mj opalsky

It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to finish “Atomic Habits” before the return date, but it’s given me plenty to think about already. I alluded to it in my last entry, the need to write “something…anything… to prove to myself that I am who I want to be.” And I want to be a writer. The only way to become that is to be a person who writes.

I’d like to discuss my understanding of the what I’ve read so far, but in fair warning, I will not turn this into a research paper (or anything remotely academic or useful) by referencing the actual book. For it is an electronic copy that is on my phone that I have placed far out of my reach. Why? So I don’t succumb to the urge of picking it up every goddamn moment my mind wanders when I’m trying to write. My phone is also sitting next to my Apple Watch, to prevent me from randomly deciding to take my ECG while sitting at my desk for no reason.

From what I understand, we are an accumulation of our habits. Habits and identity are inextricably tied. Habits make, reinforce, and prove our identity. Consider then, what is your desired identity? Who or what kind of person do you want to be? Now, create habits that support your desired identity.

I want to be a writer.

I want to be a musician.

I want to be an athlete.

I want to be a polyglot.

I wish, in an entirely fruitless and meaningless way, that my 20-something self had paused to consider who she wanted to be. That 20-something MJ (though no one called me that at the time) was decidedly too drunk and confused to climb to the top of Maslow’s hierarchy. She was living with the same childhood trauma without the benefit of therapy, and life was just a kaleidoscope of dead ends and disappointments. Come to think of it, I don’t think she could’ve done any differently. I am grateful to her that she didn’t give up completely.

Now, twenty something years later — that pause is long overdue. But first, are there any identities that I have assumed that might be worth discarding?

I am an alcoholic.

That is an identity I assumed after taking a bunch of alcohol awareness quizzes that told me so, a little over five years ago. On April 1st, 2019 I armed myself with this label and cut alcohol completely out of my life. My husband was a little surprised, and probably recalled the time in 2012, when after reading “Diet for a New America” (by John Robbins, of Baskin Robbins fame) I decided to become vegetarian. A week later, in the middle of reading “Animal Liberation” (by Peter Singer), I upped the ante and said, nope, I am a vegan! 

“Wait, what now? No more cheese?” he asked, forlorn. 

Despite that moment of hesitation he got on board with me, and we adopted a vegan lifestyle for the next few years. Years later, with the same kind of unwavering support, he shrugged and said “Yes, dear.” I didn’t ask him to stop drinking necessarily, but he said that what he liked was the ritual of our drinking, the bonding that occurred with drinks over a charcuterie plate, tapas, or a multi-course meal with wine pairings — not the alcohol itself.

For over five years we didn’t have a single boozy drink. We substituted happy hours for coffee breaks, evolving from lattes at Starbucks to boba drinks at Ding Tea. Much like someone on heroine is turned on to methadone and becomes a different kind of addict. I find myself jonesing for a fix every few days but, in the spirit of self-discipline and for the sake of my wallet, I only allow myself two drinks a week on our regular schedule. But on vacation, it’s a free-for-all. I spent more time visiting boba shops in Barcelona and Munich than visiting anything historically significant. I take the cue from my favorite author, David Sedaris, who is defiantly unapologetic about his preference for shopping over visiting cultural institutions (especially if they don’t sell anything.) 

The heart wants what it wants.

Prior to leaving for our vacation this summer, he discussed entertaining the possibility of us having some sangria with our tapas in Barcelona, even just once. We had visited Spain thrice before, pre-parenthood, and sangria was as integral to the experience as siestas and the Sagrada Familia. Sitting at home, however, I was so far removed from the habit of drinking that I couldn’t fathom having a glass of sangria without imagining how contrary it would be to the identity I wanted to defend.

“Hm,” I said carefully, “maybe they’ll have a non-alcoholic version.” 

I could feel his eyes lay on me, heavy with disappointment. I shifted my gaze to my daughter, whose ears perked up at the possibility that she might get to sample this mystical drink, as I steeled myself in thought. He doesn’t have a drinking problem. I do. So, of course he doesn’t understand why I can’t just “have a glass of sangria.” 

In 2014, though we still considered ourselves vegan at the time, my husband and I mutually agreed that to have our favorite foods one last time before we left NYC to move to SD: a whole chili fried fish from our favorite Thai restaurant, Jai-ya; the bone marrow appetizer from Colicchio & Sons; and a slice from Joe’s Pizza. And we had firmly decided that, because we were driving cross country, we would have to have real BBQ brisket when we were in Texas. 

I was able to make space for compromise back then, why couldn’t I now? 

Barcelona came and went — no sangria. Granted, we only ate tapas on two occasions during our eight-day stay. A couple of things. It’s one thing to travel and dine as a childless couple on a romantic holiday, and quite another as a family unit. Back then, alcohol had been its own nutrient group, and our meals weren’t always held to the standards of having adequate vegetable or fiber representation. As a twosome, we’d have given almost anything a try; now, the third member of our party held considerable veto power on menu selections. According to our daughter, the tapas selection read like a laundry list of things that began with “But I don’t like…!” 

And perhaps a pitcher of sangria or Estrella cerveza would’ve smoothed out the wrinkles of a challenging dinner out, but the inconvenience of having to explain to our child why we were drinking alcohol now when we’d spent the last five years swearing it off far outweighed any temptation to actually do so. But, I did allow myself to order a non-alcoholic beer now and again. When she asked to taste it, I offered her the bottle.

“Eww! This is disgusting,” she said, pushing it back to me. She took a glug of her orange Fanta to cleanse her palate. I nodded, satisfied she wouldn’t ask for more.

Our return trip from Barcelona required a layover in Munich, and we had decided to hang out there for a few days. My dear friend, KH, who moved to back Austria a few years earlier, kindly offered to visit us while we were in town. In my humble opinion, any friend that offers to visit you while you’re “in town” when it requires them to drive six hours and cross a national border — is a friend worth cherishing for life. KH and her husband had suggested we meet at a beer garden in Englischen Garten on a Saturday at noon, a few days after our arrival.

I was keenly aware we would be visiting a city internationally renowned for beer. In fact, our hotel published a runner’s map for its guests, and the 5km route featured a loop around the site of Oktoberfest called Bavariaring. Jogging had become my favorite mode of exploring on my own (albeit in limited, 30-min increments so as to not alarm my family with my absence), and I padded over to the Bavariaring shortly before sunset.

Four months before the mass of humanity that would descend on this vast, open field for Oktoberfest, the park is serene and quiet. It may have appealed to my younger self to attend the famed folk festival, precariously chugging beer from a stein bigger than my head while feasting on a plate of sausage-y noms. My present self is too consumed with preserving personal space and proximity to adequate bathroom facilities to even entertain the thought. 

Saturday morning. We are sitting in the nook of the hotel lobby dedicated to the buffet breakfast. For the second day in a row, I had lifted the heavy cast iron lid of the pot containing the Weißwurst(“white sausage”), daring myself to try it. I set the lid back down and return to my seat with nothing but a boiled egg and a crusty roll.

I am an adventurous eater.

I don’t know what it is, but there is something about this particular food item that bothers me. Perhaps because it goes against the very fibers of my being and everything I know to be true and sacred about sausages. Fat. Color. Char. Curb Appeal. A great looking sausage draws you in, invites you to leave your inhibitions at the door and partake wholeheartedly. A boiled, pale sausage triggers unease, challenges you to ignore your better instincts for dubious reward. (I’m still talking about food here.)

It’s almost eleven and we need to start making our way to the Biergärten. We navigate our way across the busy Hauptbanhof across the street of our hotel to fetch the bus on the other side. After we get off the designated stop, it’s a 15-minute walk to the beer garden plus additional ten spinning around the park trying to decipher the wonky GPS directions. Though the hustle to our destination is somewhat stressful, the park will afford us the greatest expanse of greenery that we’ll experience of Germany save for the view from the plane. 

