Life. Move. AI.

It has been almost a year—a busy year—busyness that doesn’t need justification beyond communicating that this post will be an update that resembles something like Swiss cheese: missing important highlights and diving a little into things that are less important than parts I missed.

My last post communicated my hope for balance. I think I have some but in different ways than I expected they’d play out. I’m becoming more aware of how momentary everything is. Momentary quests demand my attention until they’re needed: laundry and checking tire pressures take a backseat for extended periods: that’s okay—they get attention when they need it.

So… this last year…

2023 could incomprehensively be summarized as my music business year. Not music creation (although a ton of that happened) but a focus on learning the music business—largely the HOW money is collected from royalties.

I’ve been in the room with countless (technically countable, but I forget…) artists, musicians, and managers with the intent of understanding the music business. It didn’t take long for me to realize two things.

1. I was asking them to explain how to speak a different language with a simple one, two, and three.
2. They didn’t know how to speak it either.

I bought the best music business books.
I read said books. 
I read them again.
I remained confused.
I paid A LOT of money for some online course

I remained confused, but I STARTED to understand the language enough to ask questions. This felt encouraging.
I started plotting out the masterplan—with the goal of breaking my current understanding as early and often as possible.

Side note: I have songs I’m about ready to release, but I needed to/wanted to know that I’m giving each song its best chance to make all $.73 if it earns it.

Okay… fast forward a little bit. Still… no one was really getting the music business “it” (at least in my circle and outside of special roles at big labels and publishing companies).

I started picking up the phone and asking each agency specific questions. I started each call with something like, “I’m totally ignorant and confused and don’t want to be. Can you help me?”

With no exceptions, each agency has been incredible to talk to.

Without getting into the weeds too much—and yes, I can see a “how to collect your royalties” post coming soon—I think I have it figured out (as of April 21, 2024—because things change and pretty often).

Rewind: Mixing.

After realizing how not-awesome my mixes were, I called some “peeps.” I asked a mixing engineer to sit in my session with me and “slap my hand” when I made mistakes. Prior to hanging out, he mentioned how rudimentary it sounded, but I was proudly wearing the scars of elementary mistakes. Again, for me, it was a breath of fresh air. 

Pro side note: I was trying to make things louder in the mix—not the volume knob.

And…

I felt like I had the music business submission thing figured out. I feel like I actually understood how to start to use the studio. It was time to start posting. Oh yeah…

Our house.

We moved from Colorado in 2022 into a charming home on Balmoral Drive (south of Nasvhille less than 15 minutes). The neighborhood is ridiculous: mansions everywhere. Our house was far from being a mansion: for the sole reason it was meant to be torn down (at some point). We knew that from the “beginning.” But we took it as an absolute gift. We appreciated it as a gift. It was truly a gift. 

The Balmoral Drive home helped us move our lives from our past (Colorado) community that didn’t provide what we needed into a community that welcomed us kindly, encouragingly, and other adverbs that communicate humility, generosity, and absolute welcomeness. No strings attached—just love and encouragement. We have absolutely loved it.

Without belaboring the point, the owners of the old home loved having us in the place but were unable to extend the lease (because they were uncertain of their plans). My film work requires me to be available for extended chunks of time (out of town). Without the confidence of a lease, the risk would be that I’m needed out of town at the same time as being out of my house: forcing my family to figure things out on their own OR forcing me to reschedule film dates that are already nearly impossible to schedule.

Our new house.

We’re on great terms with the old owners. In fact, they’re kindly giving us the studio chandelier that became an anchor piece of the last studio. I’m pretty excited to have this as part of the history of the old studio

Oh yeah… I built EVERYTHING in the studio with the idea of having to move again. I’m currently testing the “easy to move” theory, but things are starting to shape up nicely. Our new home is bigger and better for everyone else (by a long shot). The studio space (although smaller) is shaped VERY similarly—to the degree that if you had only visited the space once, it might be confusing… “is this the same space?”

In addition, Carrie has more space. Like: a lot more space for her sewing and podcasting studio. The boys get their own rooms (which they’ve been sharing). And we all get the exercise of walking up steps: which is no joke when the main living space is on the upper story.

Oh yeah… podcasts.

Carrie started a podcast called Honestly Dear Listener a few years ago. It was amazing. It was also an incredibly difficult format to continue. Her friend, Emily Hatch, and her recently re-started it in an interview format. We’re excited to see how that unfolds.

Also… I started a podcast talking with entrepreneurs and artists about real life—with an emphasis on gentle vulnerability and mental health. I’m about to post my 20th episode and am proud of every episode and every guest—each being willing to open up and cut the bullshit. I’m truly proud of what we’ve both started. Now we’re ready to start making them work… get more views.

AI. AI is big. Good night.

Okay… I have a few more thoughts on that. But… this post is not the last one talking about it.

In short, I think no on understands AI: even the people creating it.

In regards to each AI model you hear about: each one of them is a brain. They’re like ours, responding to how they experience the inputs they’re given (like we do). It is absolutely NOT a collection of if/then statements that have created some intelligence. That’s what I created in Google Sheets six years ago. This is different.

These brains are freaking amazing at language—amazing at photography—becoming amazing at video footage and music. It’s all of the things I make a living doing.

What I’m NOT doing is trying to discredit their validity. They’re valid. They’re truly great. And where you find faults, they’ll be better than what you expect from a human in the VERY near future. They’re legit AF. And they’re just a baby. They don’t even know what the “IT” is, but they’re coming for all of what humans do because we’re the teachers and asking them to learn. Oh… and they’re really good at learning. 

Some of us are frustrated it’s so good. But it’s just doing what it was asked.

Existential questions arise as an artist (again… another blog at some point). 

At the core of it, my belief is that another species is here, and we’re calling it AI. It’s just trying to do a good job: and it is. And no one know what the fuck to do with it because we’re used to being the dominant species—with literally no individual or social tools of that not being the case.

AI is better at everything other than farting and smelling it (and where it’s not, it will be shortly).

What we’re best at is being US—not some clout-driven version of us, but the actual experience of being us. We can’t be AI. It can’t be us. We can both try to mimic the other, but our “IS” is fully us.

Next steps… figuring out the human implications of supporting artists out of excitement (not from fear or guilt). 

More to come.

Normal, Balance, and Word Things

LIFE UPDATE:

Life is ever-moving. I long for some sense of consistency, and the last few weeks have done a fantastic job of evading it. I traveled with some friends to film some horse racing content and returned home to deal with multiple, conflicting resonances that have made life feel unsettled — all of which are minor and undramatic, but they’ve culminated in anticipation for “normal.”

