Damn it felt good to be disconnected.

The connection addiction is endemic in our society. It’s one thing to catch up with friends, share a piece of your life, make plans, and discuss things you find important - that’s all well and good.  But the ability to do those things at any hour of the day, and the expectation that everyone you know should be available to do so as well, it's just unhealthy.

Social media is the drug and smartphones are the enabler. Together they give us a false sense of community, making us believe everyone is waiting with bated breath for our next update or text, when in fact everyone is just going about their own lives. And on the other side of the screen, our devices sit on our laps and in our pockets distracting us with deliciously tempting notifications, making us believe we should be waiting with bated breath for all your updates.

One of the main reasons I took off into the woods for three weeks was to put all my mindfulness overtures about turning off notifications and reducing distractions into practice. But it's 2015, so I expected I would have some basic level of phone service available to me for most of the trip. I knew I could stop at Starbucks or McDonald's to use WiFi. If nothing else, I hoped I'd at least have a smidgen of phone coverage for texts and calls in an emergency.

Out on the road I quickly realized that I'd seriously overestimated the strength of my network. Dead zones were vast and numerous. I drove for hours on small highways with no coverage whatsoever.  Many campgrounds would show a few bars, but when push-came-to-upload, nothing would work. A few campgrounds had no service at all, forcing me to make a call in a real live phone booth so at least someone knew I was alive.

When you spend most of your time in cities, it's not something you're used to.  If you believe the Verizon commercials, it's not something you'd expect.

At first it was frightening. My phone is an extension of me. It’s how I communicate with my friends and family. How I map my route and stream my music. It's how I write and update this blog. I’m so used to it always being there for me, whether I’m bored or in an emergency.

In a way, spending hours or sometimes days without phone service felt like I'd lost an arm. Despite all my pronouncements to the contrary, connectivity had become that important to me. To some degree, connectivity is important to all of us. It’s unavoidable in our modern society.

But as time rolled on I accepted my new reality. As Cheryl Strayed said in Wild, “This is what I came for, this is what I got.”

So I got used to it. A constant connection became the exception rather than the rule. When it was available, it became a treat.

By the end of the journey, I loved it. I actually preferred it. At my last destination I had three straight days of no phone service. I felt free, clear, calm, unrestricted, undisturbed, undistracted. I felt present.

I don't believe I’m a selfish person, but gleefully reveling in the fact that you all couldn't get in touch with me almost felt egotistical. I knew I was missing out on all your updates and the important news of the day. It’s not as though I lost all interest in sharing things with you either.

But I realized that being disconnected for a few days or weeks wasn't the end of the world. I would eventually be back on Facebook to catch up on life. Or better yet, I would eventually see you all in-person so you could fill me in on everything.

Rather than being the end of the world, disconnection was the beginning of a new world. One where FOMO was replaced by YOLO, distraction was replaced by presence, and anxiety still existed but it was related to the threat of bears rather than the stresses of multitasking.

There were times in the waning days of my trip when my phone did start working...notification bubbles popped up, my pocket buzzed, and a wave of texts crashed in.

But at that point I had broken the addiction. The temptation was gone and rather than check those notifications I switched my phone into airplane mode. It was my time to disconnect. It was my time to enjoy the break. It was my time.

I’m back in LA now where phones always work, pretty much everywhere. I've caught up with friends and even caught up a little with Facebook (though after being away from it for so long I’m finding it mildly tedious).

But truth be told, I miss the freedom of disconnection I found in my journey. I miss the mindfulness it practically forces upon you. I miss what it feels like to realize that you and you alone are in charge or your own entertainment, there is no depending on others or apps.

This may change as the days and weeks pass here in the real world. I’ll fall back into old habits, because that’s what people do.

But I’m going to do my best to hold on to as much of this lesson as possible. 

Phones always work here, except when you hike a little further out in the mountains. Phones always work, except when you switch it to airplane mode as a choice, just to take a break. Phones always work except when you choose to be present and ignore the temptation to post every detail of your life on Facebook.