We arrive at the meeting spot and our friends follow almost immediately. This is my first experience rendezvous-ing with a friend in a foreign land and it is surreal. It’s disconcerting enough when I run into a surf buddy out in the wild, like at the local Trader’s Joe’s, for example. Without their wetsuit nor hair plastered to their face, the recognition is jarring enough for me to forget what I went shopping for in the first place. But here we are, KH and I, our relationship forged on the San Diego beaches, connected by a mutual love for the sport, and fortified by true friendship and respect. She is stunning with her short shorts, long, flowing blond hair, big sunglasses and a trucker cap emblazoned with the word “CALI”. Even here in landlocked Munich, it’s clear. She belongs on the beach. She belongs to the waves. 

We find a table in the beer garden situation mostly in the shade, save for the sunlight streaming through breaks in the tall trees. There’s no shortage of beer gardens in Munich but this seems uniquely pretty: away from the bustle of the city, and situated by a small, quiet lake traversed only by the occasional swan or paddle boat. It is barely noon and the venue has just opened for business, but there is considerable activity in preparation for the Eurocup match between Germany and Denmark later that evening: additional television screens being hung, appointed representatives scoping out the best seats, and families with children trying to enjoy a peaceful time before the ensuing mayhem. We sit for a few minutes, the adults catching their breath and exchanging travel stories, the kids shyly squirming in their seats. 

Then it was time to fetch drinks. As we make our way to the bar, I wonder how many times I had considered what I would do when this moment arrived. Or, had I just accepted myself as someone who cannot and should not ever drink again? For five years I held on to a belief that would preclude me from doing so. The belief, that I am an alcoholic, regardless of its veracity, had given me the strength to break the habit of drinking to excess, of drinking to dependence.

But five years later, and six thousand miles away, I want to believe something different. 

I want to believe that I have changed. That I have done the work to prove that I am not the worst of my fears or my insecurities, but rather, an evolving work in progress that, in its human imperfection, is still vibrantly and delicately whole. I am someone who can move beyond limiting beliefs, even if at some point in history there was a life-saving purpose to them. 

Now that my life has been saved, do I have the courage to truly live it?

I return to the table with a half-liter stein of Dunkel in one hand for myself, and a Weissbeer for Ken, his favorite. KH and her husband share a liter of Radler, which she informs me to be a refreshing combination of beer and lemonade. We toast each other happily, and I tentatively take my first sip. I savor the flavor and allow the bubbles to dissolve on my tongue. I listen for the voice of hardened judgment to scold me for being so weak, but my ears are full taking everything else in: the muted laughter of other guests, the clinking of glasses being bussed back to the bar, the quiet din of sunlight dappling through the trees. The moment has an almost ethereal quality and I want to hold on to it forever.

As I now write, it’s been exactly two week since that entrancing afternoon. If anyone is curious whether that one beer reopened the floodgates for drunken debauchery… it didn’t. But I did order another half-liter to accompany lunch because, when you’re having Schweinshaxe (a huge crispy German pork knuckle) and currywurst for the first time, a bottle of Mineralwasser doesn’t quite mark the occasion. 

However, dining at an Italian restaurant in the Old Town later that evening, I went back to an alkoholfrei alternative. But not because I was afraid of a backslide into alcohol use disorder. Sobriety has become my habit for the last five years, one of the few that I’ve held to steadfast, like flossing every day. Though it began as a compulsion to avoid alcohol, I’d like to think it has evolved into a loving act of embracing my authentic, undiluted self. An appreciation for sobriety is now woven into the tapestry of my identity; similar to how I will never feel good about eating veal again, even though my vegan days are long behind me. (This also officially puts Weißwurst on my no-fly zone.)

Don’t get me wrong. I am still a basket case in many respects, and there are plenty of times that I fall short of my ideals. But good habits don’t demand perfection. (That’s why there are “streak freezes” in Duolingo.) There is room to breathe, room for change and circumstance. Here is where self-compassion and self-forgiveness figures in. Unfortunately, those don’t come easy for me, but I’m trying. I suspect they must be developed like any good habit, like flossing: with daily, consistent practice. Every little bit counts. 

Shoot for every day, but if I miss a day it isn’t the end of the world. Just try not to miss two in a row.

If there’s anything that I’m truly ace at, it’s distraction. And when the most important thing that I ought to do is to write an entry for my blog (a self-inflicted priority, I confess), an eleven-hour-plus transatlantic flight is the perfect opportunity to do everything but. En route from San Diego to Munich, every time I brought out my iPad with intention to begin an entry, I found myself overtaken with the need to — you name it: Snack. Nap. Watch “Hotel Transylvania” over my daughter’s shoulder with no audio or captions.  Read another chapter of the London-based LGBT+ romcom I downloaded on a whim from the public library app. Basically, engage in every excuse to faff around and be a total bellend. (Note the use of English slang I learned from reading that novel. Time well spent, innit?)

Presently, we are on the return flight back to SAN, and it took approximately five hours, three chapters of James Clear’s “Atomic Habits”, two virgin Bloody Marys (ie, tomato juice with salt and pepper) and one proper tearjerker of a Korean movie — to finally write in earnest. Better late than never. (But who’s keeping time, anyway?)

When I was tooling around the library app last night, admittedly looking for another LGBT+ novel to download because it just so much fun to read (nothing too kinky; think same-sex young adult fiction), I saw that “Atomic Habits” was available for a seven-day, skip-the-line download. There’s usually a several week- or month-long wait for popular books, whether hard copy or electronic, so I jumped at the opportunity. With the deadline to return it by next Tuesday, however, the novel about a lighthearted lesbian romp will just have to take a backseat.

I’m familiar with James Clear from having watched several YouTube videos, either of him being interviewed directly or his work being referred to tangentially. I mistakenly assumed that I already had the gist of what this book would be about — small habits, when consistently applied, lead to big changes — so I didn’t expect to find anything new or perspective shifting. But in all honesty, I don’t usually give my full attention to videos and podcasts, often playing them in the background while I jog or do my trash walk. (As in, literally picking trash while walking around the neighborhood, versus suggestively strutting in stilettos.) The problem with multi-tasking is that I’m basically half-assing everything.

I considered myself as recently developing positive changes and habits. A few months ago, I started a morning routine that involved waking up before dawn and doing burpees on the breezeway of our condo, cold showers, meditation and journaling. I committed to practicing my guitar on a daily basis and even managed to learn my first (and so far, only) Smashing Pumpkins song. (Perhaps only the most die-hard SP fan might recognize my muddled barre chord progression, but to be fair, I don’t intend on busking anywhere in the near lifetime.) I was writing here on a fairly consistent basis, and have been intentionally setting aside time to connect with long-distance friends through the lost art of penpal-ing. 

However, despite these changes, I don’t feel that I have made any significant headway in being the person that I want to become. Perpetually a sandwich short of a picnic, now doing a bunch of life hacks and random shit. Busy spinning my wheels, still going nowhere. But in reading the book, I realize that maybe I’m still in what Clear calls the Valley of Disappointment (“where people feel discouraged after putting in weeks or months of hard work without experiencing any results.” p.47) and I have yet to cross the Plateau of Latent Potential (where efforts finally yield a tangible result.) I took a screenshot of a page and sent it to my two girlfriends in our WhatsApp group, contending why I am still flat-assing it after a doing a month of booty sculpting videos.

Maybe this is a bit of a cop-out, but I’m choosing to end this entry here. I don’t think there is room for any major epiphanies because I’m absolutely knackered and partially distracted by the movie flickering on a screen across the aisle. (Is he still watching Dune? How come no one’s wearing the nose thing anymore? The movie still has apocalyptic desert vibes, but why were Timotheé Chalamet and Zendaya replaced with bikini-clad models from a Christian Dior perfume ad?) There’s a little over three hours left of the flight, and I’d prefer to indulge in another good bawl with a second Korean flick. 

