This is my journal entry from September 21, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
Today feels like a turning point—the day to decide whether or not I’ll officially cancel massage school. I’m leaning heavily toward yes, but I want to talk with my friend a friend first, the same person who originally encouraged me to become a massage therapist. Before making any big decisions, I start the morning by cleaning up around the house, putting things in order. Then I head to the 10 a.m. Sunday class at my yoga studio Yoga.
After class, I run into one of the women I’d given a copy of Author in St. Petersburg to. She told me she’d read the first sixty pages and found it unlike anything she’d ever read. She said the book’s level of honesty shocked her—how I wrote openly about sex, video game addiction, alcoholism, marriage, life coaching, and quitting my business online. She said most people would never share that much of themselves, and that reading it made her both fascinated and uncomfortable.
She admitted that the discomfort came from fear—fear of how people might react to that kind of raw honesty. She told me that fear of people was a bigger theme in her life too. She often stays home, isolated, keeping up with the world by watching the news or scrolling through social media, afraid to really engage. As she spoke, I realized that my own fear of giving out my books falls into that same category—fear of people. My books are so vulnerable and unfiltered that every time I hand one to someone, I feel exposed. I worry about their reactions, about triggering someone, about being judged for writing so openly about the parts of life most people hide.
Still, I told her that while I understand that fear, there’s something I find far scarier: living my whole life in fear. I said that to me, it’s much worse to reach your deathbed and realize you never truly lived because you spent your entire existence playing it safe. I’d rather risk rejection, embarrassment, or discomfort than live a half-life built around survival instincts. I mentioned a line I’d once heard from another book—someone wondering on their deathbed, What if I lived my life all wrong? That question haunts me. It’s what pushes me to be brave enough to live honestly.
Yes, I’m afraid of how people might react to my books. But that fear is part of what gives them meaning. This whole experience—this life—is temporary, and the only thing that makes it worthwhile is living it fully, not cautiously.
After that conversation, I talked with a friend, another friend from the yoga community, and he gave me one of the most memorable compliments I’ve ever received. He said that in his sixty-eight years on Earth, he’s met thousands of people, and only five have ever truly surprised him. I was one of them. He said most people are predictable—you talk to them for a few minutes, and you can already tell what they believe, what they’ll say next, and what opinions they’ll hold. But I didn’t fit that pattern.
That meant a lot to me. I didn’t even know what I’d done to surprise him, but I was grateful for the reflection because I feel the same way. I love being surprised by people who break the mold—people who don’t just echo what they’ve heard, who don’t live inside a single ideology or identity. Most people, once they tell you what they read, watch, or listen to, have already revealed everything else about their worldview. But I love when someone keeps me guessing, when they’re alive in their own way of thinking.
A friend’s compliment reminded me that I am that kind of person too—unpredictable, alive, and not just nodding along to what others say. I’m constantly reflecting, questioning, and creating. And maybe that’s what surprises people most: that I’m not afraid to think for myself, to live out loud, and to be honest about every part of it.
After coming home from yoga, I called a friend, and we talked for over an hour. Most of the conversation was about massage and the real-life experience of working as a therapist. A friend had just graduated from the massage school and recently started working at a spa. She told me that last week she did fourteen massages in two days and then had to take two full days off to recover. That alone said a lot. She reminded me that school only gets harder from here—clinics, longer sessions, more pressure.
A friend made a point to say that she still believes I could be a great massage therapist. She said that again with the same conviction she had a month ago when she first inspired me to enroll. But the practical reality for me has become clear: being a massage therapist just doesn’t make sense compared to writing books and helping other people create theirs.
After talking to ChatGPT last night, then discussing things with my ex-wife this morning, I know where my energy belongs. Writing and publishing feel like my purpose. Giving someone a book—whether it’s mine or one I helped them write—feels like transferring a part of my soul, a massive exchange of energy. Strangely, giving a massage never felt that way to me. I expected it to, but even though I was physically closer to people in massage school, it often felt less personal. Especially after reading the ethics material, which basically encourages therapists to keep things impersonal, the contrast became even sharper. Books, on the other hand, are deeply personal. They connect minds, hearts, and experiences across time. That’s what I want to do with my life.
Later in the day, I stopped by Whole Foods and ran into my yoga instructor from my yoga studio and her girlfriend. I told her I’d be back in her yoga classes now that I’d left massage school. She smiled and said something like, “It’s nice that you tried,” and I agreed. That’s exactly how I see it. I’m grateful for the experience—it broke up my usual rhythm and gave me new perspective—but I have zero interest in going back tomorrow.
It also felt great to skip the 7 p.m. AA meeting tonight. I’m planning to go to plenty more soon—probably seven in a row, maybe even twelve over the next couple of weeks—but tonight I just wanted space. Instead, I spent a couple of hours editing I Was Famous on the Internet, and it felt incredible. I could easily spend five or ten hours a day working on books and feel completely fulfilled.
