For the next two weeks, I am stepping back to rest, and to spend time with friends and family.

I will return on August 4, 2026.

Growth continues, even when it looks still.

If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Share

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:

https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

Wes looked over at the clock. The electric face rolled from 5:13 to 5:14.

He hadn’t slept a wink. Not because his mind wouldn’t stop, but because it wouldn’t start.

He had spent the entire night combing through his memories. Nora’s first steps. Theresa laughing so hard she snorted milk through her nose. The courthouse. The handcuffs. He returned to each one carefully, searching for anything that might stir him.

There was nothing. No ache in his chest. No shame. No longing.

The memories were still there, preserved in perfect detail, but they no longer seemed to belong to him. They were photographs in someone else’s album. He could study the faces and understand their significance without feeling connected to the lives inside them.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number he knew by heart.

It rang twice.

Follow Wes's journey. A new chapter arrives every Saturday.

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“Hello?”

Her voice sounded tired. Older somehow.

Suddenly awkward, Wes didn’t know how to begin.

“Uh... hi.”

Silence.

“Wes?”

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

He glanced back at the clock.

“Five fourteen.”

“I told you not to call.”

“I know.”

“So why are you calling?”

He searched for an answer.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

A quiet laugh escaped her.

“Must be nice.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“To have insomnia be your biggest problem.”

He waited for the guilt to rise. Nothing came.

“Wes?”

“I’m here.”

“You would've had something to say.”

“I guess I’m trying not to.”

“No.” Her voice softened. “That’s not it.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“What did they give you?”

“What?”

“At that place.”

“They didn’t give me anything.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound...” She searched for the word. “Flat.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

Theresa exhaled into the receiver.

“Nora lost another tooth.”

Wes smiled.

“Really?”

“Tuesday.”

“Was she excited?”

“I kept waiting for you to ask which tooth.”

His smile faded.

“It was the one beside the front,” Theresa said. “She made me put it under her pillow even though she knows the tooth fairy isn’t real.”

“She knows?”

“She found the envelope in my nightstand last year.”

“I told you that was a bad hiding place.”

A small laugh escaped her. “I ignored you. You were unbearably smug about it.”

“I bet she looked pretty cute.”

“She did.”

Another silence settled between them.

“She still sets your place at dinner sometimes.”

Wes closed his eyes.

“I wish I could be there.”

“I didn’t say she asks when you’re coming home.”

He opened his eyes.

“I said she asks if.”

He waited for something to happen inside him. A tightening in his chest. A rush of grief. Even the familiar instinct to defend himself would have been welcome.

Nothing came.

“Wes.”

“I’m here.”

“I know you’re on the phone.” She paused. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the treatment center.”

“I don’t mean physically.”

He didn’t answer.

“You sound like somebody who remembers being my husband, but not like somebody who still is.”

Wes searched for words. None came.

“How’s your hair?”

Theresa let out a small snort.

“Seriously?”

“You always hated the humidity.”

“It’s terrible.”

“I figured.”

“I look like I’ve been electrocuted.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

For a moment, they almost sounded like themselves. Wes could picture her lying in bed with the phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder. She would be wearing the blue robe with the torn belt loop. Her hair would be wild, strands already escaping around her face.

He could see it all. He simply couldn’t feel it.

“I have to wake Nora soon,” Theresa said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll tell her you called.”

“Thanks.”

“But I’m not going to tell her you sounded like this.”

His pulse stayed steady.

“Why?”

“Because she’ll think she already lost you.”

The silence stretched between them.

“Wes.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what they’re doing to you.”

Her voice cracked. Wes heard her draw a careful breath, trying to regain control.

“Theresa?”

“Whatever this is, don’t mistake it for being better.”

“I don’t know what it is.”

Another breath.

“That’s what scares me.”

The line went dead.

Wes held the receiver against his ear, listening to the empty connection. He searched himself one more time for grief, relief, love, or even anger at the way she had ended the call.

He remembered every word she had said. He just couldn’t find the man she had said them to.

As Wes walked down the hallway, pieces of the conversation replayed in his mind.

What did they give you?

Don’t mistake it for being better.

He had felt off since the simulation, but off was too small a word for it. The evening, the phone call, and the restless night had done nothing to ease the growing sense that something inside him had been severed.

He had been consumed by guilt and shame for so long that he had stopped imagining himself without them. He had believed that if the pain disappeared, whatever remained would be his true self.

Now he wasn’t so sure anything remained.

The hallway was silent.

Wes slowed as he passed the common room. The lights were off. A deck of cards sat unopened on one of the tables. Two armchairs faced a television that had never been turned on.

He continued toward the Simulation Room.

A breakfast cart stood outside an empty room. The tray was covered, but no steam rose from beneath the lid. Wes couldn’t remember seeing anyone deliver it.

He stopped.

Since entering the facility, he had spoken to Voss. He had occasionally heard footsteps beyond his door and the distant mechanical hum of equipment. Meals arrived. Towels disappeared and returned clean.

But he had not seen a nurse. He had not seen an orderly. He had not seen another patient.

He stood in the middle of the hallway and tried to remember whether that had ever seemed strange.

It hadn’t.

The realization should have frightened him. Instead, he registered it as another fact.

That frightened him more.

Voss was seated behind his computer when Wes entered. He looked up immediately and smiled.

“Mr. Weaver. Good morning. How are you feeling today?”

Wes remained by the door.

Voss’s voice was warm, but there was something deliberate in it. The careful brightness of a doctor entering a room before he knew whether the operation had succeeded.

“What did you do to me?”

Voss’s smile faded.

“I was expecting we might have some disorientation this morning.”

“Tell me what you did.”

“We completed the protocol we discussed.”

“No.” Wes stepped farther into the room. “You described reducing the intensity of specific memories. This isn’t specific.”

Voss leaned back in his chair.

“What are you experiencing?”

“I called my wife.”

A slight movement passed across Voss’s face.

“You were advised not to contact your family during the initial observation period.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

“I’m not worried. I’m trying to understand what happened.”

“She cried.”

Voss waited.

“I knew she was crying,” Wes said. “I understood why. I remembered every reason I should care.”

“And what did you feel?”

“Nothing.”

Voss folded his hands on the desk.

“Nothing at all?”

“Is there a better version of nothing?”

“I’m asking because precision matters.”

“My wife thought I had been drugged.”

“Were you confused? Drowsy? Did you have difficulty following the conversation?”

“No.”

“Then sedated would not be an accurate description.”

Wes stared at him.

“That’s your answer?”

“It’s an important distinction.”

“She said I didn’t sound like myself.”

“Do you agree with her?”

“I don’t know who myself is supposed to be anymore.”

Voss nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“What?”

“This may be a period of disequilibrium.”

“Speak English.”

“You have spent years organizing your identity around several dominant emotional states. Shame. Guilt. Grief. Fear. Those feelings influenced how you interpreted your memories, your relationships and yourself.”

“I know what emotions are.”

“You know what they were. You may not yet know who you are without them.”

Wes approached the desk.

“You said you were taking the weight out of the memories.”

“That remains the intent.”

“You took everything.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“The fact that you are here suggests otherwise.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You recognized that something was wrong. You called your wife because you wanted to test your emotional response. When that response didn’t satisfy you, you came here demanding answers.”

Voss leaned forward.

“That is not indifference, Mr. Weaver.”

“It isn’t love either.”

“No. Perhaps not as you recognize it.”

Wes shook his head.

“You don’t get to redefine love because your machine can’t find it.”

“And you don’t get to define love solely by how much it hurts.”

The words stopped him.

Voss stood and walked around the desk.

“You expected relief to feel familiar. Why would it? Familiar is the very thing you came here to escape.”

“I came here because I wanted to stop drowning. I didn’t ask you to drain the whole fucking ocean.”

For the first time, Voss looked unsettled.

He turned toward the window and clasped his hands behind his back.

“The nervous system does not divide itself according to the language we use to describe it. Guilt does not exist in one sealed compartment and love in another. They are associated. Reinforced. Entangled.”

“You knew this could happen.”

“I knew emotional flattening was possible.”

Wes waited.

Voss continued looking out the window.

“How possible?”

“We believed the protocol’s constraints would prevent a generalized response.”

“We?”

“My team.”

“Where are they?”

Voss turned.

“What?”

“Your team. The nurses. The other doctors. The other patients.”

“There are no other patients in this wing.”

“I haven’t seen anyone since I arrived.”

“This phase of the trial requires controlled exposure.”

“Controlled exposure to what?”

“To everything.”

Wes looked past him at the office door.

“Can I leave?”

Voss studied him.

“You’ve never asked that before.”

“I’m asking now.”

“You asked whether you deserved another life. You asked whether your family would be better without you. You asked whether a person could be separated from the worst thing he had done.”

Voss took a slow step toward him.

“But you never asked whether you could leave.”

“Can I?”

“The exterior doors are secured.”

Wes felt no surge of panic. No heat in his face. His body remained infuriatingly calm.

“Unlock them.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“I’m not asking whether it’s wise.”

“No. You’re asking me to abandon the protocol during an unstable stage because your first experience of emotional quiet has frightened you.”

“My wife cried, and I didn’t care.”

“You came here because you cared that you didn’t care.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“No,” Voss said. “It isn’t. But it is not nothing.”

Wes looked toward the hallway.

“What happens if I refuse another session?”

“We observe you.”

“And then?”

“We determine whether the response resolves naturally.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Voss hesitated.

The pause was brief, but Wes saw it.

“You don’t know.”

“We are beyond the point supported by the earlier trials.”

Wes stared at him.

“You said this had worked before.”

“It did.”

“On who?”

Voss’s expression changed.

Not fear. Not guilt. Something closer to calculation.

Wes stepped toward him. “Who did it work on?”

“The earlier models were not human trials.”

The office seemed to narrow around them.

“What were they?”

“The foundation of the protocol was constructed through neural modelling. Synthetic memory architecture, predictive emotional mapping and controlled simulations.”

“You tested this on a computer.”

“That is an intentionally reductive description.”

“You never did this to a person.”

“The individual components have established clinical precedent.”

“But not this.”

“No,” Voss said. “Not this.”

Wes looked down at his hands. They were steady.

“You had no idea what this was going to do.”

“We had a strong theoretical basis.”

“You guessed.”

“We proceeded from evidence.”

“You guessed with better vocabulary.”

Voss’s jaw tightened. Wes turned toward the door.

“I’m done.”

“I cannot recommend discontinuing treatment.”

“I don’t care what you recommend.”

“You should.”

Wes stopped.

When Voss spoke again, the warmth was gone from his voice. He did not sound threatening. He sounded certain.

“You came here because every instinct you possessed had turned against you. Your memories punished you. Your emotions distorted your judgment. You believed suffering was proof that you understood what you had done.”

Voss moved back toward the desk.

“Now the suffering is gone, and you are rushing to restore it because pain is the only evidence of goodness you trust.”

“You don’t know anything about my goodness.”

“I know you confuse it with punishment.”

Wes looked at him.

“And what do you confuse with goodness, Doc?”

Voss’s expression hardened. Voss looks at him. Doesn’t answer.

Wes looked around the office. At the screens filled with maps of his mind. At the files stacked beside Voss’s keyboard. At the black window reflecting the two of them back into the room.

One man desperate to feel something. Another desperate to prove something.

“Open the doors,” Wes said.

“No.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Wes moved closer.

“Am I a patient or a prisoner?”

Voss met his eyes.

“At this moment, I’m not sure you are capable of understanding the difference.”

Wes waited for rage. For fear. For the instinct to grab Voss by the collar and force him against the wall.

Nothing came. He hated Voss. Or he believed he did. He could no longer tell the difference.

Wes stepped back into the hallway. Voss did not try to stop him.

His pace quickened as he reached the end of the corridor. The exit stood exactly where he remembered. He shoved the push bar.

Nothing. He shoved harder. Still nothing.

Behind him, Voss’s footsteps echoed calmly down the hall.

“You’ve tried that three times.”

“It won’t open.”

“No.”

Voss stopped several feet away.

“It won’t.”

Wes turned.

“So you lied.”

“I said the door was open.”

“It isn’t.”

Voss pointed toward the handle mounted beneath the push bar.

“You’ve walked past that every day.”

Wes looked down. A stainless steel lever sat directly below his hand. He had never noticed it. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around it.

The latch clicked. Wes frowned. He pulled gently. The door drifted inward. Cool morning air slipped into the hallway.

Outside, a dog barked. A lawnmower hummed somewhere in the distance. Leaves shimmered in the breeze.

Wes stood in the doorway.

Behind him, Voss spoke quietly.

“I never locked the door.”

Wes didn’t turn around.

“I thought you did.”

“I know.”

For a long moment neither man spoke. Finally Wes broke the silence.

“If I walk out that door...” He swallowed. “...will I ever feel my daughter again?”

The question hung in the air. Wes closed his eyes. He wanted Voss to tell him yes. He wanted him to tell him no. Anything.