What is important to me was to write something… anything… only if to prove to myself that I am who I want to be. 

This week, a landmark event took place — my first guitar lesson in twenty years. I know it was almost exactly 20 years because of the dates that had been written into my copy of “Mauro Giuliani: Studies for Guitar”. Written in the haphazard penmanship of my former classical guitar professor, he designated which subset of right hand finger exercises that I needed to practice that week. The final date inscribed was 11/1/04 — approximately two weeks before my 26th birthday. 

Leading up to that final lesson was a few tumultuous years of trying to figure out what to do with my life post-university and post-layoff. I had graduated with a Computer Science degree from a decent state university, having given as much thought to choosing my major as I did with choosing my school — which is to say, a lot less thought than I expended shopping for an InstantPot. How I managed to graduate with such a difficult major knowing so little is mind-bending, akin to how some kids can move through the school system never learning to read. I faked it till I made it to the finish line: a big bucks software engineering position right out of school.

However, when I got laid off, I had already realized I couldn’t program my way out of a paper bag, let alone to another position in the computer science field. In essence, that Bachelors degree now shares the same utility as the forsaken InstantPot, languishing in storage. After moving back home and spending whatever I had in savings (haha) and my cashed-in 401K, I resorted to the only thing I knew how to do: I went back to school. I was obliged by my mother, who put me back on her health insurance after my COBRA ran out, to take the necessary prerequisites for a nursing program.

In the past, she had always expected me to take up nursing, especially if I wasn’t going to pursue the only other valid alternatives in her mind — Engineering. Doctoring. Lawyering. So, naturally, I did my very best to avoid giving her what she wanted. When I told her that I would be majoring in Comp Sci midway through my freshman year, she went completely berserk and threatened to stop paying for tuition. I called her bluff and landed back at home five years later. It would’ve taken superhuman restraint to refrain from saying “I told you so!”, given that I was in such a pitiful state. But my mother is a mere mortal, so the I-told-you-so’s came in all manners — fast and hard, slow and subtle, day in, day out. 

I enrolled in a community college on Long Island, applied for the nursing program, and started on all the health science prerequisites like Anatomy and Physiology and Microbiology. I even found a part-time position at an oral surgeon’s office, ostensibly to pad my future patient-care oriented resume. (Plus, drinking money.) I told myself that I would do whatever it takes to carve a path for myself, away from my childhood home, back to independence — and if nursing was the only way out, so be it.

But… since I’m already here…

While perusing the college catalog, I was thrilled to see they offered introductory classes to piano and guitar, and added both to my course load. I had never learned to play the piano growing up (perhaps because we weren’t affluent or Asian enough to own one) but the prospect of finally learning to play the guitar was what most intrigued me. I said finally because my journey with the guitar had begun nearly a decade before that, between sophomore and junior year of high school.

Like many a classic tale (think Hemingway), it involved a cute boy who worked in a smoke shop in the Village. Without going into details that might later be held against me (specifically by my young, impressionable daughter), my best friend in high school, TC, and I met him during our foray into NYC during school sanctioned hours. What exactly possessed us to enter a smoke shop on Bleecker Street, I don’t recall, but I’m sure it had something to do with looking for, um, school supplies. The cute boy behind the counter, a tall Korean guy with handsome features and a quiet demeanor, gave me his number. I can almost remember girlishly squealing with TC once we were out of earshot.

He drove out to Queens to pick me up for our date in his forest green Jeep Wrangler. As I tottered in kitty heels to the passenger door which he held open for me, my father shot out of the house to glare at this stranger, this… man, for all intents and purposes, who was about to whisk his underage daughter away. But CG (Cute Guy) surprised him (and me, too) by replying in the most sincere fashion, “Sir, I promise to take care of her and have her back safely before eleven.” My father was visibly thrown for a moment, then relaxed into a smile.

“Make it twelve,” he said. Maybe not with actual words, but it was written all over his face. CG had won him over.

Everything about that night was surreal, including my awkwardness. It felt like I was masquerading as a grown-up, desperately trying to appear more sophisticated than I was. He drove us back into the Village, where we shot pool and ate Thai during what was probably the quietest date in the history of civilization. But, the magical part of evening was driving beneath the sparkling lights of NYC, listening to a double album of a band I’d never heard of before: The Smashing Pumpkins.

I never saw CG again, which only served to heighten the surreal quality of that experience. My parents shuttled me off to spend that summer in Mechanicsville, VA, where my aunt and uncle lived, as one would send a troubled teenager to boot camp in a far-flung locale. Nearly two months living in a remote cul-de-sac of a developing community, babysitting my cousins, and living for the long, handwritten letters that TC and I exchanged with religious regularity. On the occasional trips to the mall, I purchased every Pumpkins album I could find — Mellon Collie, Siamese Dream, Gish, and Pisces Iscariot — and listened to them obsessively until their songs wound themselves into my DNA. It was then that I vowed to learn how to play the guitar. 

So, you might wonder, why had I not managed to learn how to play in the ten years before registering for Beginning Guitar? And what happened after that final lesson on November 1st, 2004?

On the surface, it could amount to laziness or an obscene underestimation of the work and dedication needed to learn. After returning from Virginia that summer, I promptly made my way to Sam Ash and purchased an intro-level Stratocaster set up with my babysitting money. I haunted my old junior high school and recruited my former band teacher, Mr. D, to give me private lessons. He came to my home a couple of times and I picked through the first notes of open position, but I quickly became discouraged and quit. If I had given it any thought, I would’ve realized that even Billy Corgan must’ve started by learning to play Three Blind Mice or Jingle Bells before becoming a legendary alternative rock icon. But for me, it felt like I wanted to summit El Capitan when I didn’t even know how to crawl.

Ten years later, in a bid to carve out my own path, I eventually declined my admission into the nursing program, and registered to become a music major with a focus on classical guitar. Although classical guitar was a wide departure from my original vision, it was the only option available; and I figured, obtaining a music degree would allow me to earn a practical living as a music teacher. This drove my mother to a conniption fit of epic proportions, likely having felt deeply betrayed once again. 

Once I started the new semester as a full-fledged music major, I quickly realized how in over my head I was. Talk about imposter syndrome. I was surrounded by students who probably lived music all their lives, whereas I could barely recognize a major scale from a minor one, let alone the difference between a harmonic minor and a melodic one. The ear training class, where we had to identify different musical intervals, literally made me break out into a cold sweat. To top it off, I had developed an overwhelming self-consciousness in playing the guitar — it was always there, but now, so much more was at stake. It  was if I had committed to free soloing the most dangerous slab route on the Salathe Wall. And so, days before the first guitar ensemble performance, I dropped out of the major, and almost died of shame.

Fast forward to 2024. This is the baggage I have carried with me to the base of El Capitan, laid out for everyone to see. But I will leave it here, for inspection and reflection, because I cannot scale a mountain with such a heavy load. The only things I’m taking on this journey from now on is my pretty little Gretsch Streamliner, which I have faithfully played every day since my 45th birthday, and a fervent belief in myself.

For I am not the same person I was 20, 30 years ago. Though I had reluctantly become a nurse, not only did it lead me to my husband and a host of other blessings, I learned something vitally important: That I can do hard things. I can keep my composure while changing a gruesome dressing. I can advocate for my patients whose needs are being neglected by inconsiderate, overambitious residents. I can survive a verbal thrashing by the attending physician for having withheld treatment due to my nursing judgment. I can calm the most ornery patient on the unit because I can give my whole hearted self. I can push the natural limits of my urinary tract system to the extreme because there is just too much to do in a 12-hour shift.

“I can do hard things.”

