For some people, attending church on Sunday morning is the spiritual space they need in their lives. I have never been one of those people, but I am someone who needs quiet, reflection and beauty to feel spiritually fulfilled. I find my spiritual space in the nature.
This morning, as the church bells atop North Park rang to signal 8am, I started out on the Green trail. It was foggy and humid, but once I got into the woods, the fog added a layer of mystery to the familiar trail.
As I moved from the Green trail to the Orange trail, I passed a father and young son just starting out on a Father’s Day hike. They were the only two humans I’d see on the trails this morning.
I love solo runs like this. They ground me in a way I presume church or religion does for others. I listen closely to the sound of my breath and the non-rhythms of my footfalls. My mind wanders wherever it wants to wander, much like my body in these trail running moments.
After an hour or so in this zen-like state, I emerged from the woods into the church parking lot refreshed, aware and at ease — a spiritual space those now entering the church will likely have in about an hour.
It’s been several months since I stopped using a smartwatch to track health and exercise metrics, and it’s an understatement to say this simple act has fundamentally altered my mental state in the best possible way. The shift has completely changed my perspective on the purpose of maintaining good health.
Before I made the switch, I could classify my metrics gathering into two buckets:
general life metrics like sleep quality, resting heart rate, and daily steps
workout metrics like pace, weekly miles, and elevation gain
My assumption going into the experiment was that the general life stuff would be easier to let go of than the workout metrics. But to my surprise, I don’t miss the exercise metrics at all.
In fact, not having pace and miles strapped to my wrist – or the pressure to stack miles week over week – allows me to be more present when I’m out there on a run or ride. Not knowing exactly how fast I’m pacing lets me truly listen to my body for cues about when to go harder or when to back off. I can feel my fatigue in greater fidelity, if that makes sense.
For example, I wasn’t feeling 100% after starting this morning’s run, so I decided to power hike the steep inclines of North Park’s South Ridge. In that moment, I thought to myself, “You would never let yourself hike these hills if you had pace on your wrist.” Hiking would slow down my overall pace too significantly.
It’s liberating to be able to run fast when I want to and throttle it back when I feel like I need to. Similarly, it’s refreshing (and sort of weird) to have no idea exactly how far I’m running.
When I returned home from this morning’s run, Jilly asked how far I ran.
“I’m not quite sure,” I told her. “I ran through the woods for about an hour and fifteen minutes, so that’s maybe six or seven miles, but I don’t know for sure.”
She didn’t quite understand why I would run if I wasn’t paying attention to how far I ran.
I think all of this boils down to the phase of life I’m currently in. I’m getting older and I’m okay with that. I’m not chasing paces anymore. I’m not chasing mileage volume. I’m not putting pressure on myself to progress at all costs. I don’t get upset if life gets busy and I don’t have time for my daily run. There are no ultramarathons on my docket.
Things are different now.
These days I’m chasing experiences – I want a unique one with each outing, and that’s only possible if I am fully present during each outing. These days I’m chasing future experiences and a level of fitness that will keep me on this planet for a bit longer so someday in the not-too-distant future I can be active with my grandkids.
That’s a different kind of ultra, but it’s the one I’m training for these days.
My friend Rob calls it my “no excuses jacket.” Every time I show up for a run when the weather is doing its worst—sleeting, pouring, or threatening something even more unpleasant—I’m wearing the same beat-up, greenish-yellow Marmot Precip jacket that’s been my constant companion for years.
It’s not the most technical piece of gear, and it’s certainly not the most stylish. But it has one quality that matters more than anything else: I trust it completely. Through Christmas Eve runs at -11 degrees, winter solstice adventures on the Rachel Carson trail in 18 inches of snow, and just last week when sheets of summer rain turned my morning neighborhood run into an impromptu swimming session, this jacket has never let me down.
The durability isn’t just about the fabric—it’s about the memories woven into every mile. This jacket has been with me through breakthrough runs and breaking points, through moments of clarity on quiet trails and the grinding determination of longer efforts. It’s become more than gear; it’s become a symbol of showing up.
But here’s what I’ve realized: the real power of the “no excuses jacket” isn’t protection from the elements. It’s protection from my own resistance to discomfort.
