I’m glad I did. This film is absolutely heartbreaking. Spoilers ahead.

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Billy Beane is the GM of the Oakland Athletics. He doesn’t have the budget to outspend his competitors, so he uses metrics other teams largely ignore to identify undervalued players and build a competitive team.

Oakland has incredible success during the regular season but loses in the first round of the playoffs. One of the large-market teams recognizes the value of Billy’s methods. They offer him enormous money to bring his approach to their team. He turns them down. He doesn’t win a World Series, and the team that wanted to hire him does in short order.

The final scene of the film is him listening to a recording of his daughter singing a song. And while it’s not explicitly said that he gave up the job in Boston to stay closer to his daughter, it may have influenced him. If we look purely at his resume from that point forward, life does not reward him for his choice.

He ushers in a revolution to the sport he loves. Yet never gets the payday, and never gets the championship. Damn. This is heartbreaking. And likely why I didn’t enjoy the first watch. I was too young, I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Before you’ve had the experience to try something you believe in and work through challenges in a way you can be proud of, it’s hard to appreciate that the quality of your effort does not guarantee your desired result.

When I was operating my massage practice during the pandemic, I made sure I never sacrificed the wellbeing of my staff for my own benefit. It’s easy enough to do. Fire some people, cut back on payroll expenses, life goes on. But I always saw the staff as people. People with children to support, mortgages to pay, people who believed in me, trusted me to provide a stable environment for them to earn a living.

Those decisions contributed to my current debt. It cost me most of what I had built up until that point. My marriage failed. The business failed. I had to start over.

So I can’t say that those decisions were wise. Far from it. And in the end everyone ended up being let go anyway, which was what I desperately fought to avoid for so long. The question I so often come back to is: was I wrong to do it?

There is a scene at the end of the movie where we see a player hit a home run and not realize it. He rounds first, stumbles, and scrambles on the ground to get back to the base. He’s panicked, thinking the ball is still in play and terrified of being thrown out.

It turns out, he hit a home run.

I’m at a chapter in my life where I get to rebuild. There are often thoughts where I think that I need to right all the wrongs, redeem myself through impressive achievement and persistence.

Pay off my debt as fast as possible. Make savvy financial choices so I’m on pace with my peers at retirement. Make income from my writing to justify the time that I put into it. Grow my business to the point where I again have multiple staff and employees. Sell the business. Transition into a new career that provides me the same freedom and flexibility that I am currently experiencing. Get married. Raise kids.

How different are those from winning a World Series? Becoming the highest paid GM?

And is there still value in the efforts that define my life if I never get the outcomes that I’m striving for? Or is it all for naught?

I failed five people the day I closed my business. And I tried my hardest to avoid that outcome. I don’t think the decisions were sound. They didn’t support the long-term growth of the business and they didn’t consider my needs or boundaries.

But now I say no in my life. Because I know the cost of saying yes. It’s so much easier to be agreeable in the moment. And so much more heartbreaking to finally accept the consequences of all the moments when I didn’t. That pain is so deep, so terrible, that I feel a lot better about the small discomfort created by setting a boundary.

I would not have that wisdom without the “failures.”

So maybe 10 years from now I’m not married. I don’t have kids. My career has changed and I have less freedom. Discover Wellness closes without selling. I still have less than 50 subscribers and no revenue from writing. I pay off my debt but have no retirement savings despite being in my mid-forties.

Did I fail?

Maybe.

But maybe I was true to myself. Maybe I’m doing meaningful work. Maybe I’m in a committed relationship where I’m honest about my needs and I don’t overcommit myself. Maybe I laughed, watched the sunset, and rested when I was tired.

Maybe I looked up from the base in front of me long enough to see the ball go over the fence.

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

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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

But eventually you live long enough that something happens and you don't believe the other person did their best. Their action was painful, it was intentional, and you know the person is capable of better. They had opportunities to acknowledge it and they never apologized. Worse, maybe they don't believe it was as painful as you felt it to be. So then what?

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Forgiveness is always said to be essential for your own healing and growth. Carrying around anger, frustration and resentment does nothing to the one that hurt you but weighs heavily on you. But if forgiveness requires me to make their behaviour understandable, I might never get there.

So I looked into it. Forgiveness can be as simple as voluntarily moving away from resentment. In other words, it can coexist with the judgment that what happened was genuinely unjust.

I was recently in a social situation with my ex-wife. I hadn't made any effort to engage in conversation or socialize. Eventually, we bumped into each other and conversation was unavoidable. She suggested that it would be easier in these situations if we were cordial with each other. I agreed that it would be easier. And I said that I didn't have the capacity at this time. I hadn't forgotten what happened and cordiality didn't feel appropriate given the circumstances of our divorce.