We are only as connected as we choose to be. When you have the opportunity, choose real life over digital life. 

It's been over a week since I headed out on my journey. Now I sit here, thousands of miles down the road. But not days ago, and every day leading up to it, I doubted if I could make it this far. 

Doubt is a tricky beast. He whispers half-truths of safety and sanity, telling you to rethink your decisions, convincing you that half-assing it is still somewhat of an achievement. 

But he's almost always wrong.

Sometimes in life we need to do scary things, because that's how we learn to do great things. 

I considered ending my trip in Utah and heading home. I had explored some, I got away. I completed some of the journey at least. The next leg of the trip, Yellowstone, was so far away from home, I thought. I was still struggling to get a fire going. I didn't want to deal with freezing cold weather. I'm a bit of a neat freak so I couldn't go four days without a shower. Basically, I could just dial it in, like I seem to do so often in life. 

But I charged forward. I received encouraging words from my boo. More encouraging words from Cheryl Strayed as I listened to Wild on the drive. And I self-encouraged, willing myself forward, willing myself into strength. 

And here I am, in Montana on day ten of this journey. I was able to get a raging fire going. I now know I can handle cold and rainy weather. I also know I can handle a *slight* lack of cleanliness. I can travel long distances and not go crazy. I actually enjoy solitude, turns out. And I LOVE being at a campsite with no phone service, disconnected from all of you, at least momentarily. 

In other words, I've got this. 

In my normal life, I have a tendency to doubt myself - what I can really handle, how far out of my comfort zone I can get, how strong I really am in life. 

But I also know we humans are powerful, adaptable animals. We can do much more in life than we imagine. We just have to charge forward with determination. We have to prove doubt wrong.

I'm putting my doubt to the test, and quite frankly, doubt is failing.

Maybe you don't need  to test yourself by going into the woods, or maybe you do. Sometimes we just need a reminder. Sometimes we just need practice to keep reminding ourselves. We're all at different places in life. Some of us already got it. Some of us need a kick in the pants to show ourselves we already got it. 

Doubt leaves us feeling alone, vulnerable, and weak. But it's all a sham. The doubt is only in your mind. I'm living proof. 

I am a strong and powerful human being. I can brave all sorts of elements. I can learn and prosper. I'm so over doubt.

I'm on a trip all alone, so why do I still care what others think?

A lot of us have this monster inside us. It tells us we need to impress, have it together, look good, get the right haircut, the perfect body, the nicest car, the sweetest setup. 

When we're out in public the monster growls at us. It tells that us we just said something stupid...or our lives are a mess...or they're hotter...and younger...and tanner. 

I have the monster sometimes. He's a bitch. 

I see him laugh at me when someone takes my picture and I look goofy. I hear him criticize me when I look at a mirror and see my little belly. I feel his eyes judge as I walk past anonymous people on the trail, even though I don't know them and will assuredly never see them again.

But what difference does it make? What difference do they make. What difference does the monster make?

He makes us self-conscious. He stresses us out. He takes us out of the present moment and throws us into doubt. 

One thing that I've started to appreciate about being alone is that I'm in charge. Everything I do on a given day - if I sleep-in or wake up early...if I take one too many hikes or just laze at my camp...if I watch every nerd movie at the National Parks visitors center, and I always do, trust - that is all up to me. 

So on this trip, who cares what some random person on the trail thinks of me? 

Being alone is helping me let it go. I can wear what I want, look how I want, do what I want, be whoever I want. They don't know the real me. So what difference does it make? Monster be damned.

Back in the real world, I could use more of this. Less vanity and more being me. Less concern of what I could be doing, or could have done, and more actual doing. 

Less foolishness and more mindfulness.

Hi. My name is Jason Wise and I'm a likeaholic. With my addiction, likes come in two forms.