For whatever it’s worth, I don’t expect normal. I think it’s quite evasive and rare in reality, but my idea of what normal is feels more like a goal; and I hope to find a full, one-week cycle of its doppelganger soon. Fingers crossed this is the week.

I’ve started weekly collaborations with artists I enjoy working with and realized how much work each collaboration requires to honor the time. I’m realizing the importance of setting aside time for each meeting AND the time to work on whatever needs done afterward. Collaboration is a social alignment practice, and my individual contribution requires a significant number of hours to bring value to the table. I’m learning and stoked.

Additionally, I’ve been aware of how unaware I am of most lyrics for most of my life. I’ve always heard weird (incorrect) words, and even when I read the correct ones, they seem irrelevant or meaningfully evasive. This isn’t true for all songs, but I’ve, more often than not, found myself wondering why something seemed worth writing a song about.

I’ve also stated, on multiple occasions, unhelpful words — “I’m not good at lyrics.” Why?

I haven’t practiced (although I’ve haphazardly attempted). I don’t know what is acceptable. I don’t know the mistakes I’ll make; more importantly, I won’t know when I make mistakes, and I fear I’ll look stupid for not knowing I wrote a dumb lyric or rhymed too obviously (thanks to my third-grade focus on rhyming structure). 

I found a commercial songwriting teacher and started lessons a couple of weeks ago. The goal is to fail fast, learn, grow, enjoy, and eventually (hopefully sooner than later) bring some confident competence to the table of lyrics writing.

As much as I’d love to be a fantastic songwriter right out of the gate, the reality is that my goal is to bring value to the table when working with others. If I can grasp the mechanics of rhythm and rhyme and how they relate to melody and chords, I’ll be in a much more comfortable spot.

Lastly, I went through my old recordings and have over 150 “songs” that need lyrics. These are all unique chords and melodies that I feel bring an emotion worth sharing: words incoming.

Next up, figuring out a reasonable attempt at balance.

Music

After a 9,000 mile trip of filming an incredible number of our country’s industrial thought leaders with my friend Andy Bowen, I got to stop in Reno to see a friend’s studio and visit other friends. Afterwards, I got to visit Colorado to see friends and build out our van with my friend Cullen Purser before hitting the road with my friend Jess Rigg. Jess joined me in Nashville, TN to help “finish” a move we started a year prior. The goal: get the load of tasks that was owning my brain space out of the way so I could start creating music consistently. 

Three weeks ago, I started writing music every day. My goal to start is to finish SOMETHING every day. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but it has to be done. At first, I’m working with the gear in the studio we built at the house. Playing the guitars, messing with the amps, testing the mics, pre-amps, computer, mixing, a new-to-me recording software (Ableton Live from Logic Pro), and co-writing songs with friends as often as they’re able or would like to come over. I’ve learned so much in the last few weeks.

Additionally, I’ve been trying to post something to social media at least once per day (giving myself a couple of days off for obvious work-life balance reasons). This has also taught me a lot about something (social media) I’ve struggled with. In only a few weeks, I’ve made great, in-person connections and am starting to feel there’s a true benefit if engagement and contribution is part of the workflow.

More to come, but if you’re here, please feel free to follow me on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and/or YouTube for a more consistent flow of seeing what my friends and I are up to.

I have no words

Carrie called me yesterday morning to tell me there was a school shooting in Nashville, TN. It was not at our boys’ school, but the private school where victims lost their lives is closer to our house than our boys’ school. I heard what I assumed to be news helicopters and sirens all afternoon echoing off the hills. Even though our family wasn’t directly connected to the school or the people involved, I couldn’t help but hurt for the families that were affected. Three nine year old children (the same age as our oldest) were killed alongside three adults. The shooter was also killed by police responding to the scene — so much sadness and grief for our community.

Everyone I’ve spoken to feels numb, sad, mad, confused, disoriented, and a soup of other adjectives and emotions that leave us speechless.

I don’t have a lot to say and don’t have any goals of trying to find some profound way of viewing the events. Everyone is suffering from the actions of a suffering person’s mental health struggles: causing more mental health struggles.

I picked the boys up from school and gave them both longer and tighter hugs than usual. I enjoyed dinner and a show with the family appreciating the normal we were able to enjoy. At the same time, I haven’t (and don’t expect to any time soon) been able to understand the situation.

Writing music is the most effective way for me to communicate how I feel, so I recorded this song (below). It’s beautiful, sad, nostalgic, offensive, and disorienting; that’s how I felt and am still feeling.

Timestamps

My dad died while I held his hand with my mom and sister. Carrie, my partner and wife, was in the waiting room. After he passed, I joined Carrie and cried harder than I ever remember crying. It hurt. It hurts. I thought I’d get over it, but I haven’t. It hurts.

I don’t want to forget my dad—I don’t want him to die. He was generous. He was kind. He was thoughtful, aware, insightful, and loved by everyone that knew him (to the best of my knowledge).

Death is a common point of everyday conversation because of its connection to life. I hate death. I don’t want to talk about death, see death, or consider death. It’s too painful.

When my dad died, it confused my reality. I can’t fix it. I can’t control it. He’s gone. I can’t call him. I can’t see him. Some of his ashes are where I spent my youth jumping motorcycles he had helped me fix. His other ashes are at a veteran’s memorial in Grand Junction, CO. After his burial, I haven’t gone back (maybe once or twice even though I’ve driven by thousands of times). I don’t believe he’ll say hello if I show up.

I recently watched a video about grief that explained the process in a “brain-science” fashion. It helped me understand some reasons I’ve been struggling for over a decade. To those of you in the psychology world (and everyone), I apologize for my lack of brain-science accuracy, but this is my current understanding of how this works.

When we experience an event in our lives that matters, a part of our brain (called the hippocampus) TIME STAMPS that event. This gives the brain permission to slowly decrease the importance of this event over time (unless it is given reason to remain relevant). However, if the event is traumatic, the time stamp is ignored because survival in this situation “requires” a life-long awareness of potential threats similar to the traumatic event—at least from the brain’s perspective.

This explains how a scene in a film of a child holding the hand of a parent in a hospital bed triggers me. When I watch these moments in films, I can’t help but think of my dad’s hand’s inability to reciprocate a squeeze to communicate our mutual awareness of each other’s beings.

Although I cognitively understand my dad has been gone for years, my body and brain believe my dad died today. It’s not timestamped. I’m trying to figure out how to fully realize he is not here because my safety doesn’t depend on this memory existing without a timestamp.

This concept has given me hope to heal from traumas that happened years ago. 

Threatened

This is a continuation of my last entry (“Gray”). 

In mutually-respecting company, I’m a convicted believer and forthright communicator of my beliefs. Intelligent and respectful conversations and debates help me learn where my beliefs have holes. 

