This is my journal entry from September 13, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
Sleeping in past seven this morning felt like a small luxury after so many early days at massage school. As much as I enjoyed the extra rest, I genuinely missed being there. That realization struck me—how rare it is to find a place I love showing up to every morning. I’m grateful for that.
I went straight from waking up to my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at 8:30. It’s held outside, and the morning air was cool and shaded, the kind of weather that feels like a gift in Florida. The energy at the meeting was unusually powerful today—like everyone there was deeply tuned in. The topic was a variation I’d never heard before, which made it more engaging. When I shared halfway through, I talked again about how massage helped me get sober and how it connected to the theme of God. I explained that when I first came to AA, I had a lot of bias against the word “God” because of what I’d learned growing up in religion. Working the steps helped me unwind that bias, but I could only do that because massage had already grounded me enough to get started. The relaxation and clarity I found through bodywork gave me the calm focus to dive into the spiritual work. That’s been the foundation of my recovery—staying relaxed, connected, and willing to let go.
After the meeting, I talked with a woman who’s just a couple of months sober. We ended up chatting for at least twenty minutes about her life, marriage, and recovery. Her husband’s been very supportive, which makes a huge difference. She’s about to go on vacation, though, and told me she gave him permission to drink while they’re away, even though he’s been sober around her at home. I told her honestly that, ideally, if your partner can stay sober too, it makes the journey much easier—especially in the early months. Being on vacation is tricky; you’re away from your usual supports, and it’s easy to feel exposed. I said it would be better for her if he stayed sober on the trip, too. Early sobriety is fragile, and even small temptations can feel magnified when you’re out of your normal environment. I hope she makes it back from her trip still sober, and I look forward to seeing her again in a couple of weeks.
Later in the day, I went to yoga at my yoga studio with a yoga instructor. She’s back for a little while from South Africa, which made class extra special. It’s always nice to see familiar faces return, even briefly. A yoga instructor said she plans to move again in December, so I’m glad I caught her this time. I put my mat down next to a yoga instructor, another instructor there, and caught myself thinking how I might take her yoga teacher training program someday—maybe a year and a half from now, after I finish massage school. That thought filled me with quiet excitement, the kind that feels like alignment—where life is moving in a good direction, step by step.
After yoga, I spoke with a guy who usually claims the mat space in the middle of the room—my favorite spot, though he always gets there before me on weekends. He caught my attention today, not just because of his placement but because he looked like the embodiment of strength and vitality—lean, muscular, and calm, the kind of person whose presence radiates health.
We started talking after class, and I mentioned that I’m in massage school. He smiled and told me he’d gone to massage school more than twenty years ago. When I asked if he still practiced, he said no—he’s now a chiropractor. For some reason, that single word—chiropractor—triggered something deep in me. The conversation felt electrifying and confusing at the same time, as if a door had cracked open in my mind to a path I’d never considered before. But with that possibility came an almost violent wave of resistance. My first thought was, There’s no fucking way I’m going to medical school. The idea of doing a year of pre-med classes and then four years of med school to become a chiropractor sounded unbearable.
Still, his words stayed with me. It was such a big, destabilizing thought that I couldn’t shake it off. I remembered how earlier this year I’d wished I’d considered more possibilities for my life when I was younger—and today, in a way, I did. Curiosity took over, and I looked up the chiropractic school he’d attended. That led me down another rabbit hole: I discovered a program offering both a Doctor of Chiropractic and a Doctor of Naturopathy degree. I asked ChatGPT about it and learned that the Doctor of Naturopathy, or ND, focuses on natural sciences and holistic healing. NDs don’t prescribe drugs or perform surgeries but instead study how to treat disease naturally—through nutrition, energy, movement, and lifestyle medicine.
It’s a legitimate four-year doctoral program, though it requires a year of pre-med coursework first—biology, anatomy, physiology, and chemistry. For someone like me, it would be at least five years total. The first two years are the same as any medical program; the final two focus on natural treatment modalities. Tuition alone runs around $160,000. As I read that, I could feel both awe and frustration stirring inside me. The idea of being a doctor who treats people holistically—helping the body heal itself—feels so aligned with who I am. It sounds incredible. But when I checked the laws in Florida, my excitement turned to disbelief.
Right now, naturopathic medicine is illegal to practice in this state. How insane is that? It’s literally against the law to treat disease through holistic methods. That realization infuriated me. Thankfully, I found some hope—apparently, there was a bill introduced this year to establish a Board of Naturopathic Medicine in Florida, which would finally allow NDs to get licensed and practice legally. For now, though, anyone wanting to work with a naturopathic doctor must do it online with someone based in another state. There are currently twenty-four states—like Colorado, Oregon, and California—where NDs can legally practice.
