Geez, where do I start? There’s a whole damn syllabus of lessons I should’ve heeded earlier. One of the few perks of aging—besides knowing which joints will protest the weather—is the slow burn of wisdom. The kind you don’t get from books or podcasts. It comes wrapped in mistakes and bad decisions, leaving scars you can trace with your fingertips when the night goes too quiet.
Most of us have no idea what we’re doing. We’re trained to react instead of pause, to sprint when the real answer demands a slow walk and a long think. That made me an oddball—the guy who couldn’t walk and chew bubblegum, as the saying goes. I used to think something was broken in me because I didn’t move like my friends. So I faked it. Tried on their swagger like an ill-fitting coat and wound up knee-deep in more trouble than any decent statute of limitations allows. No one forced my hand. Every bad turn was my choice.
Eventually I needed to look in the mirror and recognize the person staring back. One night I finally did and whispered, “Where’d I go?” Instead of facing the answer, I reached for alcohol. At first it felt like an experiment; by the time the haze lifted, I realized I wasn’t just drinking—I was binge drinking. Like every drug, it took over. I drank to be accepted, but the acceptance I craved wasn’t external. It was the quiet inner nod that says this is who you are, faults and all.
I wasn’t sure I could follow through—if I had the courage to become me. I’d stand in a room full of people and still feel lonely. Everything felt wrong, yet temptation stayed strong: keep hiding like everyone else, stay two-faced and plastic. I knew every effort to fake it was bound to fail. I hate being wrong and go to great pains to avoid it. But here’s the twist—I was completely wrong, and I’m more than okay with it. Alcohol was so woven into my life I once believed it helped me find my muse. Pure horseshit. Fifteen years ago, I put down the bottle and I’ve been writing my ass off ever since.
It’s okay to be yourself. Let your weirdo flag fly. If anyone tells you different, the only appropriate and dignified response is a proper, “Fuck off!” For me, I had to whisper, “Sorry, Mom.” She wanted me to stop cussing for Lent. I told her I wasn’t Catholic anymore, but she wasn’t buying that as an excuse for a foul mouth.
If I had to pick one lesson, it’d be this: it’s alright to be me.
Not the version patched together from other people’s expectations. Not the quiet kid pretending to enjoy chaos. Just me. Turns out the hardest permission to grant is your own.
Author’s Note
Never let a shitbird talk you into being something other than who you are. Of course you’re going to evolve—that’s the point of living—but growth isn’t the same as surrender. Don’t sand down your edges just to fit someone else’s blueprint. The right people will respect your crooked angles and the wrong ones will drift off when they realize you’re not bending.
Sobriety taught me this, but you don’t need a bottle to learn it. The pressure to perform is everywhere—family dinners, office politics, the endless scroll of curated lives. Remember: becoming isn’t about becoming acceptable; it’s about becoming unmistakably yourself.
Reflective Prompt
Think back to a moment when you felt the pressure to shrink, fake, or bend just to belong.
- What did you trade away in that moment—time, voice, dignity, a dream?
- If you looked in the mirror right now, what question would stare back at you?
- What would granting yourself full permission—your own quiet yes—actually look like?
Write it down. No filters, no audience. Just you and the truth that refuses to stay hidden.
Memoirs of Madness 