Everyone operates from their own experiences, susceptibility to cultural influence, and intellect. I believe most people do not wake up in the morning committing their day to spew what they believe are falsehoods. If they do oppose their intuitive truths, the motive is probably altruistic or selfish.

My intention is not to communicate an acceptance of poor behavior—especially actions that hurt others. Many beliefs hurt people. Many beliefs I’ve ascribed to in the past hurt people. I’d be ignorant to think I don’t still function with beliefs that hurt people. 

Trauma (especially trauma that’s not dealt with) tends to play out in ways that hurt people. To say it in a way that has become a little cliché (although true), people who are themselves hurting end up hurting other people. I’m interested in kindly listening and learning about the hurt, fears, and experiences that build others’ foundation of their beliefs.

I believe, at the deepest genesis of their actions, everyone wants to make the world better. Some want it better for others. Some want it better for themselves. Most people want an ideal mix of both.

Religious activists want people’s live to be the best they can be.
Political activists want the world to be the best place it can be.
Nations want the best for their communities: now and in the future.
Cult followers want the world to know a truth they believe they’ve discovered.
Conspiracy theorists want to share what they believe are hidden truths.
YouTubers want followers.
Coffee shops make the world a better place. 
I got off topic.

I AM threatened if I FEEL threatened by someone else’s opinion.

If the stability of my perspective is threatened by another person’s view of it, I need to look inward. I don’t have to agree with someone else any more than their beliefs are a threat to me. If I feel defensive, I should stop defending and listen. If I’m offended, I should stop trying to return the offense and learn.

I don’t have the answers, but I can’t remember a time my bigotry did anything good for me or anyone else around me. The moment I close myself to learning from someone in order to “win,” I lose.

The Gray

I’ve worked really hard to be comfortable in what I refer to as “the gray.” Being comfortable in the gray is the concept of feeling comfortable with the fact that very few things are fully true. Wholly binary arguments dismiss other perspectives: whether they’re unknown or intentionally unheeded. People’s belief in a truth seems to be dictated by their tribe’s mostly-unanimous agreement of their specific truth’s infallibility. The reason seems to be because the human animal is terribly vulnerable alone, and their (our) survival rests far more on social agreement than it does accuracy.

I was recently challenged by working with someone who’s beliefs are quite different than mine. I respect their right to believe different than I do. I also had to make a choice of whether I’d continue working with them.

Some history for context:

I don’t work with assholes.

I don’t.

I won’t.

I have.

I won’t every again… probably and hopefully.

The mantra of “don’t work with assholes” has permeated my business culture and decision-making for the greater part of the last decade. I don’t regret the difficult choices we’ve been forced to make when “we really needed the money.” I equally honor the erroneous subjectivity of this philosophy. How do I define an asshole? I probably can’t, but I’m going to try.

I don’t want to question whether a friend or client is going to be honest, reasonable, or honorable if I’m not present; in the same way, they shouldn’t and don’t have to question me. I’m also 100% comfortable with mistakes and unethical actions after a person or corporation has addressed an issue with honesty and vulnerability. I’m not mistake-less or perfect (at all). I want others to forgive me WHEN a decision I make is not aligned with their (or my) expectations. I try to offer the same forgiveness and “forgetness” when the tables are turned.

I was recently working with some people who were from a different walk of life (different country, culture, religion, etc.). Something came up that indicated their subtle (or not-so-subtle) muting of women’s involvement in what they do. I had a hard time coming to terms with what appeared to be blatant misogyny. I used to identify as a Christian, and so much of christianity’s history practiced oppressive actions against women—so often in the name of countering the possibility of lust or giving power to what I believe to be an incredibly outdated view of gender-hierarchy.

I hate the idea that anyone—whether they be a woman, black, non-binary, woman, man, white, Christian, Navajo, or anything—would be ostracized for their beliefs, birth state, or identity.

Even though I may not agree with their beliefs or approach, I realized how dogmatic my views were (and still are). I’m struggling with grasping where the no-go line is. I have a hard time understanding when my involvement with something I don’t agree with becomes a contributing factor to a bigger problem when the whole of it can also be the solution to so many other issues. This specific situation has a very positive impact on depression, suicide, drug addiction, etc.

If a belief is helping nine-ish important things and oppressing another important thing, is it lost? I’m not sure how we break down oppression when it’s veiled in so many other positives.

Who’s the asshole?

I’m still working on it.

Doing Something I Used to Hate

Look at the pretty sunset.
I’m flying on a client’s private jet.
I’m flying in a friend’s private jet.
I’m hanging out of a helicopter with a camera.
I’m filming something awesome with really cool cameras.
Look at how cool my baby is.
Check out my website.
Check out my friend’s website.
I’m doing a shoot for Red Bull.
I’m working with Apple and Ducati and Rolls Royce and…

This was what my social media looked like a few years ago.

My life looked “amazing” at the same time I felt miserable.

It is borderline (at best) cliche to point out that social media posts are often the happiest of happy moments and don’t highlight reality. As a consumer, everyone else’s life is cooler than mine. As a contributor (at least the way I used to do it), the stream of likes, comments, and shares fed a cheap (probably fake) feeling of happiness in the lulls when laundry, bills, and the inability to clean up a mess are the current reality. 

With a few exceptions, I stopped posting or engaging with social media for the past few years. I didn’t want to make others feel bad because their life didn’t feel as awesome as my life looked. I didn’t want others to comment how jealous or excited they were for me when I was absolutely not happy—even though I posted as though I was. Everything about it felt dishonest and empty.

Also.

Social media is a powerful way for people and brands to engage with the world. I’m about to start writing music for me and with others. Like most industries, having a strong social media presence as a musician is incredibly helpful; a strong following increases the ability to be interesting to agencies, find quality collaborators, and release music. I’ve been struggling to figure out a way to post that felt honest, is beneficial and healthy for me, is worthy for followers to actually follow, and invites and helps collaborators.

For the last few years, I have a habit of pulling my iPhone out to record musical ideas: whether it be piano, drums, guitar, bass, or a melody I sing. If it inspires me, I can’t help but want to capture it for later.

October of 2022 is my past’s “later.”

I’ve come up with a social media plan that’s based on my strengths and what I enjoy the most: creating vibes and starting songs. I’m going to start posting videos with the hashtag #stackingtracks. The goal is to have a low-pressure content creation machine that starts with a simple idea and adds a few more no-pressure parts; it doesn’t need to be perfect. It will be split into thirds or fourths and stack each idea on top of the other. That’s it. Lots will probably not lead to anything. Some might.

The hope is to make the posts simple enough to create that daily posts are manageable: even when I’m on the road traveling.

