny outside. I’m looking forward to spring and witnessing life return to the city.

It’s a strange thing, not going to work on a Monday. There's no urgency, no meetings, no low-level panic humming in the background. It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that almost feels suspicious at first. But what I’m realizing is that stress had been squatting in my mind for so long that I forgot what it was like to think without it.

There’s something quietly astonishing about what’s left when all the noise fades. No Slack pings, no performance metrics, no pressure to squeeze meaning out of every moment. It is kind of wonderful being in this liminal space - not where I was, not yet where I’ll be. Everything feels a little exposed, a little vulnerable but also clearer.

After sitting with my thoughts for a bit, I recognize that beneath the exhaustion, there’s a sense of hope. A small, steady sense that there’s something worth rebuilding. Not to climb, not to win— but to reconnect with myself.

I know this period won’t last forever. Soon enough, I’ll return to the rhythm of work and obligation. But I hope, when I do, I return with something I didn’t have before. Not just rest, but clarity. Not just the energy to keep going, but the wisdom to know why. A way to carry the stillness of this moment into the noise of the next.