This is my journal entry from December 1, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.
It’s check out time. The week is over, and it looks like I’m heading back to Florida after all—and I’m genuinely okay with that. I say goodbye to my nephew, have a cup of tea, and then say goodbye to my sister. My niece stayed home from school, and I didn’t really hear from her. I packed everything up and hollered upstairs to let her know I was leaving. She was still in bed, so I shrugged it off—see you next time.
Before heading to the airport, I went to one last yoga class: a hot, sweaty vinyasa flow at Plymouth Yoga Room. I had what I thought was a brilliant plan. I’d shower there after class so I’d be clean and fresh for the flight. The plan fell apart immediately. I finished washing and then realized—fuck—I had no towel. Obviously, they don’t just have towels sitting around for random travelers. On the bright side, the shower was stocked with shampoo and conditioner, which was lucky, because I didn’t have any of that either.
Standing there, soaked, I had a moment of appreciation for the absurdity of it all. New place, hot shower, good conditioner. Fack. I definitely enjoyed that a little too much. I used way more conditioner than necessary and none of it on my skull lol. The real problem came afterward. No towel, dripping wet, and I had to make a choice. I ended up putting my old, sweaty shorts back on because there was nothing else to do. Thankfully, no one was waiting for the shower, because I was in there a solid fifteen minutes. Once I got out, I went into the restroom next door and used a stack of paper towels to dry myself off before finally getting dressed and heading out around 11:30 a.m.
I made it to the Detroit rental car return with perfect timing. The shuttle driver had a big orange bowl of Halloween candy up front, and the moment I saw him, I realized I’d had him as a shuttle driver before—back in July of last year. Same guy. I pulled out a $20 bill and tipped him, just like I’d tipped the driver on the way to the rental car place earlier. It felt right.
After security, I went to the Japanese restaurant in Terminal A at Detroit Metro and ordered the Spicy Love Roll—spicy tuna, shrimp, spicy mayo—the whole thing. I also got spicy edamame and a pineapple ginger mocktail. It was a fancy-ass lunch, came out to about $60 with a 24 percent tip, and I enjoyed every bite. I walked down to my gate afterward and grabbed an unsweetened Gold Peak tea—or tried to. The little stand by Gate A6 had a sign that said Be Right Back, which apparently meant be back in a fucking hour. I stood there for fifteen minutes before realizing I could’ve just gone somewhere else and done self-checkout immediately. I put the tea back, did exactly that, and moved on.
While I was waiting, my ex-wife called. We talked through plans for when I get home. We both agreed that spending hours every day together at her house isn’t healthy or necessary anymore. I told her I’m thinking about moving to South Tampa. She thought that sounded perfect for me—lots of yoga studios, hot girls, the right vibe, and still only about thirty minutes from her house and the kids’ school. She said it would be good for me and that she thinks I’ll be happy there. She also likes the idea of me having some overnights with the kids. She’ll miss them when they’re with me, but it will give her space to get things done and appreciate the time she has with them more. We both acknowledged how cooperative we’ve been through all of this, and we agreed to use this month to actually make the transition instead of lingering in the old pattern.
I texted my landlord afterward, and she agreed to apply my $600 security deposit toward this month’s rent. That means I only have to pay $1,150 to have the two-bedroom, two-bath house to myself for the rest of the month. That felt like a quiet little win to end the trip.
I spent most of the plane ride working—really thinking—about where I want to live. I told my ex-wife I was also considering downtown St. Petersburg, and she said that could be really nice too. I spent about an hour looking at apartments downtown, scrolling listing after listing, and the conclusion was obvious. If I want a nice two-bedroom place with enough space for the kids, I’m looking at $3,000 or more per month in one of the high-rise buildings. The alternative is a mediocre place for $1,500 to $2,000 that doesn’t actually feel like an upgrade or a reset. And more importantly, downtown St. Pete doesn’t feel like enough of a restart for me. I’d still be going to the same AA meetings, the same yoga studio, the same gym, running into the same people. I don’t want that. I want to burn my life down—everything except my relationship with my kids—and rebuild it intentionally.
What I want is newness. New meetings. New yoga studios. New gyms. A flood of new people. I want to make new friends, date freely, create momentum, feel like I’m actually starting a new chapter instead of rearranging the furniture in the old one. That’s when South Tampa really starts to stand out. That feels like a place where I can do that.
So I shift my search to South Tampa and basically drain my phone battery for the rest of the flight. I alternate between scrolling Zillow and looking out the window, appreciating the snow blanketing everything below, the clouds, the quiet beauty of it all. Somewhere in that rhythm, I find a house. It’s listed at $2,300 a month—about $600 more than I’m paying now. Two bedrooms, one bath, but 1,600 square feet. The photos look great. The lawn is nice. There’s a fenced-in backyard. The house doesn’t look like it’s falling apart. It feels solid. Livable. Calm.
