This is my journal entry from September 11, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
Our fourth day of massage school was another great one. My morning routine has become efficient—I can get out of bed and be on the road in just fifteen or twenty minutes. At school, we began learning the foundations of Swedish massage, starting with something as simple as resting our hands on another person to connect, followed by light compressions. Our teacher filled the day with personal stories about her career, which not only taught us techniques but also helped us bond as a group. I arrived with more confidence than yesterday and felt far less awkward putting my hands on the two people I practiced with. I’ve come to see that almost anything I do, even something as basic as gentle compressions, can make another person feel better. With more learning, my ability to help will only deepen, but the foundation itself is already therapeutic.
Lunch was another highlight. I sat with some classmates, and the simple act of eating with people outside my family felt refreshing. For so many years I either ate alone at home or went out for solitary lunches. Now I feel like I’m back in a work environment, sharing meals and conversations, and it surprises me how good that feels.
On my drive back, I had a long conversation with an old college friend—an hour and a half that went by quickly. The most powerful part of our talk came when I shared a theory I’ve been piecing together. It draws from several sources: Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life, which argues that disease often originates in the mind and emotions, and Mind Over Medicine, written by a doctor who frames similar ideas in research-based medical language. Both suggest that our thoughts, emotions, and behaviors can drive the creation of illness.
I connected these ideas to something a life coach once shared with me about her own past—how unprocessed pain from her younger years had shaped her choices and behavior for a long time afterward. It struck me as another example of how what we carry inside can ripple outward into our actions and, I believe, into our bodies.
That conversation resurfaced when I thought of a close friend from college, who died of cancer almost two years ago. He was close to me in age and married shortly before I did. As I reflected, I sat with my own belief that unprocessed shame, guilt, and remorse can weigh on a person over time, and I wondered what private burdens any of us might carry silently.
When I presented this theory to my friend on the phone, I expected skepticism. Instead, he received it openly. He said he could believe it and even found comfort in the idea. I asked why, and he explained that if cancer is truly random—striking by genetics or chance—then living in fear makes sense. But if behavior and unprocessed experiences play a role, then he felt reassured, because he has been faithful to his wife and avoids that kind of destructive secrecy. It left him feeling more secure in his own health, and I was grateful to have given him a new perspective. For me, it reinforced my own belief that as I live now—honestly, without destructive secrets—it feels impossible for cancer to take root in my body. If I ever carried something like that, I wouldn’t doubt that it could manifest. But since I don’t, I feel no fear of disease appearing out of nowhere. That conversation was one of the most meaningful I’ve had recently, and I’m grateful for my friend’s open mind.
Later, I went to the tennis clinic at the tennis club. My friend a friend was there, and whenever we play together, laughter follows. Our humor clicks effortlessly, though I’ve only ever seen him on the court. Today we had a new coach, a tennis coach, who was friendly and helped us have fun. We all joked, showed off, hit some incredible shots, and missed plenty of others. After the clinic, a friend and I stayed to play with a couple of other guys, continuing the fun.
What I value about a friend is that I can speak honestly with him, the same way I write honestly in my books. That said, in my books I sometimes generalize or soften the edges so the material is consumable by a broad audience. In private conversations, though, I strip that away by being more graphic or dark. What you read here is still the real me, just considerately adjusted so the book doesn’t provoke the kind of extreme reactions my past writings once did—like the time I was swatted because my raw honesty triggered someone into making up an insane story and calling the police. With a friend, I don’t have to hold back. By the end of the day, I felt content and ready for rest. I made it into bed by 10:45, grateful for another day that was both meaningful and fun.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.