The clock ticks past 5 PM, and for the last decade, that chime was usually my cue. Time to crack the first beer. Or maybe the second. Three to eight brews, every night, like a ritual. A comforting hum that would eventually turn into a dull throb. Ten years. Ten years since my Grandpa Lavern passed, and somewhere in the quiet devastation of losing that man—that patient, curious mentor who taught me how to graft a sapling, how to wire a thermostat, how to lay brick, and how to outsmart a northern pike on Six Mile Lake—the fog began to roll in.
For a long time, it felt like a necessary haze. A buffer between me and the sharp edges of the world. It blurred the disappointment of a job hunt that felt like shouting into a void. It numbed the sickening fear that still clutches my gut every time I think about my dad’s cancer scare. It softened the edges of regret about missed moments with my kids, even knowing they were living with their mom. Life felt like a relentless uphill climb, and the beer was the heavy, comforting blanket I’d pull over my head each night.
But two weeks ago, I pulled that blanket off.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. It feels like a lifetime and a blink all at once. The last time I went this long without a drink was when COVID laid me low four years back, and that was enforced. This time? This is a choice. A hard, deliberate shove against a habit that had become as much a part of my identity as the grease under my fingernails or the faint scent of lake water on my skin.
Coming out of the fog is… disorienting. It’s like emerging from a long, dreamless sleep into a world where all the colors are suddenly brighter, the sounds sharper, and the smells more intense. Some of those sensations are beautiful – the crisp, clean air after a rain, the subtle earthy-sweet aroma from my drying cannabis plants (that volunteer I almost lost, now trimmed and curing), the clarity in Bella’s eyes. But some are jarring. The anxiety about finding work now hits with a fresh, unblunted edge. The worry for my dad feels more acute. Everything is just more.
And that’s the point.
This isn’t some spiritual awakening born of calm reflection. This is born of raw, desperate motivation. My body, like my old Starcraft, needs some serious restoration. Pushing 200 pounds, a diagnosis of pre-diabetes, and then my sister getting hit with full-blown diabetes on top of my own thyroid issues… the writing’s on the wall, etched in stark, undeniable letters. If I don’t make some drastic changes, this old rig isn’t going to run much longer.
Grandpa Lavern wouldn’t have stood for it. He taught me to be curious, to learn, to fix what’s broken. And right now, parts of me are definitely broken.
So, this is the first step. The first big push off the shore. The job hunt still grinds, the worry for Dad still sits, but I’m meeting them head-on, without the haze. The clarity is intense, sometimes overwhelming, but it’s also empowering. I’m rediscovering the quiet hum of my own internal engine, listening to it, trying to tune it up.
The cannabis garden, my meticulously managed rows of Don Carlos, White Widow, Purple Punch, Granddaddy Purple, and Sour Diesel, stands as a living testament to patience and focused effort. It reminds me that growth takes time, consistent care, and protection from unseen threats – whether it’s frost or something else entirely. Growing openly, proudly, it reflects the man I’m trying to become: clear-eyed, present, and fully engaged.
Two weeks. It’s a start. A small victory in a much larger battle. And tomorrow, I’ll wake up, hopefully still clear-headed, and keep casting. Because the real catch isn’t just a fish or a job; it’s reclaiming the full, vibrant spectrum of life, one clear moment at a time.
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