This is my journal entry from November 11, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.
Well, I made it through, and today I felt a real shift. As I’m recording this now, it’s 9:33 p.m. Today I felt restored to sanity, steadier and more myself again, with a clear sense of the changes I need to make.
I got up to pick the kids up this morning, though it took a bit longer than usual to respond to my alarm. When I stepped outside, it was cold as hell—thirty-eight degrees. For a moment I was genuinely disoriented and thought I was in Michigan. I gave the car time to warm up, bundled the kids into warm clothes, and took them to school. Driving back home, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to dictate a book about deleting dating apps. I searched and couldn’t find any books specifically about deleting dating apps, which told me there was a niche there that I could fill.
I came home and dictated about an hour and a half of audio—something that will probably be called Delete Dating Apps or It’s Not You, It’s the Dating Apps. In the first chapter, I talk about how much dating apps suck for men. In the second, how much they suck for women. I share my own experiences along with stories I’ve heard from other people. In the third chapter, I lay out twenty-five ideas for how to date without dating apps. About half of these are things I’ve already done or am currently doing. I generated the initial list with ChatGPT, then went through each idea in my own words, explaining how it actually works in real life and how I’m personally applying it. The main call to action is simple: I’m going to do more of these things and double down on the ones I’m already doing, and you can too if you want to meet people in real life instead of wasting your energy on dating apps. If even a handful of people feel motivated to get rid of dating apps because of this book, I’ll feel really good about that.
I also knew my older friend was coming over later to dictate his book, and I figured that if I got my own book out of my system first, I’d be in a much better place to listen. He arrived around 10:30, and we talked for about an hour before he started dictating. He encouraged me to avoid watching porn and affirmed that my instinct the night before to stop was exactly what’s healthy for me. He was clear that going back to that would be a step backward and would sabotage my life in the same way it has before. I’m grateful to have someone I can talk to this honestly about these things, and I’m also aware that I’m choosing to tell the truth about them here in a book that will exist long after this moment.
As I sat with my older friend and listened to him dictate about forty minutes of his life story—along with a lot of additional details that won’t even make it into the book—it became obvious to me that this is what I want to do for money. This work is deeply needed, especially for people in their sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties. These are our elders. They carry incredible life experience, and so much of it is being lost. It just slips away. I think about my own parents. My dad passed away, and I would give anything to have a book he dictated about his life. My grandparents are all gone too, and they had extraordinary experiences that I wish were preserved in books I could read.
I even think about the kids’ grandfather on my ex-wife’s side—still technically my father-in-law until the divorce is finalized. He should have a book. He immigrated to the United States, built his own business, and raised his family. He’s lived a genuinely interesting life. He’s exactly the kind of person whose story would matter ten, twenty, or thirty years from now, when his grandkids are grown and would appreciate being able to read about his life in a way he can’t really tell them right now. I’m considering asking him if he’d be interested in telling me his life story. He already shares his stories in other ways, but a book is different. A book lasts. It becomes a legacy. It gives shape and meaning to a life in a way that endures.
This is the work I want to charge people for. According to ChatGPT, I could charge $10,000 or more to do what I did with my older friend today, and I wouldn’t need many clients. Working with ten people a year at that level would be enough. Sitting there, listening, I felt a sense of clarity about that path that I hadn’t felt in a while.
I could easily create ten people’s books a year by doing a couple of-hour sessions with a few people each week, then taking focused time to edit those recordings and turn them into finished books. That’s roughly one hundred hours of dictation, although realistically it might be more. If ten people each needed twenty or thirty hours of dictation, that would put me closer to fifteen to twenty hours of dictation a week, maybe up to thirty during heavier stretches, plus editing time. Even so, for $100,000 a year, that feels completely workable. I could still have time to write my own books without putting pressure on them to sell or perform. I’d be doing meaningful work, getting paid well for it, and still preserving my creative energy. The math actually works, and that realization brought a lot of calm.
After my older friend left a little after 1:00 p.m., I felt a strong sense that now was the moment to go to Crunch Fitness and sign up. I was still undecided about whether I wanted to continue going to my yoga studio, but my older friend had given me something important to think about. He told me, “Look, Jerry, you should go back and deal with the situation you created. You didn’t choose how that woman behaved, but you did put the pieces into motion. You gave your book out. You included your phone number. You set the stage, and she chose how to respond. You should face it, even if it’s just talking to the owner and explaining how frustrating that experience was for you. Don’t just avoid it.” That felt true to me. At the same time, it also felt right to move forward and sign up for Crunch Fitness.
