The Shiny Thing

What an amazing time I had with my aunt over Easter “dinner.” I had to work, of course, but I headed out to Dunedin around 3:30 PM. Honestly, I wasn’t really looking forward to going. But we exchanged pleasantries like usual—it had been a while since we’d seen each other. I brought my dog, and she instantly loved him. We decided to take him for a walk down to the water. It’s about a 20-minute trek, but it felt like two.

As we walked, the conversation just flowed. I’ve changed a lot since I last saw her. I’ve embraced this “No” lifestyle—sort of a “fake conversations before favors” mentality. While we were walking, I told her, “I deal with fake people all day—I don’t need to do that when I come here.” She laughed. I asked what was so funny. She said, “I love that you’re just so real.”

That whole Easter experience with my aunt was a real moment. I didn’t expect any of it, but I’m so glad it happened. I’m committing it to memory—just walking and talking about life. There comes a point where you start to understand how families actually work. I think parents try to shield us from the messiness. I get it now—even having a dog helps me relate, in some weird way, to the responsibility and emotional labor of it all.

I got to see my _real_ aunt that day—not the version filtered through time or distance. It helped me connect with her, but more than that, it helped me understand myself. And maybe that’s the biggest takeaway—it helped me give myself some grace. It’s got me thinking about what real learning looks like. That’s life, right? Trying to understand each step as it comes. It’s funny how fate—or God, or whatever omniscient force you believe in—seems to line things up. I’ve had more “third-eye-opening” moments in the past week than ever before.

I even called my friend Jared on Easter. That’s something I’m trying to get better at: reaching out. We ended up talking about life and how everything is about the process. “Trust the journey” is just a proxy for that. The only real way to understand life is to live it. You can read all the books, watch all the videos, talk to all the wise people—but experience? That comes from the leap.

I’ve got friends still living in our hometown. No hate at all, but if you’re reading this and thinking about taking that leap—do it. I get that it’s scary. I’ve been there. I am there. But it’s worth more than gold. You’re probably thinking about it rationally—especially if you’re always in your head. That $18,000 rent you can’t justify? You’ll figure it out. You’ll be paid in dividends. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even in a year—but it will pay off. The things you learn about yourself are invaluable. You can’t put a price on that.

There are people out there who don’t have the opportunity to take those kinds of risks—move away, quit the job, and so on. I understand, and I hear you. But it’s not about how big that first risk is. It’s about taking those steps, one at a time. Maybe it starts with going out three times a month, then it cuts down to two, and so on. It’s the little steps in life that lead to the big vision. The smallest actions, repeated over and over, snowball. So always remember: “Paso corto, vista larga.”

I’ve started to fall in love with the process. That’s why I try to encourage everyone around me to do the same. I think of it like a skill tree: as you move through life, your experiences unlock new tools, new understanding.

But I wrestle with this thought: What happens if I stop pushing so hard? Will I fall behind? I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe that’s just fear talking. I don’t want to stop pushing through this “despair,” but at some point, I have to ask: What’s all this anger inside me really about? If I can grow and succeed without that anger, then what was the point of carrying it for so long? And if I needed it to get here, is it still serving me?

Are these appealing fictions—the stories we tell ourselves—just proxies for our ego? We all have them. These ideas we desperately want to be true because they offer the illusion of infinite upside. These fixations. Whether it’s money, an unattainable crush, or something we know is damaging but cling to anyway.

One comes to mind right away. The truth is, I love the _idea_ of it. Not the reality. That’s the issue. I’m drawn to the ideal version in my head—not what’s actually in front of me. That’s my flaw: I want the cosa brillosa—the shiny thing. But I know it could wreck me.

And maybe I should give myself some credit. I’ve learned a lot. I’m not making the same mistakes twice—even if that means having hard conversations.

Just like I showed my aunt over Easter—I’ve grown. I’ve learned from it. Or else it really would be insanity.