This is my journal entry from October 11, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Sober Through Separation — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I woke up to my alarm at 7:15 a.m. in my new place and walked down the street to see the kids. I spent about an hour with them at my ex-wife’s house before heading back to get ready for tennis. Today I was playing someone new in the singles men’s ladder at the tennis club—a man I hadn’t played before.
My opponent turned out to be a tall, muscular guy in his fifties who could still move well around the court. He told me he usually played doubles but had been wanting to get in some singles. He’d only been playing tennis for three years, which impressed me since he’d picked it up in his fifties, just as I had in my forties.
My opponent destroyed me in the first set, 6–0. Everything I tried failed. I had so much energy I couldn’t channel it properly—either hitting the ball too hard or too soft. I managed to take one game in the second set, but he still won 6–1. Several games went to repeated deuces, so at least I made him work for it. By the end, I finally felt warmed up.
My friend was practicing on the next court, and I was grateful for the timing. We invited him to join us for Canadian doubles, where two play against one and everyone rotates. The three of us laughed, sweated, and kept the workout going. The sky stayed cloudy, which made playing from 9:00 to 10:20 a.m. a joy. Usually the doubles team wins, but my opponent and my friend each won two games of singles before I managed to win one.
I had fun blasting my serves, even though most of them missed. I nailed a few aces against my opponent, including one serve that came off my racket so flat and fast it hit the tee dead-on before he even moved. If I could hit that kind of serve consistently, I’d be a much tougher opponent.
Afterward, I enjoyed some conversation with both of them and then headed home for a quick shower—mostly just to wash off the gravel. I grabbed a quick snack: a peanut butter chocolate chip Larabar and some matcha tea. Then I drove to my yoga studio for hot yin yoga.
I don’t think I’ve ever done yin yoga before, but it turned out to be exactly what my body needed. The instructor led us through long, slow stretches and deep holds—perfect after two and a half hours of tennis. The room was warm but not stifling, which made it even better.
At first, I thought I might meet someone new there—maybe even the woman I’ve been hoping to find. But instead, as I settled into the postures, a wave of sadness came over me. I started feeling like I’d been doing everything wrong when it comes to dating. Earlier that morning at my ex-wife’s house, I’d even shed a few tears, realizing again how good our marriage had been compared to what’s easily available out there now.
As I lay on my mat in yin yoga, I drift into an internal conversation—an imagined dialogue with the future woman I’ll date, the one who will feel like an angel, just as amazing as my ex-wife but more aligned with me. In my mind, she’s someone who wants more children, loves having sex, adores my work, and is genuinely attracted to me. I can feel how important it is to hold space for her, to not let anyone or anything else occupy that sacred space until she arrives. I remind myself to stay completely single until I find the exact right woman. I’m grateful I didn’t hook up with anyone last night. That decision feels like part of the discipline required to attract what I truly want.
I start thinking about writing my dating book today. I can almost hear this future woman speaking to me, teasingly telling me to appreciate this quiet, spacious time in my life while I still have it—before she comes along and fills my days and nights. She reminds me that I’m living in what I now call my book-writing house, and that over the next four or five months, I could write five, six, maybe even ten books here. These books could become lifelong assets—collections of stories, sources of income, and ways for new people to discover me, maybe even decades from now.
I know exactly which books I want to write, and this imaginary muse insists that now is the time. Once she’s in my life, she’ll want my time and my presence, and I’ll gladly give it. But she warns me—lovingly—that I won’t have quite this much creative solitude again. I take that to heart.
After yoga, I head home feeling renewed. I throw together a big salad, eat quickly, and then jump right into work. I dictate for two hours straight—the second version of my dating book. I’ve decided to completely scrap the original one I recorded back when my marriage was still intact, because that version came from a place that wasn’t as compassionate as I want it to be now.
In this new version, I tell stories, expand on what I’ve just experienced, and set a strong foundation for what the book will be. It’s going to unfold like a journal—a real-time chronicle of my dating journey. The premise is simple but powerful: I’m writing a dating book as a newly single man in the middle of a divorce, with no prospects, no interest from anyone, and no online profiles. I’m as single as a man can be. I have no idea who the next woman of my dreams will be, but I’m defining her clearly and preparing myself for her.
The book begins with the past and the present—how I’ve grown, how I care for my body, what I’ve learned about relationships, and how I’m shaping my vision for the future. Then I’ll continue it with diary-style entries whenever something meaningful happens in my dating life. By the time I finish, I expect to be with the woman I’ve been envisioning—someone I’m enthusiastic about, ready to marry, and excited to have children with. Later, I can always add an epilogue to reflect on how it all turned out.