There's the digital Facebook kind of like. This one is pretty basic - the excessive liking of posts, the posts seemingly crafted to generate likes, and that saccharine high you feel when you get a lot of attention on something you share. We've all seen it. We've all been there.

But there's also a more anthropological type of like. It comes from the comradery of our shared experience. Not just liking something yourself, but liking something together. And by sharing that moment with someone you actually end up liking that person even more. 

This is the basis of friendship. It's a way we bond with one another. As social beings, it's part of our DNA. It's why we created language. It's why Facebook became a thing. 

Yesterday I arrived at my first #journeyman destination: Zion National Park. I set up camp in the morning and quickly hit the trails. 

Out there in nature I saw so many beautiful things. 10,000 beautiful things to be precise (a reference within a reference from Wild by Cheryl Strayed, which I'm currently reading). Every time I saw a beautiful thing I smiled. I mean, how could you not? 

But now and then, one of those beautiful things was more than just beautiful, it was spectacular. It was awesome, like I'm literally in awe.

I tried to take pictures, but when I look at the picture on my phone I scoff, because it's not quite the same. It's like those old ditto copies we had in elementary school: faded, blurry, distorted. No matter how many filters or boosts I use, it doesn't capture it. It can't be captured. 

So I put down my phone and just marvel. 

I'm feeling all the feels and it feels wonderful, but in a flash my next thought is...I wish I could share this with someone. Not with an Instagram post, not even in a text, but share it for real, in person. 

Sure there are other people on the trail. Friendly chatty people, way-too-slow people, smelly German people, feeding the aggressive squirrels people. But I miss having someone I know. I'm miss sharing that view with a friend. 

I knew going on a solo journey would be lonely. That was one of the reasons I did it.

We as a society, and I myself, are so used to leaning on the kind shoulder and shared experience of others. That's good and bad - good because sometimes you need that shoulder to lean on, and bad because sometimes you need to stand on your own. 

As I stood gazing at the stunning Angels Landing tower in Zion (seriously, Google it) I felt a wave of melancholy. I realized I couldn't nudge a friend next to me and say, "wtf, do you see that amazingness?!" I realized I could never share that particular experience.

So you see, this is my affliction. I'm addicted. I've been conditioned to need the attention, the connection, the comradery. I get a little hit when you double tap on my Instagram pic. It feels so good when you like my Facebook mood. But the real good stuff, the sticky-icky, that's when we hang in person, I get a hug, and we clink a beer. 

This was my first day out on a hike alone, so these are withdrawals. It was tough at times but I made it through. I'm already getting better. Day-one likers anonymous chip in the pocket. 

I'm learning that I can't share everything with everyone. Some things are for me and me alone. And that's OK.

The hardest goodbye isn't enforced.
It isn't expected or coerced.

Its not like the end of high school,
Where the path's been chosen for you.

It's nothing like leaving your family home,
When you're longing to be on your own.

No, the hardest goodbye comes by choice.
When you need to go find your voice.

When you're leaving something you enjoy.
When you know goodbye will disappoint.

You leave because staying is dishonest.
You leave even though it's totally the harshest.

The hardest goodbye is what you have to do
When standing still keeps you too...

Too complacent.
Too cautioned.
Too despondent.
Path's insolvent.

Never reaching.
Rarely seeking.
Always waiting.
Sitting, hoping...

Hoping it'll all just come to you.
Now it's time to see a different view.

With the pain of goodbye comes redemption.
Starting anew, a mini rebellion.

Leaving is an act of bravery,
Because it's not safe to be,
Never alone with only me.

Even though it feels like hell,
When I say goodbye I'll find myself.

By return I know I'll have harnessed,
All the reasons that home is the fondest.

The hardest goodbye is a choice I've made.
But let's stay strong, 'cause the hello's gonna be great.

I'm feeling pretty anxious lately about the unknowns of my upcoming path, but I'm interrupting that anxiety right now to talk about the many people for which I'm grateful.