Weather is just the most obvious form of resistance we face. The cold whispers that it’s too harsh to go out. The rain suggests that maybe today isn’t the day. The wind argues that conditions aren’t ideal. My jacket doesn’t eliminate these conditions—it just gives me the confidence to move through them anyway.
This same principle has started showing up in other areas of my life, particularly in those moments that require a different kind of courage. Like having uncomfortable conversations with team members about performance issues. Or pushing back on a decision I disagree with in a leadership meeting. Or admitting I was wrong about a product direction we’ve been pursuing for months.
These situations don’t require literal weather protection, but they need the same kind of shield—something that helps me face discomfort rather than avoid it. Sometimes it’s preparation that serves as my jacket: spending extra time thinking through a difficult conversation before having it. Sometimes it’s a mindset: reminding myself that avoiding hard truths doesn’t make them disappear. And sometimes it’s simply the accumulated confidence that comes from having weathered difficult moments before.
This isn’t about toxic productivity or grinding through everything that feels hard. There’s a difference between productive discomfort and destructive suffering. The “No Excuses Jacket” philosophy is about being brave enough to engage with the things that matter, even when they feel uncomfortable. It’s about recognizing that the best runs often happen in the worst weather, and the most important conversations often happen when they feel the hardest to have.
The jacket reminds me that I have more capacity for discomfort than I usually give myself credit for. That the anticipation of harsh conditions is often worse than the conditions themselves. That showing up consistently, regardless of circumstances, builds a different kind of strength than any training plan could provide.
There’s something grounding about having a piece of gear—or a practice, or a mindset—that you trust completely. It becomes an anchor point, a reminder that you’ve faced uncertainty before and made it through. My beat-up Precip has become a tangible representation of the principle that we’re more resilient than we think, and that the best version of ourselves often emerges not in perfect conditions, but in spite of imperfect ones.
Letting go is often harder than hanging on. It’s natural to grasp tightly to the people we love, but releasing the hold at times is also natural. It’s hard to understand that sometimes. Letting go requires trust & belief that the love we’ve given over time will endure across any distance.
Few things in life are actually urgent. True emergencies do happen, but hopefully they are rare. The urgency I’m referring to is fabricated. A modern myth.
Our culture has evolved to value instant gratification, instant response and instant turnaround for most things. The faster your synapses get feedback, the better.
It doesn’t need to be this way. In fact, this faux urgency creates conflict with several of the personal pillars I hold dear: care, craft and quality.
Caring about something requires that you get to know it over time. A relationship is necessary for care to exist, and relationships don’t take shape instantly. They’re built on connection, trust and empathy – all elements difficult to nurture quickly.
Likewise, craft requires practice. And by definition, practice is working toward perfection over time. A craft is not developed overnight, but over years. Sometimes decades.
I think quality is the summation of care and craft. A thing of quality can only be the result of time spent caring about an outcome and crafting a response to that care.
All of this requires that we slow down. Turn off the firehose. Preference the signals that matter. Notice the details. Ask nuanced questions. Make space for diverse perspectives. Take on difficult conversations. Become intentional about our actions. By living this way, we’ll be able to center the care and craft required to deliver the quality the world deserves.
Content feeds are infinite, but our time & attention remain finite. Each scroll becomes a small act of self-definition. Little darts aimed toward the mind. Over time we become what we ingest, resembling a collage crafted from moments we’ve deemed worthy of our focus. Choose these moments wisely.
In a conversation earlier today someone used the phrase “feed two birds with one scone” and I absolutely love that vibe so much more than the popular alternative.
Over the past few years, I’ve developed an essential daily practice I call the Elemental Hour. The idea is simple – I commit at least one hour each day to being outdoors, regardless of weather or circumstance. No phone. No music or podcasts. No technology. Just me and whatever elements nature decides to serve up that day.
Sometimes I run. Sometimes I bike. Often, I simply walk. And some days I might just sit on the grass in my backyard, watching clouds drift or rain fall. The only condition that blocks me from the Elemental Hour is active lightning – a concession to safety that I’ve only had to invoke a handful of times.
