Part 1: When the World Keeps Spinning Without You

The world doesn’t pause when you fall into darkness.
The sun still rises. Lunchboxes still need packing. School shoes still vanish at the worst time.
And somehow, in the middle of all that early morning chaos, I’m supposed to pretend I’m okay.

Most days, I’m not.

The routine helps a little, get the kids ready, drop them off, act like the world isn’t unravelling.
But the second I’m alone, it hits. In the car. In the shower.
That’s where the quiet is the loudest.

Every time my phone rings, my body goes cold.
It’s automatic now. Heart races, hands go numb.
Not because I’m expecting good news.
But because maybe this is the call. The one where consequences stop being a cloud and become something solid.

I avoid places I used to go. I ignore messages.
Pretend I’m just busy. Tired. Distracted.
And maybe I am. But that’s not the real reason.

Some people still smile at me like everything’s normal.
Others don’t.
I can’t tell if I’m fooling them… or just trying to fool myself.

Truth is, I don’t see many people anymore.
Just a handful.
I’ve pulled back from the world, and most days, I think the world’s pulled back too.
But even with the few who remain, I feel it. The weight. The tension. The unspoken knowing that something’s different.

And when I do have to show up, at events, at school, in familiar places where I used to feel safe.
I walk in carrying the fear that they know.
Or worse, that they don’t… and they’ll find out soon.

It’s in that space, numb, uncertain, and shrinking, that someone gives me a small suggestion:
“Start with five.”

Five things I’m grateful for. Every day. No repeats.

It doesn’t solve anything.
But it’s better than drowning in the panic of what might still come.

Part 2: Hope in the Small Stuff

The first time I try it, I’m lying in bed, awake before the house stirs.
No alarm. Just my thoughts. And for once, they’re not racing. They’re quiet.
Heavy, but still.

I remember the list clearly:

Waking up.
Being in a warm bed on a cold morning.
A roof over our heads.
Being healthy.
Sunshine after days of grey.

It feels too normal. Too… obvious.
I judge it.
This can’t possibly matter.

But I say the list anyway. And something strange happens.
Not joy. Not relief.
But a tiny breath of space.

I keep doing it. Not every day. Some mornings I forget.
But when I remember, it changes the tone of the day.

It shifts what I notice.

Like the feeling of hot water in the shower. I’ve never really appreciated that before.
Or the way the sky looks just before the sun fully rises.
One morning, I watch a bird fly across the yard, and it actually stops me. Like that makes the list.

None of it fixes anything.
But it softens something inside me.

I realize how much of my life I’ve spent sprinting past the small stuff.
Always chasing. Always managing. Never noticing.
And now, it’s the small stuff that’s saving me.

Not because it’s profound.
But because it’s true.

It’s not a cure.
But it’s a start.
And right now, I need something that doesn’t move faster than I can.

Part 3: Guilt in the Gratitude

Some mornings, the list comes easy.
Other days, it comes with guilt.

I’ll name something beautiful, like my wife’s laugh echoing from the other room…
And instantly, my stomach turns.
Because how do I get to feel grateful for someone I’ve hurt?

I wonder if the people I’ve disappointed knew I was finding joy again, would they be angry?
Would they think I haven’t suffered enough?
That it’s too soon to feel anything but shame?

There’s no answer. Just a heaviness that settles in beside the gratitude.

I feel it even when I list normal things.
A quiet house.
A soft pillow.
The way my kids don’t flinch when I hug them.

There’s a voice inside me that says: You don’t deserve this.

And maybe that voice has a point.
But I don’t argue with it.
I don’t try to fight or justify.

I just let it be.

Because I know this isn’t about feeling good.
It’s about feeling something.
And naming even one small good thing doesn’t erase the bad I’ve done, it just reminds me I’m still here.

And maybe being here, being fully present, is part of what I owe the people I’ve hurt.

This practice doesn’t numb the pain.
Sometimes it makes it sharper.

But it also points me forward.
It reminds me that the capacity for gratitude and the weight of guilt can live in the same breath.

And maybe they have to.

Part 4: Something Starts to Shift

It doesn’t happen all at once.
Just tiny signs. Barely noticeable, unless you’re looking.