My priority was not taking away from the evening by creating a scene. And yet I also wasn’t prepared to ignore how I felt. I was tired of brushing my emotions under the rug to make things easier for others. And there was a third pull in the moment as well. Does forgiveness require cordiality? I didn’t want to make the situation any bigger or more uncomfortable than it needed to be. But I didn’t have anything to say either. What happens in her life isn’t particularly important to me anymore, and I didn’t want to pretend that it was. So maybe forgiveness isn’t wishing someone well. Maybe forgiveness isn’t restoring the relationship.

I still feel like it was unfair. But the most realistic possibility is that acknowledgment will never come. How long do I want to keep waiting on a debt that will never be paid?

I started in regret and resentment. I wished things had been different and I felt angry that the difference was not addressed. Repair would require that difference to be addressed. That isn’t always possible. Forgiveness may be as simple as accepting that the difference will never be addressed. I need to stop waiting for the other person to make it right. The past held power over my present. I’ve been carrying it with me. I need to let go. It may not seem like much. That’s okay. In fact, it is enough.

Repair takes two people. Forgiveness doesn't.

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

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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

The friends I’m with are just ahead of me and we’re all walking down to the bus to go out for 39-cent wings. Suddenly, I remember that I was supposed to be dropping off a resume for a student volunteer position as a Strength and Conditioning Coach at the gym on our way off campus.

“Shit,” I say, “I forgot my resume.”

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After a brief pause, I shrug and say, “Ah well, I probably wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. No sense worrying about it.”

Suddenly, one of the guys in the group turns to me.

“You should go back for it.”

“Nah, it would take too much time.”

“Come on Jack, it would only take 5 minutes. Go get it, we’ll wait.”

There were probably 8–12 of us who all lived on the second floor and often spent time together. Steve and I didn’t know each other that well yet, so I was surprised he spoke up.

I look around to the other people, a few nod their heads. Not one to inconvenience others, I hesitate.

“Go on Jack, get your resume,” someone else says in the group.

I go red as I feel I’m inconveniencing everyone, but I go up to grab my resume, and we drop it off on the way to the bar.

That was November 2010. 16 years later I can confidently say most of my professional life can be traced back to those 5 minutes. Sure, I’d put in the hard work to get into the McMaster Kinesiology program. Yes, I’d taken the time to fill out the resume. But without that push, no career as a personal trainer. No chance meeting with the RMT who worked for the Mac swim team.

I recently started reading Stephen King’s novel 11/22/63. It’s about a schoolteacher who travels in time to try and prevent JFK’s death. But what called to me is a line the narrator repeats at the beginning of the novel. Life turns on a dime. The thing is we don’t know when.

The resume wasn't the only time. Once I started looking backward, I saw these dimes everywhere.

The very first day at McMaster, I was keen to get access to the gym. I headed over to sign up for a membership. There was a line. I can’t actually tell you how it came to be. But there was a short blond guy in line drinking a white tea with honey. We started talking. His name was Paul. We discovered that we were both in Mac Kin. Fast forward 16 years again and he is one of my best friends. We’ve travelled to Costa Rica. We’ve taken multiple road trips to Manitoulin Island.

Later, I was living in Toronto. I was dating a girl and we had booked time off to travel to Thailand together… Or so I thought. As it turned out, I was the only one who had the time booked off. This came to light only a few weeks before departure. Plane tickets were crazy expensive at this point, so I needed a pivot for a solo trip. I had three options. San Jose, California; Dublin, Ireland; or St. John’s, Newfoundland. I remember thinking that I didn’t have much money and that the euro or American dollar exchange rates would kill my budget. So Newfoundland it was. That trip led to what has become a lifelong love of camping.

Can I work seriously toward the future without requiring it to look like the future I've imagined?

This past weekend, I drove up to Sault Ste. Marie and back with a friend. Over the 12+ hours in the car, a conversation came up about this exact idea. She has recently gone through a separation, so we both thought our lives were heading one way, and now we are both rebuilding. I shared my anxieties about the uncertainty of what was to come.

I spoke about the need to pivot into another career. I want a family and yet I’m single and childless. My own history is basically screaming at me: Jack, you have no fucking idea what’s going to happen.

I dreamed of being married. Of raising children in a house I owned. I have none of those things.

And her suggestion was to give space. To allow things to work out however they will. That I had time. That I had options.

But it nagged me then. Yes, I can recognize where randomness has shown up in my life. And I’ve worked damn hard. It wasn’t chance that got me into university. I built the skills necessary to be a successful business owner and to thrive as a RMT. And it is fucking terrifying to leave something as profound for me as whether or not I have a family to chance.

I couldn’t have submitted that resume if I hadn’t written it already. I wouldn’t have met Paul if I didn’t decide to explore a gym membership. I wouldn’t have camped in Newfoundland if I had decided to stay home.