This daily hour began as an experiment during a particularly screen-heavy period of work and has become an essential part of my wellbeing. It represents a small grounding, a deliberate step away from a technology-infused world. It creates a space where my attention isn’t fragmented by notifications, where success isn’t measured in metrics, and where presence isn’t mediated through a screen.
I can feel the benefits. Physically, my body moves in ways that feel natural and intuitive. Mentally, my thoughts have room to untangle themselves. And the practice has reconnected me with a direct, unfiltered experience of the world around me.
I think there’s something transformative about feeling rain on my face. About the absolute frozen bones after an hour sitting still in sub-zero windchill. About noticing the subtle transition of seasons. About navigating by landmarks and intuition.
When you’re standing in a downpour or navigating a snowy trail, the present moment demands your full attention. The future (how much longer will this last?) and the past (why didn’t I check the forecast?) become irrelevant. There is only now – this moment of being fully alive in the natural world.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this current and pivotal moment we find ourselves in. You probably are too. The world seems to be unraveling at an unprecedented pace. It’s impossible to ignore. Even if you’re mindful about how and where you spend your time and attention, there’s no escaping the onslaught of negativity swirling around us.
Violence and hate have been normalized. Basic human rights are being taken from marginalized people with each passing day. Isolation and nationalism pit global allies against one another. And it costs us all more to make ends meet for ourselves and our families.
Left unchecked, I can’t see how this all ends well. For anyone.
It’s obvious the goal of this whirlwind is to flood the zone and make us feel helpless. It’s working. I feel extremely helpless at times. Today is one of those days. But for me, the first step toward turning helplessness into something positive – something helpful – is to acknowledge the feeling, understand why I’m feeling this way and sit with that feeling for a moment. This post is essentially me sitting with the feeling of helplessness.
The second step I can take toward helpfulness is to make a commitment to do something – anything – that helps others. None of us individually or alone can end hate or reverse the downward trend of the economy. But we can all do our part and I believe one helpful act from one individual can scale up to many helpful acts across dozens, hundreds, thousands of people.
Here are a few things I’m committing to in order to become more helpful:
Talk openly, honestly and politely with those who disagree. We’re all too dug in and unwilling to interact with opposing views. This needs to change. I will never argue with a Nazi, but short of that, I will make an effort to talk openly about my belief system with others in an honest and approachable way. I will lean into empathy and humor (where appropriate) to deflect and connect with those who hold opposing views. I will do my best to communicate why I believe the things I do. I will remain proud and undeterred.
Support the businesses of my (marginalized) neighbors. I’ve seen a number of locally owned businesses close their doors permanently in recent weeks. Economic turbulence affects everyone, but I think local independent businesses that operate without economies of scale take the brunt. And local businesses owned by people in the cross-hairs of society feel the pain even more. To that end, I will spend my dollars at the establishments owned and operated by my marginalized neighbors wherever possible. From food to clothing to services, and everything in between, I will opt to shop small over corporate options.
Do not fall into the trap of contributing to divisive narratives online. It’s sad, but I feel like factual truth has become obsolete. The echo chambers are real and they’re here to stay. Too much of what I see online is about fact checking things that are blatantly false. In the context of a social network, who does this help? Whose opinion do we hope to change with that post? I believe nothing helpful can come from quote posting or clapping back online. We need more substantive dialogue on issues and social platforms offer none of the substance or depth required for meaningful change.
Volunteer at least once per month at a social service nonprofit that aligns to my worldview. Like you, I have a lot going on in my personal life. A demanding job and family responsibilities consume most of my days and evenings, but I think it’s important to contribute to causes I believe in. I will make a point to find time each month to volunteer in person at local nonprofit organization that assists some of the people and groups currently threatened by systems and policies that have emerged in recent days.
I’m curious if this sentiment resonates with you. If it does, what are some things you do to transcend this helpless feeling? I’d love to hear about some things that are working for you.
Who is this for? You. Yourself. Your family. Your friends. Your friend’s friends. Your neighborhood. And they can have it whenever they want. As a gift. A gift from you to them. Not a gift to be measured in engagement, but instead as a body of work. A gift to the web, which is a gift to people.
This is exactly how I’ve been thinking about my site lately, and one of the reasons I’ve been importing extremely old posts from my previous online spaces into the archive here. For posterity. For legacy. To create a document of a life (hopefully) well lived.
