This is my journal entry from November 15, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I went back to my yoga studio this morning, and it felt like a quiet but necessary reset. I finally reached the point where I was done being a whiny little bitch about the whole situation and just decided to do what I already knew was good for me. All the internal noise about being hurt or offended suddenly felt ridiculous. Fuck that. I showed up, took the class, and everything was completely fine. I had a solid yoga class with a yoga instructor, saw some familiar faces, and felt grounded being back in that space. It was normal, friendly, and easy. In hindsight, I should have brought some books to give away, but I couldn’t be bothered to think that far ahead. I was just there to show up and move my body, and that was enough.
After yoga, I headed straight to a gratitude dinner for Alcoholics Anonymous. My sponsor and another guy who’s basically a second sponsor were both going, and they had a ticket for me, so I drove up to Seminole right after class. It was a little over a thirty-minute drive, and somewhere along the way I called my aunt. That’s when she shared some difficult news about a family member going through a really hard time. The sadness hit immediately and filled me in a way that was heavy but familiar. I could relate to what they were going through more than I wanted to admit. I’ve felt those same currents moving through me. I voluntarily stopped uploading videos and agreed to a divorce, and over the past few weeks I’ve had some genuinely hard days too.
What kept me steady was remembering that I’ve already talked myself through those moments before. There is still a lot of fun to be had here, and there are still opportunities worth showing up for. I’ve worked hard for the life I have. I’ve put in the work to publish all these books, to be a father to my two kids, to maintain a relationship with my ex-wife, and to see my mom every day. None of that happened by accident. It doesn’t make sense to throw all of that away unless things are truly hopeless, or unless there’s something clearly better to do, or unless my work here is actually finished. With this loved one, I felt both deep sadness and a strange sense of recognition. I understood exactly how a person gets there, and that made it hurt even more.
When I arrived at the gratitude dinner, I immediately saw my sponsor and a bunch of friends. It felt good to be welcomed right away. We took a couple of pictures together so I could potentially use them for book covers later. I went in expecting the food to be bad, and the buffet line confirmed it. Everything was loaded with meat and animal products, and none of it looked remotely appealing to me. All I took was a piece of bread. The girl serving the food looked genuinely confused that I didn’t want anything else, like she couldn’t process someone willingly passing on what was essentially cafeteria food. I felt oddly good saying no. I’m spoiled in the best possible way. I have so much access to good food in my life that I don’t feel the need to eat something just because it’s there.
While I was there, a woman I’ve known for years sat down next to me. We’ve had some really deep conversations over the years. We started talking about dating, especially online dating. She showed me her dating app, where she had more than fifty likes sitting there. She told me it’s still a complete waste of time because most of those guys just want sex and don’t want anything more than that. Sorting through it all feels pointless and exhausting to her. I could relate, just from the opposite side of the equation. The last time I checked my profile, I had zero likes. As we talked, I kept thinking how perfect she would be for me in so many ways, and that made it even harder. She’s kind, thoughtful, and emotionally available. The hard part for me was noticing my own attraction hesitate over her body type, and I couldn’t ignore how that landed in me. That realization sat with me quietly, uncomfortable and honest, without any easy resolution.
I started wondering why that even mattered so much to me in the first place. It felt like it shouldn’t matter that much, and yet it clearly did. As we kept talking, she started engaging more with the guy sitting on her other side, and at that point I mentally stepped back. Whatever. It was still nice to see her and hear her perspective, but I could tell this wasn’t someone I needed to pursue. I’ve had more enjoyable, more energizing conversations, and I didn’t feel any pull to force something that wasn’t there.
