This is my journal entry from October 4, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I woke up this morning feeling crushed under the weight of sadness. It sat heavy in my chest, almost physical. I could barely force a smile. It’s still hard to believe this is where my life has landed. I don’t feel like I’ve prepared well for any of it. I’m about to take on a significant monthly rent commitment, and I’m not really earning anything right now. There’s only a trickle coming in from old audiobook sales and course royalties, but that’s about it. Still, I keep telling myself—this is where all the things I’ve preached for years about faith, manifestation, and action get put into practice.
If I were feeling better, I probably would’ve skipped the morning AA meeting since I’ve already gone seven days in a row. But because I felt like absolute shit, I knew that meant I needed to go even more. When I got there, I found about twenty-five people sitting in a circle. I took a seat quiet and tense at first, just listening. By the time it was my turn to share, almost an hour had passed, and I already felt lighter. That’s the magic of AA: you can walk in hopeless and walk out human again.
I shared openly about where I’m at—that I’m in the middle of a divorce, possibly moving out today, with no steady income, and yet somehow I’m okay. For the first time since 2011, I’m completely on my own in finances and romances. It’s humbling and terrifying, but also freeing. I said that I’m proud of myself for being able to handle life as it is—on life’s terms—without needing to drink or escape.
Eleven years sober, and I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. I’ve cried, I’ve been scared, and I’ve definitely felt lost—but underneath it all, I’m still more joyful than afraid. That’s the real gift of sobriety. I can face my feelings. I can adapt. I can stay open to change. Life doesn’t need to be easy to be beautiful.
After the meeting, I headed to my yoga studio for yoga. I put my mat down next to a friend, who told me he’s been reading Author in St. Petersburg and finds it fascinating—though he said he doesn’t feel comfortable discussing some of the content openly in class, given the crowd. I laughed and told him I understand.
As we waited for class to start, I noticed a few beautiful women around me. It’s a strange feeling—how free I am now. Before, I would’ve felt guilty for even thinking about connecting with anyone at yoga. I usually shut those thoughts down before they could go anywhere. Now I can just observe and smile at the possibility that my next partner might be sitting somewhere nearby, stretching on her mat, unaware that we’ll someday meet.
Still, ironically, the person I most wanted to talk to today was a friend. We’ve built a good friendship through these classes, and our conversations feel grounding. A yoga instructor led a 75-minute power flow—relaxed but still energizing enough to shake off some of the sadness.
During savasana, my mind drifted between gratitude and grief. I’m thankful my ex-wife is being so supportive through all this, but I’m also heartbroken knowing how much of her—and the kids—I’m about to lose. When I think about the time I’ve spent with them over the years, so much of it has been half-present: washing dishes or cleaning while they played nearby, trying to talk to me. Going forward, I want to do better. When I’m with them, I want to be with them—fully engaged, fully present. I’d rather have less time with them that’s real and alive than more time spent distracted and half-available.
By the time class ended, my body felt lighter, the sadness loosened just a little. A yoga instructor’s flow had done its job—steady, kind, and quietly powerful, just like recovery itself. At the end of yoga, I felt like a new person—lighter, grounded, and finally able to smile again. I was ready to talk to a friend some more. Honestly, if I’m serious about dating again, I probably need to branch out and start talking to more women instead of just a friend, but today, he’s exactly who I want to talk to.
I told him about everything—my separation, the uncertainty, the sadness mixed with freedom—and he listened thoughtfully. Then, out of nowhere, he said he thought I’d do best dating a woman in her early twenties. I laughed, surprised. I told him I hadn’t expected that, but he was serious. He said that knowing me, my mindset, and my lifestyle, a younger woman might be more open to my unconventional ideas and ready to build a new kind of life, while someone older and more set in her ways might find me harder to handle.
I appreciated his open-mindedness. Truthfully, I like the idea. The thought of dating a woman in her twenties again—this time as a grounded adult rather than the lost man-child I was when my ex-wife met me in 2011—feels exciting.
A woman from yoga joined our conversation too. She’s from Mexico and shared that she moved here with her husband years ago, but he eventually told her he didn’t want kids. She’s been single ever since. We talked openly about relationships, change, and starting over. It felt good to be real with both of them. I’ve known a friend and a woman from yoga for years at my yoga studio, and both of them have read at least parts of Author in St. Petersburg. Sharing where I’m at today—honestly and without hiding anything—felt healing.