In The Ordinary Sacred, Joan Westenberg examines the alternative to a hyper-connected and ultra-performative lifestyle:
We live under systems—economic, cultural, digital—that demand we strive to be impressive. Inspirational. Aspirational. Permanently visible. Permanently performing. Eternally, achingly unsatisfied. We’re trained to ask, before doing anything: Will this make good content? Will this signal something useful? Will this get me closer to who I’m “supposed” to be?
I feel this sentiment in my bones. In my core. It’s a tension I feel pulling at me in surprising moments. Joan’s piece is a longer read, but worthy and relevant one – for me, and I suppose some of you who think similarly about digital culture.
Our world is complex. It’s messy and laced with nuance. In this context, I believe subtlety matters. Thoughtfulness matters. Depth matters. Now more than ever.
Show me a problem that can be solved over a couple hundred hastily typed characters and an angry button tap. Or a cynical, irony-infused dunk. What progress have you seen come out of that? Increasingly, we are bringing megaphones to tasks that require honest, substantive, personal interactions. Inside voices, please.
Bring the whisper.
Soundbite culture doesn’t allow for the holistic understanding we need right now. Nor the empathy required to take ground on the change we’re working toward. With most things, answers don’t lie on the fringes. They can be found somewhere along a spectrum and the key to winning in this endeavor is to slide people along that spectrum toward you. That’s not possible through anger and shouting into a megaphone, which only digs people further into their trenches.
Bring the whisper.
Speaking with nuance and empathy does not mean deferring to or submitting to or normalizing conflicting perspectives. In fact, the opposite. By offering an empathetic ear we can understand why people believe the things they do and offer the alternatives in which we believe. I think this is best done face-to-face. In real life. Where nuance can be addressed.
Bring the whisper.
It’s not easy. These are uncomfortable, difficult conversations. They can be painful and depressing at times, but occasionally you’ll see someone inch toward you. A pondering look. A slow nod in the affirmative. An honest question about your thought process. These are windows into progress.
Bring the whisper.
Some might think I’m naïve in this approach, and that’s OK. I might be. To those who might write this off as a futile tactic I’ll ask, how’s that megaphone working out?
Millions of whispers in unison can be extremely loud. Bring the whisper.
A thoughtful post (as always) from Naz about the importance of carving out your own digital space:
I don’t need to be in a walled garden but I’d love to have you over at my place.
This sentiment is exactly how I’m feeling these days. Fewer, richer interactions in a space that’s built on my terms. I can shut the door and draw the shades if I need privacy, or leave the door open and roll out the welcome mat if I feel like being social.
Like Naz, I’m really interested to explore the artisanal web and I’d love swing by your place if you’ll have me. I’ll bring baked goods.
This post is part of the February 2025 Indieweb Carnival, where Joe Crawford invited us to share personal affirmations - the sayings and mantras that help guide our lives.
Be Here Now. Three simple words that have carried me through the darkest valleys and highest peaks, both literally and figuratively. This mantra, popularized by Ram Dass, has been my companion through unthinkable loss, through ultra-distance runs, and increasingly, through our algorithm-infused world.
I first encountered these words during a period of profound grief, when the weight of loss made both past and future unbearable. The past was too painful to revisit, the future too uncertain to contemplate. Be Here Now became my anchor, a reminder that this moment - just this one - was all I needed to handle. It didn’t make the grief disappear, but it made it manageable, one present moment at a time.
Years later, I found myself returning to these words in a different context: ultra-running. When you’re 40 miles into an ultra, your mind becomes your greatest adversary. It wants to complain about every ache, project how much worse they’ll feel in 10 miles, replay every training run you missed, question every life choice that led you here. But none of that serves you. The only thing that matters is this stride, this breath, this moment. Putting one foot in front of the other. Keep moving forward. Be Here Now. The mantra becomes a rhythm, a meditation in motion, carrying you through the pain cave one step at a time.
Lately, I’ve found new meaning in these words as I navigate what the internet has become. The constant pull of notifications, the endless doomscrolling, the quantified metrics of our lives - they all conspire to pull us away from the present moment. They fragment our attention and scatter our consciousness, leaving us somehow both overstimulated and undernourished.