I have my dog...he's entirely stubborn and bossy, but his zeal, his unconditional love, his simplicity, and his life lived in the moment all help me get out of my head.

I have friends...they've counseled me, given me job advice, loaned me camping supplies for my journey, recommended books, offered a shoulder to lean on, and made me laugh when I was over-thinking it.

I have my mother...she's always been my biggest fan, cheering and encouraging me along through every step in life. And she's helped me prepare for this trip by being my voice of reason and caution (as every good mother should).

I have my boo...he's my partner, my fiance, my rock through all the ups and downs, and my best friend. For over 12 years now, he’s pushed me towards my better self. He has made me more confident in my decisions by getting me to take the extra time to really think through them. And even now as I leave him for an entirely selfish endeavor alone in the woods, he has supported me, loved me, encouraged me, provided for me, and hugged me.

In my mind I can run through a million different scenarios of how terrible my future might be. How risky it is to quit my job. How dangerous it could be to hike and camp alone. How lonely being alone just might feel.

I can allow my mind to be overrun with anxiety about the future...doubt over my decisions...predictions of impending regret. Or I can interrupt that anxiety with gratitude.

I remember that I have so many people to be grateful for. I remember that I’m blessed. I remember that no matter what happens, no matter where my path takes me, it's all going to be OK...because of all of them.

Here’s a funny thing I've noticed since starting this blog: sometimes I wait so long and spend so much time editing a post, that by the time I’m ready to publish it I decide that I'm actually... kind of... wrong.

This concept is kind of blowing my mind a little bit here. Bear with me.

I started this blog as a testament to the mindful life I’m attempting to lead. By sharing my thoughts it would keep me honest, and by putting these words out there maybe they just could help someone else along the way.

As a matter of fact, I know these words have helped people, because those people have actually told me so. It’s incredibly rewarding to know that my silly little ideas, my strange and personal way of seeing the world, has somehow moved other people out there. 

Just yesterday the online magazine Elephant Journal published my post about overcoming pain with mindfulness and the editor told me it "inspired their hearts." All of this has been a fun ride and it's made me feel less alone in my relative insanity.

But then I go back and read some of the things I wrote when I first started this thing, and some of it has me shaking my head. Obviously back then I totally believed those things, enough to publish them on a public platform for you all to read. Obviously there’s still some part of me that does believe those things.

But in the meantime, I have changed.

In the last few months I've heard new ideas, met new people, and had new experiences. Each time I learned something a seed was sown, each seed sprouted a new plant of information, and each new shoot grew up next to all of the other shrubs, flowers, and trees of knowledge that populate my personal garden of life.

We all grow and learn and change. We might not always notice it, because it’s happening a little bit at a time every day. And then over the months and years and decades, if you really look back--especially if you have a record of it, like a journal or a blog to look back on--you’ll notice that everything you thought you knew about life was totally wrong.

It’s OK to change. It’s OK to be wrong. That’s just life, and it’s kind of awesome.

Here's something I wrote for 8th grade honors English. I got a B. That teacher clearly had it out for me. 

~A Poem for Walden~

When in the forest one realizes
The world is different.
Water covers the great part of the land
And that land goes far beyond where we live.

Humans go through life hurriedly,
Not looking at their surroundings, not looking up.
But there are forests and lakes
And streams and fields.

We resemble ants in many ways.
Like most humans, ants fight each other.
They kill and battle their own.
Ants and humans have too much in common.

Through the seasons of the year
We should notice all the changes.
Life is too short to just hurry by.
We must notice our surroundings more.

Every winter life is frozen,
Animals hibernate, so do the waters.
Trees seem to die and ice covers the ground.
Life appears dead to those who are looking.

Spring changes the life that fell across the land.
It is a time of hope and a new beginning.
Fog and rain melts the ice. Flowers, animals, and leaves return.
Life renews to those who are looking.

Life in the woods goes on this way,
It all stays the same day by day, season by season.
We must change our lives so we will see.

We must leave the beaten path,
To see the new beginning.