When the actual AA meeting finally started, it was already running late. I had arrived around 12:45 p.m., and the meeting was supposed to start around 2:00 p.m., but people didn’t even get their food until about 2:30 p.m. Everyone was still shuffling around with plates, settling in, and staring down meals I wasn’t impressed with. By then, I just wanted to leave. I was already weighed down by the hard news about my loved one, trying to stay hopeful through a difficult situation. I love them deeply, and I genuinely hope it turns around, but I also felt realistic and tired. On top of that, I was annoyed with myself for even staying as long as I had. This was technically a great place to meet sober women. I could see several sober women I already knew, plenty of sober guys, and yet I wasn’t feeling any of it. None of it was landing. About a minute or two into the meeting, I stood up and left before it had even really begun. I didn’t want to hear the speaker. I knew her already, and I had zero interest in listening to her talk. I also had plans to go to a local spiritual community for a dance portal, and I wanted to get moving.
As I walked out toward my car, I noticed the girl who had been sitting next to me was now sitting on a bench directly in front of my car with another woman I know really well. For a moment, I almost pretended I didn’t see them and kept walking, but they waved at me, so I went over. We ended up talking for about ten minutes. Both of them were incredibly supportive and kind, picking up immediately on my low mood. They commented on how I was dressed, which honestly surprised me. I had on a button-down shirt that fit well, small khaki shorts, a gold chain tucked under the shirt, my silver Invicta watch that my ex-wife gave me more than a decade ago, and my boat shoes. One of them told me flat out, “That’s a ten out of ten. You look really put together.” I told her I genuinely don’t get it. I barely even notice what clothes women are wearing unless there’s obvious cleavage or something that grabs my attention. Otherwise, I don’t register colors, styles, or accessories. I don’t consciously think, that’s a necklace, or that’s a blue dress. Maybe I process it subconsciously, but on a conscious level, clothes barely matter to me at all. That goes for men, women, kids—anybody. I just don’t think about it.
She laughed and explained that for a lot of women, clothes matter a lot. Not all women, obviously, but many of them. The way someone dresses communicates what kind of life they’re living, what they value, how together they are. Hearing that made me feel almost incredulous. I told her I spent maybe five minutes putting on this particular outfit, which to me feels completely unremarkable and bland, and yet somehow it sends a strong positive signal. It felt ridiculous. We kept talking, and one of the women mentioned she had just gotten into a relationship. The other one—the one who had been sitting next to me earlier—said she was frustrated with dating and was thinking about taking a break. My mind immediately went to the question of whether I wanted to date her. Then the other woman suggested they go meditate together, which created this perfect opening for me to talk to her one-on-one, but I could feel myself pulling back. I was stuck on the same internal block, thinking there was just no way I could get past the weight issue, no matter how much I liked her as a person.
On the drive home, my mind kept circling back to the same question: why not? Why not at least try? I started running through what I actually want out of life, stripping it down to the basics. I want to write books, and I don’t want a fucking job. I want to make money doing work I genuinely love, not punching a clock for someone else. I want my own place, a house, not an apartment. I want more kids. I want a woman who wants sex, who lives a sober lifestyle, who’s good with kids, and who will get along with my family. When I laid it all out like that, the answer became obvious. Yes, I also want her to be hot. And I caught myself thinking, why shouldn’t I be allowed to want all of that? Why can’t I have every fucking thing I want? Part of me genuinely believes I should be able to.
Earlier in the day, I’d talked about this with both my ex-wife and my mom, and they independently told me the same thing. They said that attractiveness, specifically her weight, should be the most flexible and easiest area for me to compromise on. That idea stuck with me as I drove. I started asking myself what it actually is about her weight that bothers me so much. Is it my attraction to her body? Is it the physical reality of the two of us together? Is it imagining being naked with her? When I really checked in honestly, something surprising came up. When I got home, I noticed my body clearly responded to her on a physical level. On some level, I do find her attractive. That made me question where this automatic “overweight equals no” reaction was really coming from.
As I kept digging, the answer became uncomfortable but clear. It isn’t really about her. It’s about other people. If we were alone on a deserted island, just the two of us, would it matter whether she was big, medium, or small? No, it wouldn’t. The issue shows up when I imagine taking her out, introducing her to my friends and family, taking pictures together, putting her on book covers, and being seen. That’s where the resistance comes in. That’s where the story kicks up. The story that says if I’m out with a bigger woman, then I’m a loser. That if I were a winner, I’d be with someone thinner. Seeing that thought laid bare bothered me. It felt shallow, embarrassing, and painfully honest.