This led me to make significant changes: deleting corporate social media accounts, self-hosting my online presence, removing my fitness tracker after nearly two decades. Each change was a choice to Be Here Now, to experience life directly rather than through the lens of algorithms and analytics.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m sharing these thoughts on a digital platform. But there’s a profound difference between using technology mindfully and letting it use us. The IndieWeb movement itself embodies this distinction - it’s about being present and intentional in our digital lives, rather than passively consuming the algorithmic firehose.
Be Here Now isn’t about rejecting the past or ignoring the future. It’s about recognizing that the present moment is where life actually happens, where we have the power to act, to heal, and to grow. Whether I’m processing grief, pushing through physical or mental limits, or choosing how to engage with technology, these three words remind me to return to the only moment I can truly inhabit.
In a world that increasingly pulls our attention in a thousand directions, being here now is both a challenge and a radical act of self-preservation. It’s an affirmation I return to daily, a compass that always points to this moment, this breath, this now.
There’s something about a Western Pennsylvania winter that demands your full attention. For those unfamiliar, our region gets locked in an embrace with sub-zero temperatures for a few months. The wind whips with an unforgiving fury, carrying an icy mist that stings your face. The sun rises late and it struggles to pierce the pewter sky, as if winter itself has drawn heavy curtains across the world.
In these conditions, getting outside becomes a deliberate decision. There’s no casual stepping out, no spontaneous walks. Each journey requires preparation: layers carefully considered, boots properly laced, paths mentally mapped to minimize exposure. People move at a different rhythm—slower, more intentional, more aware.
I used to fight against this slowdown. I tried to maintain my usual pace, pushing through the bitter wind chills and navigating icy sidewalks with determined steps. But gradually, I started to recognize a brutal winter’s insistence as an invitation rather than an impediment.
Just as the frozen ground inspires an eventual renewal beneath its surface, this season has started to offer its own form of awareness for me. The bare trees reveal a sort of architectural beauty in their stark silhouettes. The quiet that follows a heavy snowfall creates space for thoughts that might otherwise be drowned out by a stacked agenda. There’s a clarity that can be found in absence. I’m learning to trust this process, to find value in the stripping away.
When the wind chill drops this low, you quickly learn which journeys are worth making.
Long winters require mindfulness with an edge. Awareness born of necessity. Every footfall on icy pavement becomes a lesson in presence. Every bitter gust reminds me to check in with myself, to notice where I’m holding tension, to consciously relax into the challenge rather than resist it.
Eventually – as all things eventually do – winter will break. The sun will emerge, and Pittsburgh will gradually shed its icy armor. When that happens, I hope to emerge not just having endured, but having grown – resilient, aware, appreciative of both the challenge and the comfort.
Every welcome thaw begins in the heart of winter, just like every renewal starts in a moment of stillness.
In the shifting landscape of our digital commons, the words the leaders of these corporate social platforms use have become shapeshifters, their meanings bending like light through murky water. As we witness the transformation of our shared online spaces, I find myself creating a new dictionary for these times—a translation guide for what remains unsaid.
When they say “free expression,” I want you to hear “the end of community care.”
When they say “algorithmic neutrality,” I want you to hear “the automation of amplified harm.”
When they say “marketplace of ideas,” I want you to hear “a colosseum where truth wrestles with virality.”
When they say “content-neutral platform,” I want you to hear “we’ve chosen profit over protection.”
When they say “open dialogue,” I want you to hear “we’ve removed the guardrails.”
When they say “reduced content moderation,” I want you to hear “we’ve dismissed the digital gardeners.”
When they say “user empowerment,” I want you to hear “you’re on your own now.”
When they say “engagement metrics,” I want you to hear “behavior we can monetize.”
When they say “democratic discourse,” I want you to hear “the loudest voices win.”
When they say “digital town square,” I want you to hear “unmoderated chaos.”
These aren’t just semantic games—they’re the architecture of our new digital reality. Each phrase is another layer between what we’re told and what we experience, between the promise of connection and the practice of division.
