Alright, look. I am not a writer. Not really. I don’t blog. I don’t journal.
I’m not a lot of things, but that knowledge doesn’t seem to stop me from starting something new.
Mostly, that’s ADHD, I think. I try everything.
My Nintendo Switch hasn’t been touched in months. My PS5, even longer. In the closet sits a twice-used PSVR2 that my wife gifted me, alongside a Nikon DSLR that I’ve owned for nearly a decade and barely learned to use. I fixed up a used ‘90s bike over the last year and am looking forward to using it, despite having not biked in years.
Three guitars hang on the wall above my dad’s piano, all unplayed by me for probably a month or so, and unpracticed for at least twice as long, not to mention the other two guitars (a mini Strat and a travel-style guitar) and ukulele that I have put away.
Pieces of guitar builds are scattered all over my garage, half-finished and unassembled at best. Three sets of cornhole boards, two kids’ picnic tables, multiple toolboxes, unassembled shelves, and half-baked storage solutions all intermingle with my myriad tools.
My 3D printer gets more consistent use than most of my junk, but mainly because it feeds my addiction to novelty and keeps the cycle going:
ideate, obsess, decelerate, abandon.
Now I am designing a 3D-printed enclosure for a custom electronic reader that I am creating. At least that’s the current obsession, until a new idea sneaks in and hijacks my attention.
I am not disciplined.
I am not consistent.
Really, frustration with myself might be the most consistent thing about me. Or this self-sabotaging cycle I’m centered within. Trapped in the eye of a self-inflicted hurricane.
Enter running
Or re-enter running.
Upon learning that my BMI, as terrible a marker for health as it might be, dropped me right into the obese category almost exactly one year ago, (and following a visit to my local running store, but that’s a story for another time) I knew I had to do something about my physical fitness.
Thus began my training.
I signed up for a few local races and trail runs before eventually being convinced to sign up for the Dopey Challenge. I lost weight. I felt better.
Then afterward, I drifted.
Between Dopey in January and the Springtime Surprise Challenge in April, I barely ran at all. Maybe six runs total. I gained the weight back. The momentum disappeared faster than I wanted to admit.
Turns out I should have been training my discipline more than allowing my lack of discipline to control my training.
So here I am now. Right where I started last year.
Or maybe not quite.
I know now that I’m capable of losing the weight. Of running the distance. I’ve learned something, at least.
Here comes the ADHD again as I scroll through YouTube during another late-night fight with sleep and another quiet flight from responsibility.
A livestream shows up of an intense ultramarathon trail race: Cocodona 250.
Something shifts.
I’ve run trail runs before, but this was different.
This was endurance.
This was pushing and fighting your limits.
This was pulling me in.
Attracting me to trails. To distance. To endurance. To choosing to enter and embrace suffering.
Wait, what?
Suffering?
Why?
Part of it is probably the scenery and the adventure. Part of it is the absurdity.. the impossibility of it all.
But I think a deeper part of me wants proof that I can keep showing up for something long enough to become someone different through it.
Not fixed. Not put together. Just forged a little.
Choosing to navigate with purpose instead of aimlessly drifting with the current, tossed around by life’s waves, flooded by distractions from influences lurking beneath the surface, sinking deeper into ideas that aren’t even my own, drowning in meaningless noise while refusing to bare responsibility and take hold of the wheel.
Maybe that’s what’s beneath all of this.
The unfinished projects.
The abandoned hobbies.
The inconsistency.
The damning cycle.
I have spent my life choosing comfort. Pursuing passions until they require anything real. Consuming identities instead of building character. Trying on versions of myself instead of enduring long enough to become me.
Maybe I am a million things in one splintered psyche, but if I am, I need to at least be that on purpose.
I want to become someone my kids look at and recognize as steady. Someone who isn’t perfect, but finishes hard things. Someone who can carry his own weight and his family without collapsing in on his own selfishness, laziness, and pride.
I want to be a better father. Better husband. Better friend. Better son. Better brother.
I want to keep moving.
And maybe that’s what all of this really is.
Not self-improvement in the productivity-guru sense.
Not optimization.
Not biohacking.
Not discipline porn.
Just learning how to stop running from discomfort.
Learning how to do uncomfortable things when they are unnecessary, so that I will not hesitate to do uncomfortable things when they are necessary.
Learning how to beat myself instead of beating myself up.
Be deliberate. Be conscious. Be intentional.