This is my journal entry from October 18, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Learning to Live Alone Again — my real, unedited days, published in order.
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Sadness greets me the moment I wake up. It’s there again, heavy but familiar. Still, a text from my daughter on my ex-wife’s phone brightens the start of the day: “Good morning, Dad. I’m up.” It’s 7:15 a.m., and I walk down the street to spend the morning with the family.
Most of the time, I just lie on the couch, snuggling and playing with my son, letting the sadness wash through me. It’s all right. If it weren’t this, I’d probably find something else to feel sad about anyway. Life seems to always have a rotation of feelings, and I’ve stopped fighting that.
When my ex-wife and the kids head out, I return to my house. No attractive women walking their dogs this morning. I sit down to work on the cover for The Kind Divorce. I take a few new photos of myself and place them on both the front and back covers. This time, I do it properly in Photoshop, using guidelines to make sure everything is aligned just right. Once the design looks perfect, I upload it to Amazon and, instead of publishing it immediately like I usually do, I order a proof copy first. If anything looks off, I’ll be able to fix it before releasing it to the world.
At 10:00 a.m., I go to the Power Flow class my yoga instructor is teaching. As I arrive, an attractive girl with a short, petite frame walks in at the same time. I call out, “Good morning,” but she seems lost in thought and doesn’t notice at first. When she finally realizes I was speaking to her, she smiles and says, “Oh, you were saying good morning to me?” I laugh and reply, “Yes, I guess I burst your little bubble.” She immediately starts telling me what was on her mind—that she forgot the book she was supposed to bring for her friend who’s meeting her in class.
By then, we’ve reached the front desk and go our separate ways to set up our mats. We don’t talk again after that. Still, I feel content that I said something instead of staying silent. It’s good practice. She didn’t seem particularly interested in continuing the conversation, which is fine. Maybe she’ll think about me later.
A friend from yoga walks into class, which makes me smile. I haven’t seen her in months, not since she had her baby. I’m genuinely impressed to see her back in Power Flow only three months after giving birth, especially on a Saturday morning. She jokes that she was able to literally drop the baby off in the yard with her family before heading to yoga. I haven’t seen her at the weekday classes she used to attend because she’s working during those hours now.
She puts her mat down next to mine, and after class we pick up our conversation like no time has passed. I tell her about the divorce, and she recommends a local dating company called Meet in the Wild. I’ve never heard of it before. She laughs as she tells me that one of her friends gave her a hard time for mentioning that service, but I’m intrigued. It sounds like exactly the kind of thing I’ve been wanting—something new and local that might expand my horizons.
During our brief reunion, I end up hugging a friend from yoga three separate times. It feels good to reconnect, and by the end of class, I’m not only feeling emotionally lighter but also physically energized. My yoga instructor led a strong flow today—so challenging that I could barely keep up with the clock, which is always the sign of a great class.
It was nice to drive to my yoga studio this morning, even though I’ve been enjoying walking there the past couple of days. On the drive home, I feel peaceful. When I arrive, I see that my ex-wife stopped at the Saturday Morning Market with the kids and brought back Ethiopian food, which happens to be my favorite. I head straight to her house and eat half of it before they return.
But when they walk in, the sadness creeps back. I start to feel awkward just hanging around the house. I don’t really know what to do there anymore. When I lived there, I was always on top of chores—constantly fixing, cleaning, and managing. I always knew exactly what my roles and responsibilities were. The downside of that was I often didn’t focus on the kids as much because I was always busy doing something.
Now the situation has flipped. I have the freedom to relax and truly be present with the kids, but I also feel a little lost. Part of me wants to jump up and start doing dishes or laundry, but those are my ex-wife’s responsibilities now—it’s her house. I have my own place with its own chores to manage. Still, I want to help however I can, especially when it comes to the kids.
Yesterday, I forgot to mention that my ex-wife helped me out financially when I needed it during the divorce. She did it without hesitation, which was kind and generous, and it took a real weight off my mind this month. I feel grateful for that security—and for how peaceful we’ve managed to keep things.
Since she brought me lunch and continues to be such a great mom, I want to pitch in somehow—maybe wash some dishes or tidy up a bit. I hang around for a while, nibbling on the boiled peanuts they picked up at the market, until a friend calls. Earlier in the day, I sent out a bunch of texts to people I hadn’t talked to in a while. I can see that I need to do a better job staying connected with people. Two of those friends were people I’d been meaning to reconnect with, so I made a point to reach out to both.
A friend calls while the kids are out front carving pumpkins. I get up to take the call since it feels rude to sit there chatting while they’re busy creating something together. I walk around the block as we talk, eventually making my way back toward my house. It turns into a great conversation. We catch up easily, and she encourages me to have more fun with dating—to approach it playfully instead of so seriously. I take that advice to heart because I’ve been doing the opposite, treating it like a mission instead of an adventure.