Choices matter. The agency I have over my life creates motion. If I stay in my apartment for the next 5 years watching Netflix, I can’t really expect the future mother of my children to knock on my apartment door.

So it’s up to me to open the door. Leave the apartment. Meet people. Build a life worth sharing with someone.

I know that I want a family. That I want work that is meaningful, sustainable, and financially stable. I know that I want a life filled with adventure and community.

I can move toward these things without knowing the route.

All I can do is write the resume. And if I experience another moment when someone tells me to go back and get it, I go back and get it.

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

Once I’m back in the apartment, it’s just big enough to walk around the double bed that takes up most of the footprint. So I sit on my bed and either read or steal the guest Wi-Fi from the outdoor clothing store downstairs to stream movies/shows. I normally get up at 4:30 or 5 am to start my workday. But I recently quit drinking, so I’m no longer going out to bars and clubs with the same urgency that I did. It feels lonely at times. And I dream a lot about the future. A steady and established business. Marriage. Kids. A house. A legacy in an industry that I felt needed to be shaken up. But I was debt free. I didn’t appreciate how freeing that was at the time.

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Today, the buyout of my house officially went through. I am again living in an apartment, though this time my bathroom and kitchen are my own! A quiet evening still feels like reading or watching TV. It still feels lonely at times. A lot of what I wanted came true. I have a steady and established business. I’ve been married. I’ve owned a house. But I still want to be a father.

I wanted to create stability and consistency in my life. To make those around me proud. To stand on my own two feet.

I heard an idea recently that stuck with me: you were enough the minute you were born and there is always more to do. Just don't confuse being with doing.

I think I’m a lot clearer on what I want. And where that differs from what other people want. And from who I once thought I wanted to be. So much of this time was spent trying to meet other people’s expectations while also living up to an idealized version of myself.

But I’m me. I’m nerdy. I’m athletic. I’m curious. I’m adventurous. I’m cautious. I’m more of a morning person and definitely someone that likes a lot of sleep. People light me up, but they also wear me out. And so the path forward is shaping a life that serves me. I imagine a life where my wants and needs slot in and take up space along with the needs of friends, family and partners. I see a life with a lot more space for living outside of work. And filling that space with more than reading and watching. Regular time spent each week with people who share my own kind of weirdness.

I played a game of snakes and ladders this weekend while sharing a chocolate bar with a friend. It was silly and fun and exactly the kind of shared play I want more of. I also had an orientation at the local food bank today. I’ve also signed up for a ceramic class in the fall. And I’m making time to be active with other people. And I’m keeping my work in a small mostly Monday-Friday, 9:30-5:30 container so that I have space to do those things. So going forward, joy cannot come exclusively from things I do by myself. Service is important. But I’ve done it so many times in my life at the cost of me.

There will always be a need for sacrifice. Some of the most meaningful moments of my life have come from sacrifice and hardship. But self-abandonment has been a theme in my life. I’ve given more than I have to try and appease others.

I don’t want to stop giving. I want to build a life where I have enough left in me to give sustainably. Where sacrifice is something I choose because it matters, rather than something I endure because I’m afraid to say no.

Maybe that’s enough direction for now.

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

A few weeks ago I wrote about starting over. About holding off on a choice when you weren’t sure what your next step should be in order to create a possibility. That’s all well and good but I couldn’t shake that it was an incomplete idea. What’s to separate this meaningful pause from pure laziness or fear? Objectively, is there something an outside observer could notice that would distinguish the fearful person from the intentional one?

At first I considered acceptance. We are all capable of constructing stories that make continuing our current behaviour feel reasonable. And these stories can protect your ego from the truth: what you expected to happen didn’t. And so maybe the lesson is really just to minimize the space between that realization and acceptance. But it didn’t feel to me that acceptance alone was enough.

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Let’s peel it back for a second. Let’s say that I made a mistake in a volleyball game. I tried a move to get the ball over the net and it didn’t work. I can beat myself up, I can blame external circumstances, I can try and laugh it off. Regardless of what I chose, the reality is there is a new point coming up. I need to accept where I’m at. And I need to engage with where I’m at right now. I tried something. It didn’t work. There is another point coming up. Am I engaged? Or am I distracted?

I recently listened to an episode of The Tim Ferriss Show with Diana Chapman. She had the courage to share that her marriage of thirty-plus years has had its challenges. She met her husband when they were in their early twenties, and there has been considerable growth and change for both. She tells a story about being willing to give up the marriage. “The relationship as it was is done. Now let’s just check and see, is there a relationship?”

What a brave sentence. What possibility comes with a curiosity that seeks answers where you don’t control the outcome: “This isn’t working for me. I’m willing to let it go to find what’s next.”