When Voss finally answered, his voice was smaller than Wes had ever heard it.

“I don’t know.”

Wes looked out at the parking lot. At the road beyond it. At a world that suddenly felt farther away than it ever had behind locked doors.

He tightened his grip on the handle.

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Beginning | ← The Calibration |

How much of who we are is found in our joy, and how much is forged by our suffering?

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I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

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I recently revisited the first film. After the story ends, the camera quietly returns to the streets where it all happened. The cafés are empty. The characters are gone. Morning has arrived, and life simply carries on.

That brief sequence stayed with me far longer than I expected. It made me think about memory, time, and a lesson I’ve spent the past few years learning the hard way:

The main thing is not to hurry.

Every Tuesday I share one idea that's been changing how I think. If you'd like the next one, subscribe below.

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Nothing Good Gets Away

I’d always assumed the final sequence in Before Sunrise existed because of the film’s modest budget. A quiet way to end the story without filming anything elaborate. This time, though, it landed differently. Instead of seeing empty streets, I saw a reminder that places remain long after we leave them.

When we’re young, we often imagine life unfolding according to a plan. A certain career. A certain home. A certain relationship. A certain timeline. Looking back from my mid-thirties, it’s easier to see the naivety in that. Life rarely unfolds the way we imagined it would.

Who you’re with often matters far more than what you’re doing.

You’re always there as well.

Those two ideas completely reframed the film for me.

The story takes place in Vienna, one of the most romantic cities in the world. At the beginning of the movie, Jesse is simply trying to pass the time before catching his flight. By chance, he meets Céline, and together they share what they both later describe as one of the most meaningful nights of their lives.

Was it really Vienna that made the night unforgettable? The streets, cafés, and musicians certainly played a role. But what made the evening extraordinary was the connection they built together. The place mattered. The relationship mattered more.

That’s incredibly special, and I don’t think everyone gets to experience something like that.

Time moves forward. If we’re fortunate, maybe we build a life with someone we love. Maybe we achieve some of the goals we dreamed about when we were younger.

This is where my mind really started to wander.

Because even in that ideal future, we still bring ourselves with us.

For the past week, I’ve been settling into my new one-bedroom apartment. After years of constant movement, difficult decisions, and more than a little chaos, life has suddenly become very quiet. It’s just me and my cat.

By all accounts, this should feel peaceful.

Clearly you’ve never spent a day in my head.

That’s where everything starts to unravel. My mind fills with regrets, worries, guilt, grief, doubts, and endless questions about the future.

That realization changed something for me.

It’s easy to believe that a better city, a better relationship, a better career, or a better experience will finally quiet the mind. I’ve had remarkable experiences. I’ve loved deeply. I’ve built businesses. I’ve failed spectacularly. And yet my own mind can still become an uncomfortable place to live.

The quality of my life isn’t determined only by what’s happening around me. It’s also shaped by what’s happening within me.

Over the past year, I’ve come to accept something I probably wouldn’t have admitted before.

Anxiety seems to be part of how I'm wired. That's okay.

I’m also curious, thoughtful, kind, hardworking, and optimistic. I’m not where I imagined I would be at this stage of life. That’s difficult to accept some days. At the same time, I’ve learned lessons I don’t think I could have learned any other way.

The most important one, at least in this season of my life, is not to hurry.

When I was younger, life always felt like sand slipping through my fingers. Every opportunity felt like it needed to be acted on immediately before it disappeared forever.

Now I see that not all time is equal.

Years can disappear in fear, stress, and worry. A single conversation, decision, or ordinary evening can stay with us for the rest of our lives.

I've learned that I'm at my best when I slow down enough to hear what's actually true for me.

That usually means stepping away, letting the anxiety settle, and returning with greater clarity. It’s an ongoing practice, and failing to respect that process has cost me dearly. I’ve rushed my way into financial debt, out of meaningful relationships, and through experiences that I wish I had lingered in a little longer.

A few years ago, I had my first therapy session. I spent the entire hour talking about everything that was wrong in my life. At the end, the therapist observed that I was very clear on what I didn’t want.

Then she asked me what I did want. I could only cry. “I don’t know.”

I had spent so long trying to escape the life I didn’t want that I’d stopped asking what kind of life I was actually trying to build. She suggested I think about the opposite of my problems.

The words that came to me were calm, ease, and delight.

Today, I think the opposite of hurry is calm. And if I’m honest, calm is exactly where I need to be right now.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away. - John Steinbeck

This is the line that inspired today’s newsletter. Steinbeck wrote it in a letter to his son about love, but I think it reaches much further than that.

Of course there are moments in life that call for urgency. This isn’t an excuse to procrastinate or avoid difficult decisions. For me, though, this quote has become an anchor.

When I feel myself rushing toward a decision, I try to ask a simple question.

Is this moment actually calling for urgency, or am I manufacturing it?

More often than I’d like to admit, it’s the second one. My anxiety wants certainty. It wants closure. It wants relief. That doesn’t necessarily mean it wants what’s best for me.

2.

Many people report getting distracted and coming back… All of a sudden, something changes. And they find themselves in this beautiful state of peace and clarity… They feel relieved of all the things they normally need to do. - Henry Shukman

I heard this during one meditation in The Way app, and it stayed with me all week.

As someone who has always loved sports, I’m familiar with the idea of flow. I’d never really considered that the same quality of attention might also shape everyday life. Conversations. Relationships. Decisions.

I don’t think peace is a destination that you eventually arrive at. I think it’s a practice. A willingness to notice when you’ve drifted into hurry, and gently return to the present. Again and again.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Where in your life are you hurrying when making space for a pause would be most helpful?

As I sit alone in my apartment tonight, I know my anxious mind isn’t going anywhere. It will still whisper that I’m behind, that I should decide faster, that I should already have everything figured out.

I’m hoping I’ll remember to pause instead. To breathe. To listen to those worries without handing them the steering wheel. To notice that calm has always been available to me, even if I don’t always recognize it. Maybe that’s what I’m really learning.

The main thing is not to hurry.

If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Share

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:

https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

Subscribe now

“I’m adapting the protocol.”

The words refused to leave him alone. What exactly was there to adapt?

The simulations weren’t Voss’s memories to change. Every session had operated within the same boundaries from the beginning. Existing memories only. No rewriting history. No impossible alternatives. The point had never been to escape reality. It had been to confront it.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Something slid beneath the door. Wes crossed the room and bent to pick it up.

Answers. Tonight. 10:00 PM. Simulation Room.

Follow Wes's journey. A new chapter arrives every Saturday.

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He read the note twice before setting it on the desk. Evenings were meant for reflection. Every patient was encouraged to spend the hours after a session allowing the experience to settle before returning the following day. Voss had insisted on that routine from the beginning. Whatever this was, it wasn’t routine.

For several minutes Wes stood staring at the note. If Voss had changed the rules once, what guarantee was there that he wouldn’t change them again? Yet walking away meant returning to prison and abandoning the only path that had given him any hope of rebuilding his life.

At two minutes before ten, he slipped the note into his pocket and left his room.

The simulation room felt untouched by the passing hours. Without windows there was no sense of evening, only the familiar hum of machinery and the sterile brightness of fluorescent lights reflecting from polished concrete floors.

Voss stood behind his workstation, looking remarkably different from the anxious man Wes had glimpsed after the glitch had occurred earlier that afternoon. His lab coat was freshly pressed, his tie straight, his hair neatly combed. Only the tiredness around his eyes hinted that anything had happened at all.

“Mr. Weaver,” he said, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk. “Please.”

Wes remained standing.

“I overheard your conversation.”

“I assumed you might.”

“You said you were changing the protocol.”

Voss glanced toward the monitor before answering.

“The previous session revealed behaviour we hadn’t anticipated. We spent the afternoon reviewing the data.”

“And?”

“And we concluded the protocol needed to evolve.”

Wes folded his arms.

“You told me these simulations couldn’t change my memories.”

“They can’t.”

“Then what are you changing?”

Voss leaned back in his chair.

“When you remember the morning you were arrested, what do you remember?”

“The kitchen.”

“What else?”

“Marty. Theresa. Nora.”

“And what happens while you’re remembering them?”

Wes frowned.

“My chest tightens.”

“What else?”

“My breathing changes. My stomach lurches. My hands shake.”

Voss nodded.

“The memory isn’t only a collection of facts. Before you’ve consciously thought about any of it, your body has already concluded you’re in danger.”

“So you’re trying to stop that?”

“I’m trying to determine whether it can be reduced.”

“You mean erased.”

“No.”

The answer came immediately.

“If you leave this program remembering different events than the ones you lived, then I’ve failed completely. I’m not interested in rewriting your past.”

“Then what?”

Voss was quiet for a moment.

“Some memories become so heavy they begin pulling everything else into their orbit. Sleep. Relationships. Decisions. Years pass, but your nervous system never receives permission to stand down. The event ends. The emergency doesn’t.”

Silence settled between them.

“And you think you can change that?”

“I think we can test it.”

Wes studied him.

“If you change how I feel about the worst day of my life... how do I know I’ll still be me?”

For the first time since he’d entered the room, Voss looked genuinely uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I only know the version of you sitting here doesn’t want to carry this guilt and shame for the rest of his life.”

Neither of them spoke. Finally Voss rose from his chair.

“You don’t have to continue. If you’d rather complete your sentence conventionally, I’ll notify the board in the morning.”

He stepped toward the harness and rested a hand against one of the support arms.

“The choice is yours.”

Wes looked at the suspended frame. He thought about Theresa. He thought about Nora.

He thought about waking from the dream only hours earlier believing, for the first time in years, that becoming whole again might actually be possible.

Whatever Voss was asking frightened him. So did the alternative.

“I’ll do it.”

The kitchen materialized around him with unsettling precision.

Morning light spilled across the countertops. His coffee mug sat beside the sink exactly where he’d left it. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Pipes groaned softly inside the walls. The refrigerator hummed quietly in the corner. Everything occupied its proper place.

Only something felt... different.

The colours seemed muted somehow. The sunlight lacked warmth. Even the smell of coffee felt strangely distant, as though the memory had been drained of something he couldn’t quite identify.

Then came the knock. It echoed through the house. His body prepared itself.\ Or rather... it tried to.

He waited for the familiar tightening in his chest. Nothing. He flexed his fingers. Dry. No trembling. He drew another slow breath, expecting the panic to catch up with him. It never did.

“I’ll get it,” he called.

He opened the door. Marty stood on the porch exactly as he remembered.

“Wes,” he said softly. “You should’ve asked me.”

For just a moment Marty reached toward him, then let his hand fall back to his side. Wes remembered how those words had crushed him the first time. He searched for the shame. Nothing. Not relief. Relief would still have been a feeling. There was simply... space.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Theresa appeared with Nora balanced against her hip. For a moment Wes forgot Marty entirely.

She looked exactly as she always had. The oversized blue sweater she’d stolen from his side of the closet. The loose strand of hair forever slipping across her face. A faint dusting of flour clung to one sleeve. She must have been making Nora breakfast before getting her up. He’d never noticed it before.

She looked at him with quiet concern. He recognized every detail of her face. Every tiny expression. Every movement. He knew those details had once been enough to undo him. Now they simply existed.

A second figure stepped onto the porch.

“Mr. Weaver,” the officer said calmly. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

The edges of the room shimmered. The colours faded. The walls dissolved into static. The kitchen collapsed around him.

Wes opened his eyes inside the harness. He looked immediately toward Voss.

“We didn’t finish.”

“No.”

“What happened?”

Voss disconnected the neural leads one at a time.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

“You barely let it play.”

“I know.”

“Was it supposed to happen like that?”

Voss paused before answering.

“I’d like you to sleep before we continue.”

“And tomorrow?”

“We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Nothing more.

Back in his room, Wes sat quietly on the edge of the bed. He closed his eyes and pictured Theresa. Her smile came instantly. Her laugh.

The first time she’d told him she loved him. Their wedding. Sunday mornings drinking coffee together. Nora asleep on his chest after another nightmare. The morning of the arrest.

Every memory arrived exactly as it always had. He waited for the grief. For the guilt. For the ache that had lived beneath his ribs for years.

Nothing came.

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Beginning | ← The Threshold |

If you could keep every memory but lose the emotional weight attached to it, would you?

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I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

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The strange thing about rebuilding a life is that the practical work is often easier than the emotional work.

Installing shelves is straightforward. Measure twice. Drill once. If you make a mistake, patch the hole and try again.

Leaving someone you loved deeply isn’t like that.

It’s Ok Not to Be Ok

“It’s okay to not be okay” is something I say often to the people in my life. Like most good advice, it’s easier to give than it is to accept. Grief is a funny emotion that way.

We all know it. Nobody goes through life without experiencing it, and yet rarely do we talk about it. As a result, I think grief can be a sneaky emotion. It swirls around in the background, quietly influencing our thoughts and decisions more than we realize.

