This is my journal entry from November 29, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I talked to my aunt first thing this morning. I got up, saw my sister briefly before she left for a group, and then drove over to my aunt’s house. I had thought I’d been keeping the idea of moving up here relatively quiet, but both of my aunts already knew. This is the aunt who has loved me my entire life—the one who was there when I was a baby, who lived in the house with me, my mom, and her parents when I was little, and who has always been part of my life in some way, even if often from a distance. She was openly hostile. She told me very directly that she would not support me moving up here at all.
What surprised me most was how curious I felt instead of defensive. I wanted to understand why. I appreciated that she didn’t waste much time on pleasantries. I got there around 9:40 a.m., and we talked for about an hour and a half. I tried approaching it rationally. I asked her what the difference really is between me seeing my kids about ninety days a year mostly in Michigan, with some trips to Florida mixed in, versus seeing them roughly ninety days a year in Florida. Is ninety days not ninety days? Does it matter whether that time is spread out weekly or concentrated into summers and longer visits? I asked whether it’s really the number of days that matters.
She said no. She said I need to see my kids at least once or twice a week. I asked why. Why is once or twice a week inherently better if, in practice, it might work better for me, for my family up here, and probably for my ex-wife if I saw them less often but for longer stretches when I do see them? I reminded her that I’m not my dad. This is not that situation. I’m not disappearing, not cutting off contact, not blowing up my life. I’m going to talk to my kids every day. I’m going to create a good place for them to stay in the summers. None of that moved her at all. To be fair, I wasn’t moving either.
At one point, I asked her plainly, “If you were me, what would you do?” She said I should stay fairly close and set boundaries. I told her I’m not good at setting boundaries. If I’m close enough to see my kids three times a day, I’m going to want to see them three times a day. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. If I’m physically close, I want as much time with them as possible. That makes it hard on me, hard on my ex-wife, and confusing for the kids. They’re supposed to be adjusting to the reality that their parents are divorced, and that message doesn’t really land when I’m picking them up, hanging out at my ex-wife’s house for an hour or more, and everything looks mostly the same as it used to. It is fine—but it’s not the same.
I told her I don’t think living that close is going to work for me. I also laid out the practical reality. Up here, I can get a beautiful apartment for $1,100 or $1,200 a month. In St. Pete, I’m looking at $1,600 a month for a mediocre place with no amenities. From my perspective, it makes sense to be somewhere cheaper, nicer, and surrounded by family. I don’t see the logic in staying close to the kids and trying to force myself to set boundaries that I’ve already proven I struggle with—boundaries whose absence contributed to me spiraling in the first place.
She suggested I move twenty or thirty minutes away instead. I couldn’t help myself—I said, what the fuck is the point of moving twenty or thirty minutes away? She said that would give me enough distance to set boundaries. I agreed that it probably would, but then I’d realistically only see the kids once or twice a week anyway. I’d be driving forty minutes to an hour round trip just to see them, often picking them up from school when all they want to do is go home and decompress. That would likely push most of our time together to weekends, which would disrupt my ex-wife’s planning. If she knows I’m not around at all, she can plan everything cleanly with her family and handle it all. If she has to coordinate around me being partially involved, that becomes another layer of friction for her. I don’t see how that’s meaningfully better than having more defined, longer stretches of time together.
To be clear, I would love to see my kids more often. I would love to snuggle the shit out of them every single day, just like I have been. That desire hasn’t gone anywhere. What’s changing is my understanding of what’s actually sustainable—for me, for my ex-wife, and for the kids—over the long term.
I’m getting divorced, and I don’t want to be at my ex’s house every day—for her sake, for the kids’ sake, and for mine. It’s time to build separate lives while still finding a way to come together in the healthiest way possible. I don’t see how it makes sense for me to move just far enough away to completely disrupt my life without actually gaining anything meaningful from it. If I live close to my ex-wife and the kids, then I have my AA meetings, my yoga, my tennis, all the familiar routines and people. But if I move farther away within Florida, I disrupt all of that. I lose my support systems and put myself in a position where I’m alone, which is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.
My aunt kept coming back to practical advice—get a job, go to meetings, do the responsible thing. I tried to explain that in that scenario, dating becomes another complicating factor. If I’m living twenty or thirty minutes away, I could easily go a month without seeing the kids. My ex-wife might take them on a trip or have family plans, and if I’m dating someone, I might have commitments on the weekends I’m supposed to see them. Suddenly, I’m close enough to feel guilty but far enough to be functionally absent. And on top of that, I have no family around. I kept coming back to the same question: why do that? Why go halfway? Moving up here creates natural boundaries. I can talk to the kids every day. They have something real to look forward to—long summers together, school breaks, holidays. Instead of blowing $2,000 on a trip to Universal like we’ve done before, they could come up here and see snow. They could experience fall and spring, have Thanksgiving here if they want, and grow up knowing they have a second home. That feels valuable. Me moving to Clearwater or Tampa or Sarasota just feels pointless—far enough to disrupt everything, close enough to solve nothing.