So I went to Crunch to sign up, and while I was there, something clicked. I remembered a life coach I had met out in front of Crunch months ago—at least three months, maybe six, possibly even a year ago. I had talked with her briefly and taken her card but never followed up. Lately, I’d been thinking about how I need more places like a local spiritual community, spaces where I can set up a table, give away my books, and talk with people. That’s how my books get into readers’ hands. Ideally, these places would be close to my home.
I asked about that life coach and what kind of membership she had, and they told me about a business membership. It was $150 a month, plus fees, which brought it to around $170. With that membership, I’d get five total gym memberships—one for myself and four for other people. Even better, they host parties two or three times a month, and during those events I could set up a table for three or four hours, wherever there’s space, and give away my books. Hearing that, I immediately thought, this is an incredible deal. Since it’s a business membership, I’m paying as a company, not as an individual. That means I can expense the entire cost as advertising rather than a gym membership.
What that really gives me is six to ten hours a month at the gym where I can sit there with my books, talk to people, and make impressions. Even if someone doesn’t talk to me at first—say some beautiful woman just walks by—her first impression of me is seeing me running my business, giving away books. Then she sees me again, and again, five or ten times over the next few weeks. Eventually we make eye contact. Maybe we talk. Maybe something comes of it. I found myself thinking, half-joking and half-serious, that I might meet my second wife right there. It felt perfectly timed, almost too clean. I even felt grateful for the uncomfortable interaction at my yoga studio the day before, because without it, I might not have been motivated to take this step today.
The woman signing me up at Crunch was beautiful too, which made me chuckle internally. I had the passing thought of how ridiculous it would be if I managed to create a similar situation there by trying to pick her up while she was literally signing me up for a membership. So, obviously, that wasn’t happening. I kept it professional, signed the paperwork, and walked out feeling like I had made a smart, grounded decision that aligned with where my life is actually going.
After signing up, I did a quick fifteen minutes on the StairMaster to get some movement in before lifting weights. While I was on it, a gorgeous woman walked right up, stood directly in front of the machine while scrolling on her phone, then got onto the treadmill in front of me. I remember thinking, Jesus. That’s exactly the kind of woman I want to be with. She was stunning. I was definitely watching her for about half the time and looking around the gym the other half, and honestly, I hoped she could feel that she was being noticed. That kind of attention feels far healthier to me than clicking a like button on Facebook or Instagram. It’s real appreciation—being seen in the same physical space, exactly as you are.
I resisted the temptation to extend my StairMaster session just to stay there until she got off the treadmill and instead moved on to the weights. While lifting, I ran into a guy I know. I told him that my audiobook I Was Famous on the Internet had officially gone live on Audible that morning, which felt genuinely exciting. I had submitted it on October 26, and it went up sometime on November 10. Seeing it live confirmed that my entire workflow makes sense. I can dictate audiobooks, submit them, and trust the process. Even if it takes a few weeks for them to show up, once they’re there, they can sell for decades—assuming, of course, there isn’t a solar flare that wipes all of this out or something equally catastrophic. Still, the fact that it’s live felt like proof that I’m on the right track.
After wrapping up at Crunch, I went home knowing that I was going to a friend’s house that evening for the meditation, sound bath, and garden tour. At that point, it felt wrong not to go. She had been incredibly supportive when I talked with her a few weeks earlier about my divorce. She’s known me for years and has seen me through all kinds of different phases and challenges. She’s been a meaningful presence in my life. Beyond that, so many people at my yoga studio have been genuinely kind to me, taken copies of my books, and given thoughtful feedback. Remembering that made it clear that skipping the evening out of avoidance or discomfort wouldn’t feel honest or aligned.
The day before, I’d had a really good conversation with a woman I know, and it had been genuinely supportive. If I hadn’t gone to yoga, that conversation never would have happened. At this point it was technically two days ago, but it was still fresh in my mind. On the drive to my friend’s house, I kept thinking about what I might say if I talked to her. Part of me imagined explaining what that staff member had said, how hurt and disrespected I felt. But even as I rehearsed it internally, it didn’t match the vibe of why I was going there.
