We don’t get to choose how time shapes us. But we can choose what we leave behind.
I spent a lot of years trying to outrun myself.
Years where I mistook motion for meaning, where I drank to forget the sound of my own heartbeat, where I let silence do the talking in rooms that should’ve been filled with truth.
But I’m not running anymore.
It’s not a blog, not really. It’s a quiet table I’ve set at the edge of memory—where I can sit with the man I used to be, the men I loved and lost, and maybe with you, too, if you’ve ever found yourself holding regret in one hand and hope in the other.
I’m 63 now. And I don’t feel old, but I felt the clock. I feel the weight of unfinished stories. I feel the tug to finally write down the things I never had the guts—or the grace—to say aloud. This site is where I’m going to say them.
You’ll find fragments of a memoir I’m working on. Field notes from memory. Letters I never sent. The things I wish someone had told me when I was twenty. Or forty. Or kneeling on a bathroom floor at two in the morning.
You’ll also find softness. And maybe a little sacredness. Because I still believe in redemption. I still believe there’s time to make something beautiful, even now. Especially now.
If you’re a man of a certain age—if you’ve stumbled, if you’ve loved deeply, if you’ve lost yourself more than once—this space is for you too.
Come in. Take a breath. Stay as long as you need.
We’re all just trying to remember who we are, one story at a time.
—Jack
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