I find myself returning to the early dreams of the web, when we imagined digital spaces as gardens to be tended, not markets to be exploited. It’s time to reclaim not just our platforms, but our very language—to speak plainly about what we’re building, what we’re breaking, and what we’re willing to sacrifice in the name of unconstrained growth.
The web I want to inhabit still has gardeners. It still has carpenters and caretakers. It still believes in the power of boundaries to create safety, and the strength of moderation to cultivate community. Most importantly, it still understands that true freedom comes not from the absence of constraints, but from the presence of care.
Each December as the year comes to a close, I find myself reflecting not just on where I’ve been during the past twelve months, but more importantly, on where I want to go during the next twelve. The past few years have brought unprecedented changes to how we live, work, and connect. I’ll be honest, I struggled this past year through a lot of it. I know I’m not alone in this admission.
Through it all, one truth has become increasingly clear to me: the quality of our lives isn’t measured in grand gestures or accomplishments, but in the small, intentional choices we make each day.
For 2025, I’m approaching my intentions with this notion in mind. Instead of a scattered list of resolutions, I’m focusing on a single theme: Living Well. This isn’t about perfection or hitting arbitrary numbers (though I’ve included some specific targets to keep myself honest). It’s about building a framework that feels both purposeful and sustainable.
My framework breaks down into four key areas, each with specific, measurable objectives that support the broader goal of living well:
Get Stronger
First, I’m focusing on getting stronger—both physically and mentally. On the physical side, I’ve set a few concrete goals:
achieving 100 good-form pushups in one rep
doing 25 proper pull-ups in one rep
advancing my bouldering ability from V2 to V4/V5
bikepacking the GAP & C&O trails from Pittsburgh to DC
These aren’t just about numbers; they’re about building a resilient body that can keep up with my adventures and ambitions.
Mental strength is equally crucial. After noticing how much time I spend mindlessly consuming content, I’m committing to two daily practices:
dedicated time for reading actual books (not just snippets and headlines)
actively catching myself when I fall into the doomscrolling trap
It’s about quality of attention rather than quantity of information.
Eat Low to the Ground
The second pillar focuses on nourishment—specifically, eating “low to the ground.” This means prioritizing whole foods and reducing processed ingredients. This isn’t about strict rules or elimination diets, but rather making conscious choices about what I put into my body. The goal is to make whole, minimally-processed foods the default rather than the exception.
Prioritize Quality
Quality is my third focus area, extending beyond just food choices. I’m being more intentional about the media I consume and the things I bring into my life. This means fewer impulse purchases, more thoughtful choices about what I read and watch, and a general shift toward “fewer, better things.” It’s about creating space for what truly matters by being selective about what gets my time and attention.
Actively Cultivate Relationships
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I’m prioritizing relationships. The pandemic showed us all how easily connections can fray without active maintenance. I’m setting up regular check-ins with friends and family—not just through texts and social media, but through actual calls and in-person visits. These won’t be relegated to “when I have time” but will be treated as non-negotiable appointments with the people who matter most.
These objectives aren’t just items to check off a list; they’re guideposts for getting more intentional and aligned with my values. Some days I’ll hit all the marks, others I won’t—and that’s okay. The point isn’t perfection, but progression. And practice. Living well isn’t about dramatic transformations but about small, consistent choices that add up over time.
Thanks so much for reading and supporting this site in 2024. Your readership is important to me.
The eggs must be room temperature. This isn’t negotiable—it’s the foundation everything else builds upon. I learned this the hard way, through countless mornings of broken, rubbery attempts that ended up more scrambled than folded. Cold eggs straight from the refrigerator never cooperate; they resist, they seize up, they refuse to flow.
Each morning now starts the same way: I take two eggs from the fridge and place them in a small bowl on the counter. While they slowly warm, I prep everything else: chopping the veggies, grating a small amount of cheese, setting out and warming my well-seasoned 8-inch pan.
This waiting period to temperature used to frustrate me. Now I understand it’s not just about temperature—it’s about preparation, about giving space for what comes next.
The whisking is gentle but deliberate. Two eggs (never more, never less), a pinch of salt, seven twists of the peppercorn grinder and exactly twelve whisks. Not enough to create foam—that leads to sponginess—but just enough to unite the whites and yolks into a seamless golden liquid. You can feel when it’s ready; the resistance changes, becomes smoother, more cohesive.