I loved diving back into the manuscript, especially with my new mindset: one single pass, then publish. I’ll save further edits for later, based on reader feedback or when I eventually record the audiobook. Sometimes it’s hard to edit something right after you’ve written it—you’re too close to it. But tonight, it felt right. Focused. Final. Like I’d made the right choice in every way.
When my ex-wife came in for bedtime, we ended up talking for two hours—one of those long, deep conversations that touched everything: our sex life, our fears, and the patterns that have shaped our relationship. She told me she’s still afraid of me because of how I’ve behaved in the past. I listened and then reminded her that I’m not afraid of her. That fear isn’t something I carry toward her, and it’s something she’ll need to work through on her side. I told her honestly that I enjoy our relationship and want it to feel safe and loving for both of us.
She was frustrated about something I’d said earlier—what she called an ultimatum about having sex every day. I explained that what I meant wasn’t rigid or demanding. I wasn’t saying it had to be every day. What I wanted was a happy, playful, regular sex life—something we both look forward to. Lately, she’s been showing up consistently, which I appreciate, but too often it feels like she’s just going through the motions, doing it out of obligation. That kind of energy kills the joy for me. I told her I want our intimacy to feel alive, fun, and spontaneous—not heavy, resentful, or mechanical.
I also clarified that for me, consistency matters—not perfection. It doesn’t have to be daily, but I’d like it to be more days than not. To me, a thriving sex life is something you practice regularly. It doesn’t have to look the same each time or even involve the same kind of connection. I’m open to all kinds of experiences—what matters most is that it’s shared, that we both feel good, and that it’s infused with joy rather than pressure.
To explain what I meant, I made an analogy with tennis. I told her about my match with a friend—the one where I tried too hard to win because I was afraid that if I didn’t keep it competitive, he wouldn’t want to play with me anymore. I was so focused on performing that I stopped having fun, and ironically, I played terribly. The next day, I had a breakthrough. I decided to stop caring about winning altogether. I just wanted to enjoy the game. The moment I relaxed, my shots started landing, and I played better than ever.
I told my ex-wife I think the same dynamic applies to our sex life. She’s trying too hard. She’s putting so much pressure on herself to meet expectations—her own and mine—that it’s strangling the fun. I told her to just relax, to stop overthinking it, and to show up with curiosity instead of anxiety.
She said, “I can’t do that. It’s high stakes. Our marriage could fall apart if this doesn’t work.”
And that’s when it clicked for me. I told her she’s doing the same thing I did with a friend. She’s afraid of failing, afraid that if she can’t keep up with me sexually, I’ll leave. I said that’s exactly why she can’t relax—because she’s playing not to lose instead of playing to have fun. I told her the only way to truly enjoy it is to let go of that fear, even if it means facing the worst-case scenario.
I said, “If you can’t have fun with me—if you can’t show up joyfully and playfully in our sex life—then maybe we should get divorced because I want to be with someone who can match that energy.” It’s not that I want a divorce—it’s that the metaphor fits. Like tennis, it’s about compatibility and joy. If a friend and I couldn’t have fun together on the court, we’d both be better off playing with other partners. The same principle applies to marriage, even if it’s much harder to face.
My ex-wife said, “But it’s not like tennis. You can’t just walk away from a marriage that easily.”
I agreed. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s not easy. But it’s the same idea. We must relax and enjoy each other, or there’s no point.” I meant it from a place of love, not threat. I want our relationship to feel light again—to be something we both play, not something we endure.
I told my ex-wife that, sure, in the worst-case scenario, if I play tennis and don’t have fun for an hour or two, it’s not the end of the world. If a friend and I stop enjoying it, we can simply stop playing. But in our marriage, if my ex-wife and I keep showing up to the bedroom and neither of us feels fulfilled—if our sex life feels forced or empty—that’s far more painful. It’s like I’m “winning” all the time in tennis terms, but she can’t keep up, and she’s only there out of obligation because I want someone to play with. That’s not what I want for either of us.
I told her that, ultimately, it would be better for us to split up than to keep showing up for something that isn’t joyful. Our happiness must come first. If that means we both eventually find other people who make us feel alive and connected again, that’s still better than staying stuck in a pattern of misery. I said this calmly, not as a threat, but as a truth about what a relationship should be—two people choosing joy together, not enduring it separately.
Ironically, once we reached that level of honesty, something shifted. The tension dissolved, and a sense of playfulness returned between us. We shared a light, fun, and surprisingly intimate moment together. That simple moment of connection meant a lot—not just physically, but emotionally.
I found myself deeply grateful for my ex-wife’s ability to stay present in such a vulnerable conversation. That’s one of the things I find most attractive about her. We can discuss hard things—sex, fear, resentment, uncertainty—and still keep our hearts open. We didn’t spiral into argument or drama. We stayed connected, aware, and loving. That’s rare.
When I see other attractive women now, I often think about that. Could you have a difficult discussion with love and self-awareness? Could you hold space for the hardest truths and still laugh afterward? That’s the kind of connection I value most.
By the end of the night, both of us felt peaceful and close. We didn’t get to bed until after midnight, but we went to sleep happy—grateful for each other and ready to bring more love and joy into our relationship moving forward.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.