After Showing Up

This week asked me to show up before I felt ready.

That’s the simplest way to say it.

Pressing the button again wasn’t hard because of the technology. It was hard because of what was going on in my mind. Tuesday was full of unnecessary checking, re-checking, and intentional delay. I had to psych myself up in a way I haven’t needed to in years. The first time back felt heavy. Not bad. Just full of awareness.

By Thursday, something had shifted.

The nerves were still there, but they weren’t in control. It felt familiar again. Not exactly like before, but close enough to recognize. It was like finding a rhythm you haven’t used in a while and realizing your body still remembers it.

One thing surprised me, though. On Tuesday, for the first time in a very long time, I could hear and feel my nervous energy while I was live. Normally, I either mask it or it never fully surfaces. This time, it did. It caught me off guard, and I didn’t love that.

But it was honest.

And by Thursday, it had softened. Not because it disappeared, but because I’d already faced it once.

This week was a lot of work.

The kind that isn’t scalable and shouldn’t be. The kind that asks for everything up front and leaves you tired, even when it pays off. I spent the weekend getting ready for it, and that tiredness never fully went away.

Still, it paid off.

I streamed twice. I wrote. I finished my coursework. I kept up with what I needed to do. The house is still standing. The kids are okay. My wife is okay. Those last two matter most.

That feels like “good enough” in the best possible way.

What this week taught me is that moving forward isn’t about doing more. It’s about setting boundaries that actually matter.

Time boxes matter.

Not as a productivity trick, but as a way to show respect. Respect for the work. Respect for my family. Respect for myself.

I will focus on this for the next hour.
This time belongs to reading with one of my kids.
It’s after four, so work stops here.

Those lines aren’t strict rules. They’re agreements. Respecting them has made the difference between keeping momentum and burning out.

There still has to be room for life to breathe. To spill. To interrupt.

But forward motion only works if the containers are real.

There was a moment on Tuesday that stayed with me.

A message came in the chat. It was joking, playful, and a little pointed, about ignoring the world while getting so much done. My response came out unplanned and unpolished. It was just there in the moment.

I talked about doing what we can within our own sphere. About building what we’re meant to build. About leaving something behind through our kids, our work, our hands, our words, and even the things we do on a screen.

And I said it plainly: memento mori.

Remember that time is finite. That someday all of this ends. And what remains is the legacy we’ve been shaping all along.

That thought stayed with me the rest of the week.

I’m not carrying the stress of starting streaming into next week.

That weight is gone. Dealt with. Behind me.

What remains are small tweaks, ideas in progress, and things that need time and research. That’s fine. Those belong to future me, in the space where streaming happens.

This space, this blog, stays where it’s always been. It’s a place to reflect on life, work, parenting, learning, and growing. Streaming can exist alongside it, serving the same ideals in a different way, without crossing over.

Tonight, after the kids go to bed, I’ll be back at my computer.

Maybe playing with friends who’ve become family. Maybe just watching them play while I hang out in chat. Either way, the catharsis is real. Deep. Necessary.

The figuring-out can rest for now.

The week is over.
The work showed up.
And I did too.

This is where I’m ending the week.

Still a dad. Still figuring it out.
Choosing presence over progress, at least for tonight.

Much love. Stay safe. Wash your damn hands.
I’ll see you next time.