Growing Pains
I used to feel quite smug.
In my mid-thirties, I watched as friends settled down, had kids, grew tired—and fat. Not me. I had a wife, money, a house, and a great social life. No responsibilities I didn’t choose. I could party as long as I wanted. I figured some people just didn’t have my stamina.
But of course, I got tired too. And, yes, a little fat. More importantly, I began to notice something I couldn’t quite name: a growing disconnect. Something underneath the drinking and drug use didn’t feel right. I was masking something.
It was December 2019 when I finally admitted to myself that things needed to change. I didn’t know what exactly—I just knew something wasn’t right.
Dry January. That would fix it. I’d have a blowout December and then sober up for a month, just long enough to clear my head.
It worked, at first. I felt good after a few weeks. Good enough to extend it to three months of sobriety.
But then a kind of darkness set in. Slow, creeping. I tried to fight it with all the right things—journaling, better sleep, morning walks. I got into Stoic philosophy. I consumed everything I could about happiness and self-understanding. I actually felt good for a while, even amid the COVID pandemic.
Still, the darkness grew. I started to feel like I was living inside a plastic bag—able to see, hear, interact—but cut off. I felt numb. Empty. Disconnected from life itself.
Eventually, I had to say it out loud. I asked my wife for help. It was the first time I admitted how bad things had gotten.
Therapy followed. Walks. More journaling. Whittling, of all things! I tried to do everything right. And still, the same patterns kept circling back. I’d have periods of clarity and then relapse into weekends of drinking and cocaine. At the same time, cracks in my marriage became impossible to ignore. The patterns there were unhealthy—undermining even the progress I was making with myself.
The final break came when I realised the person I loved didn’t have my back when I needed her most. That truth was devastating. But I knew I couldn’t keep sacrificing my own well-being for the idea of something that wasn’t working.
Leaving the marriage brought a new wave of pain. But I kept moving. What choice did I have?
A turning point came with an unexpected decision: to live on a boat.
A retirement dream, suddenly made real with the equity I took from the house. It felt like a clean break. Something to look forward to. A chance to build a life that looked and felt entirely different.
During the 18 months it took to get the boat built, I lived in between things. I stayed sober for stretches, then relapsed. The pattern was familiar. But I also stayed committed to the deeper work—walking, reading, journaling, spending time in nature. Woody, my dog, became my daily companion through Burnham Beeches. I watched the seasons change in that woodland—winter to spring, summer to autumn, and back again. Had a year really passed?
I spent those walks arguing with ghosts. Replaying conversations with my ex. Questioning everything: What am I doing? Who am I becoming? Why can’t I stay grounded?
Eventually, something shifted. Slowly. The fog began to lift.
Moving onto the boat in May 2023 felt like a threshold. A new chapter. Life felt vivid again—free, open, alive. But I still struggled. The cravings came. So did the shame. I’d stay sober for weeks, then binge. Each time, I’d surface feeling depleted, angry, confused.
Why can’t I change?
Why am I still drifting?
And yet, I kept walking. Kept writing. Kept trying.
Then, on New Year’s Day 2025, Sam Harris popped up again—with one simple question:
“What would I do now if I knew I only had one year left to live?”
That question didn’t save me. But it clarified everything.
Finally, something clicked.