Lately I’ve been circling back to simplicity—not in a big, dramatic way, but more like returning to a quiet idea I never fully let go of.

Years ago, I experimented with Voluntary Simplicity. The version I picked up then was structured and detailed, focused on tracking every penny, making charts, and hitting targets. I appreciated the values behind it—less consumption, more intention, deeper alignment with what matters—but the method wore me out. I ended up walking away before I really found my rhythm.

Now, things feel different. Not only because I’ve had to tighten my budget, but because I’ve come to want less—not just fewer things, but less noise, less pressure, less internal and external clutter. I’m drawn again to simplicity, this time more organically. Not as a lifestyle strategy, but as a reflection of a quieter self I’m beginning to notice more often.

Meditation has been part of that shift. Over time, it’s helped me empty out what no longer needs to be carried—mentally, emotionally, even physically. As the mind settles, the need for external stimulation loosens its grip. It’s not that nonduality demands a minimalist life—but as the sense of separation between self and surroundings begins to dissolve, the two begin to mirror each other. A clearer inner space invites a simpler outer one.

This time around, I’m not trying to build a new system. I don’t want another set of rules to follow. I just want to listen—to notice what’s already working, and lean into that.

A few things that seem to help:

• I’m thinking more about what I really value—not in some abstract sense, but what I want my actual days to feel like. Quiet mornings. Unhurried walks. The freedom to write or rest without guilt. When I line up my spending with those things, I feel less scattered.
• Instead of tracking every dollar, I’m just paying closer attention. I’ve canceled a few subscriptions, I’m eating out less, and I’m not clicking “buy” just because something’s on sale. When I declutter, it’s not a big project—it’s more like, “Oh, I don’t use this. Time to let it go.”
• Mindful consumption has become a small but powerful practice. I pause before I purchase. Not always, but often enough to make a difference. I ask myself, “Will this really add to my life?” Sometimes the answer is yes. Often, it’s no.
• I’ve started building a bit of financial cushion. Nothing flashy—just slow, steady saving and choosing lower-risk options. It’s not about becoming financially “free.” It’s about having room to breathe.

I wouldn’t say that everyone should take a vow of simplicity. Perhaps not everyone is called to do this. I think it’s right for me for the long haul. But don’t ask me what I would do if I won the Powerball lottery tomorrow! Having a lot of money brings curses, not just blessings—but the temptations can be very difficult to avoid.

But frugality for frugality’s sake isn’t the point. I don’t need boasting rights about how many times I reuse a tea bag. I want to live closer to what matters—to the rhythm of life itself. Less striving, more noticing.

It’s not always easy. But it’s something. And for now, it’s not only enough, it’s essential.

I’m doing something new. A little intimidating, honestly—but exciting. I’ve just started a new workout plan, inspired by Michael Matthews’s Bigger Leaner Stronger. That phrase—bigger, leaner, stronger—keeps echoing in my mind like a low drumbeat. I’ve been out of shape longer than I’d like to admit, and I think I just got tired of drifting—mentally, physically. This feels like the right time to reconnect with my body. Not just as a machine I want to change, but as part of the whole of who I am.

The thing is, I know myself well enough to say this: I can’t force it. Discipline by itself doesn’t last. It breaks down when I’m tired, or stressed, or distracted. I’ve tried the whole “push yourself” route before, and it always feels like trying to outrun myself. That doesn’t work. Not for long.

So this time, I’m trying something different. I’m letting it come from the Center.

That’s the shift, really. I don’t want to work out because I hate my body. I want to move because when I’m present, when I’m grounded in my real self—my capital-S Self—it feels like something I do, naturally. It flows from who I am. It’s not about pushing. It’s about aligning. I’m not chasing a better version of me. I’m showing up as who I already am, more fully.

Progressive overload is one of the big ideas in Matthews’s program. You increase the challenge little by little—add weight, build capacity. That resonates with me spiritually too. That life itself is always inviting us to grow, but never in ways we can’t handle if we’re present. I’m starting. Machines, dumbbells, slower movements. Controlled. Conscious. Solo. Safe.

Then there’s the reps. Matthews recommends a lower rep range—4 to 6 per set. That’s different for me. I’m used to high-rep, low-weight comfort zones. But I haven’t been seeing the kind of muscle or strength gains I want from that approach. So I’m open to something new. I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to listen. To be curious. To see what happens when I allow more intensity to enter the space.

And here’s the deeper truth I’m waking up to: the gym, the meal prep, the tracking—it all works best when it’s not a battle between my higher self and my old patterns. If I’m doing this just to punish or prove something, I’ll burn out. But when I expand my consciousness beyond those self-limiting stories—“you’re lazy,” “you’re too old,” “you’re not an athlete”—something shifts. I feel pulled to act, not pushed. Going to the gym becomes less of a chore and more of an expression. It’s what I do when I’m being myself.

So yeah—I’m hitting reset. Not a new me. A truer me. No crash diet, no sprint to a six-pack. Just this: showing up for my body as if it were sacred. Because it is. This is how I pray right now—with reps and sweat and protein shakes and sore muscles. This is how I remember who I am. Bigger. Leaner. Stronger. Whole.

I’ve been circling this idea for a while now—changing how I eat—not in a harsh or dramatic way, but with more intention. And now it feels like the time is right. Not because I’m unhappy with my body, but because I want to live in deeper harmony with myself. With the world. That includes food.