One morning, I’m standing in the kitchen, halfway through my list.
I glance outside and see my dog, doing something stupid.
Tail high, nose buried in the dirt like he’s about to unearth treasure.
He looks up, sees me, and jumps like he’s been caught mid-heist.

And for the first time in a while, I laugh.
Not the polite kind. A real one. The kind that makes you forget yourself for a second.

Later that week, we go out for dinner as a family.
It’s not perfect. But it’s… good.
I catch myself smiling at a story, not forcing it, not faking it, just being there.
Present. Enjoying. Not watching the door. Not checking my phone.

It’s small, but it sticks with me.

I notice that I’m a little more patient.
Less reactive.
There’s space now between the fear and the action.
And in that space, I start choosing differently.

One day, I realize I’ve spent more time with my kids than scrolling through anything on my phone.
That’s when it clicks.

This is what change feels like.
Not like a wave.
More like a slow shift in gravity.
Like something inside me is moving toward the person I always wanted to be.

And for the first time, I think… maybe I still can be.

Part 5: This Practice Isn’t Magic, But It’s Something

Let’s be clear, this isn’t magic.
It doesn’t fix the damage.
It doesn’t rebuild trust.
It doesn’t give me back the version of life I lost.

But it gives me something else:
A foothold.
A reason to sit up and keep moving.

Some days, it barely helps.
I do the list anyway.

Because I’ve learned what happens when I don’t.
The heaviness creeps in. I start spinning. I feel… off.
Almost like my body forgets how to carry the weight without that small dose of clarity.

This practice doesn’t erase anything.
But it keeps me anchored.

Even when nothing outside of me changes, even when consequences still hang in the air, naming five things reminds me that not everything is broken.

That’s the surprising part.

It’s taught me I have more than I thought.
That I am more than I’ve let myself believe.
Not just the sum of what I’ve wrecked. Not just the guy in damage control.

And every day, there’s one thing that never drops off the list:
My family.

Even in the distance. Even in the silence.
They are the reason I keep trying.
They are the reason I want to show up honest, even if I still don’t have it all figured out.

So no, this isn’t magic.
But it’s something.
And in a season where everything feels fragile, something is enough.

Part 6: For Anyone Still in the Fog

If you’re reading this and you’re stuck.
I get it.

If you’re waking up each morning with a pit in your stomach, dreading what’s coming, wondering if the damage is already too deep.
You’re not alone.

You don’t need to have answers right now.
You don’t need to fix everything today.
You just need to find five things.
Any five.

I know that sounds small. Maybe even insulting.
But when everything else feels like chaos, this is the one thing you can control.

Not because gratitude makes the storm go away.
It doesn’t.

But because gratitude is often the only positive thing you have left when everything else has burned.
It’s not about pretending things are fine.
It’s about finding proof that not everything is broken.

Even in the wreckage, there’s still sunlight.
A hot shower.
A heartbeat.
A laugh from the next room.

If you look hard enough, you’ll see it.

The biggest lie I told myself before starting this was, “I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t.
And saying that out loud was the first step toward anything real.

So, if this is your storm…
And you’re looking for something solid to hold onto.

Start here.
Start with five.

Every storm passes.
Even if it leaves a mess behind, you are still standing.

And that means there’s still time to walk forward.

Part 7: No Finish Line. Just Forward.

I used to think healing came with milestones.
That if I just said the right things, did the right things, stayed consistent long enough.
Eventually, someone would say, “You’re good now. You’ve made it.”

But that moment hasn’t come.
And maybe it never will.

What I’m learning is that this isn’t a race.
There’s no clean finish line.
No medal for best emotional comeback.
Just quiet steps. Some forward. Some sideways. Some done in the dark, with no one watching.

I don’t wake up waiting for a dramatic shift anymore.
I just try to do better than yesterday.

Some days that means biting my tongue.
Other days it means saying nothing when I want to defend myself.
Sometimes it just means naming five things before I even get out of bed.

That’s what rebuilding looks like now.

No fireworks.
No applause.
Just effort.

Real, tired, slow effort.

And on the days I want to disappear again, because those days still come, I go back to the list.

I start with five.

Because no matter how this ends, no matter which relationships survive, no matter what consequences are still coming…

I don’t want to be the guy who gave up.

I want to be the man who kept showing up, mud on his boots, truth in his chest, and just enough hope to take one more step.

That’s where I am now.

Not finished.

Just forward.