A friend tells me how she met her boyfriend completely by accident, when she wasn’t even looking. She literally just ran right into him. I hold onto that thought. All I need to do is keep showing up, keep meeting people, and things will happen naturally. They can happen quickly too—maybe even today, maybe tomorrow. It feels freeing to remember that.
It’s strange but beautiful to realize I now have this open stretch of life again, a kind of freedom I once thought I’d never have—to explore, to date, to sleep with new women, to rediscover what connection looks like. I’m grateful for it, even though I’m also sad and confused. I tell a friend all this, and by the time we hang up, I feel lighter. Maybe I’ll see her at yoga tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.
Back at my house, I dictate more notes for my dating book. I talk about how to put a friend’s advice into practice, how being playful is essential. I remind myself that approaching women, even if it doesn’t go anywhere or lead to a phone number, is not failure. Every attempt is a success, a chance to learn and grow. Like earlier today at my yoga studio, saying something to that girl felt right simply because I acted on the impulse.
Later at Whole Foods, a beautiful girl walks right past me. I have about three seconds to say something before she’s gone. I feel the adrenaline surge through me, but I stay silent. The moment passes, and I instantly regret it. I walk away feeling silly but also motivated. Next time, I’ll be ready.
While I’m still at Whole Foods, I get a call from a friend, who I haven’t talked to in a while. He’s divorced too, and I’ve been meaning to catch up. As we talk, that same girl walks by again. I feel this urge to get off the phone so I can be present. I tell him I’d love to meet up soon for lunch or something to talk divorced-dad life, then let him go. After that, I check out and head home.
I realize I’ve gotten the order of events mixed up a bit, because sometime after coming home—back at my house—I call my ex-wife to ask if my son wants to go to the tennis club. It turns out to be perfect timing. My daughter wants to go to the dog park, but my son doesn’t, so I take him with me. We use the ball machine for over an hour and a half, taking turns: my son gets four hits, I get three each round.
I experiment with hitting forehands using my left hand. The idea of becoming ambidextrous in tennis fascinates me. Most players rely heavily on one side—maybe a two-handed backhand, sometimes even a rare two-handed forehand—but I love the idea of having two forehands, using both sides equally. It’s tricky since you have to constantly adjust your grip, but I think it’s worth it. Playing this way could balance my body’s strength instead of leaving my right side overdeveloped and my left neglected.
My son and I have a great time. The session reminds me to text one of the women I’ve been interested in asking out. She’s a single mom and has her kids most of the time, so I message her to see if she has any free evenings coming up. She doesn’t reply, but that’s okay. It’s not my job to make her respond. My role is to reach out, to create opportunities. Whether someone replies or not isn’t the measure of success.
By the end of the night, I feel genuinely good about all the people I reached out to today. That, more than anything else, seems to have cleared the sadness that started my morning.
By the time I’m at the tennis club with my son, I notice the sadness is gone. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it left. Maybe it was yoga this morning. Maybe it was talking to a friend or to my sponsor. Maybe it was spending time with the kids. All of it helped. I realize how easily someone could stay trapped in depression if they never got moving. If I had just stayed in bed this morning, I would have felt terrible all day. The biggest reason I don’t stay stuck in sadness anymore is because I keep going. I keep moving, keep connecting, keep talking to people.
It feels unnatural to lie in bed all day, marinating in your own thoughts. I did that plenty of times back when I was drinking—hungover, depressed, lost in my own mind. I know what that feels like, and I’m grateful I don’t live that way anymore.
After I drop my son off, he and my daughter head down the street with my ex-wife’s family to watch a movie. That’s when I decide to head to Whole Foods. At first, I’m about to pull into my driveway, but my mind starts nudging me. Go to Whole Foods. Come on, there might be some girls there. You could use some fruit. You don’t have enough fruit, do you? All you’ve got are bananas, and they’re not even ripe yet. I laugh at myself, feeling like both a fool and a man open to adventure, and turn the car around.
On the way, I stop for gas. A good-looking mom is fueling her car next to me. I’m smiling at her until I hear her snap at her kids—“Get in the car now!” The sound of her voice instantly changes how I see her. A moment ago, she looked beautiful. Now she’s the ugliest person in the parking lot. It’s wild how quickly that shift happens. I wonder if people realize how ugly it sounds when they talk to their kids like that.
I get that parenting can be tough, and I’ve had my own ugly moments. But still, that tone—sharp, impatient, mean—it hits me hard. Maybe she’s having a bad day. Maybe her world just fell apart for reasons I’ll never know. Still, it reminds me how grateful I am that I usually stay calm and gentle with my kids. They respond so much better because of it.