I may not excel at everything I do. Or anything I do, for that matter. Often, I’ll be doing too much to be truly decent at something. But presently I am doing my best not to shy away from the things that are hard, because they are often the things that matter. Learning how to play the guitar matters to me, and so does climbing. Alex Honnold’s mom began climbing at 58 and became the oldest woman to climb El Capitan at age 70, as well as an inspiration to many. Surely, I can pick up the guitar at 45 and learn to play a Smashing Pumpkins song before I turn, say, 60. 

One move, one barre chord at a time.

And you can do hard things, too.

“You’re up early!”

I laugh, “Yeah, no kidding!”, as I try to get comfortable on the hard teak chair on our second floor balcony.

It’s 7:31AM PST on Cinco de Mayo, a cold and dreary Saturday morning by SoCal standards, and I am sitting outside so as not to disturb anyone else. I have just connected on a video chat with two dear friends from college (the first time around). I’ll call them Ruchi and Jena. I have known Ruchi since high school and we were on friendly terms back then, but we generally occupied different orbits.  We didn’t realize we’d be attending the same university until we met at that fated freshman orientation. We would immediately become close friends, as comrades in combat often do. Jena transferred in from another school as Ruchi’s roommate some time later, and was a natural fit into our intimate world.

Jena and I moved in together after graduation, as we both found positions in New Jersey. After a long day of surveying available apartments, we settled on the last place we saw — a fourth-floor walk-up just outside the more desirable part of Hoboken. The apartment itself was cute and bright, but I suspect our decision was heavily influenced by the hotness factor of our realtor. Be that as it may, the apartment served us well that year as the launching point of many long, wild nights. Ruchi came to visit us, and we’d start off the evening — especially in the beginning — always toasting with a Malibu and pineapple juice cocktail. 

It’s hard to believe we are fast approaching the twenty-five year anniversary of post-college life and those first Malibu & Pineapples, and we reflected on that during our call. It also just dawned on me that I have known Ruchi and Jena longer than I haven’t. Though our lives were so intertwined those early years, our paths eventually diverged. My life, especially, took a sudden detour when I was I was laid off from that first job after only nine months and I found myself desperately lost. The only thing I managed to do successfully in that time was develop one heck of a drinking problem. 

The three of us, along with a few other friends, had already booked a trip to South Beach for that spring, and I went despite being freshly unemployed. For the sake of modesty, but mostly because I don’t remember a lot of it, I won’t mention the shenanigans I got into during that week. What is worth noting here, though, was what I now recognize to be an intervention — an awkward and painful confrontation about my irresponsible drinking. I was oblivious to the fact that not only was I diving headlong down the tubes, but I was potentially inviting danger to the rest of the group.  The most vivid memory from that trip, one that I tried hard to forget — sitting on the rooftop deck of our Ocean Drive hotel, the look of grave concern and disappointment on Jena’s face juxtaposed against the startling azure sky and the midday Miami sun.

“I wouldn’t trade those Malibu and Pineapple days for anything,” said Ruchi. 

I nodded in agreement, but my heart felt conflicted. It was one thing to celebrate the innocence of those first low-alcohol cocktails, mixed on our tiny kitchen counter, as we got gussied up to meet Jena’s new work friends. I can recall with amusement having my first ever Corona, in a dingy bar-slash-club on Hudson Street, and thinking “Jesus, this tastes like piss!” The flavor never improved, but with diligent effort, it sufficiently lubricated the wheels of inhibition and introversion. 

It took a long time for me to take off the rose-colored glasses (or in my case, the beer goggles) regarding that era in my life. I used to be nostalgic for that magical year of firsts — first grown-up apartment, first grown-up paycheck, first shared joint with our new friends and waiting for the munchies to hit, then diving into the most delicious takeout from Sri Thai. Now, I can’t help but reflect how terrifying that was for me, the state I was in. I just didn’t know it back then. Or, more likely, I did know — and I had used alcohol to numb myself to it. Drinking became the answer, long after I had forgotten the question. 

I suppose I would have a greater appreciation for the adventures we experienced if only I could remember them better. What I appreciate now is the present moment, on a video call with two good friends who have long stood the test of time and time zones. The three of us are now leading radically different lives, but we are bound by history, love and our common desires: to be healthy. To be happy. To be at peace.

So, on this Cinco de Mayo morning, we aren’t discussing Mexican inspired party plans involving margaritas for later in the day. We are discussing positive morning routines and fitting more yoga into our lives. (Ruchi and Jena were my most loyal students during my brief interlude as a pandemic-lockdown online yoga instructor.) Though I have forgotten all of the pose names in Sanskrit, I’ve recently been waking up early every morning to get at least a few minutes of Sun Salutations in. Ruchi says she’s increased her endurance for longer sessions and has managed to get her husband on the bandwagon, while Jena muses that she might have more time for yoga if she swapped out one of her four kirtan sessions. 

What’s a kirtan, you ask?

I don’t really know either, but it involves singing and a fascinating musical instrument called a harmonium, which looks like the infant love child of an upright piano and an accordion. I fantasize about accompanying her performance of Shiva Shankara with my electric guitar one day. 

But the first step: take my first guitar lesson in twenty years next Monday.

There are many other firsts on the horizon, and surely some of them will have to be endured rather than celebrated — first colonoscopy, first hot flash, first broken hip. There is tremendous beauty in experiencing joy as well as hardships, because how can you know one without the other? It’s been such a gift to have such good friends to share the journey with and for so long, and I have promised myself to be more intentional in nurturing my friendships moving forward.

And with a tall glass of water, I raise a toast to my dearest friends. Cheers.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Particularly in the last fifteen minutes that I’ve been staring at this blank page. There is so much I want to say but I don’t know where to begin. A kind of performance anxiety might be in play, where I begin to second-guess myself and my motivation to write. But I think the most important thing I can do is to be present with the discomfort, to wait it out and not run from it.

I am not a seasoned writer by any means, but I do have plenty of experience starting and stopping. My heart would get carried away with the notion of becoming a writer every once in a blue moon. I bought all the writing guides I came across in used book sales. I registered for writing workshops at the Gotham Writers Workshop back when I lived in New York City. I even started a few blogs, one related to baking, and the other devoted to a newly formed infatuation with Korean dramas. (I titled it, “Korean Dramas Make Me Cry”, which was an understatement given their profound and clockwork-like ability to make me bawl until I became an empty shell.)

But here is what happens. I don’t read more than a few chapters, if that much. I stop attending workshops. I peter out after a few entries. I shelve my dream until the guilt of giving up fades.

What I could never understand is, why do I have this dream if I can’t do it?

Since we are on the subject of recurring, unfulfilled dreams, I have always wanted to play the guitar. In a band. And sing. As I have never attempted to write a song of my own, I suspect that I envision myself rocking out playing covers. Or maybe I have an undisclosed fantasy of uniting with a talented songwriter who is in dire need of a minuscule Filipino-Chinese-American gal with limited vocal range and elementary strumming skills to give full expression to their music. I haven’t given it much thought.

I think I was sixteen or 17 when I bought my first electric guitar, inspired as I was by The Smashing Pumpkins. In the nearly thirty years since, several guitars have passed into my hands. At some point, I even briefly entertained the idea of becoming a classical guitar major. But I can’t say that I know more now than in those first few months when I learned the major C-scale in open position. If music is a foreign language, then I have yet to move on beyond basic greetings. Hola! No hablo español. Adiós!

Oh, and speaking of foreign languages. I came to this country from the Philippines when I was five years old. I entered the first grade knowing only the bits of English we might’ve been taught in school or whatever may have seeped into my brain from blankly watching Wonder Woman and The Incredible Hulk on TV back in Manila. I was desperate to do well in school and assimilate. Unfortunately, in my exuberance to do so, I ignorantly decided to discard my native language and identity, as one would shed a coat that was no longer in style. 

Though I was obliged to take years of Spanish in middle school and high school, it wasn’t something that really captivated my interest back then. I had a few Spanish-speaking friends, but it was beyond the scope of my imagination to practice with them. During freshman year orientation, I scanned the course bulletin and thought, wouldn’t it be so worldly and fascinating to take Russian 101? I will neither confirm nor deny that it had anything to do with the cute Russian boy that my friend and I were grouped with during orientation.