I think it’s because grief is bittersweet. In order to grieve, you had to love first. It had to matter. That means there’s so much good to look back on. But it’s ended, and that’s hard.

Some endings are final, and that kind of grief may be the hardest because there’s no path but forward. But many of life’s decisions aren’t as permanent as we imagine. Repair is sometimes possible. I wonder if that’s an equally difficult place to be for different reasons.

It leaves room for doubt, hesitation, and second-guessing.

I’m generally an anxious person and, as I’ve shared before, a people pleaser to boot. So uncertainty is familiar territory. If I tell a joke and someone doesn’t laugh, I wonder why. What could I have done differently? If I try to anticipate what someone needs and miss the mark, my mind follows the same path.

I’m finding it very difficult to stay true to a decision I believe is right when my mind is full of uncertainty and doubt.

I think grief is especially difficult when you can see your own fingerprints on how you got here. There was a time when I believed life was simply happening to me. That I was doing the best I could with what I had. But eventually you have to ask a harder question. How am I contributing to these outcomes?

Every day we see examples of people overcoming extraordinary odds. So why can’t I do something as ordinary as saving for retirement, paying down debt, or preparing for the future?

Is life really so difficult for me? Or have I been avoiding decisions that create conflict because saying no is uncomfortable?

People pleasing rarely likes tension. But avoiding tension often creates a much bigger problem later.

That can become the beginning of a dark spiral, and I don’t have all the answers for how to get through it.

The more time goes on, the less convinced I am that we ever truly arrive on the other side. Life doesn’t stop asking difficult questions. There is always another challenge. Another moment that asks you to question yourself.

So maybe the goal isn’t to wait for the calm to come. Maybe it’s to recognize that hope can exist while the darkness is still here.

I’m not a victim. I contributed to my mess. I’m disappointed in myself and in how it worked out. I would have preferred a different road.

And yet, reality gets a vote.

Here I am, and this is the path forward.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way. - Marcus Aurelius

I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot lately. I don’t know that grief arrives to teach us anything, but it certainly reveals what matters. We grieve because we loved. We grieve because something meaningful has changed.

At its best, grief can also remind us that forever doesn’t exist. Everything we love is temporary. As painful as that truth is, it can also become an invitation to slow down, appreciate what’s in front of us, and choose how we move forward.

What stands in the way becomes the way. Maybe grief doesn’t just point toward what’s been lost. Maybe it also points toward gratitude.

2.

What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose, for all that we love deeply becomes part of us. - Helen Keller

I’d never come across this quote before, and its simplicity is what makes it so powerful.

If something mattered to you, if you loved deeply, then some part of it remains with you. The relationship may end. The season of life may pass. But the person you became because of those experiences doesn’t disappear.

I find that deeply comforting. Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving behind everything that was good. It means carrying those moments with you as you continue becoming the person you’re meant to be.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Can you be grateful for what was while still trusting yourself to build what’s next?

I don’t know who I’ll meet down the road.

I don’t know what this apartment will look like.

I don’t know if this life I’m building will become the one I imagine.

What I do know is this: every shelf I hang, every meal I cook, and every chapter I write is another vote for the life I say I want.

Maybe certainty isn’t what I’m looking for. Maybe what I need is enough evidence to keep taking the next step.

Today, that’s enough.

Share

If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:

https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

Subscribe now

Voss didn’t answer.

He sat motionless in front of the terminal, his eyes fixed on the replay. The memory played through once, then again. His jaw tightened ever so slightly as he scrubbed backward and replayed the final moments a third time.

“Doc, what the hell just happened?” Wes swallowed hard. “You told me these were simulations of memories.” His voice caught in his throat. “What I just experienced... that didn’t happen.”

Voss leaned back in his chair and rubbed both hands over his face. He looked older somehow. Exhausted. For a long moment he said nothing at all before finally lifting his eyes to meet Wes’s.

“We’re done for today. Please return to your room. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Wes stared at him in disbelief.

“Fuck that.”

He was on his feet before he realized he’d stood.

“Tell me what the fuck just happened!”

“I don’t know.”

The words hung in the room. For the first time since they’d met, Voss sounded uncertain.

“I need to review the session. I need to review your physiological data.” He took a slow breath, collecting himself. “I don’t have an explanation that I can defend with any certainty.”

“You don’t have an explanation?” Wes took a step toward him. “Then what the hell was all of that?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer landed harder the second time.

Voss stood, straightening his jacket almost absently.

“We’ll speak tomorrow.”

He turned toward the door.

“Voss.”

The doctor stopped but didn’t look back.

“Please return to your room.”

The door slid shut behind him. Silence settled over the simulation room. Wes remained standing, his pulse hammering in his ears.

The baby monitor. The doorway. The sounds Theresa never heard. And then... The look on her face. She hadn’t been looking at him. She’d been looking past him.

Slowly, he turned. The empty harness hung from the ceiling exactly where it always had, swaying almost imperceptibly in the stale air. Nothing else. Still... He couldn’t shake the feeling that, for one impossible moment, something had been standing there.

By the time Wes reached his room, the adrenaline had begun to fade, leaving behind an uneasy exhaustion. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. He had just relived the worst day of his life. Theresa still wouldn’t look at him. She still didn’t trust him.

And somehow...

He missed her even more than he had before entering the simulation. That surprised him. He had expected confronting the memory to lessen the ache. Instead, it deepened it. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Warm water ran over Wes’s hands as he rinsed the last dinner plate. Two familiar arms wrapped around his waist.

“This isn’t as easy as it used to be.”

He smiled before he even turned around. Theresa rested her chin against his shoulder, one hand supporting the weight of her pregnant belly.

“You’re getting in the way.”

“I know.”

“And you’re doing it on purpose.”

“Obviously.”

He pulled off the yellow rubber kitchen gloves he was wearing and turned to kiss her. She laughed.

“You are the only man I know who wears those things.”

“These hands are the money makers.” He held them up with mock seriousness. “I can’t have them soaking in soapy water, getting all soft and mushy.”

“Mmhmm...” She smiled. “Those hands are good for a lot of things.”

She held his gaze for another moment before her smile widened.

“I have an idea.”

He groaned dramatically.

“That sentence has never once ended with me relaxing.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Would you stop pretending you’re disappointed?”

“I’ve known you long enough to be appropriately concerned.”

She slipped her hand into his.

“Come with me.”

She led him through the hallway toward the garage.

“Open the trunk.”

Wes lifted the hatch.

Inside sat a wicker basket tied neatly with a burgundy ribbon. Nestled inside were half a dozen beautifully wrapped dark chocolate bars, each from a different artisan chocolatier.

He looked back at her.

“You drove all the way to Mariposa Chocolate Co.?”

“I might have.”

“For chocolate?”

“For the good chocolate.”

He laughed.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

She stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

“You’ve spent months getting this house ready. You’ve been building shelves, painting walls, putting together a nursery... You forgot that we’re allowed to enjoy it.”

He rested his forehead against hers.

“So what’s the occasion?”

She smiled.

“No occasion.”

“Then why?”

“Because someday this little one is going to make evenings like this a lot harder to come by.”

She reached around him, lifted the basket from the trunk, then nodded toward the house.

“I rented a fondue set.”

“You rented... a fondue set?”

“For the chocolate.”

He laughed.

She smiled and disappeared back into the house. Then she stopped. She looked back over her shoulder.

“I’ll meet you upstairs.” She nodded toward the basket. “Bring the chocolate.”

Wes awoke to pale morning light spilling through the narrow window of his room at the treatment center. He stretched slowly, surprised by how rested he felt. For a moment he simply lay there, trying to hold onto the dream before it faded.

Theresa. Not the anger. Not the betrayal. Just Theresa. Laughing. Smiling. Looking at him the way she used to. He didn’t know if she would be waiting when this was over. She didn’t owe him that. But she deserved the best version of him. For the first time since arriving at the treatment center, he wanted to see it through.

Not because a judge had ordered him to. Because she was still worth fighting for. Whatever had happened inside that simulation... Whatever Theresa had seen... He wasn’t running from it.

Wes didn’t know where Voss’s office was. The simulation room was the only place he could think to start. As he rounded the corner, he noticed light spilling through the partially open door. He reached for the handle but stopped.

“…Yes, I understand what the protocol says.”

Voss. He was on the phone.

“No. I’m not abandoning it.”

A pause.

“I’m adapting it.”

Wes frowned. Adapting it? He thought this treatment had already been through years of testing.

“If I’m wrong, I’ll accept responsibility.”

Another silence.

“Because doing nothing is no longer an option.”

Continue Reading

Beginning | ← The Echo | → The Calibration

If you were Wes, would you continue the treatment after what just happened?

Leave a comment

I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

Share

Subscribe now

But there is another side to the story.

What about staying?

Have you ever had a disagreement with someone that felt impossible in the moment, only for the relationship to become stronger because both people stuck around long enough to work through it? If either person had walked away at the first sign of conflict, they never would have discovered what was on the other side.

The same thing happens in careers, businesses, hobbies, and relationships. Sometimes the breakthrough comes just after the point where most people would quit. Sometimes the lesson is to stop overthinking, put your head down, and keep going.

And yet we’ve also talked about complacency. About staying too long. About refusing to acknowledge when something isn’t working. About continuing down a path simply because we’ve already invested so much in it.

I guess what I’m circling around is this:

At some point, after all the wrong turns, failures, experiments, and false starts, you have to find something worth committing to.

But how do you know when you’re building something meaningful and when you’re simply refusing to let go?

When does persistence become wisdom?

And when does it become fear?

Commitment and Adaptation

At this point in my life, I am the master of persistence.

I’m extremely capable of continuing something long after it has stopped working. I’m not saying that to brag. At times, it’s been one of my biggest weaknesses.

Case in point: I was diagnosed with celiac disease last year.

Do you know how many beers, pizzas, sandwiches, muffins, grilled cheeses, and bowls of pasta I ate before seriously considering that maybe food was the problem?

My final year of university was defined by throwing up most afternoons in a bush beside the entrance to the recreation centre. Looking back, it seems ridiculous. At the time, it felt normal. I just assumed this was something I needed to endure.

The same thing happened more recently when I moved my clinic downtown. For three months I ran to and from work every day. At first the weather was bad and I couldn’t bike. Then my shins started hurting.

Naturally, I kept running.

I kept going until I was genuinely concerned I had a stress fracture. I was limping around the treatment table trying to work on patients because my leg hurt so much.

In both cases, I wasn’t lacking commitment. If anything, I had too much of it. The problem was that reality was giving me information and I wasn’t allowing that information to change my behaviour.

One of my favourite examples came while digging out the front yard for a gravel parking spot. It was slow, miserable work. I spent hours making almost no progress. Eventually, an older woman walked over and asked what I was doing. A few minutes later she returned with a garden fork.

That one tool changed everything.

Same project. Same goal. Same pile of dirt.

Different approach.

I’ve thought about that moment a lot over the past year.

I didn’t quit digging. I didn’t abandon the project. I didn’t suddenly become less committed to the outcome. What changed was my willingness to accept that the tool I was was using wasn't working.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if that’s where so many of us get stuck.

We talk a lot about commitment, perseverance, and grit. We celebrate the people who keep showing up. And rightly so. Relationships become stronger because people stay in the conversation. Businesses survive because someone keeps showing up after a difficult month. Skills improve because we continue practicing long after the excitement wears off.

But commitment and adaptation need each other.

Without commitment, we abandon things before they’ve had a chance to grow.

Without adaptation, we continue doing the same thing while expecting different results.

If I had continued eating gluten for another ten years, that wouldn’t have been commitment. It would have been an unwillingness to learn from what my body was trying to tell me.

If I had kept running on an injured leg, that wouldn’t have been discipline. It would have been an attachment to a plan that was no longer serving me.

In both cases, the issue wasn’t effort.

The issue was that I had become attached to the tool.

I think that’s the lesson I’m still learning.

Reality gets a vote.

The world is constantly giving us feedback. Sometimes through success. Sometimes through frustration. Sometimes through pain. Sometimes through conversations we’d rather not have.

The challenge is remaining committed enough to keep going while staying humble enough to change.

Because wisdom isn’t found in never quitting.

And it isn’t found in changing direction every time things get difficult.

Maybe wisdom is the ability to stay committed to what matters while allowing reality to reshape how we pursue it.

Maybe that’s what growth really looks like.

Not abandoning the goal.

Just having the humility to pick up a different tool.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

“Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.” — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I’ve always associated this quote with design and craftsmanship, but lately I’ve started wondering if it applies just as much to the stories we tell ourselves.

Over the years we accumulate beliefs, habits, identities, and assumptions. Some help us navigate the world. Others quietly keep us stuck long after they’ve outlived their usefulness.

Growth isn’t always about adding more. Sometimes it’s about having the humility to let go of what reality has already shown us we no longer need.

2.

“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.” — Confucius

This one is mostly for me, but maybe you need to hear it today too.