I shared that I have a timeline of debt repayment in my future, and likely shortly after that, a career change. So the story I’m tying to those facts is that both of those problems need to be solved before I can move forward, before I can begin living. I want to be someone who is stable and dependable. For so many years now, the debt I’ve been carrying has limited my ability to provide for myself and for any future family I may one day have. Right now, I’m in a holding pattern. I’m waiting for the debts to be paid down to be proof that I am the person that I want to be. The eventual end of my massage career creates the same problem.

Another quote from the Chapman interview, this time a question asked of her by a friend: “Who is the woman you would need to be to call forward that man?”

Maybe there’s a deeper question in there: “Who do I need to be to call forward the future that I want?”

Now there’s a discrepancy between my patience and my courage. I want to be dependable and stable. But is a shiny new job or a debt-free future really the only thing that makes me dependable and stable? Or are there a set of behaviours and lifestyle choices that go with that? Can I practice those now, while working through my current struggles? Is there work that I need to do, that I can do today, that moves me towards that goal?

I think the honest answer is yes. I’ll be the first to tell you that I’ve had some bad luck the past few years. I made some bold bets and they didn’t pan out. Having a new and “non-essential” healthcare business during a global pandemic was a once-in-a-lifetime misfortune. While that is true, I have some growing up to do. I overextended myself, I didn’t admit that I was overwhelmed early enough, and I didn’t explore alternative possibilities enough to be prepared for an undesired outcome. Going forward, there is less wiggle room now. The debt is real. The need for a career change is real. And I get to approach each day with clear limits that I honour and an openness to not have all the answers. I need to give myself permission to sit in the pause before jumping into a big decision. I need to ask for help when needed instead of stubbornly grinding myself down to a pulp.

Objectively, how do you tell if someone is engaged with the next point or reliving the previous one? Behaviour. Pattern repetition or pattern correction. I’ve endured too long and called it courage. I’ve disregarded my limits and called it strength. I’ve stubbornly pressed forward when it’s not working and called it consistency. And the result has been financial distress that has constrained how I’ve been able to show up for those who matter most in my life. So the point’s been lost. It’s time to move on. Not right away, not putting myself out of position. But playing the ball when it comes to me. With patience, with honesty, with curiosity, and with courage.

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

This is my own paraphrase of the key threat of the novel The Three-Body Problem. The first time I encountered it, the timescale immediately sent my brain whirling. Most fictional threats demand immediate action. The question of how one prepares for something 300 years away is much more interesting.

After I thought about it a bit, I realized that there are often distant problems lurking in our everyday life. Our own aging process is the perfect example of something that is not urgent but will certainly require our attention.

So at what point does something that isn’t urgent become important enough to act on?

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I recently finished reading The Uncool by Cameron Crowe. His mother was always adamant that he would become a lawyer. He mostly agreed with her, though he had a few opportunities to write and contribute to various rock magazines as he was finishing high school. Eventually, those small opportunities fueled a career that carried him all the way to the Oscars. He won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay for Almost Famous. That night, at the table, with the award displayed proudly between Cameron and his family, his mother reminded him once again that he could still apply to law school and that it’s never too late.

In my own life, I’ve been working as a Registered Massage Therapist for 11 years now. When I got into the profession, I knew that my time was limited. I entered a physically demanding profession knowing I wouldn't still be doing it in my sixties. I was only twenty-three when I graduated from school, so I knew that future Jack would eventually have to deal with a career change; I just never anticipated that the day would actually come that I needed to address that concern.

I’m struggling because I’ve built a life that I love. I work for myself. I set my own hours. I enjoy complete freedom and autonomy over my day. I genuinely enjoy being of service to my patients, and I am completely content with my income and earning potential.

As a twenty-three-year-old massage grad, I originally imagined massage to be a short layover before the big career of my life. And yet somehow, it’s been an incredibly long and rewarding career.

Recently, I went through a breakup. I moved into a small apartment and relocated my business. I have some debts to pay off. I’m now focused on that goal. There is a timeline. By the time I am debt free, I will be much closer to the expiry date of my massage therapy career.

Cameron Crowe transitioned from rock journalism to film directing and screenwriting. I’m sure there was a messy middle as he pivoted from one career to the next, but he didn’t give it a lot of space in his story. I wanted more of the messy middle.

Hell, I’m in it now, and I don’t know where to go next.

When you know that what you’re doing now won’t get you over the finish line, but it’s working more than well enough for today, how do you prepare for that coming change?

I always tell my patients to dip their toe in before they commit. But in my case, that likely means temporarily giving up some income and stability, so how do you decide how to make the transition?

If you’ve gone through a major transition while the old thing was still working, I want to hear about that in-between period.

Did you start building the next thing while the old thing was still working?

What did “dipping your toe in” look like before you were willing to commit?

Leave a comment

I’m entering a chapter of life where I’m starting fresh. Again. And at an age where so many of my friends are hitting their stride. Really making things happen.

