This is my journal entry from August 13, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Author in St. Petersburg — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I woke in the middle of the night with a faint rawness in my throat. In the past, that small sensation would have triggered an immediate spiral — worrying I’d get sick, imagining I’d miss tennis or cancel my massage school tours. Instead, I felt calm. I trusted my body, told myself I had plenty of energy, and believed the irritation would pass. Gratitude came easily. I love my body for how it works, and I was looking forward to playing tennis later in the morning.
When I woke again at 6:15, the numbers felt like a small gift — my birthday digits glowing on the stove clock. I took the kids to school, then met my friend for tennis. We started at 8:30, and the cooler air compared to a 10:30 start was a blessing. We warmed up for a few minutes before beginning the first set. I lost the first four games, feeling completely out of sync, but then my game caught fire. I took six of the next eight games to tie, then won the tiebreaker. My friend was a little frustrated, but he appreciated having real competition.
Even with my strong start, I noticed my energy wasn’t at its usual level. By the second set, fatigue crept in. My friend took that one 6–2. When he suggested either a third set or a tiebreaker, I opted for the latter, already feeling spent. He won it 7–1. Both of us played shirtless in the humid air, grateful for the cloud cover.
Back home, I cooled off with a cold shower and ate four locally grown mangoes I’d bought from a friend who gets them directly from farmers. He’s dating my life coach, who I’ll see on Monday. While eating lunch, I listened to more of Liz Murray’s Breaking Night. I have about an hour left of the twelve-hour audiobook. Her perspective keeps me grounded. My life today feels full — rich in relationships, connection, and comfort — but hearing her story reminds me how different life can be for others, and how important it is to meet people where they are.
That reminder came into focus yesterday at a meeting when I saw a woman I’ve known for years who lives on the street. I usually give her $20 when I see her, as I do with most homeless people I meet. Over the past decade, I’ve given tens of thousands this way — not in grand gestures for a camera, but quietly, directly, in ways that feel good for everyone involved.
Yesterday, she sat two chairs away from me, and the smell coming from her was stronger than usual — sharp enough that I thought I might throw up. She carried the strong smell of the street. My sponsor, seated two seats further from her, moved to the far side of the room. I stayed put, laughing at myself for my sensitivity, breathing deeply, thanking my nose each time I adjusted, and then being caught off guard when the scent returned.
When it came time for the Lord’s Prayer, I took her hand. My mind went back and forth between the medical caution I’d grown up with — my upbringing meant constant handwashing and sanitizing — and my current trust in my body’s resilience. I thought of St. Francis embracing lepers, and I was grateful for the chance to make someone feel loved.
The experience was both grounding and honest. I care about her, and it was genuinely hard to sit beside her. Yet I’m thankful for her presence, because she reminds me I can witness another person’s need without turning away.
It was also an opportunity to practice boundaries. After thanking me for the money, she asked for a ride. I told her, “No thanks, I’m good. I trust you’ll find your way there another way.” My car is clean, and that was simply too much for me to offer.
At 1:00 p.m., I toured the nearer school, a vocational school about thirteen minutes from my house. They offer massage therapy and skin care programs. The convenience alone makes it tempting — saving hours of driving time each week — but I walked in with mixed feelings. First impressions were lukewarm, the kind where you think, This is fine, yet still want to like it because the location would make life so much easier. If I’m going to spend hundreds of hours in a place, though, I want the environment to be the best it can be, even if that means a longer commute.
I was already carrying the opinions of friends in the back of my mind. One of my closest friends, a massage therapist, had dismissed the nearer school as a corporate franchise that didn’t produce particularly well-trained graduates. That was the first thing I ever heard about the school, and I can’t help but wonder how much that colored my perception walking in. Another friend, a massage therapist friend, chose to make the longer drive to the Sarasota school rather than enroll at the nearer school. Those built-in biases were there, but I made a point to keep an open mind and set an intention to get the most positive, honest impression possible.
The admissions representative greeted me warmly and gave me both an interview and a tour. I loved seeing the main massage training area, rows of massage tables alongside desks for lecture work. I met one of the instructors, who radiated kindness, and the students I crossed paths with all had an easy, friendly energy. It felt like a place I could fit into without effort. For someone returning to school after many years, that sense of belonging is important.
She had an open, generous way of sharing her life story, and we laughed often during the tour. She nicknamed me “Fun Guy,” which made me feel even more at ease. I told her about my own background — my work in content creation, my vision of combining massage therapy with life coaching, and the fact that I’ve been sober for eleven years in Alcoholics Anonymous. Massage, to me, creates one of the strongest possible environments for coaching because of the deep connection that happens in those sessions. She listened intently and shared personal experiences that left me feeling both welcomed and understood.