Then my mind flipped the whole thing around. A few hundred years ago, it would have been exactly the opposite. Historically, the only women who were overweight were nobility. Most people were lucky to be at a healthy weight at all, and many were thin simply because food was scarce and labor was hard. A woman carrying extra weight was a sign of wealth, safety, and abundance. Men found bigger women attractive because it meant they didn’t have to work in the fields all day and burn every calorie they consumed. Being well-fed meant status. Being soft meant privilege. I found myself thinking about how deeply cultural this whole thing is, how arbitrary.
I started wondering if I could just import that framework into my brain today. What if I looked at her body differently? What if I saw it as strength instead of excess? She’s got a powerful body. She could probably kick my ass. What if I imagined her as nobility, as a queen who has abundant food, security, and no need to grind herself into the ground like a peasant just to survive? That was exactly what men fantasized about for most of human history. The big girls were the ones men dreamed about, wrote poems about, and desired from afar. As I drove, I kept asking myself whether I could actually internalize that perspective, not just intellectually, but viscerally. Whether I could let that reframe take root in my body instead of letting the old, modern, status-driven narrative keep running the show.
It’s frustrating to see my own programming so clearly, especially when I start tracing it back to where it may have come from. I remember that my dad’s mother carried extra weight, and he used to joke about it with an unkind nickname. It was framed as humor, but it landed somewhere deeper. I can’t help wondering whether my reactions to overweight women are linked back to that dynamic with my father and his mother. When I brought this up, my mom agreed that it seemed highly likely. That realization alone feels unsettling, like I’m watching an old script run itself without my consent.
I also can’t ignore memories from my early sexual experiences. I remember my friends teasing me about a girl from high school I was involved with. They made cruel jokes about her weight, and I laughed along with them, but underneath it I was hurt. She had been a cheerleader in high school. After graduation, she gained a significant amount of weight before starting college. I remember seeing an older photo of her and feeling a sharp, bitter jealousy. It felt deeply unfair, like life had cheated me. I was responding to a version of her that had changed, while the guys she talked about from high school had known an earlier version of her.
My ex-wife reminded me of something that complicates this even further. She pointed out that when she first dated me, I was up to seventy-five pounds heavier than I am now. She said maybe if I were with this woman, she might drop seventy pounds too. That idea landed in an interesting way. Part of me thought, yeah, that would be really cool. At the same time, I hated the idea of entering a relationship with an unspoken expectation that someone would need to change that dramatically. And yet, when I zoom out, I see how inconsistent I’ve been. Just a week or two ago, I asked a friend if she wanted to be my girlfriend, even though she already has a boyfriend. That’s absurd when I say it out loud. She doesn’t want kids, her lifestyle isn’t compatible with mine, and she’s not even available. I was willing to compromise everything. When I compare that to the idea of compromising on fifty pounds, it almost feels ridiculous. In that context, the weight issue looks small.
I keep coming back to this sense that learning how to genuinely love bigger women would be a major breakthrough for me. It feels important. Just a week ago, after the speed-dating event, I was lamenting this exact issue, thinking about how easily I could date a doctor or a lawyer. I know a doctor who’s single. I know a lawyer who’s single. These women want kids, they’re attracted to me, and they contribute meaningfully to the world through their work. On paper, they are high-quality partners by almost any metric. It feels like all that stands between me and a deeply compatible relationship is this one mental block. And oddly enough, it seems like it should be the easiest thing to change.
