Why I finally started writing

Some people have asked me why I’ve been writing all these essays.

The simple answer is that it’s something I’ve felt for years that I need to do.

The answer to what finally got me to start is a bit more complicated than that.

But it starts with something I didn’t expect.

Two years ago, I was diagnosed with ADHD.

I wasn’t looking for a diagnosis. I was in therapy talking about something I’d been circling for years: all the ideas I’ve had… and how frustrating it was that I could never seem to gain traction.

My therapist made an offhand comment that I might want to get evaluated.

I remember thinking, That can’t be it.

I’ve never thought of myself as someone with ADHD. I wasn’t hyper. I did well in school. I built things. I held jobs. I functioned.

But I made the appointment.

The psychiatrist confirmed it.

I got a second opinion because part of me still didn’t believe it.

The second psychiatrist confirmed it too.

Turns out there’s a version of ADHD that doesn’t look like bouncing off the walls.
It looks like paralysis.
It looks like shame.
It looks like potential with no traction.

And suddenly, a lot of things started making sense.

For most of my adult life, I’ve believed I had enormous potential.

I’ve also believed I was underperforming it.

That gap is hard to live with.

There’s a particular kind of shame that comes from knowing what you’re capable of — or at least believing you are — and not being able to prove it.

That gap had a soundtrack.

It sounded like “should.”

I should have a business running by now.
I should have figured out how to be a better employee by now.
I should be more disciplined.
I should be consistent.
I should be able to get out the door and run every morning.
I should have this solved by now.

“Should” sounds responsible.
It sounds mature.
It sounds like accountability.

But for me, it was mostly shame in disguise.

Every “should” carried an accusation:
If you were who you say you are, you’d already be doing this.

That voice is exhausting.
And it doesn’t create traction.
It creates paralysis.

Evenings were the worst.
Bedtime was a dread.

I’d lie down and my heart would start pounding in my chest. Not because anything dramatic had happened that day. Just because I was thinking about all the things I “should” be doing.

I should have done more today.
I should be further along.
I should have figured this out by now.

I’d toss and turn for a while, my pounding heart keeping me awake.

Eventually I’d get up, turn on the TV, and wait until I was so exhausted that I knew I couldn’t not sleep. Usually between 2–3 a.m.

Falling asleep felt like pressing pause on a tape player.

And when my brain decided my body had had enough rest — BING! — it would press play again.

Same thoughts. Same pace. Same pressure.

Morning anxiety isn’t dramatic.
It’s just waking up to the unfinished list of the things you believe you should be doing.

The only way to quiet it was to get out of bed.

But knowing a thing and being motivated to do it are two different things.

And when you’re surviving on minimal sleep and caffeine, motivation is hard to come by.

For years, I thought that was a discipline problem.
It wasn’t.

When I started medication, nothing changed overnight.

But something did change.
The first thing that shifted wasn’t productivity.
It was impulse control.

I’ve struggled with my weight most of my life. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with food. Dieting never worked. Tracking calories made things worse. Like so many people, I believed there was “good” food and “bad” food, and I always felt like I was failing.

But once I started the medication, something subtle happened.

While eating, I would notice a point where I felt satisfied.
And I could stop.

Not because I forced myself to.
Not because I was trying to be disciplined.
I just… didn’t need more.

For the first time in my life, my impulses weren’t dragging me past the line.

I didn’t change what I ate.

I remembered a study that correlates satisfaction with container size. Basically, the larger the container, the more a person would need to eat in order to feel satisfied.

So I shrank the container.
Smaller plates. Smaller bowls. Smaller cups.

That was it.

I made a game of not finishing my plate. I’d wait for that moment of feeling satisfied, take two more good bites, then stop. Push my plate away and lean back as a signal to myself that I was done.

And the weight started coming off almost immediately.
About ten pounds a month.
Within eight months, I had lost eighty pounds.

Not because I finally found the perfect diet.
Because I could finally pause.

And here’s the part that says more about me than the number ever could.

When the weight loss started becoming noticeable, I shaved my beard.

I had worn a beard for years.

I shaved it because I didn’t want people noticing the weight loss yet.

Even while succeeding, I was still trying to redirect attention.
I was still hiding.

That reflex runs deep.

The next thing that started to shift after medication was something subtle but massive.
My ability to get started.