As class ended, a stream of beautiful women poured out of the hot yoga room, all flushed and glowing, and I couldn’t help thinking maybe I should start going to more of those classes. A friend, a woman from yoga, and I kept chatting by the door about dating—mirroring the same conversation I’d had with my ex-wife last night about whether I should try online dating again.
Then a yoga instructor, another yoga instructor, joined in. She told me there are definitely plenty of women who come to my yoga studio who would like me. She said she once played matchmaker for two students who ended up getting married—and she even officiated their wedding. The only hard part, she said, was when they broke up temporarily and she felt emotionally caught in the middle. Thankfully, they got back together.
I told her I’d love to meet someone at my yoga studio—or anywhere in person—rather than diving into online dating. If I were going to date a woman in her early twenties, meeting her in person at yoga would probably be my best shot. I figure if she saw me there—healthy, calm, and grounded—she’d be more likely to feel a connection than if she saw my profile online and thought, Ew, look how old this guy is.
In real life, my health, energy, and physical presence speak for themselves in a way that photos and numbers just can’t. Online, the age difference screams. In person, it barely matters. Still, the idea of sitting at home thinking I’ll meet my future wife at yoga feels intimidating. What if it takes months—or years? I’ve been going to classes here for a long time, and even if I had been single that whole time, I don’t know how often I would’ve met someone I’d actually want to marry.
But then again, I remember the crush I had on a girl here not long ago—while I was still married—and realize if I’d been single then, I definitely would’ve asked her out. Maybe that’s all the reminder I need. The right person could walk into class any day now. I just have to keep showing up, open, ready, and paying attention.
After yoga with a yoga instructor and my conversations with a friend and a woman from yoga, I drove home hoping the good energy would last. But the moment I walked through the door, my mood dropped. My ex-wife and the kids were there, and seeing them together—our family in the house we built our lives in—made me ache. The reality that this chapter is ending hit me hard.
It’s strange to grieve something as simple as washing dishes. That’s always been my little ritual, my quiet act of service. But now it’s clear—this is my ex-wife’s house, her dishes, her routines. She’s told me I can take whatever I want, but the emotional line has already been drawn. I’m no longer part of this home in the same way. For lunch, I made myself a simple meal of lettuce from the garden, celery, and my homemade dressing. It felt symbolic—bare, stripped down, nourishing but a little empty. Afterward, we got ready to walk down the street to see the rental house.
At 1:00 p.m., we arrived at the place, just a short walk away. The owner was friendly, and right above the front door hung a wasp nest—because apparently wasps are now a recurring theme in my life. The house looked a little run-down from the outside, but once we stepped inside, it surprised me. It was clean, simple, and ready to move into. A couch, bed, fridge, and washer and dryer had all been left behind by the previous tenants—making it perfect for me. Combined with the month-to-month lease, it felt like the universe was offering me a stepping-stone. I wouldn’t have to buy or haul much of anything.
I asked my ex-wife what she thought, and she said it looked perfect. The kids liked it too. It’s a two-bedroom, one-bath place, which is plenty for me. There’s a faint smell of cigarette smoke inside—something my house always had growing up since my dad smoked, so I can tolerate it. I’ll just set up some diffusers and burn candles to override the scent. It’s not overpowering, just present. And besides, I don’t plan to live here for more than five months. It’s a temporary space—a launchpad into whatever’s next.
The best part is the affordable rent. I sent the first payment immediately through Zelle before leaving, and arranged to send the rest over the next couple of days to cover the deposit. The owner’s only requirement was first and last month’s rent or first month plus a security deposit, so I opted for the smaller upfront amount.
Financially, I’m tight but okay. I have a modest cushion across my personal and business accounts, and some credit card statements I’ll need to pay off soon, but even after that I should still have a little left. It’s lean living, but it’s freedom.
When we got home, though, the heaviness came back. My mind and heart sank. I kept thinking I should’ve manifested more money by now—that I should’ve been more prepared for this. What matters most to me is that my ex-wife have the house outright. I don’t want to keep any ownership stake in it. I’d rather give her full control so she can move forward freely, trusting that I’ll be provided for as I start over with very little.
Later, I went online to set up internet for the new place. I logged onto Frontier.com, but since I already have an account tied to our current house, it wouldn’t let me use the same login. I had to create a new account with a different email address and schedule the installation appointment that way. The whole process felt surreal—like watching my old life dissolve piece by piece while the new one takes shape. It’s terrifying, but at least I’m moving forward.
It looks like I’ll have to wait five days for the internet to be installed at the new house, which isn’t bad at all. I remembered when I first moved into my college apartment back in 2005— they told us it could take two or three weeks to get connected. Fortunately, my roommate’s dad called the company and threatened to cancel his family’s subscription in North Carolina if they didn’t get us connected immediately. Sure enough, they had us online within a few days. Compared to that, five days feels merciful.