There's a big bright beautiful world out there.
Why would you want to stand still?

There's billions of souls to connect to.
Why wouldn't you introduce yourself to the unfamiliar?

There's an endless number of cultures to sample.
Why would you always do the same basic thing?

There's mountains of photos to expose you to new sights.
Why wouldn't you try to see them with your own eyes?

There's an infinite amount of unshared ideas.
Why would you ever think you know it all?

There's hundreds of colors in the simplest of objects.
Why wouldn't you dare to imagine an entirely new spectrum?

Keep searching. Keep meeting. Keep seeing. Keep learning. Keep expanding.

Keep exploring.

Published elsewhere on Medium.com/jasonjourneyman

There's something about going without that makes you appreciate life more.

Recently, I was holed up, stuck at home for 12 days in intense pain after a tonsillectomy. Because of it, I was forcibly deprived of numerous things: food, water, exercise, and social activities, to name a few. I was definitely, well, going without.

Before the surgery, not entirely realizing what I was getting into, but I had some expectations. It kind of felt like I was preparing for a little vacation—a week or so off work, no social pressures. "This is going to be fun!" I thought. I was however a little bit worried about FOMO as well. I don't always do so well when I'm stuck at home with a cold on a Saturday night—I want to be out having fun with everyone else, obviously.

Pretty much everything I expected about this experience turned out to be wrong though. It was certainly not a vacation... I was a dazed from medications and suffering from pain, not relaxing in any sense. I didn't have an ounce of FOMO either... going out and seeing friends sounded like torture. I didn't necessarily want to be stuck at home, but there was also no other place I'd rather be.

My expectations were way off base, but that left room for the unexpected, and the biggest thing I didn't plan on was how appreciative I would feel when it was all over.

The physical pain brought me to a place of sadness and despair that I had never really felt before. But it's always darkest before the dawn. Feeling so incredibly low meant that the next time I was up it would feel that much higher.

The happiness and appreciation I felt after returning to my normal schedule was unparalleled. I didn't let the little things bother me, I was just happy to be, happy to see my friends, happy for the ability to eat a sandwich. I stopped feeling FOMO. I had, after all, just spent a few weeks stuck in the house "missing out" on things, and guess what, the world didn't end. I become more confident in my decisions. The forced independence created by having to take care of my sick self, bled into every other independent decision I made.

This new perspective of gratefulness I'm feeling is something I want to keep with me, to practice, to reuse again and again in the future. I want to remember this experience for the next time I think life sucks. So here I am, writing it down, building an appreciation memorial.

I'm not suggesting you put yourself through a tortuously painful surgery to gain a new perspective. You actually don't need to, because at some point in life we all encounter physical or emotional pain. It takes you to a dark place and it ain't fun.

But if you choose, you can use the pain to your benefit, use it as a lesson, use it to inspire.

Each up and down in life is an opportunity. With practice, with experience, with mindfulness to understand and process how you feel, you learn how to smooth out the ride.

When you're feeling down, take a moment to remember that it will get better. You know it'll get better because you've been there before. Remember? Write it all down, how you're feeling, all the things that are shitty AND all the things for which you're grateful.

When you're on the other side, when life is good and you're happy, it's also OK to remember that you will feel pain again. That's OK because that's real. Write it all down, all the good things you're feeling, build your own appreciation memorial.

Both the ups and downs of life teach us how to survive. They are a yin and yang—they create balance.

So just be yourself, feel your feels, write it all down, learn from it, and remember to appreciate life, every stupid second of it.

We've all heard the whole “pain is inevitable, suffering is optional” idiom thrown around. 

I hear it a lot in yoga, often referring to the emotional pain that comes in life, or perhaps the few seconds of “pain” you feel when you get into a triangle pose after a week away from your practice. Suffering in either situation being a choice. That phrase, as I used to know it, sounds so quaint to me now.