By the time I arrived, something shifted. I thought, fuck it. I’m not talking about this. I’m not bringing it up at all. Who gives a shit what that woman said to me yesterday? It really doesn’t matter. It’s not like she stabbed me or something. It’s so easy to take things too seriously, to get worked up, to keep going tit for tat, trying to explain, justify, or one-up the situation. Fuck that. Maybe she was having a bad day and took it out on me. What’s going on in her life? My older friend had pointed this out earlier—something I did probably triggered something in her, and she reacted from that place. It wasn’t really about me.
So I decided I was just going to forgive her and move on. I wasn’t going to complain to the owner about how her staff treated me. I was going to be a grown-ass man and let it go. I’d go to Crunch Fitness several days a week instead of my yoga studio, but I wasn’t going to burn the whole place down in my mind. I still had my membership, and if I could go to one of my yoga instructors’ classes, I would.
When I got to the house, a life coach who had done some work with me a few months earlier called to catch up. She was excited, surprised, and deeply interested to hear about the divorce, me moving out, and how the work we’d done together had essentially set everything up for this transition. It felt good to hear from her, to know that even though she’d moved an hour or two north, she hadn’t forgotten about me and was still working on her book. That connection felt grounding.
My friend was ready to start the garden tour, and I realized I was standing right in the way, distracted on my phone, so I wrapped up and let her begin. Then I noticed the woman who first got me into yoga. I originally started doing yoga with her five years ago. I first met her during one of my in-person shows in 2020, when I was doing workouts as part of The Jerry Banfield Show down at the pier. It was raining, muddy as hell, and I had run ads for it. She saw one of those ads on Facebook and came out to one of the last shows I ever did in person that year.
After that, she invited me to her yoga flows on the beach at Upham Beach and Treasure Island. That’s where I really started doing yoga consistently. I went to her flows a couple of times a week whenever I could. When she stopped offering them, I eventually found my yoga instructor and began practicing with him, and later she even showed up to some of his classes. The last time I’d seen her before this was four years earlier.
Standing there at my friend’s place, I didn’t recognize her at all. She just looked vaguely familiar, like one of those faces you know you know but can’t place—kind of like what happened once with another woman from yoga. She was clearly happy to see me and gave me a big hug, and I had to go through that awkward moment of asking, “What’s your name again?” As soon as she reminded me, it all clicked. I was instantly like, oh shit, it’s so good to see you. After that, I could barely focus on anything else because I was so interested in talking with her.
My friend gave us an incredible tour of her garden. She showed us plant after plant, explaining what she was growing, letting us sample different things, and sharing what felt like an hour or more of her passion and care. It was generous, thoughtful, and grounding in the best way. Standing there, I felt grateful. I was glad I hadn’t fucked this up. I was glad I had just gone. I had no intention of revisiting the conversation from the day before. I wasn’t going to bring it up, complain, or spiral. I was choosing to forgive, move on, and let it go.
After about an hour, my friend guided us through a small amount of movement. Before that, she had everyone go inside to use the bathroom ahead of the sound meditation. It was immediately obvious she doesn’t have many men using her bathroom, because the toilet seat wouldn’t stay up and I had to hold it with my leg. Thanks for putting that in the audiobook, Jerry. I really didn’t need to hear about that. Oh, you’re back, huh? Good to see you, little buddy.
We came back outside and my friend led a few simple movements—nothing intense, just enough to settle the body—and then we lay down for the sound bath. Thankfully, she had extra blankets. I had shown up in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a hoodie, which was fine for standing around, but not for lying still for thirty minutes with the temperature dipping into the fifties. With the blanket, though—really, with her preparation—I was perfectly comfortable.
The sound bath itself was deeply relaxing. It was also kind of funny. Along with the instruments, there were sirens in the distance, cars passing, and at one point some guy yelling at another guy, “Hey, I know how to fucking drive. I can get through. Just move.” Right before we started, she had said there would be “good noises” and “bad noises,” but that we didn’t need to label them, that it was all just sound. I found myself oddly entertained by the contrast. Alongside the background noise, she played a drum a few times, used a gong, some metal instruments, and sound bowls. It was genuinely beautiful.
When it ended, everyone was deeply relaxed. We went inside, and she poured us tea—two cups each to start. I ended up getting two refills, which meant four cups total. We stood in her kitchen while she showed us different herbs and plants she had dried, explaining what she uses them for. After that, we sat in the living room for about fifteen minutes, talking quietly. Eventually, one woman said she needed to head out, and shortly after that, everyone else followed.