When you’re young, fresh is fun. Fresh is exciting. Now, it’s more nuanced.

Grief for what was. Grief for what could have been. Fear. Of falling behind. Of being left behind. Of doors closing that don’t reopen later in life.

A friend recently shared some advice with me.

“Give it a year. Let the dust settle. Don’t rush into anything and see what comes up.”

It was timely. I’ve spent a lot of time in my head wondering what to do next. And yet, doing nothing wasn’t one of the options I’d considered.

Motion always feels productive.

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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The Space Between Urgency and Patience

I just finished building my first piece of custom furniture. It was a bookshelf designed to fit perfectly against the wall of my living room. Woodworking is a new endeavor for me, especially furniture, where precision and craftsmanship matter.

I bought a sheet of maple plywood; it is the most expensive piece of plywood I’ve ever purchased. My heart raced in my chest as I prepared to make the first marks on the boards. The grain of the wood was so beautiful and pristine.

I rushed the initial set of cuts. I was nervous to start and excited to finish.

I spent the rest of the day fighting those poor cuts to try and salvage the build.

The final product is something I’m proud of. But the whole experience got me thinking.

A cut isn't necessarily a mistake. Eventually you have to cut the damn board.

I’ve been worried a lot lately about whether waiting too long closes doors. What if acting also closes doors?

I had a therapy session about a year and a half ago. I was talking about some of the past struggles I’d gone through. How painful they had been. What I knew I didn’t want going forward in my life.

After a brief pause, the therapist said something like, “Oh. That’s so interesting. It seems you’re very clear on what you don’t want. What if we turn that around. What do you want?”

I was floored. What did I want? I was prompted with another question, “What is the opposite of what you don’t want?”

I didn’t have an answer at the time. It’s still not clear for me.

Without a clear destination, it’s difficult to know if your actions are moving you towards your goal or away from it.

There are eight babies being born in my friend group this year. For a lot of couples, it will be their second child. When you’re younger, you imagine raising your kids with your friend’s kids.

This year I learned the difference between a bankruptcy and a consumer proposal. Once you’re on the path out, there’s still a period of time that needs to be lived through.

When more time means more distance between your path and the path that your friends and family are on, that can feel disheartening. It can feel lonely. It can feel sad.

All of that creates space. Space to think. Space to reflect. Unwelcome space at times.

I don’t know what’s next.

I know that waiting has a cost.

And I’m beginning to recognize that rushing has a cost too.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves - Rainer Maria Rilke

It seems like the universe is trying to teach me something. This is a much more concise version of what I tried to express this week. That there can be joy in the not knowing.

2.

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards. - Soren Kierkegaard

The first time I saw this quote was when my aunt shared it with me. Right after I got divorced. After I’d messed up the cuts on my bookshelf, hindsight couldn’t unmake them. I still had to move forward with the material that I had.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Am I making this decision because I'm ready… or because uncertainty is uncomfortable?

I remember watching a TED Talk by Nora McInerny. She spoke about losing her husband at a young age. She was distinguishing between moving on and moving forward. She spoke about carrying grief with you as life continues.

Grief is real. It’s worth feeling and experiencing. It’s the cost of experiencing something meaningful. You can carry the meaning of something forward without carrying the expectation that your future still has to look the way you once imagined. Maybe it just means creating space for possibilities we couldn’t see before.

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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

After wrapping up that first movie, I naturally watched the rest of the trilogy over the remainder of the week.

The first time I watched Before Midnight, I hated it.

I had grown to idealize the main characters of the trilogy. They had brought to life the thoughts and emotions of each decade I’d lived so far. For the installment in their 40’s, I was expecting to see how open and honest conversations could fuel a healthy long-term relationship.

Instead, the audience is witness to an argument. One only a couple who truly know each other could have. It’s calculated, intended to press on the points that hurt the most. They are no longer seeking to understand each other. They are out to prove their point. Their shared anger is fueled by years of resentment, disappointment, and years of feeling their efforts go unappreciated.

At first, I felt betrayed. After watching 3+ hours of incredible chemistry between these two people who find each other despite incredible odds, it seems odd that none of that magic shelters them from the weight of day-to-day life. Worn out, lonely, and feeling invisible to their partner.

But after rewatching the film a few times, I realized I had misunderstood what the film was trying to show me.

Maybe finding the right person isn’t the end of the story. Maybe the harder task is continuing to discover the people and places we think we already know.

What if the secret to not taking life for granted is to retain a sense of curiosity?

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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Even extraordinary love eventually becomes ordinary life.

And that’s not the tragedy. The tragedy would be believing ordinary life means the love has disappeared. The tragedy would be believing that ordinary life means the excitement and joy of new has diminished.

The tragedy is taking the things we know most intimately and deciding that we understand them completely. That there is nothing new to learn. Like the water flowing through a river, everything is subtly different each and every day.