Last week I had a tonsillectomy, and for those who've never had one let me tell you, it was one of the worst experiences of my life. I had a terrible recovery, but as with any dark cloud in life there is also a silver lining. The pain/suffering idiom became lodged in my mind, and it was the first time I truly, actually, honestly understood it.

The suffering was real, and not in some esoteric yoga way, but in the real-life, excruciating pain way. It was a powerfully important lesson. Pain in all its forms just exists, there’s nothing we can do about it. But how we handle that pain is a choice. We can wallow it until it’s physically and emotionally out of control. Or we can change our perspective on it, see it as a means to an end, and ultimately be in charge of our own happiness.

I’m definitely not the first, nor the last person to go through this. I talked to many friends about it beforehand, and those who had their tonsils removed as a child said something like, “It’s not so bad, I just remember eating a lot of ice cream!” Contrast that with those who has the surgery as an adult, who said, unequivocally, “It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life!”

So I was warned. I knew what I was getting into. Or at least, I “knew” what I was getting into. I came to learn over the week-plus of recovery that it’s one thing to imagine what the “worst pain in your life” might feel like, and it’s quite another thing to actually feel it. The value of experience cannot be underestimated.

In those seven or so days I endured more pain than I could’ve ever imagined, the worst being night four, which seemed illogical (shouldn’t you be on the mend at that point?) but was true. Terribly true.

That night the level of constant, throbbing, overwhelming pain—and in the throat which is so central to our everyday life—quite literally broke me. Forget swallowing food or water, it hurt just to breathe. My ears were cauldrons of fire. My jaw had just finished a round in the boxing ring. Speaking one word sent razor blades down my throat.

No mindfulness exercise or act of positive thinking was enough. I was bulldozed by regret, “why did I agree to have this surgery?!” Flattened by anger, “you are such an idiot!” Conquered by suffering, “you are so weak!”

At the peak of my suffering I briefly considered taking every pill I’d been prescribed, because it just wasn’t worth it anymore. Life was no longer a viable option. Thankfully, that idea was quickly dismissed by the quiet voice of rational thought I could still hear through the white noise of pain and narcotics.

That emotional breakdown was a low point in my life. But sometimes it’s at our lowest that we finally learn to look up.

At a very basic level, my emotions that night made the physical pain worse. Like so many other things, crying uses your throat. So that was my first realization: by wallowing in my pain I was making the pain stronger. Getting upset by it was actually counterintuitive, because it perpetuated the problem.

The same lesson goes for many other parts of life: nerves before public speaking is counterintuitive, because that anxiety can actually cause you to make the verbal mistake you’re so nervous about. Anger at someone when they’ve talked smack is counterintuitive, because that anger causes you to be an asshole which actually encourages a negative persona.

At a much broader level, letting myself get dragged down by the pain caused me to lose all hope. This was my most important realization: by wallowing in the pain I was letting the pain win. I had no choice in the matter—the pain existed no matter how many deep breaths I took or vicodins I popped.  But the suffering I felt, that was entirely up to me. Instead of suffering I could be mindful about the pain, view it as part of the healing process, a means to a much more positive end, as evidence of my throat repairing itself.

Wallowing in any pain—physical, emotional or yogi—and letting that pain drag me down, that is entirely up to me.

I had a choice: continue to suffer or make up my mind to be happy.

I chose to be happy.

The next morning was day five, and I woke up in the same excruciating pain. But I also woke up with a smile, because I knew that in a day or so I would feel relief, in a week I would feel back to normal, and in a month my sleep apnea and constant colds would (hopefully) go away. I woke up with a smile, because I knew it was all downhill cruising from there. I woke up with a smile, because I saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

I woke up with a smile, because I knew that I no longer had to suffer, and turns out that was really all I needed to know.

The time for mindfulness is now.

Not tomorrow.
Or next Monday, next month, next Memorial day.

Now.

Not in a New Years resolution.
Or after you birthday, a baby, a big vacation.

Now.