The nearer school has a lot going for it beyond the location. The tuition is a couple of thousand dollars less than the Sarasota school, and because so many students are local, it could give me more opportunities for networking and continuing education. Their next class starts August 18th — just five days from now — and would finish a month earlier than the Sarasota school, by March 2026. That timing feels fast, considering I’ve only been seriously thinking about massage school for a couple of days, but it’s still tempting.
I left feeling grateful for the abundance in my life — how fortunate I am to have multiple appealing options and the resources to choose freely. When she mentioned financial aid, I told her I wouldn’t need it and would pay up front. That might have come off as arrogant, but it felt good to say. Technically, the funds will come from my ex-wife’s account, since we don’t have joint accounts, but either way, it’s a blessing to be in that position. Even better, we’ll still have over $50,000 in cash after paying tuition.
When I got home from the the nearer school tour this afternoon, I had a few minutes before it was time to greet the kids. I spent most of that time washing dishes, played a quick round of “Uno No Mercy” with my son, and even took ten minutes to lie down in bed for a mini shavasana and nap before heading to my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to see my sponsor.
Right before I left, my daughter was upset. She didn’t want to go to basketball practice, especially knowing my son would be going over to my mom’s house nearby instead of her. I’m deeply grateful that my daughter loves spending time with my mom — usually about an hour each day — and that they have that bond. My mom’s move in 2022 from out of state to live close to me still feels like a blessing. She’s near enough that the kids can walk over to see her.
My ex-wife had the best line of the afternoon, which left me with a hearty belly laugh. After bringing the kids home from school and hearing my daughter’s fuss about basketball, she stepped out of the car and said, “Same shit, different sport.” My daughter used to have meltdowns before soccer practice until we finally quit, though my son still loves soccer. It’s funny how he charges into his activities with enthusiasm while my daughter so often resists. My ex-wife reflected on how, in her own life, she sometimes doesn’t feel like going to things — Toastmasters, Al-Anon, a tennis clinic — but ends up glad she went.
As the tension was building and I was heading out to my meeting, I felt complete trust leaving the kids with my ex-wife. I knew they’d be safe and well taken care of no matter how wild they got. Not everyone has that with a spouse; some people must worry about how bad things might get in their absence. That’s never been a concern for me.
The AA meeting was excellent, with a strong speaker whose story I enjoyed. Before the meeting, I sent a bunch of texts to catch up with people. I realized I was slightly distracted during the meeting because I’d been sending messages beforehand and waiting for replies. One of them was to a girl I’d done a life coaching session with a couple of weeks ago, inviting her to join me for yoga, though she didn’t respond. My mom also texted to say my son hadn’t arrived yet, so I checked my ex-wife’s location and saw she wasn’t at basketball with my daughter.
When I got home, everyone was in a good mood, though the stuffed animal my daughter ordered online two hours before was canceled as a consequence of her behavior. I made myself a salad for dinner and appreciated how much energy my ex-wife had put into handling the kids from school pickup until bedtime. I walked the dog, showered for the second time that day — the first was after tennis — while my ex-wife sat with the kids listening to her audiobook as they fell asleep.
Now comes a part of the day I almost feel is too personal to write about, but a diary is only valuable if it captures everything. In fact, this might have been one of the most educational moments of the day. After my shower, I found my ex-wife nearly ready for bed around 9:40. I asked her for some closeness. Her expression suggested she was tired. I acknowledged how tiring her day had been, but she pointed out that I had still asked anyway.
In that moment, I chose silence and reflection over defensiveness. I felt a twinge of guilt — wondering if I should simply let her go to bed without adding another request to her day. Yet I also thought of my daughter’s resistance to basketball, how she might have felt better if she had gone, and my ex-wife’s own words about activities you resist but ultimately enjoy. I decided not to feel guilty for asking for what I want. It’s okay for her to feel some reluctance; if she’s still willing, I’m grateful to receive.
We reconnected, and both felt better afterwards. I’m thankful for the clarity I had in processing those emotions, which I credit partly to the free life coaching session I enjoyed less than a week ago with my life coach. I’ve realized I don’t need to feel guilt over my sexual desires — they’re reasonable — and I can hold compassion for my ex-wife’s experience in meeting them through her own resistance.
It was a good day, one that left me feeling connected, grateful, and ready for tomorrow’s tour of the Sarasota school. By 10:30, I was ready to wrap up the day with a little reading before bed.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.