Perhaps a relationship is like that. Perhaps the town you’ve lived in more than ten years is like that. Perhaps the parts of your life that are so routine that are on autopilot are like that. Constantly changing even though they seem identical to how they were previously.

If that’s true, then the fault doesn’t lie in the outside world. The fault lies within us. With our perception. With our understanding of the world and people around us.

Over time we lose our sense of curiosity. Our sense of awe. The world becomes less magical and more mundane. Let me give you an example.

I’ve lived in Orillia full time for almost 6 years now. In that time I’ve become familiar with the streets, with the buildings, and I’ve got routines and habits. There’s so much that I expect to always be there and that I take for granted.

Recently, I’ve started going for an evening walk. And it has been incredible. No headphones. No distractions. Just me and the world. Birds flittering through the trees. Houses with beautiful and well-tended gardens. Side streets that connect neighborhoods in ways that I didn’t anticipate. Raccoon cubs climbing out of sewer drains. What is their life like underneath the roadway?

Same city. Different perspective.

I recently came across a quote in a book that spoke about how we spent so much time in early life being warned and cautioned against an abundance of negative personality traits. But we rarely talk about the problems that come from an abundance of good traits as well.

Safety is good. Certainty is good. Familiarity, and intimacy, are good. But too much of any of these? I’m not convinced that more is always better.

I’m guilty of this in my own life. I like consistency. I like routine. I like to understand how the world works and what’s what. But the older I get, the more I’m convinced that the true joy of life is wonder. Curiosity. Awe.

Especially for the things and people we think that we know best.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. — Marcel Proust

I remember reading when I was younger how valuable travel is. It opens your eyes to a wider world than your hometown. Different ways of doing and being. The first time I read this quote I didn’t quite get it. Isn’t the point of travel for your same eyes to see something different and grow through that discovery?

After working through this week’s insight, I see the value of both. Travel expands our world, and curiosity transforms the one that we already inhabit. Maybe the greatest discoveries aren’t found elsewhere. Maybe they’re already waiting in the places, people, and routines of our everyday lives.

2.

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. — Rainer Maria Rilke

Ouch.

I love to find the answers to things. Creating systems. Learning. Understanding. More and more, I’m realizing those aren’t always the right tool for the job.

Curiosity requires resisting the urge to reach a conclusion too early. It asks us to sit with uncertainty just a little bit longer. One more question. One more moment to truly observe.

Patience toward all that is unresolved may be the first step toward rediscovering wonder.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

What in your life has become so familiar that you’ve stopped being curious about it?

I don’t know if there’s something magical about movement. But walking seems to help my headspace. Without it, I find I’m ruminating. I’m stuck in thought loops in my head and not appreciating the world. Now, I know that an evening walk every night especially through the winter may not be realistic, but I’m hopeful that I will continue to find other ways to slow down and make space for curiosity throughout my week.

I’d love to hear from you. What helps you rediscover curiosity in the ordinary parts of your life?

Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the things the story understands surprisingly well is that the right choice can still hurt.

Grief does not always mean something was wrong.

Sometimes it means something mattered.

Responsibility Is Not Endless Endurance

Lately I’ve been sitting with a strange emotional contradiction.

I’ve felt grief and relief at the same time.

Grief because parts of my life are ending that genuinely mattered to me.

Relief because somewhere underneath all the pressure, I knew I could no longer carry the future I was trying to force into existence.

It’s made me question a definition of responsibility I’ve carried for most of my life.

When I was young, there were many times in my life when I was lazy.

I didn’t want to complete a chore I’d been given. Or finish the homework I’d been assigned.

As I got older and moved into sports practices and jobs, there were days where I was tired. Days where I wanted to coast a little. Ease off.

Early on, I was fortunate enough to have mentors who challenged that.

I was told nobody was coming to save me. If I wanted to accomplish something in life, I’d have to earn it. I needed to be accountable for what was mine to carry.

And for a while, my life was small enough that this worked.

I could be on a few sports teams, work on the weekends, study for my tests, and show up reasonably well in all of them. I’d be tired. There were seasons where I needed grit, where I had to dig in and persevere. But it worked.

At some point, wanting something badly stopped being enough to sustain it.

I have been self-employed since the day I graduated from post-secondary school.

That has been a true blessing in my life. My work days are mostly fulfilling, low drama, and low stress.

But my life has also taken on many challenges as a result of that same choice.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had taken down the guardrails on my life. There were no longer any limits on what was possible for me, or what I could commit my energy toward.

Flash forward 11 years of trying to grow businesses, nurture relationships, and build different futures, and my efforts eventually came to a firm and sudden collision with reality.

Much like a NASCAR driver smashing into the wall and wondering what the hell happened, I’ve lately found myself appreciating that maybe responsibility is not endless endurance.