I’m planning to take the same approach for a new money book soon—another journal-based project focused on my financial life and growth. For now, I’m just grateful for this rare abundance of time to create. It feels like a gift, especially after how scarce and fragmented my time felt during massage school.
After two hours of dictating my dating book, I grab my laptop and settle onto the leather couch that came with this rental—a surprisingly nice piece of furniture to have gotten for free. I spend the next hour working straight through the diary entries for my second book, the one that begins as I’m just starting massage school. I haven’t decided on a title yet, but it’s fascinating reading through those early pages. Some of the things I wrote then feel almost foreign now—especially the parts about how great my marriage was going. It makes me wonder whether I slip into a kind of optimistic delusion at times, where I’m so focused on hope and potential that I lose touch with reality. Still, the cognitive dissonance eventually settles, and I can see that everything I wrote then was true for who I was at that moment.
A little before 5:00 p.m., my ex-wife calls to ask if I’d like to take my son to The tennis club. I check the app and see the ball machine is available, so I wrap up my work, drive over to her house, and pick him up. She mentions that her stomach’s been hurting—probably from some greasy food—but she admits what’s really bothering her is imagining what it would be like if I ended up with a toxic woman. I had told her earlier about the event last night and how people were encouraging me to get an attorney, fight her in court, and make sure I get my “fair share.” I told her that wasn’t what I wanted at all, but it stirred up some fear for her. She said she deeply values the cooperative, conscious space we’re holding for this uncoupling, and she’s afraid of losing that if I started dating someone who might poison what we’ve built through manipulation or insecurity.
I promised her that I would make absolutely sure not to date anyone until I found a woman who was every bit as amazing as she is—and that my ex-wife herself would love her. I told her that if she didn’t like the woman I was dating, that would be a bad sign, and I’d end it. If I’m dating the right kind of woman, my ex-wife would naturally see it. She might have her own differences or opinions, but she’d recognize that the woman and I fit. That’s the kind of woman I want—a person we could all spend time with comfortably. I told my ex-wife I imagine a future where I can take my partner on a trip with her and the kids, where we all visit my family in Michigan together, and everyone genuinely enjoys each other’s company. I don’t want to date anyone who can’t fit into that kind of harmony.
I also told her I’m not interested in casual hookups. I’ve seen how easily that kind of distraction can pull a person’s life off course. If I’m taking anything from this divorce, it’s the intention to bring more joy, learning, and growth into both of our lives—not more pain, drama, or suffering. My ex-wife really appreciated that, and she could see that I’m committed to patience. She’d noticed my restlessness around dating, but I told her I’ve settled into a calm certainty: I’m willing to wait. Whether it takes a year or even three, I’ll stay single until I meet the right woman. I’d much rather spend that time writing books, helping people professionally, and building up my income than wasting energy on hookups or relationships that only cause chaos.
My son and I have a great time with the ball machine. I’ve already played enough tennis for one day, so I mostly wander the court collecting balls while he hits them. He spends about forty-five minutes taking shot after shot, laughing as he sends balls flying clear out of the court. Some of the sounds his racket makes are ridiculous—hollow thuds, wild ricochets—and we both crack up. I’m grateful for this simple time with him, and for the fact that my ex-wife and I are communicating so well through all of this. She uses the time to rest, have some space, and process her emotions. By the time we get back, she’s feeling better. She takes my son to her parents’ house, then heads out to pick up my daughter from a friend’s place.
After I drop my son off and my ex-wife heads to pick up my daughter, I decide I’d like to get gas and make a run to Whole Foods. I fill up my car, then head to the store, where I end up going a little overboard on hummus because it’s on sale—two for $5 instead of the usual five-something each. I buy twelve containers of Cedars Organic Reserve Hummus, along with a few spices to finally complete my spice drawer, plus lettuce, fruit, vegetables, and some tahini.
If someone looked at my shopping cart, they’d probably assume I’m a fantastically healthy person. I love that Whole Foods attracts people who generally shop with health in mind. Part of me always wonders if maybe I’ll meet my next wife there.
Since I’ve got several sale items that need to be manually entered, I skip the self-checkout and go to a regular register. It turns out to be the same cashier who checked me out about a month ago, during her first week. Back then, I didn’t even realize I was getting divorced, so I barely noticed her beyond being polite. This time, though, I look at her differently. She’s pretty, and I feel curious, so I start asking her questions.