Fast forward a month into the semester and I received the first of many “W’s” (for Withdrawal) in my college career. In my defense, this was long before Duolingo and YouTube and podcasts were available. I was also the only non-Russian student in the entire class, and grading was based on a curve. It would‘ve taken too much bandwidth to pass the class given the rest of my schedule, or so I reasoned. Nearly a decade later, my friend called me up to say “Guess who I ran into at work? Sergey!” Then without missing a beat, “Remember when you registered for Russian 101 because of him?”

No mercy.

But to be honest, the most shameful thing about it was that I was doing okay in the class. I wasn’t going to throw the curve but I’m pretty sure I could’ve passed had I stuck with it. I say that now, with the confidence of having accumulated three bachelors degrees and an innumerable amount of college credits from five different institutions. But back then, I became overcome with hopelessness. The brilliant colors of my motivation dulled to muted grays. I wanted to protect myself from further hurt and future disappointment. 

This has been the narrative of my life, and I am so fucking tired of it.

I don’t know if anyone else does this, but I often calculate how much of my anticipated life span I have left to go in order to accomplish the things that I want. Time seemed like this endless commodity that I could afford to waste in my teens and 20s. By the time my thirties rolled around, I thought “Okay, you’ve used up 33%. You better start getting serious.” Now, at 45, I’ve only got half a tank left — if I’m lucky! — and I am forced to admit I’ve been driving around the same block this whole damn time.

I have been more or less aware of my tendencies, but I have never been clear of the “why’s.” Why do I abandon my dreams instead of pursuing them? Why does it feel like my dreams are impossible for me? Why do I insist on making myself so small?

Recently, something I came across incidentally seemed to provide an answer. I was listening to a Mel Robbins podcast where she interviewed Jim Kwik, a brain coach, author and entrepreneur. I was so moved by his personal story that I actually bought his book, Limitless: Upgrade Your Brain, Learn Anything Faster, and Unlock Your Exceptional Life. In the book, he quotes James Clear (author of Atomic Habits, apparently another must-read) in discussing the impact of negative emotions, using the example of running into a tiger in a forest: 

     “When that tiger crosses your path, for example, you run. The rest of the world doesn’t matter. You are focused entirely on the tiger, the fear it creates, and how you can get away from it.”

Essentially, negative emotions can narrow a person’s focus and range of possibilities. This instinct is probably very helpful in an emergency or life-or-death situation, but how does one go on living the rest of their life? I think this is where PTSD enters the picture. I’ve been dealing with that metaphorical tiger since childhood, and I have yet to outrun it. It’s always lurking around the corner, ready to remind me that I am not allowed to be out of its reach.

The situation had come to a head when my daughter was about a year old. I appeared fine on the outside, but internally I was crumbling. Tigers were everywhere. Thankfully, with the help of a psychologist, a social worker and a psychiatrist, I was able to heal enough to become functional and content, with the occasional chance of joy. But because we were too busy shooting tigers (or at least turning them into harmless kittens) in 50-minute increments there wasn’t enough capacity to address the more existential or utopian concerns. Like, why do I keep chasing my tail?

The road from the end of therapy to this moment hasn’t been entirely smooth, but here I am. No longer terrified, but curious. Now that I’ve answered the “why’s”, I can ask myself new questions like, what if there is nothing left to fear? And what happens if I don’t run?

I want to see just how far I can go.

Yesterday, before embarking on what would have been my third 5K of the week (spoiler alert: I didn’t make it), I downloaded a Mel Robbins podcast titled “3 Small Decisions That Make You Feel Incredible: Do This Every Morning After Waking Up” to listen to on my run. I had just finished a long video date with a dear friend. Among the things we discussed was how to tackle self-care, a daunting prospect when one is unsure where to begin.

As I have been obsessing nearly non-stop about this very topic for the last few months, I repeated an oft-heard piece of wisdom. That is, making even the smallest change, when applied consistently, will allow one to build momentum for future success. For example, instead of becoming overwhelmed by the thought of overhauling my diet, I could start today with eating a carrot. Rather than creating stress with overambitious goals for exercise at the outset, I could start today with ten jumping jacks. 

I felt good about offering this advice, thinking that it was the very thing I’ve been practicing lately. This particular podcast seemed apropos, and I’ve come to enjoy Mel’s charismatic delivery of scientifically backed insights. I donned my sneakers and headphones and, from a cold start, began running south towards Pacific Beach. I quickly settled into a comfortable pace which, mind you, is only a shade faster than a power walk around the mall, as I listened to Mel explain the cognitive bias of false confidence. 

To paraphrase, false confidence is the erroneous belief that one is somehow exempt from the rules that govern science and common sense. Instead of making hard decisions that are better for us in the long run, we make easy decisions that feel good in the moment. In Mel’s example, false confidence caused her to forgo turning in early to get rest before an early flight home. She opted for the easy decision of partying on with her team, which inevitably led to a chaotic, workout-less morning. (This sounds like SOP for my entire 20s.)

The three decisions that she touts to be life-changing arrive from small but critical moments in our morning. As a public service to the five readers of this blog, and a reminder to myself, here they are:

1. Do not hit the snooze button. Just get up.
2. Natural light before artificial light. No screens and scrolling before getting at least a few minutes of sunlight.
3. Drink a big glass of water before anything else. If possible, hold off on coffee for at least 90 minutes.

The podcast was occasionally interrupted by updates from my running tracker app, which reported my status every half mile. Though I had run nearly two and a half miles in one direction, I kept disregarding the little voice that insisted I turn around. I was in the midst of a runner’s high, padding along euphorically on a brilliant Saturday morning along the boardwalk. I may have even been feeling a little self-righteous, since I more or less had already incorporated these decisions into my life. 

But as the podcast was ending, I began to feel my right calf tensing up until it almost seized on me. I immediately changed course to head back but it was too late — I had to stop running. At this point, I am exactly 2.69 miles away from home and I can barely walk. Every step was excruciating and drew a sharp, involuntary cuss word. I limped along the boardwalk till I could turn onto a side street and continue walking on Mission Boulevard. I prayed that it would shave a few hundred feet from the commute. Worst case scenario, I’d be more conveniently poised to take an Uber or an ambulance.

As I hobbled home, I had plenty of time to think of the false confidence that landed me in this situation. That is, I am someone who doesn’t need to warm up before a run. I can run my longest distance, and run it for a second and third time in the same week. Yours truly is exempt from the rules of exercise physiology. In other words, I am special.

It appears that I have a love-hate relationship with running — I love running, but running hates me. And my husband incessantly reminds me of how injury prone I am when it comes to running. I own just about every kind of cockamamie gadget on Amazon for over-exuberant runners. Knee and ankle compression braces, plantar fasciitis boots, bunion correctors — you name it, I’ve bought it. There is a closet full of evidence that I could benefit from a more conservative, low-impact alternative — like knitting. Whenever an injury derails my running ambitions, I swear off running like it’s a cheating ex until my memory and resentment fade.

The false confidence that enables me to skip warmups applies not only to running, but to yoga, climbing, and surfing. Eventually I make up for that time by researching how I strained myself during an innocent downward dog or an embarrassingly easy 5.8 at the climbing gym. As for surfing, I march into the water past the sorry blokes stretching on the beach. More waves for me! I haven’t received my comeuppance (yet) for not warming up before a surf session, but hey, there’s always next time!

But false confidence has figured into many other facets of my life, not just the fitness related ones. As in, I am a normally functioning person with three to four hours of sleep every night. Other people can get cancer from smoking, but not me! I can eat anything I want, as much as I want, with no recourse. I don’t need help, I can handle this all on my own.