When I get to Whole Foods, I spot an attractive woman pushing a cart all the way across the parking lot to return it properly. There’s a big wedding ring on her finger, but I say, “I’m proud of you for walking that cart all the way back.” She smiles and says, “Thank you for the compliment.” It’s a small, harmless interaction, but it feels good—just two people acknowledging each other in passing.
Then I head inside, determined to be ready if any beautiful women cross my path. And there are so many tonight. It feels like every aisle has one. One woman walks right next to me, and I freeze up again, too startled to say anything. The adrenaline hits me like a wave, and I walk away laughing at myself. Next time, I tell myself, I’ll be ready.
When I get home, I unpack my groceries—mostly fruit—and feel surprisingly happy. It’s amazing how cheap it is to shop just for myself. The total tonight was only $37, and yesterday’s trip was around $20-something. I can’t remember the last time I saw totals that low at Whole Foods. When I went with the kids a few days ago, it was $360.
I’m a simple guy at heart. I buy fruit, vegetables, nothing fancy. And now that I’m going almost every day, maybe I’ll start talking to more women there too. Who knows what could happen if I keep showing up.
Around 8:30 p.m., my ex-wife FaceTimes me. My daughter came home early from the movie, and my ex-wife wants to go pick up my son. She asks if I can come over and stay with my daughter. I say yes without hesitation. I’m happy to have some one-on-one time with her.
When I arrive, my daughter and I settle in. I ask if she wants to play Uno: No Mercy, and before long, we’re laughing, joking, and talking trash. I start making ridiculous noises and acting like a goofball. It feels amazing to be playful again, to be silly with my daughter. These moments are the ones that matter most. The snuggles with my son this morning and now this—laughing, joking, even swearing a little—it all reminds me what’s truly important.
At one point, I yell just to startle her, and she jumps, then bursts out laughing. That kind of genuine, joyful reaction is everything. We play Uno No Mercy, and in one game she makes me draw twenty-two cards. I lose because the mercy rule is twenty-five. The next round, I get her back. On my first turn, I play a draw-six. She plays one too. Then I drop a draw-ten, stacking it to twenty-two. I let out a loud whoop and cheer as she groans and laughs. It’s one of those perfect little moments of family fun.
My ex-wife comes home with my son soon after. He takes a shower while we wind down the game and help the kids get ready for bed. I notice my ex-wife’s tone with them—kind and gentle even when she’s irritable. I think back to that mom at the gas station earlier, screaming at her kids, and realize how fortunate my children are to have a mother like my ex-wife. I’ve never heard her sound that harsh. Then again, who am I to judge? I have no business throwing stones.
After the kids are asleep—around 9:30—I head over to my mom’s house and spend about half an hour there. I tell her that earlier today, I dictated an eight-page, single-spaced letter to her sister and my cousin. I’d been meaning to do it for weeks, and since I finished uploading The Kind Divorce today, it felt like the right time.
I also thank her for what she did last night. I’d been feeling lonely, wishing someone would come over, and she somehow picked up on that. She ended up walking the dog and stopping by to hang out. I tell her how incredible it is that she could sense that from a distance—like she read my mind.
Before leaving, I take her trash out, then walk back home. It’s about 10:20 when I get there. As I step inside, gratitude floods through me. The house feels perfect. This is my new home. It amazes me how quickly I’ve adapted, how easily I’ve let go. It makes me think about death—not in a morbid way, but with curiosity. I imagine that when it’s time, I might let go of life just as smoothly as I’ve adjusted to this change.
I once had a dream that I die on November 11, 2111. In the dream, I wasn’t sick. I was just lying on a sleeping bag on the floor and decided to go. It wasn’t dramatic. I simply lay down and pass away. My ex-wife could see me, but the kids couldn’t. She looked the same age she does now. Sometimes I think maybe November 11 is the only day I can die. But more than that, I believe I won’t die until I’m ready.
Back at home, I feel grateful for my freedom—the ability to do whatever I want, whenever I want. I think a hot shower and dictating tonight’s book chapter will be the perfect ending to the day. But once I’m in the shower, I start debating with myself. Do I really want to dictate tonight? I know how good it is for me. I love doing it.
As the water hits me, my mind drifts. I picture a hundred thousand people someday reading my Daily Autobiography series. It feels far-fetched, but not impossible. I don’t know that anyone has ever created a series like this—an honest, daily, unfiltered life record. Maybe it will catch on. Maybe it will spread by word of mouth.
That’s what I love about writing: it’s pure creativity. I have no idea how many people will ever read this—maybe one person, maybe just me, maybe my kids someday, or maybe thousands. All I know is I love doing it.
Today alone, I’ve dictated about an hour of material, and I’ve got a lot more to go. I’m glad I didn’t skip it. By the time I finish, it’s 11:23 p.m., and I’m ready for bed.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.