It’s easy to feel behind. To believe you’re stuck because your progress doesn’t look the way you hoped it would.

But progress isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it looks like showing up one more day. Having one more difficult conversation. Trying one more approach.

You don’t have to have everything figured out tomorrow.

You just have to keep moving.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Where in your life are you clinging to a tool that's no longer serving you? And what would it look like to stay committed to the goal while letting go of the method?

One of the things I’ve come to appreciate is that life rarely asks us to choose between persistence and change. More often, it asks us to practice both at the same time.

Keep showing up.

Keep paying attention.

And when reality offers you a better tool, have the courage to pick it up.

Share

If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:
https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

Theresa’s face had consumed everything else. The grief. The anger. The betrayal. For a few terrible moments he’d forgotten this wasn’t happening now. Forgotten the harness holding him upright. Forgotten Voss. Forgotten the simulation.

He wasn’t here to relive the worst day of his life. He was here to repair it.

The officer opened the rear door of the cruiser while the second rested a firm hand between Wes’s shoulder blades.

“Head down.”

The push was gentle, but confident enough that resisting never crossed his mind.

Wes stepped forward.

Rain hammered against the kitchen window.

He stood motionless, letting the sound settle over him. The house was dim except for the light above the stove, which cast a warm amber glow across the countertops. Everything else faded into soft shadow.

He looked at the clock. 10:22 PM.

The calendar on the wall. June 16.

The day Marty had handed him the envelope. Wes slowly turned in a circle, taking it all in.

“I’m home...”

His first instinct was to run. The garage. The truck. The envelope.

Drive back to the office. Put the money where it belonged. None of this ever had to happen.

His body had already started toward the garage before he stopped himself. Of course. Coherence. The money had already been stolen. Whatever happened here still had to lead to the arrest. He couldn’t rewrite history. But maybe...

Maybe he could stop Theresa from finding out the way she had. He closed his eyes. He could still see her standing in the driveway. Police lights flashing across her face. Confused. Terrified. Looking to him for an explanation he never gave. He thought about the kitchen simulation from only a few sessions ago. About telling her the truth. About how pain shared had somehow felt lighter than pain hidden.

The theft wasn’t the moment that broke them. The silence was.

Wes took a slow breath and started toward the hallway. Halfway there, he stopped.

There was another doorway.

White trim. Beige paint. Matching baseboards. Perfectly ordinary. It looked exactly like every other doorway in the house.

Except the hallway ended in a wall.

He stared at it. A strange coldness crept into his chest. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with his hands.

The doorway was gone. Just drywall.

“...Jesus.” He rubbed at his eyes again. “Focus.”

He kept walking. As he reached the stairs, a single creak echoed from upstairs. Not the settling of old wood. A footstep. Just one. He waited. Nothing.

The house fell silent again. His pulse quickened.

By the time he reached the bedroom door, his shirt clung damply to his back. His hands trembled. His chest felt impossibly tight, as though something inside him was pushing outward against his ribs.

Steady. Just tell her. He opened the door. Theresa was sitting up in bed beneath the soft glow of the nightstand lamp, reading. He smiled despite himself. The Nicomachean Ethics. What a nerd, he thought to himself.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. For a brief second, everything felt ordinary again. Safe.

“Hey... Reese.”

She finished the sentence she was reading before slipping a bookmark between the pages. Closing the book, she smiled.

“Hey. You’re home.”

Before Wes could answer, the baby monitor crackled. Not static. Something softer. Almost... A child’s laugh. Or maybe a cry. The sound stopped. Wes waited. Silence. He still couldn't decide whether he'd heard laughter or crying. He frowned and picked up the monitor. Nothing. Nora slept peacefully.

“Hear that?” he asked.

Theresa looked puzzled.

“Hear what?”

He stared at the screen another second before setting it back down.

“Never mind.”

He sat on the edge of the bed.

“There... there’s something I need to tell you.”

Theresa glanced at the clock before looking back. She must have seen something in his face. Her smile disappeared.

“Okay.” A long silence settled between them. “What is it?”

Wes looked down at his hands. He’d rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in his head. Now that it was here... Nothing sounded right.

“Reese...” He swallowed. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s about money.” He paused. “No...” He shook his head. “It’s about me.” The words caught in his throat. “I’m in trouble.” He looked up. “We’re in trouble.”

The color drained from Theresa’s face.

“Oh my God...”

He leaned toward her, reaching for her arm.

“Reese... hey... just let me explain—”

He stopped. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her eyes had drifted over his shoulder. Toward the darkest corner of the room.

She wasn’t frightened. She looked... Confused. Then... Recognition. Like someone had quietly stepped into the room. Her lips parted. Barely above a whisper. “...No.”

Ice flooded through Wes’s veins. Every muscle locked. Theresa never blinked. Slowly... Very slowly... He began turning toward whatever she was seeing.

Before he could finish, the room fractured.

The bedroom pixelated in violent bursts. Walls snapped in and out of focus. Colors smeared into blocks of light. A low electrical buzz filled the air like an untuned radio station, growing louder until it swallowed everything.

The floor vanished.

Darkness.

Wes jerked against the harness, gasping for breath. Sweat streamed down his face. Warning lights flashed across the chamber. Alarms screamed. He blinked until the room came into focus.

Voss wasn’t looking at him. His fingers flew across the controls. His tie hung loose around his neck. Hair disheveled. Eyes fixed on the monitors with an intensity Wes had never seen before.

The alarms stopped. The lights continued flashing.

“Doc...” No response. “What the hell just happened?”

His eyes never left the screen. Finally, he spoke.

“So that’s why...”

“What?”

Voss looked up.

For the first time since they’d met, there wasn’t confidence in his expression. Only uncertainty.

“...Impossible.”

Continue Reading

Beginning | ← The Weight | → The Threshold

What stood out to you most in this scene?

Leave a comment

I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

Share

Subscribe now

So I finally did it. Ten years later, I watched La La Land.

I’d somehow managed to avoid spoilers all this time. All I knew was that people loved it. The music, the cinematography, the performances. I’m glad I went in blind.

Because what struck me wasn’t the music or the visuals. It was the ending. Not because it was sad. Because it was honest.

As I sat there watching the final scenes unfold, I found myself waiting for the twist. The moment where everything comes together. The moment where the dream and the relationship somehow coexist. The moment where nobody has to sacrifice anything.

It never came.

And maybe that’s why it stayed with me.

A few years ago, I also discovered Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy. Three films shot over twenty years that follow the same couple through different stages of life.

What I love about both stories is that neither tries to cheat.

They don’t offer a happily-ever-after where every choice works out perfectly. They don’t pretend life can be optimized into a state where all the doors remain open.

Instead, they show something much closer to reality.

Every meaningful choice costs something.

Subscribe now

The Option with no Downside

For most of my life, I believed there was a right answer waiting to be discovered. The right career. The right city. The right relationship. The right investment. The right decision would reveal itself because it would have all the upside and none of the downside.

The older I get, the more suspicious I become of the phrase “No Regrets.”

When did regret become a dirty word? Really? We either get life exactly right or we’ve somehow failed? I don’t buy it.

The poet David Whyte describes regret as “an elegy to lost possibilities.” I love that description because every meaningful choice creates a loss. You choose one partner and countless others disappear. You move to one city and leave another behind. You commit to one career and close the door on others.

Life narrows. Not because we’ve failed. Because we’ve chosen.

And if those possibilities mattered, shouldn’t there be some sadness in letting them go? Shouldn’t there be some grief?

What about when we tried something and it ultimately wasn’t the right path for us? Or when we learned something through an experience that led us to change direction? We put our blood, sweat, and tears into a dream. We build something. We become attached to a vision of the future. Then we move on.

Are we really expected to feel nothing?

In 2019, I purchased a massage therapy clinic. For a host of reasons, some of them to appease others and some of them to help me feel like I was making an adult decision. But I was also genuinely excited about it. It was fucking cool. I was a business owner. I had a commercial space. I had a business card with my name on it followed by the word “Owner.” It felt like my chance to build the kind of workplace I wished I’d had.

In 2024, I downsized that business. Today, it’s just me. No reception. No additional staff. I’m no longer a business owner. I’m self-employed.

And you know what?

That is working for me. It really is.

And it still hurts to think about how hard I fought for something that ultimately wasn’t meant to last.

I mourn the possibilities that could have come from that business. I do. That’s regret. But I don’t wish I still had it. I’m thriving in my current role. I found my place.

If I had gone directly from working for someone else to being self-employed, I think I would have spent years wondering what if.

Instead, I know.

I have a scar from that experience. It cost me something. But scars are not always signs of failure. Sometimes they’re evidence that something mattered. Evidence that we committed. Evidence that we cared enough to risk being disappointed.

Life will hurt.

It should.

That means you cared. That means you committed. That means you tried.

The goal isn’t to avoid regret. By our working definition of regret as lost possibilities, that would mean never committing to anything at all. Never choosing. Never closing a door.

That’s obviously not the answer.

We have to choose. We have to let go of possibilities. We have to accept that every path comes with tradeoffs.

And so regret is not the opposite of a life well lived. In many ways, it may be evidence of one.

There is courage in choosing a direction when you can’t know how the story ends. There is courage in committing to a person, a city, a career, or a dream knowing that other possibilities will be left behind.

Hopefully, at the end of a long and winding path, we can look back with compassion on all our pain and all our disappointments because they helped shape who we became.

I think the thing we would never wish upon anyone is not regret.

It’s reaching the end of life and looking out over the horizon thinking:

“I wish I’d gone over there.”

Neither path avoids pain. And to make it even more interesting, life often throws pain our way that we never chose. A layoff. A health crisis. An injury. The loss of someone we love.

Life narrows. Sometimes because we choose. Sometimes because circumstances choose for us

We choose people. We choose places. We choose careers. We choose dreams. And every choice leaves behind possibilities that might have been beautiful too.

That’s not a flaw in the system. That’s the system.

The goal isn’t to reach the end of life with no regrets. The goal is to look back with compassion on the roads you travelled, gratitude for the ones that shaped you, and the humility to accept that no life can contain everything.

Life narrows. Not because we’ve failed. Because we’ve chosen.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction. — Cynthia Occelli

I’m sure there are times in all of our lives when we can relate to the sentiment of “complete destruction”. I think that being honest about those feelings is powerful. It wasn’t necessarily a mistake. It can be a moment of forging. Metal is melted and completely surrenders its shape before being forged anew. The middle part is surely terrifying, but the transformation cannot occur without it.

2.

Maturity is not a static arrived platform… but the dissolution of living elemental frontiers between what has happened, what is happening now, and the consequences of our past… Maturity is the time when these tidal forces meet and break apart our life, making one life out of our regrets, our self-compassion, and our forgiveness forged into a future made real by a radical change in our behaviour - David Whyte

Maturity is an ongoing process. That's what I love about this passage. Taking everything that has happened to us and allowing it to shape and inform our future. That's beautiful. It's elegant, and it's honest.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Think about a regret you carry.

Now ask yourself:

Do I regret the choice?

Or do I regret the possibilities that disappeared when I made it?

There is a difference.

Spend ten minutes writing about what that decision gave you, not just what it cost you.

Perhaps maturity isn’t reaching a place where regret disappears.

Perhaps it’s learning to hold regret, gratitude, self-compassion, and forgiveness in the same hand.

To honour the roads we travelled.

To mourn the ones we didn’t.

And still be willing to begin again.

Share

If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:
https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

His fingers rubbed the gritty grain of the envelope. Hands that measured lumber to fractions of an inch drifted across the stack of bills inside.

It wasn’t stealing. It was a loan. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

Ten thousand dollars. The number sounded huge until he started doing the math. The mortgage was what now? Three grand? Property taxes. Hydro. Insurance. Groceries. Gas. Nora needed new shoes. Theresa still had those specialist appointments. Ten thousand dollars disappeared fast.

Hell, he’d probably paid more than that in interest over the last few years alone. His thumb slid along the edge of the envelope. Ten thousand dollars. One stupid renovation mistake had cost them almost half that.

One leak. One mold problem. One surprise behind a wall. One thing after another. The world never seemed to run out of hands looking for money. The bank wanted money. The government wanted money. The contractors wanted money. The utility company wanted money. Everyone had their hand out. And every month he somehow found a way to give it to them. Nobody ever seemed to ask whether he had enough left for himself.

Until now.

Wes closed his eyes. What happened if he put the envelope back? The question sat in the cab of the truck. What happened then? Another overdue notice? Another conversation with Theresa where he pretended things weren’t as bad as they really were? Another month juggling payments and hoping nothing unexpected happened?

What if Nora got sick? What if the truck broke down? What if the furnace died?

What if...

The what-ifs never ended. His jaw tightened. Marty wouldn’t even miss it. Not right away. The company spent more than that on materials all the time. Ten thousand dollars wasn’t life-changing money to Marty. It was life-changing money to Wes. That thought made him sit up straighter.