Not in an hour.
Or after one more Facebook scroll, another soapbox rant, a clickbait binge.

Now.

Not when you finish that big project.
Or when you find that new job, get out of debt, meet your dream man.

Now.

You can always find an excuse.
There's always a way to delay another day.

Stop waiting.

The time for mindfulness is now.

Our basic animal instinct is to survive.  After that, I'd say our basic human instinct is to live. That's not the mere act of being alive, but the much more powerful act of actually living--creating love, exploring our earth, finding a fulfilling path, meeting some amazing souls along the way, and maybe passing down your experience to others who will carry your torch.

Or to say all that in a word: happiness.

But there are a lot of obstacles in the way of our path to happiness. There are the obstacles our society has created through social and economic constructs and those we create in our own mind. The problems of society are big picture, and we should all do our part to right those wrongs. But that's not what this blog is really about--this blog is about each of us, individually, doing all we can do make our personal world a better one.

One of the biggest obstacles we create for ourselves comes from the world of the unknown. If you think about it, this problem runs deep: fear of what the future might entail leads to worry and anxiety, fear of how our decisions are perceived by others leads to indecisiveness and regret, fear of the how those same decisions will play out in the long-term leads to doubt and second-guessing. 

I think a lot about the unknown. Sometimes this is good thing--pondering our universe and it's endless possibilities almost hurts your brain, but it's a good hurt. Visualizing yourself in a successful and happy place can give you the positive affirmation you need to help get you there.

But spending too much time in the realm of the unknown is a slippery slope. There are only a few precious hours of life we get every day, and spending them lost in a sea of contemplation about what tomorrow may bring--how a particular scenario will play out, or how someone will feel about you in a week, where your relationship will be a year from now--that'll just drive you insane. 

Worrying about the unknown is a fool's errand where we squander our time attempting to predict the future instead of mindfully focusing on the present. It's a wild goose chase as the mind of today scrambles to try and capture some insight into the mind of tomorrow. And just when we think we've captured the goose--that we've somehow figured it all out--reality comes and plucks the goose away, proving to us once again that all our predictions were totally misguided.

We all struggle with the unknown. Those of us whose lives seem stable--relationships, jobs, cars, dogs, white picket fences, 2.5 kids--worry about all that falling apart come tomorrow morning. Those of us whose lives seem to be in flux--breakups, fights, unemployment, financial woes, shared custody--worry how to ever find the relative peace of stability again.  And no matter how our lives are perceived by others, most of us don't fall into either camp but rather find ourselves somewhere in between.

It's only natural, because in each of our individual pursuits of happiness, there will always be bumps along the way--there will be good times and bad. We can use our time and energy worrying and wallowing in the bad times, or we can take a deep breath and be here now instead.

It’s time to think about what we can control in the present and start controlling it. The only way to create a better tomorrow is to use your energy working on a better today.

The unknown is a powerful force that can pull us in many unforeseen and unmindful directions, if we let it. So don't let it. Starting right now, make a conscious commitment to set the unknown aside. Let it stay in the darkness until that one day in the future when it's finally real, when it's finally known. 

And in the meantime, live your best life, be your best self, love all that you can, and understand that being happy here and now does way more to forecast your future than all your best predictions combined.

The last few months have been really rough for me in the sleep department. It's been a roller coaster of both bad nights and good. 

Through these ups and downs, however, I've grown. I learned about a lot of specific tools to use for a better night's sleep, of course. But I think more importantly, this experience shined a light on the areas of my mindfulness process I hadn't spent much time exploring before now. And for that I am grateful.

One big lesson from this has been that I'm not alone. When I reluctantly bring up my sleep issues with friends, I quickly discover that many people are (or have been) in the same boat.

We tend to try and avoid the negative in both real and digital life—we post social media updates about the good news, the smiles, the pretty sunsets, the people we love. That's mostly the case. Not always, but mostly. Even when we're hanging with a friend and they ask "how are ya?", most of the time we stick to the basics. 