I hope Florida joins them soon. It’s now something I’ve added to my list of things to manifest. Still, I’m not sure if I’d actually go through five more years of school to become an ND. The idea of being “Dr. Banfield” again has a strange appeal, though. My mom holds a doctorate in her field, my brother holds an advanced graduate degree, and my ex-wife has her Juris Doctor from law school. It would feel fitting to join that lineage—but with a twist: a doctor who heals naturally, body and spirit both.
The idea of five more years of school—especially the kind of rigorous academic grind that comes with medical or doctoral programs—feels exhausting. Massage school has been joyful, creative, and deeply human, but I can’t imagine a doctoral program being even a fraction as fun. Still, part of me knows that in the past, I’ve made mistakes by not thinking far enough into the future. I keep asking myself: would I love being a naturopathic doctor at fifty, with twenty, thirty, maybe even forty more years ahead of me to practice the kind of medicine I believe in—treating people holistically, diagnosing disease, and healing with my hands as well as my intuition? The answer is yes. That vision lights me up.
On a planet with 20 extra hours per day, I’d be able to give massages throughout the entire program, staying grounded in bodywork while moving toward something bigger, plus have time for everything else. Maybe, if everything aligned perfectly, I’d finish right around the same time Florida legalized naturopathic medicine. But for now, that’s a distant dream. Still, it feels meaningful to open my mind to new possibilities instead of staying trapped in what I already know.
I also explored other natural medicine paths and found that you can become a Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine (DO). But that’s basically the same level of schooling as a traditional MD—four years of medical school, residencies, exams—and it still centers on surgery and pharmaceuticals. I have no interest in cutting into people or prescribing pills. The whole reason I’m drawn to natural medicine is because I believe the body can heal itself without being drugged or dissected. I don’t even want to invest years learning about surgeries and drugs I’d never want to use. If I ever became any kind of doctor, it would have to be as a chiropractor or, preferably, a naturopathic doctor.
Out of curiosity, I looked deeper into what chiropractors actually do, and honestly, it didn’t sound appealing or aligned with what I’m called to do. According to ChatGPT, chiropractic care focuses mostly on spinal adjustments and musculoskeletal alignment, not the broader, whole-body healing I’m interested in. It just didn’t resonate.
After going down that rabbit hole, I met a friend for tennis at noon at a park. I’d meant to give him a copy of Author in St. Petersburg, where he’s mentioned several times, but forgot. The match itself was solid—I actually won the first set in a tiebreaker after jumping out to an early lead, losing momentum, and then rallying back to even it at 6–6 before taking the tiebreaker. A friend came back strong to win the second set 6–3, and then he took the final tiebreaker around 1:45 p.m. I was wiped out by the end—completely gassed, no sunscreen, no hat. My scalp got sunburned again, so maybe it’s finally time I start wearing a visor.
When I got home, I made myself a big salad, showered to cool down, tidied up the house, and then dove back into refining my ChatGPT writing workflow. I think I finally cracked it. I can now feed ChatGPT a massive hour-long dictated transcript, and it will read the whole thing and suggest how to break it into manageable sections. Then I process it in chunks of about a thousand words each, using my new rewrite prompt. I’ve found the sweet spot—no more than three to five iterations per section before I open a new chat window and reset.
Most importantly, I enforce a strict no-cutting rule. Whenever ChatGPT starts trimming text, it always ends up summarizing and watering everything down, turning my raw, specific voice into some bland, generic version I can’t stand. I love when it cleans things up while keeping every detail intact. I hate when it summarizes my story like it’s a Wikipedia entry. I keep wanting to yell at it: Stop that shit! Keep my real voice! Don’t censor my life or smooth out the rough edges—I want the real thing.
My ex-wife and the kids came home in the evening, and we shared a warm, simple dinner together. It felt grounding after such a full day. Later, I got a message from my sister—her tone was upbeat, and she confirmed that she’d read the letter I sent. Relief washed over me. I’d felt horribly vulnerable sending that letter, knowing how exposed I was making myself. But deep down, I knew it would’ve been cowardly not to send it.
That letter was my attempt to truly open up—to be seen by my sisters in a raw, unfiltered way while addressing some of the most delicate, emotionally charged subjects imaginable, especially those involving Dad. Writing it forced me to confront a lot of fears—about rejection, misunderstanding, even the possibility of losing the relationships I’ve spent decades trying to rebuild.
Her message reassured me that none of those fears seem to be coming true. She mentioned she has feedback to share, which I’m genuinely looking forward to hearing. Just knowing she read it and responded kindly feels like a huge step forward. For a moment, I can breathe easier, knowing I didn’t break what I was trying so hard to heal.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.