She tells me she’s finishing her bachelor’s degree online while living with her parents, studying business, and working at Whole Foods to get out of the house. I make sure to leave a good impression. I tell her I have a master’s degree in criminology, that I used to be a police officer, and that I spent years in school earning a degree I no longer use. Then I explain that for over a decade I’ve been an online entrepreneur. While I’ve loved the independence and creativity of it, I admit that it’s probably ruined my ability—or desire—to ever work for someone else again.
She smiles and says something like, “That all sounds really successful.” I reply, “I guess it depends on who you ask.”
Walking out to the parking lot, I replay the conversation in my head, thinking of what else I might have said. Many people would call what I wrote about in I Was Famous on the Internet the definition of success—millions of followers, viral fame, and making millions of dollars working from home. But to me, it feels morally ambiguous. Yes, I achieved things most people dream of, but I also spent years draining people’s time and attention, feeding their addiction to media. I tricked millions into watching me instead of living their own lives. I was part of the problem, especially on Facebook and YouTube, though really across every platform.
So was that success—or was it evil? I see it now as somewhere in between. I was successful, but in ways that also corrupted me and harmed others. And I’ve made peace with that.
As I drive home to unload my groceries, I call my sponsor and joke that I might have just met my second wife. I laugh and tell him she’s probably in her early twenties—the kind of girl I could get genuinely excited about. Someone still innocent, open, and teachable. As a friend said to me in yoga, maybe a woman I could encourage or guide into being deeply compatible with me.
After the call, I get back to work editing my book. I’m up to mid-September in the transcripts for what will be my second book after Author in St. Petersburg, which I might eventually turn into a full series.
My ex-wife calls to say she’s dropping my daughter off and asks if I can meet them at her house so she can pick my son up too. When I arrive, my daughter is in a mood—upset and snappy with my ex-wife. My ex-wife explains that my daughter thought she’d get another hour or two at her friend’s house, but no one let my ex-wife know until she was already almost there. So the drive home was full of my daughter saying mean things to her.
It hurts to see, but I understand why my daughter’s upset. She wants independence. She’s frustrated by the feeling of not being in control of her own life. Still, part of growing up is learning that control doesn’t just mean doing what you want—it also means managing your reactions when life doesn’t go your way.
I tell her I can relate and ask if she’s frustrated because she wants to be more independent, to have more say over her own choices. She shoots back, “That’s not it—you don’t understand at all.” I ask if she’s thought about what my ex-wife’s day was like. She frowns and says, “No. Why would I? What does that have to do with me?”
I just think—wow. That’s something I would have said twelve years ago. Back when I was drinking, I never once considered what anything looked like from my ex-wife’s point of view. It wasn’t until I got sober and started going to Alcoholics Anonymous that I began to see outside myself. I remember one night being desperately thirsty for a drink and, for the first time, thinking, What would this look like from my ex-wife’s perspective if I relapsed? That was sobering—realizing how powerless she would be to stop it, while I was the one who actually had control.
My ex-wife and I talk more after that, and it’s another beautiful conversation. She tells me how grateful she feels that I’m fully committed to our conscious uncoupling, and I reaffirm that I won’t let anything—especially dating or short-term distractions—get in the way of that. I treasure this time to write books and to lay the foundation for our uncoupled future. I won’t trade it for momentary gratification.
After we sing “You Are My Sunshine” with the kids, I head over to my mom’s house. We talk for about half an hour. I’m grateful she’s always so interested in hearing about my life, and she shares some of her own experiences that mirror what I’ve been talking about. She’s been wanting to go to MacDill for a while—she’s a retired Army officer and loves visiting the airbase, shopping at the commissary, and browsing the exchange. I haven’t gone with her in months, so I check my calendar and tell her I’d be happy to take her Tuesday if she’s free. She’s not sure yet, but we tentatively put it down.
Going to the airbase with my mom always stirs something nostalgic in me. It reminds me of being a kid—going with her and my dad to Yokota Air Base in Japan, Lackland in San Antonio, Fort Benning in Georgia, Ramstein in Germany, Fort Belvoir and Walter Reed around D.C., Fort Jackson in South Carolina, and another base when she lived out of state. I realize that’s a limited-time thing—one day, when my mom’s gone, I won’t get to have that again. And I’ve had some truly great days with her on those trips.
When I get home, I debate what to do with the rest of the night. I decide on a sequence: a little quiet time to myself first, then a shower, then dictating this diary. After that, I’ll edit a bit more, read for a while, and aim to be in bed by 11:15.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.