Center of the Universe

My new mantra: People aren’t against me. They’re for themselves.

Most of the conflict in my life is born from a simple, familiar lie—the belief that someone has deliberately disrespected me, when in truth, their behavior has nothing to do with me at all.

When some dude cuts me off on the freeway, it isn’t personal. He isn’t thinking, I’m going to ruin this guy’s day. He isn’t thinking about me—period. His face is buried in his phone, he notices his exit too late, and instead of driving on and accepting the inconvenience, he swerves across four lanes and nearly takes me out.

I honk. He returns the favor with a hand gesture suggesting I am “number one.”

But he isn’t trying to inconvenience me. He's trying to convenience himself and I happen to be in the way.

Same with the little old lady who darts ahead of me in the grocery line, only to pull out a checkbook and a stack of coupons. She isn’t plotting to waste my time. She’s not thinking about me at all. She’s simply trying to shave a few minutes off her own wait at the expense of everyone else. My existence never entered the equation.

I have to remind myself that we live in a society of people who are largely self-absorbed and inwardly focused—often oblivious to the ripple effects of their actions. Not malicious. Not personal. Just human, selfishly chasing minor conveniences at the expense of self awareness or consideration for others.

They aren’t against me.

They’re for themselves.

And it's not personal... until I make it so.

Wanna Fight?

I recently earned my black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu—something I’ve worked toward for years. What’s funny is that the deeper I’ve gone into the world of fighting, the less I’ve actually wanted to fight.

It sounds counterintuitive, but it’s true:
The more you train as a fighter, the less interested you become in physical confrontation.

Why?

Because real fighting—outside the mat—is almost always born from ego-driven anger. And the root of anger, when we boil it down, is fear. Fear of being disrespected. Fear of being embarrassed. Fear of feeling small, weak, or vulnerable.

But training dissolves that fear.
Hour after hour on the mats teaches you where your limits actually are. It strips away the insecurity that fuels aggression. When you’re comfortable being tested—when you’ve been choked, arm-barred, smashed, and still come back smiling—your ego quiets down. Suddenly, there’s no need to “prove” anything.

No fear, no anger.
No anger, no need to fight.

And as strange as it may sound, this applies just as much off the mat.

The resentments we carry in life are simply anger we’ve decided to hold onto. They’re rooted in the same fears: fear of being wronged, overlooked, dismissed, or unloved. In recovery, the steps guide us toward confronting those fears directly—dragging them into the light so they can’t control us anymore.

Once the fear is addressed, the anger evaporates.

And with the anger gone, we finally get to breathe. We get to walk through the world lighter, calmer, less reactive.
We get to be free.

My black belt in sobriety has made me a better human being—one who doesn’t have to fight at all.

Regrets, I've had a few.

Someone once asked me, “If you could go back and change one thing in your life, what would it be?”

For years, that question haunted me. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people I care about. And like a lot of us, I’ve carried the quiet fear that my worst choices define me.

We say good people do bad things — but does that make them bad? And if bad people occasionally do good, does that suddenly make them good?

What I’ve come to understand is simple: being human means falling short. The dividing line isn’t perfection; it’s desire.

A good person wants to change. They feel their impact, seek to repair damage, and aim to grow. A bad person doesn’t. It’s not about spotless behavior — it’s about willingness.

Science tells us that every 7–10 years, our cells regenerate. Physically, we become someone new. Sobriety says something similar: after working the steps, we’re spiritually renewed — reborn into a life with intention and clarity.

Ironically, I can forgive anyone who asks… but not myself.

But I’m learning. I’m a good person who did some bad things — and that good person deserves grace, too.

So what would I change if I could go back?
Nothing. I deeply regret my mistakes, but I value the growth they inspired. My missteps carved the path to the man I am today.

And I like who I have become.

Jesus Take the Wheel!

A close friend of mine has been experiencing some alarming heart symptoms lately — shortness of breath, chest tightness, fatigue. In other words, bad news.

He refuses to see a doctor.

His reasoning? “God’s in control. If it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go.”

Eh... what?

If I’m barreling down the freeway at 80 miles per hour, I don’t take my hands off the wheel and say, “Well, if God wants me to avoid the cliff, he’ll turn the wheel. If not, I guess it’s his will that I die in a fiery explosion.”