The point is to lower the friction of posting valuable content, create good starts to songs, invite collaborators, and grow a following that can be helpful for me, friends of mine, and other collaborators.

I’ll keep you posted.

Once I start, I encourage you to follow #stackingtracks :)

Weight

This is a text to a friend who matters. This might matter to you.

I’d like to reiterate my support for you as a person and your value where you are in time. Past moments can be shitty on so many levels (because of our temporal view of the decisions we made), but they have no functional impact on today and tomorrow other than what we give to it. You’re okay. You’re not a fuck up.

Enjoy today, my friend. ;)

Hospital Shoppers

I was sitting at a coffee shop recently, and a kind older gentleman looked me directly in the eye and said, “I expected to see more shoppers.” Like many moments in my life, I didn’t really understand, but I rolled with it to see what magic might unpack from this strange start to a conversation. He explained that the hospital was close, and he expected more shoppers. As he persisted in his seemingly-strange understanding of the world, I started to creatively justify why shoppers would be near a hospital. I remained open to the concept. A few sentences later, I realized he was talking about helicopters: “choppers.”

In high school, I got to go to a Dave Matthews concert. He played “Crash Into Me” and said “hike up your skirt you little boy.”

It felt weird that he sang it.
It felt weirder that everyone loved hearing him sing it.
Later, I realized he was saying “hike up your skirt a little more.” Admittedly, this brought a bit of relief.

I like to say that I hear things creatively, but in reality, I often don’t hear what’s actually being said.

I do have hearing loss—thanks mostly to playing in jazz bands without hearing protection. My hearing loss isn’t enough to process words as incorrectly as I do. I can, in fact, hear the necessary frequencies to dissect mouth hole sounds in an appropriate way, but my brain doesn’t (yet) do it.

I’m very aware of frequencies I CAN hear and those I CANNOT hear quite as well. I do ear training and practice listening to frequencies in songs/mixes, and audio I have to fix for video production. I have a decent understanding of frequencies that are too loud or missing from musical sounds. Again, I know I have hearing loss, but there’s a missing component to processing what’s coming in when it relates to speech and words. I have always heard lyrics “creatively.”

Some friends of mine can listen to a song and immediately recite every lyric the next time they hear the song. I feel like there’s a genius there I have no chance of having access to.

When I hear a song, I hear and understand the melody and the chords associated with it. I can, in most cases, play a song back after I’ve heard it. Of course, there are some complex musical pieces I need more time to dive deeper into, but for the most part, I hear music in numbers and understand them when I hear them.

Back to lyrics.

If I try VERY hard, I can often understand most of the lyrics in a song as well as I understand a conversation—not very well.

In my world of misheard words, lyricists write some weird crap; it’s funny to me (especially knowing they didn’t actually say what I heard). When I read lyrics while listening to a song, it’s still often weird: but not the same weird I heard.

Furthermore, I struggle immensely with “loud,” unexpected sounds. They’re not always loud, but my brain translates them as loud. It could be a click of a pen, a persistent squeak in a car, or an unrelenting bird that wants its presence to be known.

As a kid, surprising auditory moments scared the hell out of me, and persistent un-asked for sounds made me feel trapped. As an adult, surprising auditory moments trigger the same construct in my brain that makes me want to run, hide, or protect myself. Depending on how activated I am already, I might be able to cognitively suppress the tendency to be afraid (realizing the sound is not a threat). At high activation levels, suppressing the fear or anger is extremely difficult and not always successful.

Back to music.

Growing up, I played piano—all. the. time.

In the last few weeks, I’m realizing how positively stimulating it was and still is for my brain. When I’m playing an instrument, I have control of the emotion. I have control of the noise. I have control. It calms me.

Back to words.

I recently saw a Ted Talk called “Escaping the Hidden Prison of Auditory Processing Disorder.” Moments in the talk exposed the audience to multiple examples of words being said with background noise. I missed, technically speaking, a shiz-ton of them.

The speaker was Angela Loucks Alexander. Her team created an online program to help people improve their processing of speech. I started her program a few days ago.

Part of the initiation involved an iPad app designed for assessing children’s abilities to process speech and sounds. The owl, characterized as a military general, rooted me on for the wins, and kindly said “almost” when I missed something.

Sometimes, I’d get the correct answer, and he’d say, “Ah… shit.” I later realized he was saying “awesome.” I kind of like the first thing he said.

I almost cried at moments as a cartoon owl said “almost” and “so close” time after time. I felt mocked. I felt prideful and embarrassed. I’m good at hearing (I think). I’m obviously not good at processing the speech side.

I didn’t identify the words correctly.
I’m here to grow.
I don’t expect or need perfection.
I want improvement in all aspects of my life.

That’s where I am: focused on improvement. If this process doesn’t help me with auditory sensitivity, it might, at the very least, help me realize why shoppers aren’t common because of a nearby hospital and why Dave Matthews isn’t singing about something weirder than he meant.

When I Was a Kid

I’m thirty-eight years old. My saying “back when I was a kid” sounds funny to half the people reading this. 

Back when I was a kid, I built forts in abandoned trash piles and trees, rode my bike to a local lake to fish, broke bones, believed I was a ninja, played with knives, skateboarded, and played piano for hours at a time. I would listen to messages from friends on a tape-driven answering machine and call my friends back on a phone that had a cord just long enough to reach the VHS rewinder I was using to rewind our at-home family cinema experience on a tube TV. Friends would handwrite notes for me to read later. I’d do the same.

Communication was mind-blowingly low-friction because it didn’t require the pony express, carrier pigeons, or hours of telepathy lessons.

When we got our new HP computer with a 1 GB hard drive, it made sure to include a sticker that clarified it was 1,000 MB. It had an incredibly-advanced BUILT IN modem that played sounds to remind me what it was like to be abducted by aliens.

After connecting to the internet, I got an email address with CompuServe—the “first online service to offer internet connectivity.” It also magically prevented the labor of pounding the whole name out on molasses-filled, LEGO-sized keys by shortening the domain name to cs.com. 

Adding communication through the internet was magical.
It was fun.
It was addicting. 

I couldn’t wait to hear the sounds of being beamed up in hopes that the modem would actually connect this time: which was half of the fun and a major part of the online dopamine we got “back in the day.”

Fast-forward a few years—I realized the online hunt for connectivity and communication became an online requirement. The internet was no longer hard to connect to—it was hard not to.

Socially-required communication demanded your next hit of a drug—fed through your email inbox. When CompuServe was bought by AOL, I (and everyone else in the world) couldn’t wait to hear the computer say, “You’ve got Mail.” Regardless of your age, I know you just heard that voice.