By the time I’ve shambled home, it’s time for brunch. My daughter waited almost two hours since I told her, “I’ll be back soon,” leaving her staring at a tray of freshly baked chocolate croissants. Ken was too engrossed on his computer to notice the pronounced limp I was desperately trying to hide. For this I was grateful, because right before I left, I had (false) confidently assured him that I knew exactly what I was doing this time around. 

After brunch, I sat down at my desk to vent into the nonjudgmental void of my online diary. That’s when read the entry I jotted down right before I left for my run:

    There are many things that I go all in, that’s just me. I do it until I overdo it. But I’m trying to be mindful and careful and build on the things that I’m doing one bit at a time. It didn’t take long to go from no running whatsoever, and now I’m about to embark on my third 5K this week. Third! 

Mic drop!

There is a phrase that rings in my head, “Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.” It is attributed to the 1980s fictional action hero of my youth, G.I. Joe. There are other brilliant quotes regarding awareness and change, created by some of the the most formidable minds in history. But for me this is by far the stickiest. Maybe because it implies that awareness of a troubling behavior or situation will naturally lead to the ideal resolution. (This idea would later become formalized as the G.I. Joe Fallacy, to indicate the error in believing that simple awareness of our cognitive biases is enough to avoid them.) 

Had G.I. Joe said, “Now you know, but knowing is only half the battle,” then perhaps the generations that followed would be more proactive in their approach to self-improvement. Maybe, maybe not. What I can see with the greatest of clarity right now is the deep fundamental chasm between knowing and doing. All the knowing in the world won’t matter if I don’t cross the rickety suspension bridge to the side of doing. But just thinking about it has my heart palpitating. Did I ever mention I was scared of heights?

It seems that whenever I shine the light of awareness, it illuminates yet another stumbling block on the path to enlightenment. But I won’t be discouraged, because isn’t it about the journey, not the destination, after all? Whether we run, walk, roll or shuffle, the destination is inevitably the same for all of us, returning to the world as dust and memories. The question life asks each of us is: will you go blindly forth to a bitter end, or lead an examined life and learn to appreciate the scenic route?

I’ve been trying to make it a habit to read more lately, and this has been facilitated by removing Pokémon Go from my phone, again. I first quit PG around 2017 after a nearly two years long obsession with it. I had many conversations with my therapist about it; I will attest that it wasn’t the primary reason I was seeing her in the first place. But it just goes to show that I can’t let my guard down with any addiction. I reinstalled it against my better judgment and, wouldn’t you know it, in no time I was back to driving as slow as possible along busy streets to spin the PokéStops, and sorting my Pokédex in the middle of the night instead of sleeping. I learned how to use the Poke Genie app so that I could battle in raids remotely and analyze the individual values (IVs) of my precious Pokemons. In all, I was sucked back into the PokeHole.

However, I experienced something between a modest epiphany and a mild breakdown recently, and it was in that time I re-examined my relationship with the game. Basically I asked myself, “What the f*ck are you doing?” Some people can have a casual relationship with alcohol and be content with that once in a while beer or glass of wine. Some people can buy a pack of cigarettes for a party or BBQ and have no qualms about tossing it the next day. And some people can play Pokémon Go without having it become the end-all, be-all of their universe.

I am not any of those people.

It has been said that nothing is either bad or good, but thinking makes it so. (Kudos, Shakespeare.) I have three friends that are long-term aficionados, levels 48-50. One is a physical therapist, another works at Qualcomm, and the third an aerospace engineer. That’s right, an actual rocket scientist! Three accomplished people with meaningful and full lives, managing career, family, hobbies, and bills. There is no way they’re spending as much time on it as I am compelled to — and yet, I still can’t budge from level 37, no matter how many hours I toil away at it.

Merriam-Webster lists two definitions for addiction:

     1 : a compulsive, chronic, physiological or psychological need for a habit-forming substance, behavior, or activity having harmful physical, psychological, or social effects and typically causing well-defined symptoms (such as anxiety, irritability, tremors, or nausea) upon withdrawal or abstinence : the state of being addicted

     2 : a strong inclination to do, use, or indulge in something repeatedly

I find this interesting because it ties into something that I recently read — now that I’m reading more, thank you very much. There appears to be a delineation between “big-T trauma” and “little-t trauma”, with the “big-T’s” being most commonly associated with the development of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The “little-t’s” are the distressing occurrences or situations that fall shy of big-T severity. However, frequent exposure to little-t’s in one’s life can provoke a big-T response, a kind of death by a thousand paper cuts, so to speak. 

It made me think that addictions can be divided similarly. There are “big-A addictions” and “little-a addictions”, if you will. It wouldn’t be contested to say that addictions to alcohol, smoking, drugs, and gambling fall under the big-A category. Big-A’s often have dedicated 12-step programs to help overcome them, because not addressing the addiction would inevitably lead to deleterious effects in one’s health, happiness and overall survival.

What about the “little-a’s” then? There could be “healthy” little-a addictions to exercise, clean eating, and gardening. Then there are the little-a’s that might not be as productive, like compulsive Amazon shopping (guilty!) and bingeing routinely on Netflix (yep, this too.) Of course, there’s the ubiquitous little-A addiction to social media and to digital devices in general that, based on what I’ve heard the experts say about it, can be so detrimental to one’s well-being that it begs to planted in big-A territory.

From my experience, I don’t think there is such a thing as a healthy addiction. Around the time that I decided to quit drinking (now five years sober), I exchanged my big-A for a handful of new little-a’s; namely, rock climbing, high-intensity interval training (HIIT), and intermittent fasting (IF). I became so obsessed with climbing at the gym, stringing multiple days together without a break, that on waking my hands were so numb I was unable to unclench the fists they had formed. I was certain that I was doing irreparable nerve damage, but it didn’t occur to me to slow down. Thankfully, the Covid pandemic eventually put a kibosh on my climbing schedule, making the choice for me.

And so it was, too, with the HIIT and IF. In addition to climbing, I was working out like a fiend to these ten and 20 minute workout videos, often back to back. I sang Chloe Ting’s praises and literally tried to convert every single friend I had to become members of the Church of HIIT. Initially, I had come to intermittent fasting as a method of a treatment for depression, which is essentially what I was struggling with that led me to quit drinking in the first place. Since I had no trouble whatsoever adjusting to the 16-hour fasting schedule, I often pushed myself to fast 18, 20 hours for the challenge. Maybe it felt so helpful and satisfying to control my eating because I felt like I had control over my state of mind.

I had become laser-focused, fiercely energetic, and for the first time in my entire life, I had chiseled abs and arms. I chugged on like a deranged Energizer Bunny until I lost so much weight and fat that my period decided to go on vacation. At first it went away for a long weekend, and the next month it decided to take an extended backpacking trip to Europe. At that point, I was forced to acknowledge that something was wrong. I had unknowingly but directly marched into eating disorder domain, my amateur guess being anorexia athletica.

Where does Pokémon Go fit into all of this? For those who are pleased to think about it, I believe there is a line between habit and addiction that is different for everyone. When it crosses into addiction territory, the division between little-A and big-A is more of a spectrum than a binary system. Where it lies on that spectrum depends on the relative cost it demands from the individual. We give to it all that we can, but it always wants more. 

There is so much attention given to the physical, mental and psychological price of addiction, but it also costs us in time. Time to be present, to think deep thoughts, for undivided attention with loved ones, to create meaning in our lives. This is what Pokémon Go was asking of me until I began to cherish time for what it is — a precious, finite gift that could be snatched away at any given moment  — and I decided that it was too big a price to pay.

A few days ago, I wrote the following statements onto the inside of my left forearm:

     Be impeccable with your words.

     Don’t take anything personally.

     Don’t make assumptions.

