There are moments in life when you realize you’ve been living under a haze, and then there are moments when you finally admit it out loud. This is one of those episodes. A turning point. Maybe not the dramatic crash-bang turning point that makes a movie scene, but one of those subtle, everyday, grind-it-out moments that you only realize later were monumental. Today, it’s about admitting that the fog has been real, and it’s time to walk through it.

The Glut: My Personal Pile-Up

I call it “the glut.” Maybe you know what I mean. Maybe you’ve felt it. It’s when one little undone thing snowballs into five more undone things. You’re staring at the first domino and can’t knock it over, so all the others just sit there, waiting. For me, it shows up at work in the worst way possible: paperwork. Receipts. That stack of monotonous, soul-sucking administrative stuff that I know damn well has to get done.

And here’s the kicker: I’m not even lazy. I’m not. I’ll bust my ass on a job site for 12 hours, run a half marathon on a bum leg, tear out drywall, wire a breaker panel, hell, I’ll even unclog a septic line if it has to be done. But receipts? Paperwork? Sitting at a computer to type numbers into neat little boxes? That’s the boulder I can’t push.

It’s not that I forget — it’s worse. I know it’s there. I can picture it sitting on the table, whispering at me every time I walk past. “Hey, buddy, remember me?” And then I get in my own head. I can’t move forward until I clear the backlog. And that backlog becomes this mental blockade where everything piles up behind it.

That’s the glut. That’s the monster. And lately, it feels like it’s been winning.

The Fog: Four Years in the Clouds

So why now? Why this episode? Because I’ve been carrying another weight. Weed. Four years, every single day.

I never set out to be “a stoner.” That word doesn’t even feel right on me. It started out simple. End of a long, hard day swinging hammers, managing chaos, trying to be everything to everyone — I just wanted to relax. A puff, a joint, whatever. No big deal. The edge softened. The noise quieted. The anxiety shrank back into the corner.

But then, slowly, it became habit. Not a treat. Not a release. A routine. Like brushing teeth, but with smoke. It followed me into management, into late nights at the desk, into Sunday afternoons when I should’ve been running clear-headed. It never spiraled into disaster — no lost jobs, no car wrecks, no “intervention circle” with family and folding chairs — but it crept in.

And I have to be honest: it wasn’t all bad. Weed has a way of making you sit with yourself. In those years, I tore open some layers I didn’t even know were wrapped around me. I got honest about my flaws. I saw myself without filters. There was growth in that fog. I won’t deny it.

But here’s the truth I can’t shake: fog is still fog. It softens edges, but it also hides clarity. And I want clarity back. My anxiety? It’s got a chokehold on me. My focus? It’s shot. The glut? It grows in the haze.

So yeah. It’s time. No more pretending. No more half-assed “maybe I’ll cut back.” It’s time to step out of the fog.

Am I going cold turkey? Hell if I know. I’m not standing here with a 12-step pamphlet and a sponsor on speed dial. I’m just saying this is the day. The day I recognized the habit. The day I drew a line. Call it Step Four. Step 600. Step 11,421. Whatever number you want. The step is what matters.

And it’s going to be hard. Because I’ve got that addictive switch in my brain — the one that flips on anything that makes me feel good. I’ll ride it full-tilt until the wheels fall off. But if I can run 250 kilometers in a month on a busted leg, I can sure as hell run through this fog too.

Running in Pain: The Shin Chronicles

Speaking of busted legs. Let’s talk running.

The right leg — ankle, shin, calf, knee — basically the whole damn lower quadrant of my body has been screaming at me lately. Not tired. Not winded. Just pain. Not the “ooh I’m sore from a good workout” pain, but the “every step feels like a knife up the shin” pain.

September nearly broke me. 251 kilometers. Day after day, 10K after 10K, stacking miles like bricks. It was glory, sure. It was triumph. But it was also stupid. My leg is paying the price.

So now? October is my “rest” month. Rest, of course, in my dictionary, means 5Ks and 6Ks sprinkled in, just to keep moving. Laura’s been joining me again — and that’s been good. We hit the trail, out and back, a nice, easy 5K. She keeps me honest. She keeps me humble.

But the truth? Every run ends the same way. Me stopping not because I’m out of gas, but because the pain wins. That’s not a good sign. So I’m doing something radical for me. One week. No running. None.

Instead, core workouts. Pushups, planks, stretches, maybe even yoga if I can stop laughing at myself long enough to try. Because the big lesson here — Mental Miles lesson #21 — is that sometimes moving forward means stopping first. Sometimes the grind is killing you, not building you. And you’ve got to know when to back off so you can keep going.

That’s hard for me. But it’s the truth.

The Text from Dad

Now for the curveball.

My dad texted me. First message in months. And you know what he said? He told me to check in on my sister. That she’s going through a breakup. That she could use a brother.

Now, let me pause here: I love my sister. She’s blood. She’s family. And yeah, if she needs me, I’m there. That’s not even a question. But the way he went about it — that’s what gets me. That’s what twists the knife.

Because where’s he been? Where’s the dinners, the “hey son, let’s grab a beer,” the “how are you doing?” He’s been MIA. Months of silence. Years of distance. And then, out of the blue, he swoops in with this fatherly “you should…” directive, like he’s still steering the ship.

That irked me. No, it pissed me off. It’s like he wants to skip the hard part — the part where he admits he broke things — and jump straight into being the wise dad again. But I don’t need a parent anymore. That role’s expired. What I need — what I want — is a man in my life who says, “let’s go eat,” not “go call your sister.”

It pushed me through a few more painful miles, I’ll give him that. Anger has fuel. But it also leaves a bitter taste when the run is over.

Humor in the Hurt

Now, if this all sounds heavy, don’t worry — I can laugh at it too.

Picture me, hobbling along a trail, muttering about paperwork, shin splints, weed fog, and daddy issues, while Laura trots beside me with perfect form like she’s in a commercial. She’s breathing easy, chatting about dinner plans, while I’m basically falling apart mid-stride. That’s comedy. That’s sitcom material.

Or the fact that I keep saying I’ll take a week off running, but I’ve already mapped out three “light jogs” I’m probably going to sneak in. Addictive personality, remember?

And let’s be real: cutting weed after four years isn’t going to look heroic. It’s going to look like me sitting on the couch, staring at a bag of Doritos, wondering if I should light up or eat them dry. That’s the unglamorous truth.

The Lesson

Here’s what I’m learning — what Mental Miles keeps teaching me:

Life isn’t about giant leaps. It’s about steps. Tiny, stubborn steps. Some of them forward, some sideways, some back. But they add up.

This week, my step is cutting through the fog. Another step is resting the leg, even if it kills me not to run. Another is admitting that family relationships are complicated and that my dad doesn’t get to waltz back in with a commandment.

It’s messy. It’s raw. But it’s life. And Mental Miles isn’t about perfect miles. It’s about honest ones.

So here’s to the next step. Out of the fog. Into the pain. With humor. With anger. With hope. Because that’s what this journey is — step 600 of 11,421. And I’m still moving.