Life-changing.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe people only called it stealing when poor people did it. Banks did it. Insurance companies did it. Politicians did it. Corporations did it.

Everyone took care of themselves. Maybe this was the first time Wes was doing the same. The thought sounded ugly. Even in his own head. He hated it immediately. Which probably meant there was some truth in it.

He stared out through the windshield.

Rain tapped against the glass. Ten thousand dollars. Enough to breathe. Enough to stop panicking for a while. Enough to buy a little time. And wasn’t that all he was really trying to buy? Time.

His mind drifted to the manila folder from that morning.

OVERDUE.

IN ARREARS.

URGENT.

Always capital letters. Always red ink. He looked up into the rearview mirror and found his own haunted reflection staring back at him.

For a moment, his focus softened. The face looking back at him changed. The eyes became Theresa’s.

Deep green. Warm. Steady. I see you.

His mind drifted back years earlier, to a different version of the same house.

They had just closed on it. One of those places real estate agents called a contractor’s dream. And dream they did. Walls removed. An island added. New floors. New windows.

Then COVID happened. Material costs exploded. They had already started demolition, so there was nowhere to retreat to. The only option was forward.

That particular night, they sat on the floor leaning against bare studs, covered in sawdust and sweat. Wes had just experienced his first panic attack. His heart raced uncontrollably. His hands shook. He felt overwhelmed and paralyzed all at once.

They had torn down another wall only to discover mold. Again. It was after midnight on a weeknight. Both of them had work the next morning.

Wes felt hopeless. Certain they would run out of money before the house was livable. Theresa cradled his head against her chest and rocked him gently, almost like a child.

It was the least manly he had ever felt. It was also exactly what he needed. She kept repeating the same words.

“I’ve got you.”

Over and over.

Eventually his breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. When he finally pulled away, he looked up at her.

“I wish we never had to leave,” he said quietly. “Right here, with you, I feel completely safe. It’s everything out there I can’t handle. The stress. The bills. The uncertainty. It’s fucking constant.”

Wes looked down toward the floor, toward the black mold spreading across the subfloor from an old leak.

“Hey.”

Theresa gently lifted his chin.

“Look at me.”

He did.

“I see you.”

The words hit him harder than any reassurance ever could.

“You see me?”

She smiled.

“Yeah, baby. All of you.”

Her eyes never left his.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

She waved dismissively toward the mold.

“Fuck all that noise out there. I believe in us. And I believe in you. If we have to spray every square inch of this place before we’re done, then so be it.”

She poked him in the chest.

“This is our home, baby. I’m not letting a bunch of microscopic organisms take that away from us.”

Wes laughed despite himself.

Back in the truck, he stared into the mirror.

I see you.

For a moment, it wasn’t his reflection staring back. It was Theresa. The words landed like a punch to the chest. He wanted to drive home. He wanted to walk through the front door, hand Theresa the envelope, and tell her everything.

Instead, he reached up and adjusted the mirror until his reflection disappeared. He couldn’t bear to watch himself do it. He dropped the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

The knock rattled the front door.

Wes was making breakfast in the kitchen while Theresa got Nora ready for school upstairs.

“I’ll get it!” he shouted.

He unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Marty stood on the porch.

Wes froze.

“Marty? What the hell, man? It’s Wednesday morning. Aren’t you supposed to—”

The look on Marty’s face stopped him cold. Anguish. Sadness. Disappointment. The kind that only came from someone who cared.

“Wes,” Marty said softly. “You should’ve asked me. If you needed help... you should’ve asked.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Theresa appeared carrying Nora.

“Is that Marty’s voice? What’s he doing here so—”

A second man stepped forward.

“Mr. Weaver, my name is Constable Muller. We have a warrant for your arrest. Would you please step onto the porch?”

Theresa descended the remaining steps in seconds.

“There has to be some mistake.”

She looked at Wes. Searching. Pleading.

“Babe, tell them. Tell them there’s a mistake.”

Wes opened his mouth. Nothing came out. She turned toward the officer.

“What is he being arrested for?”

“Mr. Weaver has been accused of stealing ten thousand dollars from Mr. Erikson. We’d like to bring him to the station for questioning.”

“Daddy?”

Nora’s frightened voice hit harder than the officer’s words. Beside her, Theresa’s expression tightened. Wes stepped onto the porch.

“Mr. Weaver, you have the right to remain silent...” The officer continued speaking. Wes barely heard him. His eyes never left Theresa.

“Reese...”

She stared somewhere above his shoulder. Anywhere but at him.

“Look at me, Reese.”

Nothing.

“Theresa...”

The handcuffs clicked shut around his wrists. The metallic sound echoed in the morning air. The officer turned him around and guided him toward the cruiser. Wes looked back one final time.

“Theresa...”

Theresa stared past him. Not at him. Past him. For years, whenever life became too much, she had looked directly into him and said, I see you. Now she couldn’t.

Wes felt the weight of the handcuffs around his wrists. He had lost his reputation. He had lost his pride.

But standing on that porch, watching Theresa refuse to meet his eyes, he understood something worse. He had lost the one person who had always seen the best in him.

Continue Reading

Beginning | ← The Theft | → The Echo

What stood out to you most in this scene?

Leave a comment

I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

Share

Pressure to choose the right courses. To get into the right program. To find the right job. To save for retirement. To buy a house. To prepare for a family. And whether it was true or not, it always seemed easy to find someone further ahead. Not only did life need to be figured out. It needed to be figured out yesterday.

That pressure weighed on me when I was younger. I remember the tension leading up to every big decision. The anxiety. The stress. I remember feeling incredibly lucky that things seemed to be working out.

Because underneath all of it was a quiet fear:

What would happen if I got it wrong?

Still Willing to Begin Again

There’s a popular saying:

You either get what you want, or you learn something.

I mostly agree with it.

But nothing about that statement prepares you for the grief of getting something wrong that you cannot fix. Not every mistake becomes a lesson wrapped neatly in gratitude. Sometimes a relationship ends. Sometimes a career path collapses. Sometimes the dream you built your identity around doesn’t survive contact with reality. Sometimes you hurt people you never intended to hurt. And sometimes there is no version of events where everything gets put back exactly as it was.

When I experienced my first real failure, the first thing I couldn’t fix, repair, or mend, I didn’t interpret it as, I failed. I interpreted it as, I am a failure.

From the outside, it’s often easy to see that someone else’s life isn’t over. You know they’ll laugh again. Love again. Build again. You can see possibilities they can’t. But from the inside, all you can see is the scar. And maybe that’s what nobody prepared me for.

Not success.

Not failure.

But irreversibility.

The realization that being conscientious, hardworking, kind, and well intentioned doesn’t exempt you from making decisions that carry consequences. You can do your best and still discover, years later, that there was a cost you didn’t understand when you agreed to pay it.

You can leave parts of yourself behind because you lacked the confidence to pursue them. You can choose wisely with the information you had and still grieve what might have been.

The older I get, the more I think that’s just life.

The version of you without the scar exists only in the past.

Going forward, you carry it with you.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."
— Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen is interesting to me.

He’s a very melancholic artist. There isn’t much in his catalogue that feels upbeat or carefree. When I was younger, he never really resonated with me. I was looking for certainty, optimism, and the reassurance that everything would work out if I just tried hard enough.

But now, having carried some of the scars we’ve been talking about into my mid thirties, there’s an undeniable recognition that he understood something I didn’t.

He knew what it meant to live alongside grief without letting it harden into bitterness.

He knew that being wounded and being beautiful were not opposites.

The crack isn’t something to hide or repair before life can continue. It’s evidence that you’ve lived long enough to love, to lose, to make mistakes, and to be changed by them.

And somehow, despite all of that, to still let the light in.

2.

"The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change."
— Carl Rogers

This quote resonates differently with me.

I don’t think Carl Rogers is talking about resignation. I don’t think he’s saying, “This is who I am, so why bother trying?”

I think he’s pointing to something much harder.

There are countless decisions we can make that reinforce the life we’ve already built. We can keep playing the role we’ve become known for. We can keep meeting expectations. We can keep moving in the same direction simply because we’ve already invested so much into getting here.

But sometimes there’s a quiet knowing that something no longer fits.

The career.
The relationship.
The identity.
The version of success we’ve been chasing.

Changing direction in those moments can feel impossible.

You would think that grit would be the answer. Or discipline. Or perseverance.

But Rogers suggests something different.

Acceptance.

Acceptance of where you are.
Acceptance of who you’ve been.
Acceptance of the fact that what once fit may no longer fit now.

Not resistance.

Not shame.

Not doubling down simply because turning around feels too costly.

Maybe real change begins when we stop arguing with reality long enough to acknowledge the truth.

Only then can we decide what comes next.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Ask yourself:

• What scar am I still treating as evidence that I’m broken?

• What responsibility is mine to own?

• What grief still needs to be acknowledged?

• What would it look like to honour this part of my story instead of hiding it?

Then take one small step toward repair. Have the conversation. Write the apology. Tell the truth. Or simply stop arguing with reality long enough to grieve what was lost.

Our culture celebrates wins.

Promotions.
Engagements.
Milestones.
Success stories.

But what do we do with the parts of ourselves that didn’t make it?

The relationships that changed us.
The dreams that ended.
The decisions we would never make again.

Maybe repair isn’t always about restoring what was lost.

Maybe sometimes repair means telling the truth about what happened. Taking accountability where it’s ours to take. Offering the apology that’s needed. Grieving what cannot be recovered.

And eventually, slowly, extending forgiveness to ourselves. Not because the scar isn’t real. But because refusing to forgive ourselves doesn’t undo the injury.

It only prevents healing.

There is a price to living wholeheartedly. The alternative is never risking enough to be wounded. And I don’t think that’s living either.

There is fear in not trying. But there is a different kind of fear that comes from failing.

What if it happens again?

I don’t know.

Maybe the truest form of repair is deciding that even with the scar, even knowing there are no guarantees, this version of you is still worthy of participating fully in life.

To love.
To create.
To trust.
To try again.

Not unchanged.

But unhidden.

Scarred, perhaps.

And still willing to begin again.

This is end of the Responsibility Arc.

Beginning | ← Boundaries are Relational |

Share

If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:
https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

“Ready?” Voss said.

“I still hate that question.”

“You used to ask how this worked.”

“And now?”

“You ask if it will.”

Voss studied him for a moment before looking down at the tablet in his lap.

“You’ve done well.”

Wes laughed softly.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Wes hesitated.

“Then why don’t I feel any different?”

Voss looked up from the tablet.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. I sleep. I don’t lie as much. I don’t bolt every time something hurts. He rubbed his palms against his jeans. “I just thought...”

“Thought what?”

“I thought it’d fix me.”

Silence.

Voss studied him.

“When I was in medical school,” he said quietly, “I watched a woman beg us to sedate her.”

Wes looked over.

“She’d lost her son.”

Voss’s voice remained even.

“There was nothing medically wrong with her.”

He looked back down at the tablet.

“She just didn’t want to feel it anymore.”

“What happened?”

“We told her grief was natural.”

Silence.

“It was the correct answer.”

Wes frowned.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Voss met his eyes.

“It wasn’t useful.”

“You think grief should be treated?”

“I think unnecessary suffering should be.”

“What’s unnecessary?”

Voss leaned back.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

He set the tablet down.

“I think it’s time we stopped practicing.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’re done working with memories that inconvenience you.”

Wes’s stomach tightened.

“And?”

Voss held his gaze.

“Now we work with the one that changed your life.”

Wes sat at the kitchen table. It was still dark outside. Rain fell steadily against the window. Only the light above the stove was on.

Bills.

Bank statements.

Overdue notices.

He blew out a frustrated breath and ran his fingers through his hair.

He was supposed to be at the gym.

Instead, he’d gotten sidetracked by the debt.

Again.

No matter how many times he went over the numbers, they refused to add up.

He heard a creak from upstairs.

He quickly gathered the pages. The stairs creaked one by one. He had nearly finished when a small voice drifted from the doorway.

“Morning, Daddy. What are you doing?”

Wes stuffed the last of the papers into a folder and slid it carelessly into his work bag.

“Hey, sweetie. Daddy was just doing some paperwork.”

“Paperwork?”

“Yeah. Making sure the bills are paid. Important adult things. Managing the money.”

Nora climbed into his lap and snuggled against his shoulder.

“Sounds boring. Will there be enough for the zoo?”

Wes felt his breath catch.

“Yeah, baby. There’ll be enough for the zoo.”

He brushed her hair out of her face.

“What animal do you want to see?”

“A sloth.”

Wes laughed.

“A sloth? Why?”

“They are really good at relaxing. I think that’s important.”

“Oh yeah? Why do you say that?”

“You and Mommy are so busy. Maybe we just need to be more like sloths sometimes.”

“What would you do if we slowed down?”

Nora looked up at him with mischievous eyes.

“Eat ice cream and sing Taylor Swift songs.”

“That sounds pretty great, sweetie. Is Mommy up?”