That sounds simple.
It isn’t.

My whole life I’ve battled what I call the invisible wall.

On the surface, it looks like procrastination.
But it never felt like laziness.

It felt like standing in front of something I genuinely wanted to do… and being unable to begin.

I could see what needed to happen.
I could care about it.
I could feel anxious about not doing it.
But I couldn’t start.

I’ve done a lot of dishes and laundry, pretending to be productive while trying to build up the ability to begin.

The strange thing is, I function incredibly well under pressure.
Tight deadlines. Last-minute arrivals. Papers turned in with minutes to spare.
The adrenaline would hit, and suddenly I was alive. Stressed out, but alive.

I didn’t lack ability.
I lacked ignition.
The pressure had to hurt before I could act.

I had been dealing with debilitating back pain for years. Pain meds. Injections. Surgery. Nothing really fixed the root issue.

About this time, I read a verse I’ve heard my whole life that says, “By small and simple things are great things brought to pass.”

I had heard it.
I had repeated it.
But I had never really lived it.

I kept trying to overhaul everything.
Grand plans.
All-or-nothing routines.
Zero to one hundred.
And then I’d stall.

After reading it again, I thought: what if small and simple wasn’t just a spiritual slogan?
What if it was the whole strategy?

So I committed to ten minutes a day.
Back exercises.
You know, the kind physical therapists assign for homework but that nobody ever does?
Ten minutes.
That was it.

Within two weeks, the pain was mostly gone.
Not magically cured.
But manageable.

Ten minutes led to traction.
Traction led to momentum.
Momentum led to training for a half marathon with my siblings.

I almost didn’t sign up because I was still afraid of the pain.
But I trained.
And I ran it.

Since then, I’ve run two full marathons.
Just walking through Walmart used to cause me agonizing pain. Now I’ve run 26.2 miles. Twice.

Ten minutes.
Small container.
One step. Then another.

I’ve made a lot of progress, but I haven’t completely beaten the invisible wall — especially with bigger tasks. Just ask my wife how many months it took me to start painting the kitchen cabinets, and what finally made the pressure strong enough for me to begin.

A few months ago, the sleeplessness started creeping back in.
Different trigger. Same soundtrack.

For two years, most of my focus had been on my physical health.
And a new version of “should” showed up.

You should have been building something during that time.
You should be able to focus on more than one thing at once.
You should be able to do both.
Should. Should. Should.

The old gap tried to reopen.
I started wondering if I had just redirected my obsession.

The anxiety felt familiar. Getting out of bed in the morning is still a battle.
But something was different this time.

Instead of trying to overhaul everything, I asked a simpler question.
What’s the next small step?

For years, I’ve felt a quiet push to write.
I finally decided to stop arguing with it.

Not as a launch.
Not as something to monetize.
Not trying to prove anything.
Just to write.

I still want to build something. I probably always will.
But for a long time, “building something” felt like a verdict on who I was.

If it didn’t succeed, what did that say about me?
If it stalled, what did that confirm?

Writing feels different.
It’s not a launch.
It’s not a pitch.
It’s not a business plan.
It’s a small, honest step.

It’s building momentum without turning my life into a scoreboard.
It’s an extension of the ten-minute principle.

I don’t have to solve everything.
I can just show up and write.

But I also knew that writing publicly would mean engaging publicly.
Posting.
Responding.
Being visible.

And I’ve never been comfortable with that.
Social media has always felt like walking into a room where everyone might turn and look at you.

For years, that was enough to keep me from starting.
Writing privately is safe.
Publishing isn’t.
Publishing means being seen.

This time I didn’t announce that I was going to start writing.
That used to be my pattern — talk about it, feel the rush, then stall when the invisible wall showed up.

This time I just started.
Quietly.
One essay.
Then another.

And something strange has happened.
I’ve been sleeping again.
Not perfectly.
But better.

Because I’m not stuck.
I’m moving.
And for me, movement quiets the “should.”

I’m trying to practice accepting where I actually am.
Not where I thought I’d be by 46.
Not where I “should” be.
Just where I am.

I’m far from mastering that.
But I’m trying.

I don’t know what will come of this.
I don’t know how long it will last.
Writing just feels like the next small step.

And for the first time in a long time,
the next step feels like enough.