There was a man there I hadn’t seen in a while, and it was nice to see him again, along with who I assume is his girlfriend. He and I were the only two men there. I think there were eleven of us total, plus my friend and her girlfriend, so thirteen people altogether—two men and eleven women. Standing there, I had the thought that this was exactly the kind of situation I talk about in my dating book. Being present in spaces like this. Statistically, there was probably at least one single woman there. I just didn’t know who it was.
I met a woman who had only recently moved to the area. I felt the familiar temptation to try to pick her up or get her number, but chose not to. I know there’s an argument—especially from pickup artist culture—that you should always go for the number, always make the move. But it didn’t feel right here. I didn’t feel explosive chemistry with her, and without that, pushing for a number just feels forced and icky. After what I’d gone through the day before, the last thing I wanted was to be running around collecting phone numbers like that.
After chatting briefly with her, I could feel the conversation fading on both sides, mostly because my attention was elsewhere. I really wanted to talk to the woman who’d gotten me into yoga. I had overheard her mention that she has a boyfriend, and I was curious whether it was the same guy she had broken up with—or who had broken up with her—around four years ago. When it was time to leave, I made sure to help carry her things out to her car. She had a bunch of plants with her that she’d made donations for.
We ended up talking by her car for ten or fifteen minutes. I asked her for her phone number because I used to have it and lost it at some point when I switched phones or accounts and wiped out a bunch of old contacts. She still had my number, which felt nice, and she texted me so I’d have hers again. I was genuinely happy to be reconnected with her.
Driving home afterward, I felt grateful. I was really glad I had gone. I was glad I hadn’t given in to the temptation to avoid the night or sabotage something that turned out to be genuinely good for me.
It reminds me of that day I got mad at a friend, which I talked about in Author in St. Petersburg, when I considered skipping a massage out of frustration. Looking back, it seems so trifling, almost embarrassing. Like, really? That was the hill I was going to die on? But I think we all struggle with that kind of insanity to some degree—the mental gymnastics where we start seriously considering doing something that will clearly make our lives worse and then build a whole rational argument for why it makes sense. We convince ourselves it’s justified, even when it’s obviously self-sabotage.
After the garden meditation, all I wanted was to be around the kids, and I was hungry. I went home first and grabbed some guacamole and about $50 worth of groceries from Whole Foods—fruits, vegetables, lots of lettuce, the usual. I dropped the groceries off at my place quickly, then headed over to my ex-wife’s house and got there around 7:00 p.m. I brought the guacamole and chips to eat with the kids. My ex-wife’s mom had baked a loaf of bread, and I ended up having at least three, maybe four slices with the guacamole. It was delicious, but I definitely overate to the point of feeling too full. Still, I noticed something encouraging: I haven’t been doing that very often lately. It was a good reminder that half a container of guacamole is plenty, because the whole thing is just way too much now. My stomach genuinely feels like it’s shrunk a bit. Over the last month—especially during the divorce—I haven’t been overeating much at all, which has been great. Tonight was a reminder of that shift. Smaller meals throughout the day have been working really well.
I stayed to put the kids to bed and had a nice conversation with my ex-wife about the Crunch membership. She said she’d be happy to take one of the extra memberships, though she’s also thinking about joining the Y in January. I told her to put me on that too and we could do a family membership. That would mean I’d have a Y membership, a my yoga studio membership, and a Crunch membership, all at once. I’d be paying hundreds of dollars a month collectively, but honestly, for fitness, that feels worth it. Abundant mindset. Support local businesses. Don’t be cheap. Give back.
After that, I went to see my mom. She was a bit tired, but we still had a good conversation about the importance of writing books—especially for people who have knowledge, experience, and a legacy worth preserving and passing down. Then I came back home feeling energized and excited to dictate. I ended up dictating yesterday’s and today’s entries back-to-back. Sitting there afterward, I felt a deep sense of gratitude that I made it through the emotional roller coaster of the day before. I felt restored to sanity again. It felt like I had done some real growing today.
Tomorrow, I’m planning to set up my table at the Crunch Fitness party from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. I’ll see how many books I can give away and how many connections I can make. Hell, maybe I’ll even get a date. Who knows?
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.