“Yeah. She’s doing her makeup in the bathroom.”

“Sweetie, you know you can talk to Mommy while she’s doing her makeup, right?”

“Yeah. But she’s doing the makeup with the door closed.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. She does that when she’s sad.”

Wes looked toward the stairs.

“What’s she sad about, honey?”

Nora shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’m just a kid.”

“You want it done right or you want it done today?”

“Both, you smart ass.”

“You’re asking a lot, old man.”

“I’m paying you a lot. Figure it out.”

Wes looked down at the corner in front of him.

“This is a real dumpster fire, Marty. Where do you find your framers these days? I swear to God they get worse every year.”

He held up his speed square.

“You’re telling me this is square?”

Marty glared at him.

“Fuck no. It’s been amateur hour here all winter. I’m telling you it’s going to look square by the end of the day.”

He jabbed a finger toward the wall.

“And you’re going to fix it.”

Wes sighed.

“I’m going to need a holiday after this. Take my kid to the zoo.”

“Zoo’ll still be there Monday. Get this shit done.”

“Just caulk it.”

Wes looked up from his tape measure.

“What?”

The apprentice held up the two pieces of trim.

“The corner’s out. We’ll never get it perfect. We’ll just caulk the gap.”

Wes walked over.

The two forty-five degree cuts met at the inside corner with a V-shaped opening wide enough to slide a pencil into.

He held his speed square against the wall and frowned. Most houses weren’t square. You learned that pretty quickly. Ninety degrees existed mostly in blueprints and textbooks. Real houses settled. Floors sagged. Walls bowed. Corners wandered. The trick wasn’t forcing the trim to fit the drawing. The trick was teaching it to fit the house that was actually standing in front of you.

“How far out is it?” Wes asked.

The apprentice shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter. Caulk, paint. Nobody’ll notice.”

Wes took the pieces from him.

“It matters.”

He put two pieces of uncut trim in the corner, one stack over the other, both tight to the wall. He marked the spot where they overlapped. He took his speed square and drew the angle.

“The house isn’t forty-five degrees,” he said. “Why would the cuts be?”

The apprentice frowned.

“So what do we do?”

Wes adjusted the saw.

“You cheat.”

The kid blinked.

“You just said it matters.”

“It does.”

The saw kicked to life.

“You can cheat the method,” Wes said over the scream of the blade. “You can’t cheat reality.”

Back to the corner. Marked the angle he cut against the other board. Back to the saw. Another cut. The joint closed. Tight. Clean. Like it had always belonged there. The apprentice stared at it.

“How’d you know that would work?”

Wes smiled.

“I didn’t. I measured the angle instead of arguing with it.”

A few feet away, the apprentice slid a toe kick against the base of a cabinet and frowned.

“The floor’s out too.”

He reached for the caulking gun.

Wes laughed. He dug through his pouch and pulled out a pencil and a steel washer.

The apprentice frowned.

“What’s that for?”

Wes pressed the washer against the floor and threaded the pencil through its centre.

“Store-bought version costs twenty bucks.”

He rolled the washer along the hardwood. It rolled over every dip and rise in the floor, carrying the pencil with it. A wavering line appeared across the board.

“The floor tells you exactly what it needs,” Wes said. “You just have to stop pretending it’s straight.”

He followed the line with the jigsaw. A minute later, the toe kick slipped into place. The gap disappeared. The apprentice crouched down and ran his hand along the bottom edge.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Wes shrugged.

“Not really.”

“What do you call that?”

“Scribing.”

The apprentice shook his head.

“I would’ve just caulked it.”

Wes looked at the cabinet for a moment.

“Yeah,” he said. “Most people do.”

For a few minutes at a time, work still made sense.

Measure. Adjust. Cut. Problems that stayed solved.

Marty walked past and grunted. “Show off.”

Wes brushed the sawdust from his jeans and stood.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“Knew ya had it in you, kid. Good work today.”

Wes looked over.

“Hang on. Was that a compliment?”

“I can’t criticize every damn thing you do, can I? It loses its meaning. You get used to it.”

A few of the crew walked past.

“Night, guys!”

“See ya.”

Marty handed Wes a thick envelope.

“Hey, I gotta run tonight. Can you drop this in the safe on your way home?”

Wes looked down at it.

“What is it?”

“Tickets to the fucking opera. What do ya think?” Marty snorted. “There was a bonus if we got the main level done on time.”

“You never told me that.”

“None of your business.”

He nudged Wes with his elbow.

“Lucky for me I’ve got the best finish carpenter in the city on my crew.”

Wes rolled his eyes.

“You’re getting soft.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Marty stood and stretched.

“Keep working like you did today and there’ll be a cut for you if we get this filthy fucking shithole done on time.”

Wes sat in his truck outside the office.

The envelope rested on the passenger seat beside him.

Still sealed.

Marty was notoriously trusting with money. Never counted it in front of clients. Half the people they worked for had tried to stiff him at one point or another.

Wes stared at the envelope.

Then looked away.

He pulled up his banking app.

Chequing: $37.22.

He looked at the gas gauge.

Empty.

The orange fuel light shone beside it.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then back at the envelope.

Continue Reading

Beginning | ← The Path | → The Weight

What stood out to you most in this scene?

Leave a comment

I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

Share

But have you ever had a conversation with someone you genuinely care about and known something was off?

“What’s on your mind?”

“Is everything okay?”

And they tell you they’re fine.

Maybe you’ve been on the other side of that conversation too. You’re the one saying, “It’s nothing,” while quietly carrying something much heavier.

Usually, it isn't because you're hiding something wonderful. These aren’t lottery winnings or surprise promotions. More often, the truth feels disappointing. Inconvenient. Likely to create tension.

So, wanting to be kind, we withhold.

We’ve talked before about the cost of delayed truth. But there is another place this same pattern shows up, and I think it may be one of the reasons those conversations become so difficult in the first place.

Resentment rarely appears out of nowhere.

Often, it grows from our own unspoken limits. The rides we agreed to give when we were exhausted. The extra shift we said yes to when we needed rest. The favour we agreed to out of guilt rather than willingness.

Now the people we love are in double trouble.

They don’t know how you’re feeling, and they don’t know you’re beginning to resent the very things you agreed to.

People cannot honour limits they don't know exist.

Maybe boundaries aren’t walls after all.

Maybe they’re disclosures.

Maybe they’re one of the most honest ways we can love the people around us.

Let’s talk about boundaries.

Boundaries Are Relational

If boundaries are so kind, why are they so difficult?

Because many of us learned that saying no meant being selfish. That disappointing someone meant hurting them. That being needed made us lovable.

Let that sink in for a second.

Saying no = selfish.

Being needed = lovable.

Life isn't black and white. There are moments when those equations contain some truth. This is the messy middle we’re talking about. All I’m suggesting is that they aren’t always true.

Sometimes, saying yes when we mean no doesn’t strengthen a relationship. It weakens it.

Resentment grows. Distance forms. We begin performing generosity instead of offering it freely.

The people around you cannot honour limits that remain hidden. They can’t respect needs that have never been expressed.

When we withhold what is true for us, the people we love lose the opportunity to know us fully. They lose the chance to respond to reality rather than resentment.

Healthy relationships aren’t built by pretending we have limitless capacity.

They’re built by telling the truth about who we are, what we can offer, and trusting that reality can survive being spoken aloud.

And if you’re not used to that, it can feel incredibly uncomfortable.

You may disappoint people.

You may disappoint yourself.

You will get it wrong sometimes.

That’s okay.

Because responsibility was never about perfection.

It was always about honesty.

And when honesty inevitably gets messy, we repair.

More on that next week.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

Boundaries only piss off the people who benefited from you having none. If someone gets angry when you start saying no, that tells you everything you need to know about why you needed to start saying no in the first place. - Mark Manson

Mark is famous for his hot takes, and this is no exception. I think there’s truth here, but I’d soften it slightly.

The first time you start communicating boundaries, don’t expect everyone around you to celebrate. You may not communicate them skillfully. You may overcorrect. People may feel surprised, confused, or even frustrated by the change.

That doesn’t automatically mean they’re the wrong people.

Sometimes healthy relationships experience friction as they adjust to a new reality.

But if someone repeatedly dismisses your needs, punishes your honesty, or insists that your value lies only in what you can do for them, it may be worth revisiting Mark’s original point.

2.

"Clear is kind. Unclear is unkind." – Brené Brown

This one is more nuanced than it first appears.

So much of what we’re talking about gets reduced to a simple “yes” or “no.” But the real work happens underneath that answer. What are you feeling? What is the other person experiencing? What fear, hope, guilt, obligation, or resentment is showing up in the exchange?

That’s where the gold is.

Clarity isn’t about becoming blunt. It’s about becoming honest.

And honesty requires awareness.

You can’t clearly communicate needs you’ve never noticed, limits you’ve never acknowledged, or emotions you’ve never named.

Clear is kind because it gives the people we love a chance to respond to what is actually true.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Notice.

That’s it.

This week, pay attention to the moments when resentment, irritation, or heaviness show up.

Ask yourself:

• What did I just agree to?

• Did I actually have the capacity for it?

• What boundary might I be expecting someone else to magically understand without ever expressing it?

Don’t worry about changing your answer overnight.

Don’t focus on saying no perfectly.

Just notice.

Awareness comes before choice.

And choice comes before repair.

Maybe that’s the invitation here.

Not to become someone who never disappoints another person. Not to become someone who never says yes. Not even to become someone with perfect boundaries.

But to become someone who pays attention. Someone who notices when resentment is trying to tell them something. Someone who tells the truth a little sooner. Someone who trusts that the people who love them can survive reality.

That version of responsibility feels a little less like endurance.

And a lot more like honesty.

Maybe that’s another word for love.

This is part of the Responsibility Arc.

Beginning | ← The Cost of Delayed Truth | → Still Willing to Begin Again

Share

If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:
https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

“We’re not going there today, Wes.”

“Huh?”

“The storm. I needed to calibrate the system to maximum flooding. That seemed like a clear choice. Now that we’ve done our testing, we can start at the beginning.”

“So are you gonna tell me how the hell this thing works? Or just throw me back in and keep making me relive the worst moments of my life?”

Voss folded his hands.

“This machine can render any environment your consciousness can conceive.”

Wes stared at him.

“English, Doc.”

Voss sighed.

“You imagine it. The machine builds it.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Voss’s mouth.

“The goal is to find a version of the memory that your mind can accept. One that remains believable, but no longer traps you inside the same emotional response.”

Wes frowned.

“So I’m changing the story.”

“In a sense.”

“Sounds like lying.”

“Does it?”

“What else would you call it?”

“I’d call it practice.”

“Practice for what?”

“Seeing that more than one interpretation may be possible.”

Wes shifted in the harness.

“So I can’t just walk through a door and suddenly Theresa admits I was right all along.”

“You can.”

A grin spread across Wes’s face.

“Now we’re talking.”

“But your mind won’t believe it.”

The grin disappeared.

“Damn.”

“The simulation must remain coherent. Your brain has to accept what it sees, otherwise the experience falls apart.”

“So I can change things. Just not too much.”

“Precisely.”

Wes considered that.

“So what? Honest-to-God doorways? I open a closet and spend the afternoon in Narnia?”

“If that is your intention.”

Wes laughed.

“No way.”

“Though unless you and your wife were enthusiastic fantasy readers, I suspect your mind would struggle to accept the experience.”

“Damn, Doc.”

“What?”

“You could do some seriously messed up stuff in this thing.”

For the first time, Voss didn’t answer immediately.

“I assure you, Wes,” His expression shifted. Not amusement. Not concern. Something older. “You have no idea.”

The words hung between them. Then the moment vanished. Voss reached for the controls.

“Let’s begin.”

“You came back.”

Theresa looked up with a smile. She wore an old high-school gym shirt and baggy track pants. Her smoothie bottle sat open on the counter as she scooped protein powder into it.

Wes froze.

He’d hoped to slip back inside while she was getting ready.

“Yeah. Forgot something.”

“What?”

He reached into the fruit basket and grabbed an apple.

“A snack.”

He kissed her shoulder. Then the side of her head.

Theresa wrinkled her nose.

“Do you smell that?”

Wes sighed.

“Smell what?”

“Bullshit.”

She pointed at the apple.

“You haven’t packed a snack for work once in the twelve years I’ve known you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“Fine.” He raised the apple. “The receptionist likes apples. I’m trying to win her over.”

Theresa’s smile vanished.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m kidding.”

“You better be.”

She folded her arms.

“If you’re smoking again, just tell me.”

The knot in Wes’s chest tightened.

“No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“The truck.”

Recognition crossed her face.

“Oh.”

“It’s making that sound again when it starts.”

“And you couldn’t just say that?”

Wes shrugged.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

Theresa rolled her eyes.

“Was that so hard?”

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

“I already booked you in tomorrow.”

Wes blinked.

“What?”