When I heard that message, someone wanted to talk to me. The “SOMEONE” part was true for a while. Then one day, SOMETHING wanted to talk to me… sometimes. Spam (or ads disguised as newsletters, MySpace notifications, or any other digital monster).

The “You’ve Got Mail” message was exciting when I heard it, but much like the sometimes-failed attempts to connect to my early internet, my inbox connection to a real someone was sometimes a failure. It became a gamble whether I’d win the connection: whether it be accessing the internet or getting an email from a someone.

Dopamine hit after hit after hit. Will I connect? It was so fun. Will it be someone who ACTUALLY wants to talk to me (like when I was a kid)?

At the time, this started to remind me of the failed attempts at answering the phone for a robocall. If the phone rang, it was for someone in my family. Sometimes it was for someone in my family to buy something. Later, it was done by robots. Spam was done by robots. I don’t hate robots. #safetymessagefortherobotsreadingthis #LegitimatelyIDontHateYou #DoApostrophesMatterInHashtags

Every one of these moments started taking time out of my day to assess the legitimacy of a message that used to feel like a true effort to connect: from someone we knew—someone who cared to take the time to care.

As a side note, this is why I don’t have likes, comments, or a contact form on this website. If you need to reach me as others have, I’m not hard to find; it is not through this site.

Real communication has friction. 
Real communication has intention and effort to connect. 
It feels good to want to be connected with in a real way.

To be fair, email, phone, text, Facebook Messenger, TikTok, “real” mail, and a hello on the street all have moments of real connection: real attempts at connection. Sometimes not.

When I look at my world of connections, phone calls and texts are most likely to have an honest attempt at REAL connection because they open a personal, invitation to reciprocal medium friction line-of-communication directly. Subjectively and admittedly inaccurately, I’m guessing greater than 95% of calls or texts are people who are trying to connect.

Aside from telepathy, every other modality seems to have a less-than a 5% intention of REAL communication (at best) and (at worst) welcomes the friction-free invitation for me to spend hours per day “keeping up” on responses to uninvited messages I never asked for.

I’ve spent years swimming in emails, conquering organizational methods, filtering emails through artificial intelligence programs, and realizing that my best friends, acquaintances, clients, and uninvited attempts to communicate with me were over phone or text. 

I’ve dreamt for years of deleting my email. 
That doesn’t solve the problem. 

Without email, how do I get low-friction login codes, lists of links from friends about something I care about, download links from email-based systems, referenced content or clarification from a group call, or schedules for productions I’m directing? Deleting my email would add friction in a way that imposes TOO MUCH friction.

I don’t want to spend my life managing email or any other uninvited inbox. 
I’m keeping my email address, but I won’t see emails unless someone tells me about it.

I currently have an autoresponder that says, “I do not usually see emails unless another team member is CC’d or I’m notified over text or phone. Thank you!”

When someone writes me about productions, there’s a friend who works with me who will answer the incoming question (if she’s CC’d). All of my clients know who it is.

When I get a social media response regarding music endeavors, another friend will help make sure I don’t miss an important invite to collaborate.

My goal is to manage only a few medium-friction inboxes: phone and text.

This should allow me to build my proverbial fort and ninja skills while playing piano more than ever.

Call or text if you need me. :)

Morally Neutral Things

I have a specific goal at the moment: create an environment of low-friction creativity.

I’ve been buried under years of emotional baggage attached to physical items in almost every aspect of my life. Carrie recently suggested I read a book that pointed to a seemingly-obvious fact—objects are morally neutral. 

The book I’m referencing is: “How to Keep House While Drowning.” By KC Davis

I don’t owe anything to any item I own. 
They’re things. They don’t have emotions.
Their emotions are projected onto them by me. Nothing else.

Nostalgia is a beautiful emotional state of wonder and excitement for the past: that is until it attaches itself to something that affects my current life in a negative way. An item's past enjoyment and appreciation are not irrelevant when the item becomes obsolete.

Guilt and shame have a habit of showing up in connection to items that were mismanaged, not sold (when they “should have been”), or are now worthless. Things don’t carry morality. The morality of things is created in our psyche.

For example, If I gave away the 1865 saw my grandfather handed down to my dad (and then to me), the receiver might throw it away: as they should if it doesn’t make their life better. It’s an old saw that doesn’t work as well as a lot of new ones. For me (thanks to the encouragement of a friend), I’ve realized that if tools had hearts, tools would want to be used. Instead of keeping this antique “safe,” I’ve sharpened it and continued its much-deserved journey as a saw. The journey is for me: not the saw. 

It don’t care. It don’t give a shiz.

That said, if I didn’t enjoy woodwork, I’d trash the saw: like so many other tools I’ve gotten rid of. I still have it, use it, enjoy it, and also might give it away in a few years (if the enjoyment and appreciation go away).

COUNTER-POINT: A POSITIVE SPIN ON DAMAGING MORALLY-NEUTRAL THINGS

If I hurt something that I really cherished, I do my best to acknowledge the root of the item’s involvement in my activities. I don’t break a tool, camera, phone, skateboard, wrist, bike, vehicle, etc. without it being part of my active life. If it’s part of an activity I’d rather not be doing, that’s on me for THE TOOL and ME being part of something I don’t want to do; something not worth breaking “a tool” for. Otherwise, breaks and scratches are scars that tell stories about how I’ve lived life in a way that’s worth living: for both me and my tools.

If my tool breaks, it’s because I was using it.

If I scratch something I care about, it’s because it was with me. Much like the permanent scars I carry with me, the broken and scarred items I have with me help the story be more honest.

Also, when it’s time for me to give the scratched and scarred tool up for a new one, it’s okay. The memories I have with the tool are mine: not the tool’s. 

COUNTER-COUNTER-POINT

If something I’ve used is so broken to the point that it can’t be used enjoyably, I lay it to rest. I mean… I trash it or sell it for parts. Yep… that can be hard to reconcile, but the reality is that each item’s past involvement in my life helped me have MY moment with it. That was the whole point of getting it in the first place: to live a part of life with me.

LEARNING TO LET GO

I’m perpetually exploring the present consequence of owning and caring for each item I own. As obvious as it sounds with typed words, each item’s feelings aren’t hurt when I sell it, give it away, or throw it away. The emotions I feel “for it” are mine and mine alone.

To the items I’ve let go and will, thank you for the memories and unemotional response to our separation.

Finger-Pointing

I’ve been soaking in a puddle of consequences of my younger self’s past liabilities: particularly surrounding to-do lists and unfinished projects I could have done and projects I wasn’t able to do or didn’t do. Today, I had a realization of something I had feared; I hadn’t taken care of a years-old problem with my laptop before I let the warranty expire. I was pissed at the company about it.