So I came up with a simple motto: Eat less, prioritize protein and whole foods. It’s not revolutionary, but it’s honest. It helps me stay clear. It’s about eating in a way that matches who I am when I’m aware—when I’m not numbing out or reaching for comfort but choosing to be fully present.

“You are what you eat.” I used to brush that off, but it’s never felt more real. When I eat junk, I feel disconnected. Sluggish. Not just physically, but energetically. But when I eat whole, real food, there’s a lightness. A groundedness. Like I’m syncing up with myself again. “Junk in, junk out”—I say it gently, with compassion. I’ve been there. And now I want something different.

I’m also shifting my relationship to protein. It’s not just for bodybuilders—it’s structure, fuel, strength. If I want to lose fat and gain muscle, I need it. But I’m choosing it consciously. Less meat, more plants—lentils, seeds, tofu—because I want to be kind to the animals, to the planet. To live aligned with my values. My body isn’t separate from the world. What I consume becomes part of that relationship.

This isn’t about restriction. It’s about reverence. Eating is a sacred act. Food becomes me. And when I eat less, when I eat better, I’m not depriving myself—I’m honoring my life. Living from my Center, not from craving or habit.

Blood sugar plays into this too. I’ve felt the crashes, the fog. When I eat refined carbs, I lose the rhythm of presence. So I’m choosing low-glycemic, high-vibration foods—grains, greens, simple things that keep me steady and awake.

Will I get it perfect? No. I’ll fall back sometimes. But this isn’t about control. It’s about listening. Returning. Living from wholeness, not lack.

Let’s see where this leads.

Comfort is something we all seek, isn’t it? After a long day or a stressful situation, we naturally gravitate toward the things that Right now, I’m noticing how much I want to be comfortable. Not in a luxurious way—just… not agitated. Not stretched. Not facing anything sharp or uncertain. I keep catching myself reaching for things that soothe me: chicken soup, reruns of Frasier, a hoodie so old it’s basically a second skin. The little rituals of ease. They settle something in me—but also maybe lull me to sleep.

There’s a kind of comfort that feels good and is good. Like when I sit in stillness, and the silence opens up into something spacious and kind. Or when a conversation goes deep and honest, and I feel seen, and something settles into place. That’s the kind of comfort that feels earned. Spiritual, even. Whole.

But then there’s the other kind—the comfort that sneaks in when I don’t want to face something. The “I’ll do it later” kind. The scrolling-on-my-phone-for-no-reason kind. The “maybe I’ll just tidy up a bit first” kind. I know that version of me. The one who wants to be soothed instead of challenged.

And the truth is, that version of me doesn’t grow. He stays safe. He avoids the edge. He avoids the real work, the transformative work—the Integral Life Practice I say I’m committed to. The version of me who wants growth, wants awakening, wants to live from something true… that version needs to push past the numb comfort. He needs to lean into the discomfort that’s full of possibility.

Not all comfort is created equal. I can feel that now. There’s comfort that roots me, like a quiet forest floor. And there’s comfort that sedates me, like cotton in the ears. One connects. One avoids. I want to choose the comfort that brings me closer to who I really am, not the one that keeps me circling the same old grooves.

So I’m watching it. This dance between ease and growth. Between self-soothing and self-realization. It’s not a battle, exactly. But it’s a moment-to-moment choice. And right now, I’m choosing to be awake.

Lately I’ve been thinking about names, and the decision I made a while back to sometimes not use my own when writing. It wasn’t a dramatic choice, just something that felt natural, even necessary, for the kind of writing I do.

I still do plenty of writing under my own name and with my own headshot. But regarding my writing in the recovery community and authoring the book Nondual Recovery, using a fake name and an AI-generated avatar seems to alleviate my nervousness.

There are parts of me that want to be seen—especially the part that wrestles with hard questions: about God, politics, sex, madness. But there’s also a quieter part, more protective. I’ve lived through enough to know that not everything needs to be exposed to everyone. So the pseudonym became a kind of boundary, one I could draw for myself. A way to speak freely without giving everything away.

It’s not just about privacy. I live two lives, in a sense. One is professional, grounded, external-facing. The other is this internal current that runs through my writing: the questions I can’t shake, the voices I carry, the ideas that won’t sit still. I didn’t want these worlds to blur too much. It’s not fear exactly—it’s more like wanting to keep things clean. Let each part of me do what it’s meant to do.

There’s also the fact that some of what I write about might be hard for people to digest. Spirituality that doesn’t follow the rules. Politics that don’t land where people expect. Stories about addiction, altered states, mental illness, reckless behavior. These aren’t easy topics, and I didn’t want to filter them for the sake of appearances or reputation. I wanted to follow the thread wherever it leads, and I knew I’d need a little cover to do that honestly.

The name I use isn’t a disguise. It’s more like a vessel. A place I can speak from without the clutter of expectation. There’s something freeing about it. The work feels lighter, less self-conscious. I can let the words come through without needing them to reflect anything about me.

And maybe that’s the real reason. I’ve seen what happens when the ego gets too involved in spiritual writing. The need to be profound. The trap of being admired. I don’t want that. I’d rather disappear a little—just enough to let the ideas speak.