“With the mechanic.” She grabbed her smoothie and keys. “It’s been sounding awful all week.”

The knot in his chest became a fist.

Tomorrow.

The mortgage came out Monday.

He couldn’t cover both.

“You already booked it?”

“Yes. Do you want me to change it?”

Wes hesitated, his heart racing “No, it should be fine.”

Fine. The word landed heavily. Theresa gave him a look.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“After we drop it off tomorrow...”

She hesitated.

“Maybe we should do something.”

Wes frowned.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She smiled. “Dinner. A walk. A movie.”

“We live together.”

“I know.”

“Then why do we need a date?”

Theresa laughed. “Because lately it feels like we’re just surviving beside each other.”

The words landed harder than they should have. She stepped closer.

“Nothing’s wrong, Wes.” She touched his chest. “I just miss you sometimes.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then she smiled again.

“Think about it.” She headed for the door. “And stop staring.”

“Staring at what?”

Theresa glanced over her shoulder.

“My ass.”

Wes smirked.

“Wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

She laughed and opened the door.

“Maybe I’ll wear that blue dress you like tomorrow.”

“To the movies?”

“The outfit matches the occasion, Wes. You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

She winked. Wes felt himself grin despite everything.

“Dinner tomorrow night. I’ll make the reservation. Wear the blue dress.”

Theresa’s smile widened.

“I’ve missed that version of us.”

The words hung there for a moment.

Just long enough.

Then she grabbed her keys and was gone.

The front door clicked shut. Silence settled over the kitchen. Wes stared at the pantry door.

I’ve missed that version of us.

So that was it. Not money. Not the truck. Not the mortgage.

Somewhere along the way they’d drifted apart.

He’d stopped showing up. Stopped flirting. Stopped making her feel special.

A smile crept across his face.

“Alright, Reese.”

He wrapped his hand around the knob.

“One ultra-romantic reality coming right up.”

And pulled the door open.

“You came back.”

Theresa stood at the counter.

Wes crossed the room and lifted her up and sat her on the counter.

She laughed.

“Well this is new.”

“Just felt like saying goodbye properly.”

He kissed her. For the first time in weeks, she kissed him back without hesitation.

More smiles. More touching. More laughter. The distance between them seemed to melt away. After a while, she pulled away, with her hands on the back of his neck, she looked into his eyes.

“You okay?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

Theresa sniffed.

“You smell that?”

Wes laughed.

“Smell what?”

“Bullshit.”

She smiled.

“It’s been twelve years, Wes. I know when something’s bothering you.”

He sighed.

“I’ve been stressed.”

The words surprised him.

Theresa leaned closer.

“I know.”

For a moment, everything felt lighter.

“Are you going to let me in?” she asked softly. “Or do I need to keep guessing?”

Wes looked away.

“It’s complicated, Reese.”

“I’m a smart girl.”

She squeezed the back of his neck.

“Try me.”

“Well... work’s been slow.”

“And?”

“And it’ll pick up. It always does.”

“Then why are you so stressed?”

Because we’re drowning. Because I’ve been lying. Because I don’t know how to fix it. His chest tightened. Instead he shrugged.

“I’ve just been worried about Nora lately.”

The answer came automatically.

The kitchen lights flickered.

Theresa froze.

The smile drained from her face.

“I just miss you.”

Her voice crackled.

The walls warped.

Then she was gone.

Wes slammed both hands onto the counter.

“Fuck!”

The kitchen dissolved around him.

She knew. Both times. She knew.

He paced. Romance wasn’t enough. Fine.

What else? Money. It always came back to money. The lies. The pressure.

The constant knot in his chest. Maybe that was the real problem. Maybe everything else was downstream.

He grabbed the pantry handle. And pulled.

The truck purred. No warning lights. No mechanic. .

The lake stretched out before them. Theresa stole a fry from his tray.

“I still think I would’ve looked hot in that blue dress.”

“You would’ve.”

“Wasted opportunity.”

She laughed. Everything felt lighter. No stress. No pressure. No secrets.

“Pass me a napkin.”

Wes froze.

“Does a girl have to do everything herself around here?” She joked as she pulled the glove box open.

The cigarettes sat exactly where he’d left them. Theresa stared. Then looked at him.

“What the fuck, Wes?”

Silence.

The lake flickered. The truck shimmered.The fries vanished.

“What the fuck, Wes?”

Again. And again. And again. The entire world fractured.

Wes stood alone. No kitchen. No truck. No Theresa.

Both versions had fallen apart in exactly the same place.

Not the romance. Not the money.

The lie.

He closed his eyes.

He reached for the door one more time.

“You came back.”

“Yeah.”

He walked up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Theresa studied him.

“You’re smoking again, aren’t you?” She held up the package. The one in his jacket pocket. The one that he had come back for.

Wes felt his heart hammering. Every instinct screamed at him to run. To minimize. To explain. To soften it. Instead he took a breath.

“Yeah.”

The word hung between them. Theresa’s shoulders relaxed. Not because she was happy. Because she finally wasn’t guessing.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“No.”

She stepped forward.

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Wes.” Her hand found his cheek. “I just need you to be honest.”

The knot in his chest loosened. For the first time in months. Not gone. Just lighter.

Manageable. Human.

The world dissolved.

Wes felt the familiar jolt as reality returned. The harness pressed against his shoulders. The lab lights hummed overhead.

His heart was still racing. But something else was there too.

Relief.

Voss studied the monitor.

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“The first two versions addressed the circumstances.”

“But they didn’t work.”

“Precisely.” Voss folded his hands. “And the third. No change to the circumstances.” Silence. “And yet...”

Wes frowned. “Then why did it work?”

Voss smiled.

“It worked because the pattern connecting honesty with pain was proven false.”

Continue Reading

Beginning | ← The Anchor | → The Theft

What stood out to you most in this scene?

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I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

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Chapter 1

→ Read The Storm

Chapter 2

→ Read The Call

Chapter 3

→ Read The Anchor

Chapter 4

→ Read The Path

Chapter 5

→ Read The Theft

Chapter 6

→ Read The Weight

Chapter 7

→ Read The Echo

Chapter 9

→ Read The Threshold

Chapter 10

→ Read The Calibration

New chapters will be added here as the story continues.

Responsibility Series

Exploring the difference between responsibility and self-sacrifice.

Responsibility Is Not Endless Endurance

→ Read

Capacity Is Real

→ Read

The Cost of Delayed Truth

→ Read

Boundaries are Relational

→ Read

Still Willing to Begin Again

→ Read

Authority Series

Exploring power, leadership, responsibility, and the stories we tell ourselves about success.

The Weight of Withholding

→ Read

The Loop That Keeps You Stuck

→ Read

You Knew. You Didn’t Speak Up.

→ Read

Pause Before You Answer

→ Read

What it Actually Costs to Be Honest

→ Read

Featured Essays

This One Precious Day

→ Read

Failure Sets You Free

→ Read

The Courage to Hold the Middle

→ Read

New reflections will be added here as the archive grows.

There are a million different ways we’re taught growing up that our needs matter less than everyone else’s.

Pair that with endless stories about grit, endurance, perseverance, and sacrifice, and you have a recipe for a very particular kind of dysfunction.

The kind where self-abandonment starts masquerading as responsibility.

The kind where harmony is preserved externally while resentment, exhaustion, and avoidance quietly grow underneath it.

The problem is, eventually reality collects its debt.

The Cost of Delayed Truth

This is a tough one for me to write. A tough one for me to share.

I’ve spoken before about struggling with people-pleasing tendencies and how that has affected my life.

It’s simple enough to talk about avoidance, perseverance, sacrifice, and exhaustion. They’re all real. They’re all part of the story.

But underneath all of them, I think there’s a deeper layer of truth.

Fear.

Fear of abandonment.
Fear of disappointment.
Fear of conflict.
Fear of not being enough for the people around you.

And I think that fear often leads to a subtle kind of dishonesty.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m fine.”

I once heard someone joke that FINE stands for Feelings In Need of Expression.

Honestly, that lands a little too close to home for me.

Because almost every time I’ve said I’m fine while emotionally overwhelmed, exhausted, resentful, anxious, or drowning internally, something inside me was breaking integrity.

What I was feeling internally was no longer matching what I was expressing externally.

That’s a difficult thing to admit.

Integrity feels important to me. It’s one of the cornerstones of being a trustworthy person. A good friend. A good partner. A good citizen.

Who wants to be around someone dishonest? Someone deceptive? Someone who cannot be trusted?

And yet, I think many of us drift into this kind of dishonesty quietly and unintentionally.

Not because we’re malicious.

Because we’re afraid.

Ignoring capacity through endless endurance can seem valiant. Noble. Compassionate. In service of others.

But eventually, reality still enters the room.

I am a finite human being.

Every day, I can either acknowledge reality honestly, or suppress it in the hope that things somehow work themselves out later.

As a people pleaser, I’m realizing more and more that fear of disappointment, abandonment, and disapproval often leads to self-betrayal.

“I can do this.”
“They need me right now.”
“Things will slow down soon.”
“This isn’t the time to quit.”

But what happens when you can’t?

What happens when trying to be kind, considerate, and compassionate slowly creates resentment, withdrawal, conflict, guilt, and emotional distance instead?

I used to work as a camp leader at a high-performance athletic summer camp.

Part of our programming involved encouraging kids to stop saying “I can’t” and replace it with “I’m currently unable to.”

I’ve been thinking about that phrase a lot lately.

Currently unable.

It leaves room for growth.
For possibility.
For future effort and future achievement.

But it also acknowledges present reality honestly.

And maybe that’s the part we struggle with most.

Not possibility.
Reality.

“Currently unable” means facing what is actually true right now without collapsing into shame about it.

It means recognizing your limitations honestly instead of pretending they don’t exist.
It means aligning your actions with reality instead of fear.
It means saying no not because you’re cruel or selfish, but because it’s the truth.

And maybe honesty is not the opposite of kindness.

Maybe honesty is what allows kindness to remain sustainable.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

“Nothing can be changed until it is faced.” — James Baldwin

I don’t have the answers.

But I do think facing reality matters.

It’s painful admitting that you haven’t lived up to the idea you had of yourself. Painful recognizing that some of your choices, patterns, or avoidance have hurt both yourself and the people around you.

But honesty also creates something avoidance never can.

Possibility.

The possibility for growth.
The possibility for repair.
The possibility for meaningful change.

Nothing changes while it’s hidden.

2.

“We cannot selectively numb emotions. When we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.” — Brené Brown

I remember watching Brené Brown’s TED Talk years ago and honestly feeling a little confused by it.

Vulnerability is the antidote to shame?
What does that even mean?

Can openness and honesty truly work in a world that often feels competitive, performative, and emotionally guarded?

I still don’t fully know.

But I do know this:

I tried living with as little vulnerability as possible for a very long time.

And eventually, that stopped feeling like strength.

It started feeling like disconnection.

So maybe vulnerability is not about oversharing or emotional exposure.

Maybe it’s simply the willingness to let reality be seen before exhaustion, resentment, or collapse reveals it for you.

I don’t have this figured out yet.

But I think I’d rather move forward honestly than spend the rest of my life hiding behind “I’m fine.”

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Where in your life are you saying “I’m fine” when what you really need is honesty?

This is still a daily struggle for me.

There are so many opportunities to avoid honesty.

And to be fair, sometimes that’s appropriate. A complete stranger in a coffee shop doesn’t need my life story. Neither does the woman at the post office handing me the Amazon package I missed.

But when it comes to the relationships that truly matter, the ones that make life meaningful, I’m learning there is no real substitute for honesty.

And given my current situation, honesty also means accepting that I am far more limited and finite than I want to be.

Less flexibility.
Less freedom.
Less spending power.
Fewer options than many people my age.

Some days that’s incredibly painful.

It’s hard not to feel behind.
Hard not to feel like you’ve let yourself or other people down.

But maybe limitation also opens a different kind of door.

Maybe when life strips away excess, urgency, and endless possibility, it forces a deeper question forward:

What actually matters?

What brings peace?
What brings meaning?
What creates genuine joy?

When there are fewer distractions, fewer choices, and fewer places to hide, you start noticing what was quietly in front of you the entire time.

A good conversation.
A slow morning.
A walk outside.
A deep breath.
A moment of rest without guilt.

Maybe some forms of honesty don’t just reconnect us to other people.

Maybe they reconnect us to life itself.

This is part of the Responsibility Arc.

Beginning | ← Capacity Is Real | → Boundaries are Relational

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If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:
https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

He sat against the wall rocking slowly, holding the phone like something fragile. Right now, it was all he had left.

He thought about his daughter. About how much he loved her. About how badly he wanted to go home.

And underneath all of it sat the same crushing thought:

How the fuck did my life end up here?

A treatment facility. No job. No family. No control.

There was dinner somewhere down the hall tonight. Wes didn’t have the energy for it. He stayed where he was, staring at the floor while the room slowly darkened around him.