Maybe responsibility has less to do with carrying everything and more to do with telling the truth sooner.

Maybe having no guardrails on life actually requires a greater degree of honesty and accountability.

Not the kind tied to effort or endurance, but the kind that tells the truth before resentment, avoidance, or collapse enters the room.

The kind that may disappoint people in the short term, but prevents deeper damage later.

Now, to be clear, this isn’t a blank check to avoid commitment, sacrifice, or discomfort. It’s not a rally cry to shift responsibility into avoidance.

There is a balance here. Boundaries can very easily become withdrawal.

What I’m talking about is that messy middle that’s hard to define.

I think there needs to be a pause before jumping into, or continuing, a commitment. And the deciding factor is not whether there will be sacrifice or discomfort, but whether or not it will be sustainable.

And maybe most importantly, accepting that the answer to that question can change.

If life is a winding, hilly road, you can’t anticipate what you’ll find at every turn. So while you may believe you want what’s at the end of the road, life may eventually show you that a different path is needed.

Again, if the example is carrying a heavy load up a hill, there is a difference between not wanting to and not being able to.

There’s a difference between carrying weight and pretending weight doesn’t exist.

This shows up most powerfully in my life when it comes to decisions, not physical actions.

We usually know our physical limits. We bend down to pick up a load and quickly get an impression of what’s possible.

But with decisions, there can be a perceived kindness in delaying your truth. In going along with something not because you’re dishonest or manipulative, but because you genuinely want it to work.

You want that heavy load at the top of the hill, so of course you’ll carry it.

The truths we avoid early rarely disappear.

They usually grow teeth.

Silence can look generous for a long time.

Until the bill finally arrives.

There is a lot of stillness in my life right now.

It’s unsettling because there are still daily surges of grief and sadness.

It’s hard to feel proud when you fall short of what you were trying to build.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t still a display of strength. Of courage. Of accountability.

Maybe strength is not always found in continuing.

Maybe sometimes strength is finally saying no.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

“The most common form of despair is not being who you are.”
— Søren Kierkegaard

There’s a lot of internet self-help built around this idea.

“Be yourself.”
“Live life to the fullest.”

Like many platitudes, the phrases themselves can start to feel hollow. Not because they’re untrue, but because they often skip over the lived experience of becoming.

I like this quote because it connects despair, an emotion we usually try to avoid, to the act of not being who you are.

There’s something more honest in that.

Being true to yourself may eventually bring peace, fulfillment, or freedom. But first, it may disrupt your relationships. It may force hard conversations. It may cost you versions of your life you genuinely wanted.

Growth rarely feels inspiring while you’re inside it.

Sometimes becoming more honest hurts before it heals.

Both can be true.

2.

“You can avoid reality, but you cannot avoid the consequences of avoiding reality.”
— commonly attributed to Ayn Rand

Whether or not she originally said these exact words, I think the quote survives because it points toward something painfully true.

We often imagine avoidance as passive.
Delaying the conversation.
Ignoring the tension.
Pretending we can sustain something we no longer have the capacity to carry.

But avoidance has consequences.

Not because we are bad people, but because our lives affect other people.

No choice is still a choice.
Silence still shapes relationships.
Delayed honesty still changes outcomes.

That’s part of what makes responsibility so difficult.

We are free to make choices.
But we are not free from the reality those choices create.

And neither are the people we love.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Before saying yes to something this week, pause long enough to ask:

“Can I sustainably carry this… or am I trying to avoid disappointing someone?”

I’m starting to realize that responsibility is not the same thing as endless endurance.

Sometimes responsibility means staying.
Sometimes it means carrying the weight.
Sometimes it means repairing what you broke.

And sometimes it means telling the truth before collapse tells it for you.

That kind of honesty has a cost.

But so does pretending.

Maybe strength is not always found in continuing.
Maybe sometimes strength is finally saying no.

This is the beginning of the Responsibility Arc.

→ Capacity Is Real

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

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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

Since I was little, I’ve always dreamed of writing fiction.

When I first started this blog, I didn’t have any fiction writing ready to share. More importantly, having never published my writing before, I don’t think I was ready yet either.

After 50+ posts over the past few months, that’s started to change.

Beginning this week, Saturdays will become home to the fiction writing I’ve been quietly working on behind the scenes.

This newsletter has already evolved over the past few weeks, but going forward, the philosophical and reflective life pieces I’d been publishing on Saturdays will now live here instead.

My hope is for this newsletter to become a grounding weekly presence: one idea to reflect on, two voices worth learning from, and one small practice or question to carry into the week ahead.

The fiction, meanwhile, will explore many of those same ideas emotionally through story and character.

As always, thank you for reading. Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome.

Leave a comment

Harmony vs Integrity

There’s a difference between harmony and integrity.