The pan must be hot, but not too hot. Medium-low heat, butter just starting to foam but not brown. This is the moment that demands the most attention, the most presence. Too cool and the eggs won’t set properly; too hot and they’ll toughen. You have to read the signs: the way the butter moves, the subtle change in its sound, the first whisper of fragrance.
When the eggs hit the pan, time simultaneously speeds up and slows down. You have maybe two minutes total, but within those minutes are dozens of small decisions. The initial swirl to coat the pan. The gentle lifting of the edges as the eggs set, allowing the liquid to flow underneath. The moment when you stop touching it altogether and just watch, wait, and feel.
The fold itself is both the simplest and most complex part. One smooth motion, confident but not aggressive. Too hesitant and it breaks; too forceful and it tears. The spatula slides underneath at precisely the right angle, and then it’s just physics and faith. The eggs know what to do if you let them.
I’ve made hundreds of omelettes over the past few years. Each one has taught me something, not just about cooking but about the nature of practice. About how mastery isn’t a destination but a series of small adjustments, tiny calibrations, moments of paying attention. About how the same ingredients, the same steps, the same motions can produce wildly different results depending on your state of mind.
Some mornings, everything aligns. The omelette slides onto the plate in one perfect golden crescent, barely containing the melted cheese within. Other mornings, despite following every step exactly the same way, something goes wrong. The fold isn’t quite right, or the cheese breaks through, or the edges are just a touch too brown.
These imperfect ones still taste good—sometimes even better than their more photogenic siblings. They remind me that perfection isn’t always the point. The point is showing up, paying attention, making small adjustments, and being present for whatever emerges from the pan.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll take two eggs from the fridge and place them in a small bowl on the counter. And while I wait for them to warm, I’ll think about what the day might bring, about all the small moments that add up to something larger, about the endless pursuit of that perfect fold.
After two decades of religiously tracking every step, every mile, and every heartbeat, I’ve decided to take off my fitness tracker. My health metrics tracking journey began in the aughts with a Jawbone (remember those?), then evolved to a Fitbit, an early generation Apple Watch, and then most recently to a COROS Apex as I got more serious in my endurance pursuits. The journey has been enlightening, but perhaps not in the way these devices' makers intended.
For nearly 20 years, I’ve been a dedicated member of the quantified self movement. Most mornings began with checking my sleep quality, each run or ride was meticulously recorded and posted to Strava, and most days ended with a review of my stats. The progression through devices—from the simple step counting of early Fitbits to the comprehensive health suite of the Apple Watch and the endurance-focused metrics of the COROS—reflected my growing appetite for more data, more insights, and more control.
But somewhere along the way, something changed.
I started noticing how the numbers were shaping my behavior, and not always for the better. A relaxed-pace run wasn’t just a chance to enjoy fresh air and sunshine—it was a disappointing pace stat. A rest day wasn’t a conscious choice for recovery—it was an unfortunate break in my activity streak. The quantified self had become my qualified self, where the value of my activities was determined by what my watch thought about them.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: tools that were supposed to help me become more in tune with my body had actually created a layer of digital abstraction between me and my physical experience. I was no longer running to feel good, riding for the freedom and wind in my face or climbing for enjoyment—I was doing these things to feed the algorithms.
This realization led me to question the role of tracking in my life. Was I measuring to help me improve or was I becoming digitally dependent on the metrics? The constant stream of data had overshadowed the simple joy of movement, the natural rhythm of rest and activity, and the intuitive understanding of my body’s needs.
The decision to stop tracking wasn’t easy. My COROS was a loyal companion. It was with me through countless miles, crazy adventures, my first ultra, and with each new bouldering grade. It witnessed my growth as a runner, cyclist and climber, and provided the data that fueled my progress. But sometimes, progress means letting go of the tools that got you here.
Now, when I head out for a run, it’s just me, my breath, and the trail ahead. There’s no GPS track being drawn, no pace alerts buzzing on my wrist, no stats to upload and analyze afterward. It feels both foreign and familiar—like running to a home you’d forgotten you had.
I don’t think this is a total rejection of tracking technology or the quantified self movement. These tools can be incredibly valuable, especially when working toward specific goals or managing health conditions. But perhaps their greatest value lies in teaching us to eventually listen to ourselves again.