These are the first three of the four agreements listed in Don Miguel Ruiz’s book, “The Four Agreements”. I wrote them with a fine point, purple-hued surgical skin marker that I purchased on Amazon. Not for this purpose — I had bought a set of markers in anticipation of scribbling down swim meet information onto my daughter’s arm — but finding a second use justifies the expense of fancy markers when a plain ol’ Sharpie would’ve done the job. 

At that point, I hadn’t yet finished the book, so it would’ve felt dishonest to write the final agreement. However, I’ve been reflecting constantly on these seemingly simple instructions, and I’m finding that the application of them in my life is a full-time job and then some. It really is a lifestyle change — in thoughts, in deeds, and in how I communicate with myself and the outer world. The constant vigilance required to observe and manage my thoughts requires a lot of energy, and it might be why I find myself needing a nap in the middle of the day.

According to the book, impeccability means “without sin.” It stems from the Latin pecatus, meaning “sin.” There is a religious bend here, because if you look up the definition of impeccability, you’ll find that Christianity and the impeccability of Christ comes up — but as a former Catholic and Sunday School drop-out, I can’t speak to this. But the author defines sin as anything that you do, feel, say or believe that goes against yourself. This means judging and blaming yourself for anything, with self-rejection is the greatest sin; but also includes the more mundane yet poisonous emotions of anger, jealousy, envy, and hate. Thus, in making this agreement of being impeccable, you intend to use your word (word being the force of creation, a tool of magic) in a way that is sinless and “in the direction of truth and love.”

One result is I am speaking a whole lot less than I used to. I am practically mute these days. Because when I skip out on gossiping, blaming, cursing and offering my opinion when unsolicited, I find that I don’t have a lot to say. Sure, there’s the low hanging fruit to avoid, like complaining about uncooperative weather, inconsiderate neighbors, or infuriating Trumpers. But I think this “impeccability” exists beyond griping about stuff I can’t do anything about.

There’s the seemingly innocuous retelling of information to a third party, but let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? It’s gossiping, and gossip is “the worst form of black magic,” and all black magic spread emotional poison. Yet, “gossiping has become the main form of communication in human society.” Say a friend tells me, at a chance encounter in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, that her marriage is falling apart and she’s been shacking up with her CrossFit instructor. Without this agreement, I would most likely (read: 100%) tell my husband about it; and possibly, unless I were given explicit instructions to keep it secret, I might even share it with another friend.

But now, mum’s the word. Bo-ring!

To be honest, I almost never get shared this kind of juicy gossip. Maybe it’s because my crew of friends are gentle souls, or everyone has already figured out that I’m a blabbermouth. But there’s plenty of banal, inconsequential things to remark on, judgments to be made, opinions to be foisted — all for the sake of conversation. So, whenever I catch wind of something remotely interesting, I ask myself, “Would passing it on be black magic?” (Yes, I ask myself this exact question.) If I evaluate the effect to be a net neutral or net negative, then I keep my lips zipped.

Another significant situation where I am saying a whole lot less is at home with my daughter. Let’s just say, there are things that I would like for her to do that don’t seem to come naturally or instinctively, like picking laundry off the floor, eating faster than a snail’s pace, or applying conditioner after rinsing off the shampoo. I would normally resort to nagging, “Why don’t you do so-and-so, you know that you have to blah-and-blah, so hurry it up already because we’re gonna be late!” At least for now, in this mindfulness phase — and I’ll say phase, because it’s too early to be called a habit or way of life — I keep my instructions to a minimum followed by an earnest or deadpan expression, depending on how frustrated I’m feeling.

It crossed my mind that if I were ever serious about tattooing this agreement onto my arm, but wanted to save myself some pain, I could sum it up in four letters: STFU. Thankfully, I have a higher pain threshold than that.

I haven’t even addressed how “being impeccable with your words” informs the things that I tell myself. If I am serene on the outside, it could be that I am so engrossed in my internal dialogue, monitoring the conflicting voices arguing for dominance. I plan to address that in a separate entry, or even devote the rest of the blog to it, because it’s the words and stories that I tell myself that create my reality and my future. I’m still trying to figure out what I want — or maybe I already know deep down, and I just need to cultivate the strength and fortitude to claim it, one beautiful word at a time.

As I continue on my journey, I’m sure I’ll come across other perspectives that will move me to grab that marker and jot down the next piece of course-altering wisdom to keep at forefront of my mind. While this book promotes the Toltec traditions, I am also drawn to Buddhist and Stoic philosophies — at least according to my YouTube feed. The inner world is vast; there is so much to explore. And though the ink eventually fades, the truths that resonates the most will leave an indelible impression on the roadmap of my life.

It seems premature to write about something that I haven’t finished reading or without fully understanding it, but that hasn’t stopped me before, so why should it now? The other day I picked out “The Four Agreements”, by Don Miguel Ruiz, from our bookshelf. Which, after several rounds of decluttering, only has a handful of books. Literally, with the exception of six art books and the series, “Reef and Fish Identification of Florida, Bahamas and the Caribbean”, that Ken insisted on keeping, you can hold the remaining books that might be read for fun in one hand. A few of the books that have made the cut(s) are Lord of the Flies and The Catcher in the Rye, both belonging to Ken, and the only David Sedaris book I own, When You’re Engulfed in Flames. (However, I always have an electronic copy or an audio version of his other books on loan from the public library.)

I don’t exactly know where The Four Agreements came from or who it belongs to, but if I had to guess…

I had once enrolled in a Health Coach Training Program a million years ago (read: at least twenty) when I still lived in NYC. The seminars took place in a huge auditorium at Columbus Circle, held over several weekends spread over the course of a year and costed several thousand dollars. It was meant to be the path for a new career, a new life. Each of those weekends, students were distributed a red, reusable shopping bag filled to the brim with nutrition and wellness books and the occasional cooking implement. But because I wasn’t mentally or emotionally ready for it, I attended the first few sessions feeling completely fraudulent and out of place, and then I stopped attending altogether. I would pick up the bags but not attend the seminar, promising myself to read them on my own when I was ready. I carted those books from apartment to apartment, year to year, with nary a glance. When I moved in with Ken, the bulkiest of those books were relegated to the attic of my parents’ home, and they were obliged to deal with them when they downsized to a small studio in a coop.

I suspect the book may have been from one of those red-bag hauls. Distilled from the dozens, if not hundreds, that came along with it, it stands as the lone survivor from that bygone era (save for a red silicone spatula that I use to this day.) I vaguely remember reading it once but have no distinct recollection, and there isn’t any trace of wear. I don’t necessarily feel sentimental about it, so how did it remain in our possession for so long? I relinquished half of my bread book collection, the majority of my language books, and a library of training for climbing manuals. Those books were tied to my identity — or, my fantasy self — and I held on to them fervently until I came to the realization that I am not my books. They also took up a lot of space and so I put them on the chopping block. Now I marvel at the empty space, keenly aware that I am as close to being a master baker/polyglot/Alex Honnold without the books as I was with them. (That is, not close at all.)

So, perhaps what may have saved The Four Agreements from ruthless elimination was its diminutive size, a slim, pretty paperback with an earthy green spine; and that it associated itself with the few other notably thin volumes that Ken held on to for decades. It might be crazy to think that a book would conspire to save itself, but I don’t know. Maybe the book was holding on to me until I was ready to come back to it to receive its message? 

Or vice versa?

I settled into the big yellow armchair in my daughter’s room with The Four Agreements. It has become our routine to read quietly before her bedtime. I’d become accustomed to reading ebooks on my phone but I find myself wanting to hold an actual book, to increasingly part with this electronic device that is practically sewn into my hand. And because I’m overdue on a visit to the library, I didn’t have much in the way of options unless I wanted to sink my teeth into my daughter’s Harry Potter collection. As I read the introduction, I experienced a sense of déjà vu, the feeling of being puzzled by the cryptic prose. Three thousand years ago, a man realizes that everything in existence is a manifestation of one living being that is God, that human perception is a light perceiving light, and that everyone is a mirror surrounded by a wall of fog.