Absurd.

We can’t project our denial and fear onto God, then expect Him to shoulder the blame when things go wrong. That’s not faith — that’s avoidance.

Free will means we’re responsible for our choices and the direction of our lives. If we refuse to course-correct and end up in a ditch, that’s not divine intervention — that’s us ignoring the guardrails.

God doesn’t take the wheel instead of us; He takes it when we’ve lost control entirely. When the car’s already spinning through the air, when there’s nothing left for us to do but brace for impact — that’s when grace might intervene.

Until then, it’s on us to steer.

Faith doesn’t mean letting go of responsibility. It means gripping the wheel with both hands, taking full control, and trusting that if — and when — it all goes sideways, God’s got the rest covered.

Paul & Me

The Apostle Paul once said (and I’m paraphrasing), “I know what I’m supposed to do, but I don’t do it. I do the things I shouldn’t do, and I don’t do the things I should.”

For most of my life, I assumed he was talking about holiness — about failing to pray enough, missing a tithe, working on the Sabbath, neglecting scripture. In other words, I thought Paul was beating himself up for not living a perfectly pious life.

Only recently did I realize that wasn’t it at all. Paul wasn’t talking about religious ritual — he was talking about love. About Christ’s greatest commandment: Love God. Love each other.

I’ve written before about how my default setting is discontentment. When I feel wronged, I naturally lean toward bitterness and resentment. I know I’m called to offer love and grace, yet time and again I fall back into anger and revenge. There’s a momentary satisfaction in “getting even,” but it never lasts. In the end, it only leaves regret.

What’s funny is that I’ve never once regretted choosing kindness. Every time I’ve responded to cruelty with compassion, I’ve walked away lighter. When I manage to quiet my ego and lead with love, I win — every single time.

Paul understood this too. He knew what brought him peace: love, kindness, patience. And he knew what robbed him of it: anger, bitterness, resentment. Yet even he found himself choosing the latter more often than he wanted.

In recovery, we call this progress, not perfection — learning, one decision at a time, to choose love over ego, grace over resentment, peace over pride.

Turns out Paul and I have a lot in common.

CHALT

In recovery circles, there’s an old acronym meant to keep us in check: HALT — don’t let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. The idea is simple: when we let those states take over, we make bad decisions.

But I’ve added my own word to the list: Comfortable.

When I get too comfortable, I drift into autopilot. That’s when trouble starts. Because my “natural” state — left unchecked — is one of discontent.

And when nobody’s steering the ship, guess who shows up? My ego.
“Hey,” it says, “looks like the captain’s gone. I’ll take it from here.”

Nothing good ever happens when I slide into complacency and let my ego take the helm.

That’s when the little old lady in the checkout line suddenly feels like she’s deliberately taking forever just to test my patience. The guy who merges into my lane without signaling? Clearly an entitled jerk. And the receptionist putting me on hold must be doing her nails instead of answering the phone, right?

Because, of course, they’re all out to get me.
After all, I’m the center of the universe.

Ego.

These moments always end the same way — conflict, hurt feelings, and another amends I have to make.

So I’ve learned to keep a new reminder close:
Don’t get too Comfortable, Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.

CHALT.

It doesn’t sound as catchy as HALT, but you get the gist.

In Love There is No Judgement

I’ve always struggled with the Judeo-Christian idea of “eternal damnation.” It paints a picture of a vengeful God—a deity motivated by anger. And if anger is at the root of all fear, how could the most powerful being in the universe, the creator of all things, be driven by it? What does He have to fear?

Makes no sense.

I choose to believe in a God of justice. To me, a benevolent creator could only be perfectly just: a being who upholds order and fairness, not through punishment, but through compassion.

I sponsor many men just out of rehab and prison, and the greatest gift I can offer them is unconditional love. That doesn’t mean I excuse poor decisions or pretend mistakes didn’t happen. It means I refuse to hold their past against them. For these men, that absence of judgment is transformative—it’s often the first time in their lives they’ve experienced love without strings attached.

Because true, unconditional love can’t coexist with judgment. If it does, then it’s conditional.

Scripture backs this up. Corinthians 13:13 defines love—what it is, what it looks like. Nowhere does it include judgment.

I don’t claim to fully understand God or have life figured out. I only know this: unconditional love is the compass I choose to live by.