Where do I even begin?

Let’s start with the shoes.

Today, I woke up and decided—no more basics. No more budget-conscious, play-it-safe versions of myself. I walked into that store and didn’t think about price for the first time in a long time. I saw what I wanted, and I bought it. New Nikes. Running shorts that actually feel like they were made for running. Not walking. Not lounging. Running. The kind of gear that says, Today I show up.

And I felt that. I felt ready.

Not for what actually happened, but still—ready.

Because then the mushrooms showed up.

Yeah. Mushrooms. Delivered in a brown bag of mystery. A full ounce labeled free sample. No strain name. No details. Just a goddamn invitation from the universe wrapped in ambiguity. What do you do with something like that?

If you're me, you eat it. Of course you do.

Not all of it—I'm not reckless. Just enough to see where the road might go. And then, like an idiot, I decided it was the perfect time to hit the gym.

Let me be clear: this was not the perfect time to hit the gym. I hadn’t eaten. I forgot my water. My stomach was empty, my brain was floating somewhere between ego and ego death, and I thought sure, let's run a 10K.

What I got was a 15-minute treadmill tap-out with side-to-side wobble and an uphill burst that broke me faster than my last relationship.

But here's the weird part—I still felt good.

Not successful good. Not motivated good. But good in the way that only comes after you’ve completely botched the original plan and are forced to sit in whatever mess is left.

So I sat. I lay down. Put on some zen music and just… breathed.

For 45 minutes, I let the anxiety bubble up. And I didn’t run from it. I didn’t silence it with screens or tasks or self-blame. I breathed it out. I literally blew it out of my mouth, like some kind of spiritual exorcism powered by psilocybin and self-awareness. And it left. It really left.

Not forever. I’m not cured. But for that moment, I found something that felt like peace. Like a warm static buzzing behind my eyes, tugging me into stillness.

I didn’t see gods or galaxies. No kaleidoscopes or talking trees. Just me. Just my breath. Just a chance to be in my own skin and not want to crawl out of it.

And honestly? That’s something.

This week’s been heavy. Emotionally, spiritually, physically. It’s been a lot. I've been trying to figure out who I am when I’m not working 10-hour days, when I'm not being the contractor or the dad or the guy trying to hold it all together. Who am I when I let go?

I’m a man who buys new shoes without guilt.
A man who eats mystery mushrooms on a Friday and still makes it to the treadmill.
A man who lays on the floor and breathes like it’s a job.

And I'm a man who’s still figuring it all out.

Look—I didn’t reach enlightenment in a sauna. (Though if the place had been empty, I might've. Something about that heat... damn.) I didn’t break any personal records tonight. I didn’t uncover some buried trauma or write a song or have a mystical vision.

But I felt. I really felt. I felt proud and pathetic. Confused and centered. Hopeful and high.

I felt like maybe—just maybe—this is the start of something real.

So now I’m home. Relaxed. A little spaced out, yeah. But grounded. Grateful. Ready for a weekend of power tools and drywall dust and trying to be the kind of man my family actually enjoys being around. The kind of man who laughs, who’s present, who doesn’t just talk about "living in the moment" but actually fucking does it.

Tomorrow, I rip apart a bathroom. Tonight, I rebuilt a piece of myself.

That’s where I’m at.

If you’re reading this, wondering if you should start something—do it. Lace up the shoes. Take the step. Eat the metaphorical (or literal, your call) mushroom. Breathe in. Breathe out. Be okay with not knowing what the hell you're doing.

We’re all on some kind of treadmill, trying not to fall off. At least this time, I wore nice shoes.

–T.
Running, tripping, rebuilding. One mile at a time.