Then I notice something weird. The street name matches the last name of my late grand-sponsor, and it’s not a common name at all. Seeing it there stops me for a second. I don’t take that stuff too literally, but it definitely catches my attention. It feels like a small nudge. Like, okay, pay attention to this one.
I keep digging. I’d been considering a high-rise apartment at first, but the more reviews I read, the worse it sounds. Homeless people hanging out in front. Broken entry doors. Parking garages you have to navigate just to get home. Elevators that break. I’ve already lived that life back when I was on campus years ago. I don’t want that again. Especially not with kids. I don’t want to bring them through parking garages, past random chaos, then walk ten minutes just to get to the apartment. It all feels inefficient and stressful. A house feels much more like my vibe.
This South Tampa house becomes the clear front-runner. As soon as the plane lands, I message the owner directly. One thing I’m realizing is that I really prefer renting directly from owners instead of dealing with property managers and middlemen. The place I almost rented near my mom and my ex-wife was owned by someone overseas with everything filtered through a manager, and I don’t like that dynamic. I’d rather deal with the person who actually owns the place whenever possible.
I text the owner: Hey, I’m checking on this property. Is it still available? A lot of listings stay up even after they’re rented. They text back almost immediately: Yes, still available. I reply that I’d love to come take a look. They say, Sure. Wednesday, 2:30. I tell them I’ll be there. I put it on my calendar. That moment feels real. Grounded. Like the first concrete step of the next chapter.
Driving home, I kept thinking about how good my life could actually be in South Tampa. Logistically, it makes far more sense than it might seem at first glance. Right now, from my ex-wife’s house, it’s about a fifteen- to twenty-minute drive each way to the kids’ school. From South Tampa, it would be closer to thirty minutes each way, but because of the interstate, it’s really not that different. I could absolutely do overnights with the kids, even during the school week. I could pick them up from school, have one or two overnights during the week, and then do longer stretches on the weekends. I could pick them up Friday after school, have Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night with them, and drop them off at school Monday morning. Three overnights, easily. The round-trip driving would be about two hours total, which honestly isn’t that different from living right next door and constantly bouncing back and forth.
What I like about that setup is the balance. It gives me enough distance that my ex-wife wouldn’t be casually dropping by, and it gives me my own environment to have the kids in—my space, my rules, my energy. We could do different things together in Tampa: Busch Gardens, exploring the city, even being closer to Orlando by another ten or twenty minutes. Living in Tampa opens up a lot of options.
When I got back to my house, everything looked fine. I ate a Lara Bar and an apple, then headed over to my ex-wife’s place to help with bedtime. We were all genuinely happy to see each other. After that, I went over to my mom’s house. I’d already told my ex-wife about the idea of South Tampa, and she affirmed again that it sounded great and that she’d support it. I spent about an hour and a half with my mom and the kids, then put the kids to bed. There were lots of snuggles, no stress, and they were down around 8:40 p.m. It felt easy and calm.
Then I made a mistake. I downloaded Hinge again and started swiping. This is coming from the same guy who wrote a book called It’s Not You, It’s the Dating Apps. Even though I updated my profile to make it very clear that I’m serious and intentional, it immediately felt wrong. It just felt bad. I caught myself and thought, damn it, this is not how I want to be spending my time or energy right now. I got off Hinge pretty quickly. Thankfully, I didn’t talk to my ex-wife about it. Before that, I’d spent about thirty minutes talking with her, catching up and discussing future plans, and that conversation felt healthy and grounded.
Afterward, I called a friend I’ve known for eight or nine years. He threw out an idea I hadn’t really considered before. He told me I should think about meeting a woman overseas. He has a girlfriend in Thailand, lives there part of the time, and is currently traveling in the Philippines. He said there are tons of beautiful women there who would love to meet an American man, get married, get a visa, move to the States, and raise kids. Hearing that snapped something open in me. It shifted me into a mindset of abundance. The realization landed hard: there are women all over the world I could build a life and a family with. I’m not limited to a tiny local pool. What I actually need is to get my foundation right. The steps became very clear. Step one: get a place to live. Step two: get my money right. Step three: date. In that order.
I hung up with him at 11:11 p.m., which felt oddly satisfying. After a week of sleeping on my sister’s couch, getting woken up by cats at all hours, it felt incredible to be back in my own house, in my own bed, lights out, no animals jumping on me in the middle of the night. I was deeply grateful for that. At the same time, there was a quiet loneliness in the house. I could feel it. I know that having the kids stay overnight a few nights a week will help a lot. I’m genuinely looking forward to taking them to school in the mornings and building that rhythm again—this time, in a way that actually feels sustainable.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.