I figure I’ll probably move in Wednesday night so I can be there first thing Thursday morning for the Frontier installation. I could survive a few hours without internet, but I don’t want to start life in a new house by having to run to a coffee shop just to get work done. I realize how privileged that sounds—to be upset over a few days without Wi-Fi—but it’s the reality of how I work. My books, my recordings, everything I do depends on being online.
When I got to the payment screen on Frontier’s website, the session timed out right as I clicked “Pay.” I snapped and yelled something angry at the screen. It startled me, because I rarely get angry like that anymore. Still, it felt oddly cathartic. I immediately caught myself and thought, Okay, Jerry, maybe you’re a little disturbed right now—and that’s understandable.
Fortunately, it looked like the appointment still went through. To make sure, I disconnected from the house Wi-Fi and used my phone’s data, since the Frontier system automatically detects existing connections and wouldn’t let me create a new account while logged in through our current service. Once I switched to mobile data, I successfully signed up for a new account and confirmed the installation date. A wave of gratitude hit me—small wins like this mean a lot right now. My ex-wife and my daughter were gone to a birthday party while all this was happening, thankfully. No one needed to witness me swearing at a computer. Once things settled, I sat down to dictate yesterday’s diary along with everything that had happened so far today.
Despite feeling drained and sad, I also felt a strange gratitude underneath it all. There’s something stirring inside me—curiosity, maybe even excitement—about what’s ahead. I’m scared to move out, scared to be alone, but beneath that fear is real anticipation. I’m genuinely excited to meet someone new, to start another romance, to have more kids. I picture being with a woman who loves yoga, who talks with me all day, plays board games, and shares the kind of passionate, deeply connected relationship I long for. For years, I thought that part of my life was over. But now, everything’s shifting to make it possible again.
My bank account might be lower than it’s been in a decade, and my income might be the most uncertain it’s ever been—but somehow, I feel more alive and hopeful than I have in years. This sadness feels like the tax I pay for joy that hasn’t arrived yet. It’s the emotional down payment on something better.
I’m also grateful that my ex-wife is completely clear about the divorce. There’s no gray area—no confusion, no mixed messages. She doesn’t want to reconcile or revisit romance, and that clarity makes it easier to move forward. I can release her without constantly wondering if there’s still a chance.
With that settled, I turned my attention to what’s next financially. I called my friend an older friend. He’s had all kinds of careers and always seems to know a dozen ways to make money. I told him about the move, the divorce, and my uncertainty about income. He suggested I watch a replay of a Hay House webinar and consider traditional publishing instead of continuing to self-publish.
I found the webinar on YouTube, unlisted, and played it at double speed while I cleaned up and reflected on the day. It felt symbolic somehow—listening to people talk about turning creative work into abundance while I’m standing at the edge of my next beginning, rebuilding my life from scratch, one breath at a time.
After listening to the Hay House webinar, I went down a rabbit hole researching how to get a literary agent. I asked ChatGPT questions, searched Google’s AI, and read through multiple publishing websites, trying to understand the process. The more I learned, the more excited I became. It looks like I Was Famous on the Internet could have real potential with a traditional publisher—and possibly bring in a $10,000 to $20,000 advance, maybe even more. The thought of that felt electric.
For the first time all week, I could see a clear path forward: I want to keep writing. That’s what I love most, and that’s where I feel alive. I don’t want to waste time scrambling for jobs or doing something soulless just to pay the bills. I’ve done that before, and it never ends well. I want to trust that the writing will work out—that I’ll be provided for as long as I keep creating with purpose. Right after finishing the webinar and all my research, my ex-wife got home with my son. She’d dropped my daughter off at a sleepover earlier, then taken my son out to Hook’s for dinner. I decided to take my son to the tennis club and reserved the ball machine for 6 p.m.
When we got there, I noticed a wasp nest tucked right under the electrical plug for the machine. I was about to stick my hand in there to plug it in—tentatively, like Winnie the Pooh reaching into a tree for honey—but thought better of it. I’d already slid the plug partway in when I stopped and asked a man who was nearby to help. He grabbed a can of wasp spray and handled it. I could’ve taken the sting if it came to that, but sometimes wisdom means knowing when to ask for help instead of insisting on proving you can endure pain.