A knock at the door broke the silence.

“Mr. Weaver? Dr. Voss is ready for your next session.”

Wes rubbed a hand across his face and looked around. He must have fallen asleep on the floor.

His stomach rumbled.

“Hello, Mr. Weaver.”

“Wes is fine, man. There aren’t any buildings with my name on them.”

A faint smile crossed Voss’s face.

“Perhaps not yet.”

He gestured toward the chair across from him.

“Please. Sit.”

Wes lowered himself into the chair while Voss studied him for a moment.

“Many patients experience instability after their first immersion. Reliving difficult memories in that level of detail can be... disorienting.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Honestly?”

“Preferably.”

Wes rubbed his palms against his jeans.

“I feel...” He let out a humorless laugh. “Like I’m a piece of shit.”

Voss shook his head.

“No. You’re unsafe.”

Wes looked up sharply.

“Doc, my wife and daughter are at home without me. I lost my job. I’m locked in a treatment facility waiting for you to decide if I’m stable enough to leave.”

He leaned back in the chair.

“I don’t think I’m exactly crushing it lately.”

Voss folded his hands in his lap.

“Do you know what uncertainty does to the nervous system?”

Wes snorted.

“Man, I’m a contractor. I don’t know anything about neuroscience.”

“Answer the question.”

Wes exhaled hard through his nose.

“No. I don’t know what uncertainty does to the nervous system.”

Voss nodded once.

“The nervous system predicts danger. That’s its job. And when it’s hurt badly enough...” He leaned forward slightly. “It stops waiting for danger to arrive.”

The room went quiet.

“To your body,” Voss continued, “uncertainty begins to feel identical to danger itself.”

Wes stared at the floor.

“Great. So I’m oversensitive now too.”

“No,” Voss said calmly. “Adaptive.”

Wes looked away.

“You survived, didn’t you?”

The words landed harder than Wes expected.

Voss sat back again.

“The problem is that survival responses don’t disappear simply because the danger does. The body remembers. It keeps predicting. Keeps preparing.”

He tapped two fingers lightly against the armrest.

“Eventually, people stop living their lives… They start organizing themselves around avoiding pain.”

Something in Wes’s chest tightened.

Voices surfaced in fragments.

Too emotional.

Too sensitive.

Why are you reacting like this?

His lower lip trembled slightly before he caught it.

Voss noticed.

“This is called flooding.”

Wes looked away quickly.

“My goal is to help your nervous system recognize that the danger is over.”

The room fell silent again. Then Voss spoke carefully.

“What happened to you is not your fault, Mr. Weaver.”

Wes swallowed hard.

“But what you do with it moving forward... that part belongs to you.”

Wes looked at him.

For the first time since arriving at the facility, the two ideas didn’t feel mutually exclusive.

Voss waited. Patient. Measured. Almost unnervingly calm.

“Are you open to continuing treatment?”

Wes hesitated. Then nodded once.

“I think so.”

“Good.”

Voss stood and crossed slowly toward the observation glass.

“Before we continue, we need an anchor.”

“An anchor?”

“A memory. Something emotionally safe. Stable. When the work becomes difficult, your mind will need somewhere real to return to.”

Wes rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t know if I’ve got too many of those these days.”

“That’s understandable.”

Voss turned back toward him.

“You’re married, correct?”

Wes nodded.

“Good. Then close your eyes for a moment.”

Wes gave him a skeptical look.

“This is the million-dollar therapy?”

A flicker of amusement crossed Voss’s face.

“No. You experienced the therapy already.”

He paused.

“This is preparation.”

Wes leaned back in the chair and sighed.

“Alright, Doc. You’re the genius.”

Voss ignored the jab.

“Go back to the beginning,” he said softly. “Before things became heavy. Find a moment that felt safe.”

Wes closed his eyes reluctantly.

The cry cut through the darkness.

Theresa buried her face deeper into the pillow. “Please tell me that’s you.”

Wes checked the clock. 2:13 AM. Two hours before he had to get up for work.

He laughed quietly through his exhaustion, leaned over, and kissed her cheek.

“Yeah. Go back to sleep. I’ve got this.”

Theresa caught his hand before he stood. Her eyes were still closed when she squeezed his fingers once.

“I know.”

The stovetop light cast a warm yellow glow across the dark kitchen. This part of the house wasn’t insulated well. The tile felt cold beneath Wes’ bare feet.

Nora stirred in his arms, squirming softly, though she’d stopped crying the moment he picked her up. She knew food was coming.

He’d already prepped the bottle before grabbing her. Milk from the fridge. Into the warmer. Five minutes.

Now the little red light on the front read 2:37.

Nora rested her head against his shoulder and stared up at him with wide brown eyes, alert and searching.

Sometimes it still stunned him to realize that this tiny person trusted him completely.

To stop himself from thinking about it too hard, he started swaying around the kitchen in a slow two-step, carrying her past the table and back again.

Getting out of bed had been brutal. Framing walls later today was going to be a slog. Sitting down with Theresa tonight to figure out how to pay the bills when they were both already exhausted would probably end in another argument.

But here, right now, at 2:37 in the morning, none of that seemed to matter.

Nora tucked herself tighter against his chest.

Wes closed his eyes for a moment and breathed her in.

As long as he had moments like this in his life, the rest was worth it.

Continue Reading

Beginning | ← The Call | → The Path

What memory would you return to if you needed an anchor?

Leave a comment

I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

If this scene resonated with you, share it with someone who might connect with it too. And if you’d like to follow the story as it unfolds, you can subscribe below.

Share

And if you do, I hope you resist the urge to punish yourself for being human.

I hope you do your best to be honest.

And I hope you do your best to be kind.

To those around you.

And especially to yourself.

Capacity Is Real

I’ve talked in previous posts about my divorce. About the weight of disappointing yourself and the people around you. I remember sitting in my aunt’s kitchen afterward and saying to myself. Never again.

The problem with “never again” is that human beings are flawed and imperfect. We make mistakes. We overestimate ourselves. We misunderstand what we can carry.

And I wonder what life would look like if we accepted that from the beginning.

What if, instead of pretending we’re always dependable, reliable, certain, and fully put together, we were just honest that sometimes we’re not?

Would it become easier to tell the truth about our limitations if we admitted them earlier?

Could we save ourselves some suffering by stopping the performance of being something we’re not?

Maybe that’s wishful thinking.

But I am very clear on one thing now:

My flaws and weaknesses have had a profound influence on the direction of my life.

And I think that’s another trap people fall into.

“The weight of the world is too heavy for me to bear.”

“I did my best.”

Sometimes your best yes is worse than a firm no.

Sometimes your best yes is the single syllable that is subtly and slowly unwinding your integrity, while you believe it is the thing preserving it.

I’m a big fan of stoicism. There’s a phrase often repeated among Stoics. Memento Mori.

Remember you must die.

A lot of people dislike that idea. They think it sounds cynical, depressing, even nihilistic.

But it’s true.

And more importantly, it reminds us of something most of us spend our lives trying to avoid:

We are finite.

As limited human beings, we cannot do everything. We cannot carry everything. We cannot endlessly absorb pressure without consequence.

My great-grandmother spent the final years of her life in a retirement home. One walk through that building was enough to understand that life leaves marks on people over time.

And I sometimes wonder how many people there spent decades carrying more than they could sustain.

How many slowly abandoned themselves while believing they were doing the responsible thing.

There’s a quote from Don Miguel Ruiz that says something to the effect of: if everyone took care of themselves, nobody would be left with unmet needs.

Now obviously, human beings cannot perfectly care for themselves at all times. We need each other. We struggle. We fall apart sometimes.

But I do think many of us underestimate the value of an honest no.

Not the cruel kind.

Not the selfish kind.

The honest kind.

The kind that prevents resentment from quietly building for years beneath the surface.

The kind that stops a life from slowly unraveling under the weight of obligations that were never truly sustainable.

Those small no’s sound scary in the moment.

But so is unraveling a life.

So is unwinding shared dreams and visions.

So is realizing too late that the thing you called responsibility was actually fear, guilt, or the inability to disappoint people.

So maybe the real question is this:

Is it really scarier to say many small honest no’s now…

Or a few devastating ones later?

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

“Real love is accepting other people the way they are without trying to change them.” - Don Miguel Ruiz

I think there’s something powerful about extending that same acceptance toward yourself.

I’m a big fan of “fake it till you make it” in the context of personal growth and trying new things. Mindset matters. If we listened to the voice in our head constantly telling us we’re not good enough, most of us would never try anything difficult.

But there’s another kind of honesty that matters too.

Where are you limited?

Where are you likely to fall short?

I think the difference often comes down to risk.

If it’s taking a dance lesson when you think you have two left feet, or getting up at an improv comedy night, courage and positive self-talk are probably worthwhile.

But when you’re making decisions that affect your life and the lives of other people, maybe that’s the moment for grounded realism instead.

2.

“What is to give light must endure burning.” - Viktor Frankl

There are two ways I think about this quote.

The first is that your honest truth will not always be celebrated. There will be moments where honesty creates tension. Moments where being truthful disappoints people, changes relationships, or forces difficult decisions.

The second is simpler.

A candle is a finite resource.

Just like us.

We only have so much we can burn before we burn out.

So the question becomes:

Who and what gets your wax each day?

A best yes is a difficult concept to wrap your head around.

Most yeses are not spoken carelessly. They are spoken with love, tenderness, intention, and hope. We want so badly to will certain things into existence. We commit ourselves to visions, dreams, relationships, responsibilities, futures.

And in doing so, we offer something real.

Our time.
Our energy.
Sometimes even our bodies and nervous systems.

But a yes is still a choice.

And choices are one of the few things in life that are truly ours.

That’s why honesty matters so much.

Not because we should avoid commitment or responsibility, but because our choices shape our lives quietly over time. One conversation. One obligation. One yes after another.

So as you move through the world today, maybe pause for a moment and take a breath.

And remember:

You always have a choice.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Where in your life are you saying yes out of fear, guilt, or obligation instead of genuine capacity?

And what small honest no might prevent a larger painful one later?

This is part of the Responsibility Arc.

Beginning | ←Responsibility Is Not Endless Endurance | → The Cost of Delayed Truth

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If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.

Thanks for being here.

Jack

P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.

I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.

It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.

eBook + audiobook here:
https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox

What the hell just happened?

The sharp trill of the phone beside him broke the silence. The sudden noise made him jump.

“Fuck.”

Wes’ hands shook even harder. The blood pounded in his ears. His chest tightened at the memory of the harness.

Voss’s voice echoed in his head. Were you?

He forced himself to take a slow breath before reaching for the receiver.

“Hi Honey.”

“Daddy! Guess what Daddy? I had the best day today Daddy! I played with Mr. Pudds. I skipped today. And my best friend is Sally.”

“Sally? I thought Beth was your best friend?”

“Silly Daddy. That was last time we talked. Today, Sally is my best friend. My tummy hurts so I can’t watch TV tonight.”

“Your tummy hurts?”

“Yup. I’m so full. Mommy made the best dinner. Are you coming home today? Do you want me to ask her to put some in the fridge for you?”

Wes clenched his jaw. The plastic receiver creaked softly in his hand.

“Sweetie, you know Daddy loves you very much, right?”

“Ya, I know Daddy. Do you still think about Mr. Pudds? He really wants you to come home too. Mommy is always shouting at him. Mr. Pudds walks around the kitchen and meows and… and Mommy doesn’t like it. She gets annoyed.”

“Does Mr. Pudds still get his kibble at dinner time?”

“Mmmm… maybe! I dunno. I’m just a kid Daddy. I don’t pay attention to stuff like that. Are you coming home soon?”

Wes swallowed.

“Daddy’s trying real hard to come home.”

“I miss you Daddy.”

A tear rolled down Wes’ cheek. His voice caught in his throat.

“I miss you too. Can you do me a favour?”

“Ya. Well… probably. I can’t reach the top of the fridge, so it can’t be getting anything up high.”

A small laugh escaped him before disappearing just as quickly.

“No Honey, I know you can handle this one. I need you to be brave for me, ok?”

“Like strong? Mommy says I’m getting really strong from gymnastics.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Wes took a measured breath. “And I need you to keep an eye on Mommy. Give her an extra hug if she seems sad.”

“She cries less when you’re here. Are you sure you can’t come home today? I think she’d like that.”

A gentle beep echoed through the line. Wes had thirty more seconds.

“I’d like that too, Sweetie. Listen, Daddy has important work to do, ok? So he has to get going. Daddy’s trying real hard to come home. Give Mommy a hug for me and take care of Mr. Pudds.”

“Ok Daddy! You’re my favourite.”

“I love you too, Sweetie. Goodnight.”

Wes placed the receiver back in its cradle.

Slowly, he traced the tattooed numbers on his wrist.

2008.

Continue Reading

| ← The Storm | The Anchor →

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I think a lot of us experience moments that seem small from the outside but quietly change the way we move through the world.

Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.

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