It's only with those certain friends, in those private moments, or when we really feel like laying it all out there on Facebook, that we flip over the pancake and expose our burnt edges. 

Sleep problems seem to be one of those burnt edges. Not just the periodic bad night's sleep because of too much caffeine.  I'm talking about the insomnia, the apnea, the bad backs, the snoring partner struggles. 

So I thought that rather than "vaguebook" about it, this was an opportunity for me to discuss it openly—to flip over the pancake and expose my own burnt edges. I'm going to talk about the mindfulness struggles it unearthed and the remedies I've come to learn from them, that way when you're having a silently-shitty-sleepy-time, you'll remember you're not totally alone.

This struggle isn't new to me—It's often difficult for me to shut off my mind when I get into bed. I relive conversations from the previous day, run through my list for tomorrow, and imagine all sorts of future scenarios for the days/weeks/months/years to come. Because of this, my bed is often a place where I'm terribly UNmindful. The quiet darkness of night turns off the external distractions and leaves my mind alone to spiral inward.

I tried various techniques: expensive pillows, eye masks, a sleep fan, meditation, avoiding social media before bed, reading boring literature, melatonin, chamomile, ambien. They all work... kinda-sorta. Even the ambien has a spotty track record. The mind is a powerful muscle, enough to overcome the best that western and eastern medicine has to offer.

About three months ago all hell broke loose: I threw out my back and caught a head cold at the same time. The sinus congestion worsened my snoring and I had to sleep flat on my back which exacerbated it even more. It was the perfect storm of physical sleep disruption.  

And then I was told something frightening: I was choking and gasping for air in my sleep.

A test confirmed I indeed had sleep apnea, likely for years. All this time and I never knew I was suffocating myself every night and not getting enough rest as a result. Now my sleep issues were two-fold: there was my crazy mind making it difficult for me to fall asleep and my crazy body making it difficult for me to stay asleep.

I'm still exploring my options and looking for ways to cure my sleep apnea to finally get a real night's sleep. We got rid of the white noise fan that was drying out the air and purchased a humidifier. My thoughtful mother got us a sleep machine to replce the noise we're used to and a leg pillow to make side sleeping easier. I'm looking into a CPAP and possibly even tonsil surgery as broader solutions. 

These bedtime struggles unleashed a slew unmindful emotions—frustration, fear, worry, anger, doubt, regret. A lot of "why me's" and "fuck this's" ensued. My bed was the enemy, sleep was the war, and each night was a new battle.

I know the basic tools of mindfulness—I've written about a lot of them here (you might have noticed). But I've also written about my difficulties in sticking to my own advice. 

With sleep apnea on my mind at every night, I often start to worry about how a restless sleep might effect the next day or about the long-term effects of oxygen deprivation on my body. I worry about future rather than mindfully focus on the present, that particular moment, that night, the only thing I actually have control over.

Every struggle, every battle, every moment where feel like I'm miles away from the present, is another opportunity to practice mindfulness. It's a chance to acknowledge it, instead of getting frustrated by it. It's a reminder to BREATHE.

Sleep for me is still fraught with difficulties, in fact, this week has been a bad one. But I know that each failure, in all aspects of life, is a lesson on how to succeed the next time. So for me, every night is a lesson in mindfulness, it's another practice round, and the more I practice the better it will get.

I'll keep learning with every night's sleep, keep turning toward mindfulness instead of frustration, and then I know, one of these nights, it'll finally sink it.

I'm taking a break from blogging this week, but that doesn't mean I'm taking a break from mindfulness.

This can be a busy and stressful time of year, and a sad time of year if you let it. In the midst of this hectic holiday, take a mindfulness break. Use it as a moment to reflect on the holiday season, on your life, on the year that has passed, on all the people you love. Recognize all that you have to be grateful for. Notice how taking this moment to breathe and reflect makes you feel renewed. Accept all the love that is around you and reject the stress.

Happy Holidays friends! Thank you for reading.