As I adjust to this new, untracked existence, I’m rediscovering something that no algorithm could quantify: the simple pleasure of moving through the world, unchanged by sensors and unmediated by screens. It turns out that sometimes the best way to move forward is to leave the numbers behind.
I sort of despise the term “frictionless” when used in the context of digital experience, and think this is where we’ve wandered astray from creating healthy experiences. Give me “just enough friction” so I can question if this is the best & most productive use of my time.
You are an awful developer. In fact, to call yourself a developer is a complete fabrication. You’re not formally trained in code or capable of building anything more sophisticated than a rudimentary website. You’re a self-taught hobbyist whose curiosity has led you far enough to be dangerous.
You are a mediocre designer. In fact, to label yourself a designer would be skewing the truth and devaluing the work of those true artisans who meticulously craft delicate digital artifacts. Those perfectors of the pixel. Those framers of the future.
You are an average writer. You formulate and convey clear thoughts through the written word, however Hemingway you are not.
Your entrepreneurial and business acumen is nothing to write home about. Marketing doesn’t scare you, but you don’t enjoy it. It makes you feel dirty. Many people have made much more money in their profitable ventures. And you don’t seem to mind.
In light of these things you are not, you are able to see past the horizon. You understand how puzzle pieces fit together. You effortlessly connect people with resources and desirable outcomes.
You’re not afraid of hard work or sacrificing to get better. Your drive is a thing of wonder.
Your sense of direction is unprecedented. Some call it strategy. Others, leadership prowess. You leave it undefined, but know deep down it’s this nebulous mass throbbing in your chest that makes you special. It makes you different. It’s a thing of wonder.
You’re not a great coder, designer, writer or entrepreneur, but you might just be a great combination of those skills. Move forward with speed and confidence.
I recently stumbled upon this post from Andy Jones-Wilkins about aging & running, and it prompted me to reflect on my own experience as a 40-something runner.
Needless to say, I’m not as speedy as I once was and my body needs longer & more frequent recovery than it did even just a couple years ago. The repetitive motion and high-impact is starting to wreak havoc on my joints and tendons. It’s taken a long time, lots of soul searching and some avoidable injuries, but it’s a truth I’ve come to accept embrace. The fact that I can’t crush 10 milers seven days a week or jump into a random marathon on a few days notice anymore has opened up a variety of new options for me to stay engaged with my physicality on a daily basis.
The most notable non-running activity I’ve grown to love is bouldering. I find it to be fundamentally different than running, however it requires a similar mindset. Bouldering and running are equally mental and physical challenges. And in my opinion, the mental challenges are always more interesting problems to solve. In running and climbing there will be times when you want to quit or bail, but mental strength will get you through.
Of course, as I get older, cycling also plays a bigger role in my life due to its low-impact cardio benefits. We’re lucky to have a great trail system here in Pittsburgh, upon which I can bike commute when I can’t work from home. I’m not a fan of riding roads due to safety issues, so the trail system is clutch and allows for some epic rides. One of these summers I want to bike pack from Pittsburgh to Washington DC on the Great Allegheny Passage.
I’ve never been into lifting weights or getting swole, but lowering my running mileage has afforded me the opportunity to begin a strength training routine. I mostly stick to bodyweight (pushups, sit-ups and pull-ups) and kettlebell/mace exercises but I’m really feeling the benefits. I feel lighter on my feet. I feel like I have more agency in my movements.
I still think of myself as primarily a runner. I’m out there 4-5 days a week now, with notably lower mileage. And for the first time in a long while, I feel absolutely wonderful when I finish a run. That’s the point of all this, right? Embracing the changes that come with aging requires work, but it’s work I’m excited to take on and continue as a practice.
I got some amazing news yesterday. It’s not my news to share, so I can’t post details here, but it is a great reminder that sometimes the universe smiles on you. It’s hard to see sometimes, but there is still good in this world. Positivity never goes out of style. Actively choose to radiate it!
Supply creates its own demand. Only by consistently supplying it can we hope to increase the demand for the substantive over the superficial — in our individual lives and in the collective dream called culture.