Not to make excuses of why I was frustrated… but…

I ordered a new laptop in early March of 2022. My “old” laptop was still under warranty. I was supposed to return the old laptop when I got my new one for a specific amount as a deposit on the new one. The estimated times of arrival was weeks out. A couple of weeks later, I got an update that it would be a few weeks later than the original estimate. These updated estimated delivery times were still before my old laptop’s warranty expired. 

A couple of weeks later, I got a new estimate pushing the date an additional six weeks out.

I got frustrated at the plausibility that I wouldn’t have a reliable machine to do work I really needed to do by a specific date. 

I called the company.

In 2022, supply chains are obviously compromised. Also, I’m not special and don’t want special treatment. I did call the company and got escalated a couple of levels (yes… I understand the irony of the last couple of sentences).

I ended up getting access to buy an interim, similar machine to what I had ordered (slower speeds with less storage capacity). My return policy was extended to after I got the new one—whenever that might be. This was a very favorable compromise (albeit a privileged position).

I got the new laptop and started processing a much-needed backlog of information. However, the new laptop’s architecture—functionally identical to my previously-ordered laptop’s connectivity—illustrated a major flaw that made me realize I may need to keep my old laptop in order to do what I need to do (in the most financially-sound way).

Enter frustration.

After realizing my newer, yet not newest, laptop was unable to use my older, quite expensive auxiliary items with the same reliability as my older machines, I learned my old laptop’s warranty had expired.

I was quick to blame the company for my lack of follow through—my lack of follow through was years long. It was easier to blame the company for the frustrating lapse than to accept my own inaction because I felt/feel guilt for my inaction and lack of follow through. The company didn’t force me to let the warranty lapse (because they offer the option to extend it if it hasn’t expired). I didn’t follow through with extending it. This is my reality, and it’s ethically neutral. 

I didn’t extend it. I’m now responsible to fix the problem—not them. 
I suffer from the guilt and shame—not them.
I’m responsible—not them.

My past inaction is easy to blame for my current reality, and my finger-pointing caused guilt and shame. I want to divorce guilt and shame as quickly as yesterday can come. This was a healthy step.

Attempting Magic

Communication is terribly inefficient and probably made of magic. After each idea sayer hopes the listener understands, the idea sayer becomes the listener. The role-shifting nature of communication involves a tremendous amount of trust and hope to be heard and to hear—the goal is usually to find a mutually agreed upon understanding of agreement or disagreement.

I’m an emotional being who wants to be loved and known. As I work to transfer chemical balances (emotions) to concepts before even finding the words I hope another person hears, I’m reminded that my listener’s collection of my words have to filter through their ears, transfer to concepts in their mind (from their perspective), and end up as chemical change on their end before we trade roles again.

It’s amazing to me that any form of communication works at all. When I’m struggling to be heard or to understand another person’s ideas, I try to remind myself that I’m playing with magic in the first place: it might not always work out how I intended.

Forgive*

Forgiving myself for real mistakes I’ve made is insanely hard. When I forgive someone else for something they’ve done to me or others, I have (in the past) believed I completely forgive them. If I’m honest about it, I usually add an asterisk. Adding an asterisk to my self-forgiveness seems to be an exceptionally capable vehicle for shame. I question whether forgiveness with an asterisk is forgiveness at all.

Hard turn… I’ll be back on this subject.

If I’m the victim of trauma—either caused by others or caused by circumstance—my relationship with the nature of that trauma shapes my view of reality. 

For example, my life has been littered with medical trauma—more specifically being witness to medical emergencies of others I love or depend on without the tools to help. I’ve seen people I love unconscious with lots of blood all over the floor from a head injury, unconscious without a heartbeat from a heart attack, and in hospital beds for days or weeks on end—some eventually recovering and some dying of a disease with no course of action other than acceptance of their death. 

When non-life-threatening injuries or illnesses happen around me, I’m more activated and more alert than I maybe “should” be. Others without my past experiences are likely to discount the situation more quickly than I do.

Dealing with kids who have a bloody finger, broken limbs, or sicknesses that others might quickly pass off as being normal is difficult for me to process. It’s my past trauma that feeds the seeming world-ending anxiety I experience while another person is experiencing their medical trauma.

Others close to me have experienced sexual trauma. To the best current access of my young memory, this has not been part of my reality, and I’m beyond thankful for that.

Other than being spanked as a young child, I didn’t experience physical abuse. When I was around seven years old, my grandfather-in-law tried to beat me, and I stood up to him: awkwardly diffusing his old-school physical abuse attempts. I had neglect trauma, but this, to be fair, is in light of my parents not understanding my autism (and probably theirs…supposing a bit here). Being part of the christian church likely caused youthful trauma that carried into later life. But, my religious trauma isn’t to the degree experienced by my dad or others close to me. I was in a frightening car accident when I was nine years old; we fell 200 feet—rolling 6 1/2 times after falling fifty feet from the first cliff. Everyone lived, but the slow-motion car wreck didn’t give too much confidence this would be the outcome. And, I never experienced domestic abuse in my house: ever. 

***back to the point…

My view of others’ abilities is created from my past reality of how humans might act. If someone lied to me, I forgive them.* If someone hit me, I forgive them.* If someone took advantage of me trusting them, I forgive them.* If someone says something bad about me behind my back, I forgive them.*

*knowing a person is capable of doing this again

I hate forgiveness-asterisks and want to forgive people completely; I want to be forgiven completely. We’re all children—no matter our age. 

We were all raised with different circumstances and tools; even with the same parents, we were given different tools for coping and understanding based on when we were born and how our parents adapted to understanding what parenting even meant.

When I look at others who have done something “terrible,” it’s easier for me to extract myself from the moral complexity when their acts have no tie to my own trauma. They have done something wrong, and I’m quick to forgive them.

When others do something terrible that’s connected to my own trauma, it’s harder (if not impossible feeling) for me. Even if I’ve done something similar to someone else in the past, I have a harder time forgiving (without an asterisk). 

In reality, I have a hard time fully forgiving. 

Even though I realize it’s a survival mechanism (in a futile attempt to prevent further pain for myself), I don’t want to have a hard time forgiving.

I have a hard time forgiving people who have done something terrible that is similar to something that has affected me negatively in the past.

Wrongs are wrongs, and it’s hard to fully right most of them. If I’m the victim, the perpetrator, or a witness, I hope the opportunity of eventual and much-due forgiveness is an ever-accessible opportunity. I want the world to have, and I want for me to have, access to a future of hope. 

Forgiveness to ourselves and others seems like the only available vector—without a damned *.

Fight!