I see two paths in front of me. I can stay mad at the world for being the way it is, or I can open my mind to loving bigger women. A lot of men aren’t open to that, which means there’s an entire group of women who are available, overlooked, and potentially deeply compatible with me. I remember swiping left—saying no—to plenty of women on Bumble and Tinder who wanted kids and didn’t drink, simply because they didn’t meet some arbitrary physical standard in my head. Some of them weren’t even as big as my friend. She, in particular, feels like someone I could be very compatible with, and now I realize I don’t even have her phone number. If I’d been thinking this way when I had the chance to talk to her one-on-one, I would have asked for it without hesitation. Sitting with that realization, I feel a quiet regret about the opportunity I may have let slip by.
I carried all of those thoughts with me into a local spiritual community. I set up my books, arranged my little table, and got ready for the dance portal. Before heading out, I spent a bit of time with the kids, knowing I was going to miss bedtime, which already put a strange weight on the night. Once I was there, I ended up running into a woman and gave her one of my books. As we talked, she casually told me she’d been married three times—once to a woman and twice to men. Then she added that she’d been engaged eleven times and had received nine rings, two from women and seven from men. I asked, damn, how many have you actually given? She said zero. She’s received nine rings and given none. This was another bigger woman, clearly interested in me, and genuinely enjoyable to talk with. It hit me again: if I could just like bigger women, my world would open up in a huge way. There are so many single women with larger bodies who have incredible personalities and rich life stories.
The downside of talking with her for so long—despite her pretty face, lovely eyes, and sober lifestyle—was that I barely interacted with anyone else. People came up to look at my books, and I was so engaged with her that I didn’t really give them my attention. Eventually, we sat down for what they call the cacao circle, which is basically hot chocolate. We went through the whole cacao ceremony, and my mind was tearing it apart the entire time. I kept thinking how fucking stupid this felt in that moment, how I was missing my kids’ bedtime for this, how lame it all seemed. It didn’t feel like anything romantic was going to happen there that night, which was oddly a relief. After all the buildup and affirmations, we finally drank the hot chocolate. Part of me was genuinely into the experience, and another part of me felt almost comically toxic about it. I found myself wondering if other people had the same split experience or if it was just me.
When the dance finally started, I wasn’t feeling it at all. It began painfully slow, and my mind immediately went into its usual rant about how much the DJ sucked and how she wasn’t going to play Deadmau5 or anything I actually wanted to hear. After about ten minutes, I wandered to the bathroom, then lingered near my table, just swaying a little. Gradually, I started to loosen up. I told myself to give it an hour. Before long, I was fully out there, moving around the dance floor, actually having fun. An old friend from AA showed up with another woman who was attractive, and as I looked around the room, I noticed a few really pretty girls dancing. My mind immediately jumped to the familiar conclusion: this is why I can’t be with a bigger girl. Look how beautiful these women are. I should be able to be with someone like that.
By the end of the night, one guy had two of those pretty girls cuddled up on him after dancing like a maniac the whole time. I cycled through emotions—feeling proud of him, happy that they all looked joyful, then jealous, then angry at myself. I kept wondering where the fuck I went wrong in my life that I was out there missing my kids’ bedtime while my hot ex-wife was home putting them to bed. After the dance portal ended, I packed up my stuff, said goodbye to the people I’d met, and gave out two or three books, which felt decent enough. The books got damp from the humidity since we were outside, and I loaded everything into the car and headed home.
When I got back, I saw my mom, and she confirmed what she’d been saying all along: I should learn to love heavier women. She even framed it as a public service, saying humanity could probably use more men who genuinely love bigger girls. My immediate, unfiltered reaction was irritation—why can’t these women just lose weight? I joked about writing a book called Unfat Yourself and trying to help with that. Then I caught myself remembering that when I was twenty-six, I was overweight too. I didn’t lose the weight until my thirties, and I’ve managed to keep it off. I started thinking that if I were with a bigger woman, she might actually have a lot to teach me.
I went to bed with all of this spinning around in my head. Before falling asleep, I found myself thinking about the woman from the meeting earlier. Lying there afterward, I reflected on my fantasies in general and what truly draws me. The answer felt surprisingly clear: there’s an exhibitionist streak in what appeals to me. That was an honest thing to notice about myself.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.