This is my journal entry from September 19, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
On the drive to massage school this morning, I dictated thirty-five minutes for my new health book. I should have felt proud of the progress, but instead I felt this deep frustration rising in me. I’ve dictated so much lately—an entire dating book, my whole I Was Famous on the Internet manuscript, and now over an hour on this new health project—yet I have so little time to actually turn those words into written pages. The ideas pour out easily, but the bottleneck comes when it’s time to process and polish them. It’s like the creative part of me is sprinting ahead while the editor inside me is stuck in slow motion trying to catch up.
At school, we began the day with anatomy and physiology. It’s interesting, but sometimes I wonder how much of this I’ll ever actually use. Memorizing every organ and system feels a bit like studying for trivia night. The reproductive system in particular feels irrelevant to massage, though it did give me a chance to make a few jokes. I said it was the only part of anatomy I remembered from sixth grade, and that got some laughs. Humor helps me feel at ease in class.
I had lunch with three classmates and made a point to invite someone new—someone I hadn’t worked with before—to be my partner for the afternoon practicum. We exchanged massages as usual, but for some reason, the session left me feeling deflated. I thought massage would be more relaxing and fulfilling, but today it felt like pressure and strain. This was my third full-body session using real lotion, proper draping, and professional technique, and yet I still felt like one of the weakest students in the room. Everyone else seemed naturally better at it—more confident, more fluid.
My wrist and forearm were throbbing by the end of forty minutes of leg massage. The tension locked up my hand so badly I could barely open and close it. My form was terrible; I kept leaning over instead of using my body properly. I know it’s part of the learning process, but it’s humbling to feel so unskilled in something that requires touch and intuition. Especially when I compare it to writing, where I feel completely in my element.
Sometimes I can’t help but measure the difference in value between what I can do with books and what I’m learning here. I looked online and saw that hiring someone to help write or edit a book can cost $5,000 to $10,000. That’s wild—because I could do that easily for someone else. Meanwhile, a massage therapist might do five or six sessions a day and make maybe $200 total at a spa. If I can create a whole book for someone, that’s the equivalent of hundreds of massages. It makes me wonder how to balance doing something that’s meaningful and physical with something that’s so much more lucrative and efficient.
After practicum, I had a massage scheduled with a massage therapist. I’d been looking forward to it all week because the upper half of my body felt tight and overworked while my legs had been massaged three days in a row. When I saw her, I felt a rush of happiness. I hugged her and gave her a copy of Author in St. Petersburg. We both commented on how quickly our connection has deepened. There’s something about our energy together—an easy trust that invites honesty.
During our session, we talked about personal subjects, the kind of vulnerable territory I love getting into. I felt euphoric, and I wanted her to feel good about herself too. It seems like she wrestles with self-worth, and I wanted to remind her of how capable and valuable she is. I told her it only took me about three or four hours to build her website, so trading two massages felt fair to me. She disagreed, insisting that a site like that would normally cost $750 to $1,000 and that she owed me at least three to five massages. That moment made me reflect again on how powerful my skills are in certain areas—and how underpaid I’d be if I relied only on massage.
When it came time to leave, I didn’t want to go. I had a meeting scheduled afterward, but it was hard to pull away. A massage therapist noticed and gently helped me stick to my boundary, reminding me that I’d said I needed to leave by 3 p.m. I appreciated her awareness but still felt sad as I walked out. That sadness lingered on the drive home. I kept replaying the conversation in my head, wondering if I’d been too open, too complimentary, maybe even a little awkward. It’s strange—I couldn’t pinpoint what felt off, only that I felt emotionally raw.
Maybe it was just too much pleasure for one day. Two and a half hours of massage can leave me feeling overstimulated and vulnerable. There’s an intimacy in that much physical and emotional connection. Giving a massage therapist my book amplified that vulnerability even more. In just three sessions, we’ve gone deep—discussing life, emotions, and insecurities—and handing her a piece of my writing felt like opening another door entirely. I love those kinds of connections, but they can also stir something unsettled in me. Tonight, I’m sitting with that feeling, not trying to fix it, just noticing it.
After the massage, I went to my new meeting and had a great conversation with my fellow home group member who started the meeting with me. When I got home, I got to work cleaning and preparing the house for the family to get back. That night, I went to bed feeling very sad and down, though I wasn’t sure why. I knew my brother’s wedding was tomorrow, but I wasn’t consciously thinking much about it. Something didn’t feel right, though I couldn’t tell exactly what it was.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.