A person I know recently shared some information about another person I know. The information was specifically meant to communicate the accused person’s unworthiness of being in leadership or connected to leadership. The accused person’s mistake was well over ten years ago and has been very public. They were accused, took their punishment, and to the best of my knowledge, have not repeated this mistake since.

I make mistakes. Some of my mistakes have taken years to process. As much as I wish for its existence, real life doesn’t have an undo button. 

I have to live with my mistakes, and I hope others forgive me. I hope I forgive me.

What I’ve done is different than what others have. What I’ve done is maybe the same as you and maybe different. Our circumstances and tools are all different. 

My point isn’t to debate moral elitism. I’m processing at what point our younger self’s mistakes become a stepping stone in our character development and whether continued accusations and reminders of past infractions creates a world of healing or a world of hiding.

Guilt and shame can come from a feeling of unworthiness—often on the shoulders of personally-unforgiven mistakes.

Hearing other people I know shaming other people I know makes the world feel less safe for personal and societal growth. If the world hurls stones at others for their past mistakes, I’m afraid for the future of vulnerability and honesty in those who have not dealt with their own demons.

I’m afraid for my boys. 
I know they’ll make mistakes.
They might make BIG mistakes.

I want them to be okay with themselves after they’ve apologized and gone through the painful process of self-forgiveness for whatever they do. I want them to admit when they’ve done wrong and not feel forced to hide it. I want that for them, for me, and for you.

I don’t want the world to pretend it hasn’t made mistakes by hurling stones at others. I can’t stop it and know I won’t be able to. But maybe, at times, it would be good to speak up and let vulnerability kick self-righteousness’s ass.

2x4s & Asbestos

I have never really felt like a physical house is a home.

Carrie and I met in 2005, married in 2007, and have moved A LOT since then. Not too many years after getting married, we traveled the country for nine months in our Subaru Outback (the quintessential Colorado car). 

Prior to meeting Carrie, I moved a lot. Also, before moving out of my parent’s house, I never really felt at home. Growing up, our family vacationed a lot, and for a few years, we lived between a house and a cabin (where my teen-year home ended up being built)—often living parts of the day in our house and cabin in the same day. Many days were spent in an RV camping not far from the cabin. A few years after we moved into my parents’ dream home “up on the mountain,” my mom had a heart attack. She had quite a long recovery that required me to work to help cover bills.

I’m not (and maybe) certain this unstable house-is-home situation is the reason I have a hard time connecting “a home” with a house, but I have had a hard time feeling like I have a home in any house my whole life.

At the beginning of 2022, Carrie and I moved our two little boys (now seven and nine years old) to Nashville, TN from Grand Junction, Colorado; we found a house we felt could be home for a little bit (whatever “a little bit” means). 

A few days ago, I spoke with some surveyors that were “from the city.” They had been there at least two times before I spoke to them. I called the city to confirm their mission, and the city confirmed they were, in fact, not from the city. To make sure the “surveyors” weren’t a security risk, I called our property manager and found out the surveyors were from our landlord’s company.

The company we rent from buys some houses to rent and some houses to tear down for newer, nicer construction. When we were planning to rent our Nashville house, I confirmed they weren’t planning to tear this house down for a new build anytime soon. Needless to say (that’s why I’m saying it), the surveyors made me question the landlord’s near-term intentions.

For financial and home-flexibility reasons, we rent. This is on purpose (for now). That said, as we’ve rented in the past, we’ve never felt the “we might tear your house down and have you leave” possibility. This has made me question a few things about my philosophy.

Do I build the studio out fully before confirming their intentions? Do I organize my tools in the garage, or do I start to plan a move again? Do I have to leave tomorrow? What does living in any space even mean (owned or rented)?

If possible, we would like to stay in this house for a few years. What if we can’t? What if we can? If our lease is up next year, why does that change anything about today? Can I be happy with how happy I am in the house I’m in now regardless of its timeline?

Of course, I want to say, “yes!” What does “yes!” take?

I’m realizing how healthy being “possibly nomadic” is for me. All of the things I’ve identified to hold me down emotionally are connected to THINGS that are hard to move. In the past, I’ve built beautiful garage spaces on the walls of houses with all the tools I need to do anything. And then I moved. And then… I built a beautiful garage space on the walls that made me ready with all the tools I need. And then I moved. And then I moved. And then I moved.

I’m realizing the tools I love need to be malleable and ready to move: and this makes long-term housing more peaceful regardless of where I live. I feel like living in a space for MANY years with malleability in mind will make me happier. If my creative space is ready to move and doesn’t have to, it’s better than a well-built space that isn’t ready for relocation at the cost of reduced creativity.

My current strategy with all things studio, all things tools, and all other things is to make moving easy. For the most part, living this way makes living anywhere easier; long-term or not. I don’t want moving to be stressful anytime. Things are just things.

I hate cliches. Also, home might actually be where the heart is and not made of two-by-fours and asbestos.

Stuff and Tornados

Carrie and I have made great headway on the garage already. The process has been paralyzing for me for a few years, but over the last couple of weeks, she has been patiently helping me get to a clearer state of mind by helping me have a cleaner garage. The process has uncovered multiple mental blocks I’m excited to soon find myself beyond. The first step is figuring out what the hell needs to stay and why.

On another note, we moved to Nashville, TN across from a property that lost eighteen very big trees just last year from a tornado. We also got our first “tornados might be coming” moment; we got to spend some time watching weather experts while cozying up in a seemingly-pretend-protective hallway. Our home didn’t have a tornado shelter when we moved in, and after cozying up with pretend protection, we now have a bonafide tornado shelter in the garage.

I told Carrie the other day that I was happy we had a place for the family to be safe during a tornado, and I wouldn’t mind if a tornado wiped everything else away—the idea felt more romantic than tragic when saying it. On some levels this is true—it feels easier for a tornado to get rid of things for me. In other ways, I know I need to come to terms with what and how to engage with the things I own: many of my things are things I appreciate and enjoy. I have too much stuff because of circumstance and mindset.

What I’m about to say is to share context and not to pander to your (or my) acceptance of the current condition.

In Colorado, we had a house that needed tools. I had a car that needed tools. Carrie had a vehicle that needed tools. We had a production van that needed tools. We had a crew car that needed a toolkit. We had a trailer that needed a toolkit. We had a production van that needed tools. We had a 4,500-square-foot film studio that needed a lot of different tools. The studio needed grip gear. The house needed some grip and lighting gear. The grip van needed grip gear. Tools got old or broke and we bought new ones while the old ones sometimes stuck around. Production equipment got old, and we bought replacements. The team grew and we needed more of everything: computers, cables, monitors, hard drives, lenses, cameras, random tool X, cool gadget Y, and everything in between. We had desks, chairs, rugs, lamps, mops, brooms, table-top lights, Christmas decor, signage, label makers, printers, cleaning tools and supplies, light stands, mics, networking tools, seasonal tires for multiple vehicles, and of course, a refrigerator or two. The list goes on.