What in the? I groaned. I still don’t know what the hell is going on.

Hesitantly, I continued on to the first chapter, hoping that it makes more sense.

      ”Chapter 1: Domestication and the Dream of The Planet. — What you are seeing and hearing           right nothing but a dream. You are dreaming right now in this moment. You are dreaming with the       brain awake…”

I imagine myself fifteen, twenty years ago, eyes sweeping over these words quickly, reading without comprehending. In that way, I could’ve finished the book in less than an hour and moved on with my life without it ever leaving an impression — except that I kept the book all this time. And in the strangest, almost mystical way, it feels like I was meant to read it at this exact moment. Something in my heart tells me to read the words slowly, and slower still, and to absorb as much as I can.

I’m struggling to summarize or paraphrase what I’ve read so far because I don’t want to do it a disservice. The prose and vocabulary are simple enough, but the concepts are so confounding, so challenging to how I’ve lived my life so far. I’ve taken for granted that we, as humans, come into this world and are immediately influenced by our family, our environment, and our circumstances. We don’t choose our parents or our native language, those are predetermined for us. And we are taught to believe what our families and the larger society that encompasses us believe, until at some point we have enough agency to assert a different opinion. (While you’re living under my roof, you do what I say or else!)

But the book elaborates on just how these beliefs are encoded within us until they become our own, into our personal Book of Law, the standards which we would forever measure our life against.

     “As children, we didn’t have the opportunity to choose our beliefs, but we agreed with the information passed to us from the dream of the planet via other humans. The only way to store information is by agreement.”

It is in our agreements that each of these beliefs are written into our minds and hearts, and as long as those agreements hold, we will punish or reward ourselves and others accordingly, trying to live up to them. This is how we are domesticated, and in creating an image of perfection of what it means to be good enough, we reject ourselves constantly for not being able to live up to it.

These words may not speak to everyone. But as someone who has experienced childhood trauma, addictions and depression, and in general struggles everyday with the feelings of not being good enough — these words speak to me. Or, at least they do now. Maybe because I’ve pulled my head above water to grasp at a breath, that I can recognize that I’ve been drowning this whole time. 

The words make sense in a way that they couldn’t have before, back when I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t have been ready, because back then, they were just words on a page. They didn’t stop me in my tracks, beg to be read over and over, and implore me to take responsibility for all the things I have agreed to that are making me miserable. But maybe, just maybe, I hoped that one day I would be.

And I think that’s why this book is a survivor. Just like me.

The alarm rang at 5AM this morning. I blinked for a few moments, gathering consciousness, and got up. I’ve been listening to the audiobook version of “5AM Club”, and to poorly sum up what I’ve heard so far, is the importance of getting up early and aligning your morning to set up success for the rest of your day and your life. “Own your morning, elevate your life” is the mantra that is repeated. I may not be catching the finer points, especially when I’m listening to it while in the kitchen, cooking, and then Vi decides to ask me burning questions like — what are we doing tomorrow? Will it be cold? Which Hogwarts house would you want to be in (for the umpteenth time)?

The book is written rather uniquely for a self-help/motivation book, told as a fictional narrative — between an entrepreneur, an artist, their eccentric billionaire mentor and, occasionally, the “spellbinder”, who is the billionaire’s mentor. There are a lot of quotes thrown around, and the portrayal of the burgeoning love story between the uptight entrepreneur and the artist with dreadlocks and “mango-sized man boobs” is laughably cringey at times, but there are undeniable nuggets of wisdom there, even if it has taken me forty-five years to recognize them as such.

I’ve been a night owl for as long as I can remember. Going to bed early has never appealed to me, and I have never made getting eight hours of sleep a priority, so I suspect that I’ve been in a sleep-deprived state for most of my life. It must run in the family. My mother was an ER nurse who worked 12-hr night shifts, and she always took overtime. My grandmother raised 12 kids, so I would bet she didn’t getting any sleep for at least forty years. In the last decade, I equated nighttime with “me-time”, when everyone was tucked in bed, and I could luxuriate in studying the foreign language I was currently obsessing over, binge on dramas (in said foreign language), shop online — whatever, until either I started nodding off or my conscience told me to go to bed. This would often be around 1AM to 3AM, and if it was school day the next morning, I’d have to get up by 6AM. Then I would proceed with the day in a perpetual state of zombie-ness that I have long accepted to be normal. 

If I had spent those precious hours working on the Great American novel (or in my case, the Great 3/4 Filipino- 1/4 Chinese- American novel), or writing anything of consequence, then I think it would have been time well spent. But because I was avidly, stubbornly avoiding writing most of the time, I distracted myself with easier targets. Like learning Japanese. After a couple of years of half-assed studying, I signed up for the JLPT exam (Japanese Language Proficiency Test) and devoted a full six months to nothing but cramming audio lessons every moment of the day and poring over notes at night. In the end, I have my JLPT N5 certificate (N5 being the easiest level, probably achievable for anyone with 3 months of learning) and a shelf full of Japanese language books. What I don’t have are any solid plans to go to Japan, any friends to speak Japanese with, and any motivation to continue.

So what the hell was it all for, anyway?

I won’t say it was a total waste, because learning for the sake of learning — how is that anything but awesome? Studying Japanese was a challenge I undertook because I knew it would be difficult, and I got tremendous satisfaction from conquering my perceived limitations, like, thinking I would never get past the first levels of Duolingo. Japanese has TWO alphabets in addition to kanji, which are Chinese characters (a whole ball of wax on their own), all of which can be used in ONE sentence!  I probably could’ve become fluent in French by the time I learned how to say and write “Please give me two rice balls and a Coke.” in Japanese. (If you’re curious, that’s おにぎり2個とコーラをください。/onigiri ni-ko to koora wo kudasai.)

While I can rationalize the many late hours spent watching foreign dramas as a means of “studying”, I can’t defend online shopping as having any intrinsic value, although it often felt so important and imperative. I didn’t recognize it for what it was, a drug that provided a rush of adrenaline and dopamine, that would leave me both wired and spent. More socially acceptable than cocaine but just as addictive. At 3AM I would crawl into bed, my mind buzzing with thoughts of features, price comparisons, potential savings, and future buyer’s remorse, so much that I would lie awake for another hour. The drug was potent enough substitute to keep me from missing alcohol. I’m five years sober now, but I am still struggling every day to beat my shopping addiction.

But something triggered a change in me, or something made me want to change. The desire to get up early — and by extension, the complementary desire to go to bed at a reasonable time (gasp!) — seemed to flow naturally from my current decluttering and minimalism obsession. Getting rid of physical clutter is a big component, but evaluating mental and emotional clutter is important, too. If my goal is to strip away the excess and the distractions to reveal what is essential and truly important, then how can I argue for the activities that fritter away precious time for no good purpose? I had quit drinking because I decided to honor my life and set a positive example for my daughter, but there are other ways that I’ve been pacifying and numbing myself that I became obliged to recognize. 

It’s only been a few months, but a new normal is shifting into place. I find myself longing to be up before the sun, to wake before anyone else. I step onto the balcony to breathe in crisp, cool air, and enjoy the sight of a La Jolla Boulevard devoid of traffic. I listen for the uneven clickety-clack of crutches and a walking boot hitting the pavement, a sign that the resident “crazy lady” of our condo is pacing the sidewalk at 5:20AM. Besides our mutual affinity for Goodwill — albeit she likes to hoard stuff and pile them on her patio in fire-hazardous fashion —  I like that we also have this time in common.

So, to ensure that I can get up regularly, I decided that I would have to make myself go to bed around 10PM. No more late night study sessions, bingeing on dramas or online shopping marathons. Never in a million years would I have thought it would come to that, but then again, I’ve also started doing things that I have previously sworn off. Meditating. Yoga. Running. Walking. Writing. 

And perhaps, most importantly, sleeping.