One thing my aunt said did stick with me. She told me I need to talk to my ex-wife and the kids about this when I get home. I left her house thinking, no—I need to talk to my ex-wife and the kids now. I’m tired of having this conversation without the three people who are most affected by it. I’m done speculating. I feel clearer than I have in weeks, and the next step is obvious. It’s time to talk to the kids directly, face to face, and hear what they think.
What surprised me was how the conversation with my aunt actually felt. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t emotionally damaging. It felt a little tense, sure, but in a healthy way—like sparring with a boxing partner at the gym. No one was trying to hurt the other person. We were testing ideas, pushing back, exploring different positions. I didn’t feel wounded or attacked at all. If anything, I was grateful she was honest with me instead of quietly judging me later. The clarity I got from that conversation was simple and undeniable: I need to call my ex-wife and the kids, and I need to stop talking about them behind their backs and start talking to them directly.
After leaving my aunt’s place, I went over to the Crunch gym in Novi since I already have a membership and can use it there. That part, at least, felt grounding—one familiar anchor in the middle of everything shifting.
I texted my ex-wife and asked when we could talk with the kids today. She replied that she wanted the two of us to talk first. I was already at Crunch, so I got on the StairMaster, and she called me while I was climbing. I asked her directly what she thought. She didn’t hesitate. She said she wants me to be happy, supported, and to have my shit together. She wants me to have a good life and to be stable, because if I’m stable and happy, then I’ll actually be there for the kids. The last thing she wants is me being unhappy and unstable, because then I won’t be present for them in any meaningful way. She told me plainly that anything that supports me in being healthy and grounded, she supports.
She said she’d be perfectly happy coming to Michigan, especially if she could stay with my aunt. She likes Michigan summers, loves the idea of working remotely, and thinks it would be great for the kids to get out of Florida and spend more time with family. She said she felt the kids were ready to talk about it and asked if I wanted to FaceTime them. I said yes. I went out to the car—which was warm, a whole new consideration for me now—and called them from there.
I told the kids I loved them and asked how they were doing. Then I said I was thinking about moving to Michigan. I made it clear I hadn’t made a decision yet, even though it feels like where my future is pointing. I wanted their thoughts. My daughter looked straight at me, smiling, and said, “If you’d be happy up there, Dad, then we’d be happy with you living there.” My son pushed his lower lip out the way he does when something sad hits him, but then he got up, started playing with something else, and moved on. My ex-wife started crying. I started crying.
I asked them again if they really would be okay with me moving. I explained what it would look like—seeing them for a month or two in the summer, having them up on breaks whenever possible, FaceTiming every day, and me coming down to Florida to visit them too. I explained that things can’t stay the way they’ve been, with me around all the time. Their mom and I need to set boundaries and truly separate. The options, as I laid them out, were me seeing them once or twice a week in St. Pete, or me living in Michigan with family support and having long, meaningful stretches of time with them during summers and breaks.
They didn’t seem especially bothered by the idea of not seeing me weekly. What they responded to was the certainty of time together. The idea of coming to Michigan for long stretches actually seemed exciting to them—seeing snow, being with family, having a second home. My daughter said how flexible they are, how much they love the family up here, and how much she’d look forward to visiting and spending summers here. I cried listening to her. I was surprised by how open and adaptable they were.
I told them they didn’t have to decide right away, that they should take time to think about it and sleep on it. I even told my daughter I’d had a dream the night before where she said almost exactly what she’d just said, which made the whole thing feel strangely aligned. I told them very clearly that I would only move if all of them were truly okay with it. If my son were to say, “Dad, I can’t go that long without seeing you. I need you nearby,” I wouldn’t do it. I meant that. The only way I’d move is if they felt good about summers together, time on breaks, and staying connected every day.
As we wrapped up the call, I felt a deep sense of rightness. I could see how different this is from me just deciding something on my own and disappearing. If my ex-wife and the kids are genuinely on board, if they can say clearly that they want me to be happy, that they love our Michigan family, and that they’re excited about summers here, that changes everything. I can imagine telling my aunts next week that I’ve talked extensively with my ex-wife and the kids, that they’re not just okay with it but excited about it. That’s a completely different story than me running off or abandoning anyone. It feels honest. It feels grounded. It feels like the truth.
Another reason I want to be here is to support my sister. When I said that to my aunt, she pushed back hard. She told me I can’t save my sister. I told her I’m not trying to save her. I’m saying I want to be here to support her. My aunt insisted my sister already has support—that she has family, that she has them, that she’s not lacking people who care about her. I agreed with that. I’m not denying she has support. What I’m saying is that I believe she would benefit from me being here too.
