Ground Level: A Therapist's Raw Insights

The first time I tried to sit still for more than five minutes, my body felt like a prison. My jaw clenched tight, shoulders hunched, chest compressed like someone was sitting on it. Then the voices started: "You're never going to get this right. You always mess everything up." Most men avoid the pause because they know something's waiting for them—something uncomfortable they've been outrunning with busyness, work, and constant motion. They're right to be cautious. When you finally slow down, everything you've been avoiding comes knocking at once. But here's what I discovered: those harsh voices weren't my enemies. They were parts of me that had been neglected for so long they'd learned to scream to get attention. Like kids acting out because they feel ignored. This week, I'm sharing how to stay present with intensity instead of running from it, including a powerful framework for working with your inner voices and a daily practice that teaches you to hear what's really important versus what's just noise.

The biggest change of my life happened in a 200-square-foot travel trailer, everything we owned crammed inside as we bet everything on Colorado feeling right. People thought we were crazy—hell, some days I thought we were crazy too. But here's what I've learned about change: we think it should flow like water if it's meant to be. Instead, real change often feels like forcing yourself through a narrow canyon—uncomfortable, uncertain, requiring you to leave parts of yourself behind. Most men approach change like they're trying to force their way through traffic, then wonder why everything feels like a struggle. But nature doesn't work that way. Trees don't force their leaves to fall—they let the season guide the timing. This week, I'm sharing how to move with natural timing instead of fighting it, including a powerful 5-step seasonal practice that helps you trust the process of becoming who you're meant to be.

Three months after loss, I started wanting things I'd never allowed myself to want. Grief had thinned the veil between who I thought I should be and who I actually was. Here's what emerges when you stop running from what grief is trying to teach you.