I don’t think I understood that for a long time.

For most of my life, I’ve been someone who values peace. I like when people feel comfortable. I like when relationships feel stable. I like when tension stays low and everyone feels okay.

And honestly, there’s good in that.

The world needs kind people.
Patient people.
Flexible people.

But lately, I’ve been realizing something difficult:

The absence of conflict is not always the same thing as peace.

I recently heard an analogy about being on a boat. A big boat with an engine room underneath.

If you never share your honest feelings or needs, then the people in your life are simply standing on deck enjoying the view, unaware of the struggle happening below to keep things running.

Sometimes harmony is genuine.
Sometimes it’s built on care, compromise, and mutual understanding.

But sometimes harmony is maintained because someone is afraid of what honesty might disrupt.

And the problem is that not speaking up in the moment often turns into resentment later.

I think a lot of agreeable people learn to read rooms before they learn to read themselves.

They become skilled at:

• smoothing tension

• adapting quickly

• staying understandable

• staying likable

• staying safe

And over time, it can become so automatic that they stop noticing how often they abandon their own thoughts, needs, limits, or desires in the process.

Not dramatically.
Quietly.

Then eventually, a difficult question appears:

Where are my wants and needs in the rhythm of my actual life?

And maybe even harder:

What would they be if I finally made space for them?

That’s the thing I’ve been sitting with lately.

Harmony without honesty has a cost.

Not immediately.
Not all at once.

But slowly, over years, a person can become disconnected from themselves while still looking “good” from the outside.

And eventually, resentment starts growing in places where honesty never had a chance to exist.

Back to the boat analogy. Eventually, you have to come up on deck and try to explain what’s happening underneath.

That analogy feels especially real to me because I am absolutely not a mechanic. When something goes wrong with my car or around the house, I often struggle to explain what’s happening in a coherent way.

Emotions can feel like that too.

Difficult to name.
Difficult to explain clearly.

But that’s probably not a reason to stay silent.

I don’t think integrity means becoming harsh or rigid or emotionally reckless.

I don’t think mature relationships are built on brutal honesty without care.

But I also don’t think sustainable relationships can survive when honesty is endlessly delayed in the name of comfort.

Maybe integrity is not the opposite of harmony.

Maybe real harmony can only exist after integrity.

Lately, I’ve been trying to make more space in my life for rest and pace.

The other morning, I noticed myself running downhill to work, right on the edge between barely on time and slightly late.

And I realized I’ve been living like that for almost twelve years.

Now, life is busy. No question.

But I’m also starting to see how much of that busyness has been reinforced by my own unwillingness to disappoint people, create friction, or simply say no.

2 Voices I’m Learning From

1.

“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” - Carl Jung

A younger version of me would have read this quote mostly as a warning against conformity.

Just because something is normal, culturally accepted, or expected does not necessarily mean it is the right fit for you.

I still think there’s truth in that.

But lately, I’ve started seeing another layer to the quote: becoming yourself will likely create some friction in your relationships too.

Not because honesty is cruel, but because real relationships eventually require clarity.

Clarity about:

• needs

• limits

• hopes

• fears

• expectations

• ways of living

That kind of understanding takes effort. And sometimes disagreement.

But I’m beginning to think that temporary discomfort is often the price of genuine peace.

Not the fragile peace that comes from avoiding tension, but the deeper kind built on mutual understanding instead.

2.

“Good teaching cannot be reduced to technique; good teaching comes from the identity and integrity of the teacher.” - Parker Palmer

I keep imagining a version of this quote that begins, “Good people-ing cannot be reduced to technique.”

There are endless guides on healthy communication, boundaries, values, purpose, mission, and vision. And a lot of them contain genuinely helpful wisdom.

But eventually, I think we all reach a point where we have to stop performing what a healthy person is supposed to sound like and start discovering what honesty actually feels like in our own lives.

Not polished.
Not perfect.
Just real enough to stand on.

That, to me, feels a lot closer to integrity.

1 REFLECTION / ACTION

Where in your life has keeping the peace become more exhausting than telling the truth?

I recently saw a clip of Austin Butler talking about the idea that “embarrassment is an underexplored emotion.”

His message was to give yourself permission to look foolish sometimes. To not take yourself so seriously.

I’d second that and add that personal truth is also an underexplored conversation waiting to be had.

And I think the two are probably connected.

For most of my life, I’ve carried this feeling that if you had something difficult to say, it needed to come out perfectly. If you were going to rock the boat, you needed certainty. Precision. The exact right words.

I’m starting to learn that maybe honesty does not require perfection.

Maybe it’s enough to speak carefully, sincerely, and in good faith.

And maybe the people who truly care about you are not expecting flawless communication anyway.

Maybe they’re willing to walk with you through the messy middle of figuring out what you need, what they need, and the kindest way forward together.

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