The way I tried to explain it was with this idea of critical mass. Like a nuclear reaction—if you don’t hit critical mass, nothing happens, but once you do, everything changes. I think with my sister, my presence could help tip things over that threshold. Not because I’m some savior or hero, but because what I’ve seen this week is that we have a very specific way of supporting and loving each other that actually matters. I think me being here could help all the love and support already in her life finally add up to something sustainable—something that supports a beautiful, happy, healthy life long-term. I’m not here to rescue her. I just believe we could strengthen each other in a meaningful way.
My kids are incredibly well taken care of. My sister, on the other hand, has space for more support. So do other family members up here. And for me, the idea of a fresh start—being home, in a new place, with family—feels stabilizing in a way I can’t ignore. During that same conversation, my aunt casually dropped something that completely caught me off guard. She told me my brother is thinking about coming here for New Year’s. He hasn’t been here since he was a child—at least twenty years. That hit me. He’s always seemed to resist reconnecting with this side of the family, but apparently his new wife wants him to rebuild those connections. Hearing that felt significant, like another unexpected thread pulling me toward this place.
After all of that, I went back to my sister’s house. Earlier, I’d done about fifteen minutes on the StairMaster, then walked on the treadmill while talking to my ex-wife, and followed that with roughly twenty-five minutes of lifting weights at Crunch. When I got home, I had popcorn, tea, and bananas for lunch. I spent some time talking with my nephew, and he didn’t hesitate at all. He told me I absolutely should move up here. He said he’d love to have me around, that it would be good for his mom, and that this area is great. He talked about Northville—how awesome it is, how he works up there, how there are lots of beautiful, wealthy women there, and how it would be a great place for me. I told him that my ex-wife and the kids are, so far, on board, and that the cost of living is lower. He was emphatic. Yes, you should move up here.
I told him something that felt important to say out loud—that I respect his opinion just as much as my aunts’. His perspective matters to me. I remember how often, as a teenager, it felt like my opinion didn’t count, like I wasn’t grown enough to be taken seriously. I wanted him to know that his voice actually matters in my life and in my decision-making. That opened something up between us. He shared some deeply personal things about his life—things he told me he’s only shared with a couple of people he’s very close to. I felt genuinely honored that he trusted me with that. It made me realize how much more of that kind of connection could exist if I were up here regularly.
By the end of the day, I felt full in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. Not full from food—full from family. From conversation. From being needed and being able to give. It’s hard to ignore how different my nervous system feels here, surrounded by people who know me and have space for me in their lives.
At the same time, I am holding space for a real question: what if I’m not thinking clearly? I’m staying with my sister. I’m inside her bubble, her world, her rhythm. I know that sometimes I get carried away by ideas—like when I convinced myself renting a $3,000-a-month house in St. Pete made sense. Looking back now, that feels borderline delusional. At the time, it came from a sincere place: wanting to stay as involved in my kids’ lives as possible. But when I actually tried to live that reality, it didn’t work. It fell apart. The execution didn’t match the fantasy. In contrast, moving to Michigan feels like it has the kind of energy I’ve been missing. Even the parts that are supposed to be hard—the winters, the snow—don’t scare me. It’s snowing as I’m recording this, and my reaction is genuinely, let’s go. This is fun.
A fresh start feels like exactly what I need right now. Clearing out the past without abandoning it. Maintaining my relationships with my kids, but building those relationships in a new place, a new context. Most of the in-person time I’d have with them would be here, in a space that isn’t soaked in the emotional residue of my divorce or the house we used to share. It would be my territory, my home, instead of me constantly stepping into my ex-wife’s space. That matters. It feels like the environment I need to get my work straight and to fall in love again.
My aunt kept coming back to this idea that I shouldn’t even be thinking about dating, that I should only be focused on the kids and on making money. That framing doesn’t work for me. I know myself. I’m a delicate instrument. That doesn’t mean I’m fragile in a helpless way—it means I’m capable of extraordinary things under the right conditions. I can write books that could be bestsellers. I could land a $50,000 advance. I’ve already built platforms that reached billions of views. But being a delicate instrument also means you can’t fuck around with the environment I’m placed in. I will not do well grinding through a job I hate just to pay bills, while every time I see my kids in St. Pete I’m flooded with regret and grief over the divorce. That energy would bleed into everything—dating or not dating, working or not working. It would feel like my life and the things that matter most to me were slowly wasting away.
I want more kids. When I said that, my aunt dismissed it, telling me it doesn’t matter, that I need to focus on the kids I already have. But it does matter. Wanting more kids was one of the core reasons my marriage ended. If it truly didn’t matter, we might still be married. Pretending that desire doesn’t exist or isn’t important doesn’t make it go away. It just creates more internal pressure.
What I’m grateful for today is the clarity. In the past, I often felt like I was moving through life without enough internal alignment—either reactive or unsure. Right now, I feel grounded and open at the same time. I’m not rigid. I’m not closed off. I’m listening, questioning, feeling my way through it honestly. This whole experience feels like an adventure. A real one. A life-shaping chapter. I’m oddly happy to be living a story that’s this complex and this human. I’m excited to see how it unfolds. I’m genuinely curious.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.