It struck me as funny how symbolic life can be. Earlier today, there was a wasp nest right by the door of the house I am renting, and now here was another one at the tennis courts. Wasps seem to keep showing up for me, and I’ve come to see them as symbols of energy, vitality, and creation—ferocious little architects of life. They’re industrious and self-protective, and in their way, they remind me of the kind of energy I want to embody right now.
It brought to mind something Wayne Dyer once shared about a butterfly landing on his shoulder and staying there for hours, a kind of spiritual visitation. I remember listening to that story and thinking, It’d be nice to have an experience like that. Not long after, I walked into my sunroom and a wasp landed right on my neck. It stayed there for ten or twenty minutes. I stood still, feeling it crawl lightly, its tiny body humming with energy. I was stunned by how much life force I could feel radiating from that small creature.
I laughed to myself, thinking, Wayne Dyer gets a butterfly—and I get a wasp. But it felt powerful in its own way. I didn’t see it as a bad omen. I saw it as raw, living energy choosing to land on me. I stood outside for several minutes, feeling it walk along my skin until it eventually flew away. I was grateful the experience stayed peaceful—and that it didn’t sting me. Then again, why would it? I wasn’t afraid.
After my son and I got home that night, we found out my ex-wife had already picked my daughter up early from her sleepover. She told me things had been going so smoothly that she didn’t feel the need to mention our divorce to any of the other parents. She figured there was no reason to bother them with it. A couple of hours after my daughter’s sleepover started, my ex-wife got a call saying she wasn’t feeling well. By the time my ex-wife picked her up, my daughter had gotten sick. It sounded rough, but what was beautiful about the way my ex-wife and I handled it was how we chose to frame it.
We told ourselves a story I believe in: that my daughter getting sick was her body’s way of processing the changes in our family—the divorce, the uncertainty, and all the emotions swirling underneath. We looked up the meaning in Louise Hay’s Heal Your Body, and to me it matched perfectly: a rejection of new ideas. Seeing it through that lens made the whole situation feel purposeful instead of random or scary. Rather than telling ourselves she “caught” something or ate some bad food, we focused on what her body might be expressing emotionally.
That’s one of my biggest issues with germ theory—I feel it turns people into victims. If you believe that invisible germs are floating around just waiting to infect you, it’s easy to feel powerless. You get sick, and you say, well, these germs did this to me, as if it has nothing to do with your choices, your emotions, or your environment. To me, that’s deeply disempowering—and I don’t believe it’s true.
Every illness I’ve ever had came at a time when something in my thoughts or life was out of alignment. From what I’ve observed, I’ve come to believe the real cause of “sickness” is energetic. The thoughts I think, the emotions I carry, the level of peace or tension I live in—all of that, I feel, determines the environment inside my body.
I see the body as a universe unto itself, a community of trillions of living beings—cells, microbes, fungi, bacteria—all coexisting under my leadership. I’m the god of this microscopic civilization. If I’m loving, peaceful, and grateful toward my body, I create a thriving environment for everything inside me. But if I’m fearful, angry, or self-loathing, then the environment becomes toxic, and even harmless things can turn hostile.
It’s like neighborhoods in a city. The people themselves aren’t so different—it’s the energy of the environment that determines how they behave. Move someone from a chaotic neighborhood into a calm, supportive one, and they’ll likely start to reflect the peace of that place. Drop someone from a peaceful neighborhood into a fearful, violent one, and their energy will start to adapt to that environment too. That said, we each do have our own personalities and by the law of attraction, we will tend to live in an environment that matches our expectations. That’s how I think about health. My thoughts, emotions, and habits are the neighborhood my cells live in. If I keep my inner neighborhood kind, orderly, and vibrant, my health follows suit.
By the time we got the kids to bed, my daughter had settled down and wanted to go to sleep early. We gave her lots of cuddles, and she managed to eat a few strawberries before closing her eyes. I felt relieved watching her calm down.
Once the house was quiet, I went back to researching literary agents. I let myself dream for a while—imagining getting a $20,000 or even $50,000 advance, maybe even hitting a bestseller list and reaching millions of readers with I Was Famous on the Internet. I could picture the cover sitting in bookstores, my story traveling far beyond this room.
I talked with my ex-wife about it, mostly to reassure her—and maybe myself—that I’m going to be okay financially. I told her that this new chapter isn’t just about surviving; it’s about finally giving my writing the focus it deserves.
As I lay down to sleep, I felt a welcome calm settle in. Beneath the chaos, beneath the sadness, there’s this quiet knowing that everything happening now—every emotion, every disruption, even my daughter’s stomach turning—is part of a greater healing unfolding.
Grateful
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.