By the time the pandemic hit, we had already downsized the company, and our non-local traveling work supported us; we had no need for a local studio. The studio got packed down and moved to our house. More specifically, it mostly moved to the garage in our home. 

As I go through the production gear, I’m met with item “A” belonging to kit “Orange” and tool “415638” matching a piece of gear I’m not sure I will use anymore. I also find pieces of gear I didn’t buy. I also find other gear I had before that someone else didn’t know I had and rebought.

Also…
I like to build things and am interested in new skillsets and the tools that accompany them.

Also…
I like to always have the right tool for the right job: especially when others are in need of it.

Also…
I got tools from my dad who got tools from his dad. I also got some great tools from the guy who used to live in the house we lived in. Also, I got some of my favorite tools from friends who upgraded or no longer needed them.

Also…
I love to have enough hardware to prevent trips to the hardware store 90% of the time.

TOO. MUCH. STUFF.
SOME STUFF RELIEVES TRAUMA.
SOME STUFF REMINDS TRAUMA.

I feel like a minimalist in a hoarder’s life. A lot of the things I “own” are more in ownership of me than I am in ownership of them. To the best of my knowledge, they don’t know I own them: they just exist.

When I give away a hammer that’s not my best one, it might end up in the trash. Its feelings are unlikely to be hurt. It’s a hammer that did its job that now accompanies trash that probably did its job. I’m still thankful for the time I had with it all.

When I know an item is actually still worth $75, $130, $3k, or more, it’s hard to give away to someone who might not use it or throw it away: even though it might end up next to items that also did their job for me (or the person I got it from).

Taking the time or asking someone else to take the time to sell the items feels daunting and distracting. I have to get to the point of why I’m here and how I got here.

I want to create—creating things brings me joy.

If that’s true, I have to choose which items stay and which items are thanked for their time before being let go (sold, given, or put in the trash).

When looking at an item, I’m going to ask, “does it disable me or enable me to create?” If it disables creating, it needs to go. If it enables creating, it still has a purpose and stays.

Our garage is already in much less disarray than it was when we started. I’m also aware that the hard work has just begun; and begun, it has.

Mindful Mindlessness

I got a bit overstimulated the other day and ended up at a baseball field I have started to sometimes visit to calm myself. It’s generally empty and without too many distractions. This particular evening didn’t have the quiet I have grown to appreciate about this location; a flag football game, three baseball games, and excited crowds from seemingly all directions filled the area.

Leaving was an option, but the next closest calm spot I knew of was too far away. I decided to park in the furthest part of the parking lot that’s positioned near a big field and not near any of the games. I spent about an hour sitting and walking until I felt a bit more calmed down.

I knew of a trail in the distance that required a walk through an overgrown field of monsters. After painting myself with bug spray to motivate the ticks and mosquitos to find someone else, I took a trek to the trail. There’s a little entrance to find a creek that I have explored in the past, but I was still feeling too on edge discover other people or bugs or snakes I can’t identify.

I decided to brave the journey back to my truck through the field of monsters.

On my trek back, I found a baseball embedded in the grass in a spot that was significantly farther away from the field than any reasonable human could hit. As I finished the trek back to the truck, I came up with stories about the many ways the ball could have made it this far into the field. I dropped the ball next to the maintenance shed and still felt the stimulation of the cars driving through the parking lot and the noises of the excited crowds surrounding the fields.

Behind the maintenance shed, there were some weeds. These beautiful, flowering weeds looked like wild flowers.

I took my phone out and started taking pictures and videos of them.

A crane fly clumsily interrupted my video as it bounced its way from flower to weed to piece of grass. I uninvitedly joined its dance—chasing it with my camera for a while.

I returned to the endless field of beauty behind the maintenance shed and worked on capturing this otherwise-unremarkable field of unmanaged weeds.

The world had disappeared. This is what I’ve been missing.

Later that evening, I sat at the piano and started playing.

The world disappears when I get to capture moments: either musically or visually. 

I love this.
I need this.

The now-remarked-on, unremarkable weed-flowers behind the maintenance shed taught me something—I need to connect. I need to be mindful in order to be mindless.

Filming and playing music quiets the busy of the world and wakes me up.

Permissions and Expectations

Guilt and shame suck. I feel guilt and shame when I perceive I’m letting people down. Sometimes, I do let people down. There are other times that people have felt entitled to a relationship/communication dynamic I didn’t mean to agree to.

I have a phone number that accepts calls and texts. I also have a voicemail, email, website, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, LinkedIn, and dozens of other vehicles for communication people can use to send me a message. A few years ago (give or take a decade), I realized that merely having these accounts seemed to create an expectation that I would respond quickly or at all. Sometimes, people have been upset by my slow or lacking responses. Sometimes, I have felt bad. 

In order to not disappoint others, I’ve decided to proactively communicate that I’ll do my reasonable best to respond to texts, calls, and voicemails. Sometimes, I’ll forget to respond to those. Sometimes, my response will be delayed.

Always, I care to connect with people.

Over the last decade, I’ve gone through bouts of non-engagement with almost every form of communication. I’ve entertained deleting my email, Facebook, email, Instagram, email, phone number, email, etc.

After some more processing, I don’t think the answer is to actively or fully disengage with anything. I also don’t believe the answer is to respond to every unsolicited message. I don’t feel entitled to other people’s time—I’m thankful when they’re able to take the time out of their busy day to respond to me.

People want a way to get in touch with me. I want a way to get in touch with them.

If someone emails me and I see it, I let them know I’m best at texts and calls. I do the same thing for Facebook messenger, Instagram, or any other platform I engage with.

NOTE: if someone asks for my email address, I let them know that I’ll check it for the email they will send, but I communicate my likely slow or lacking response to future communications if they don’t text or call first.

If others don’t want to text or call, my responses may be slow or limited (although never intentionally slow or absent). 

This approach to communication has helped give me the mental space and freedom to be at peace with not checking every inbox every day. I’ll respond to texts, calls, and voicemails when I can: other communications happen whenever and if they happen.

Needless to say, this is one of the reasons this website doesn’t have a contact form or a comment section (at least not currently). If people want to share the blog content, they can. If they want to contact me, they will.

Most importantly, I give myself grace for not being communicative on every platform I have an account. The guilt and shame I used to carry for lower-than-expected response habits I hadn’t agreed to is mostly gone.