The Slow Burn: Currents

A good buddy was over at the house last week when he asked, “How are you doing?”

Instead of responding immediately, I took stock. I replayed recent behaviors, conversations, and feelings. Trying to analyze everything in a matter of seconds, the gut punch landed swiftly.

“I’m not okay, bro.”

What followed was an hours-long conversation about struggling…and maybe more importantly, how to struggle well. Long after he left, I lay in bed replaying his question. When I woke the next morning, it was still there.

That’s the thing about addictive personalities. Once you get locked in on something, it’s hard to look away. In this case, that obsession happened to be introspection. Which, if you’re not careful, can become nothing more than navel-gazing without action.

As I’ve heard it said, “Self-knowledge avails us nothing.”

Knowing why you do something destructive doesn’t automatically give you the power to stop doing it.

But…I’ll come back to that.

Years ago, I led global sales for an executive transportation company. My life was airports, hotel lobbies, and boardrooms. I spent my days with Fortune 500 executives, celebrities, billionaires, and the people behind them…the assistants, handlers, chiefs of staff, and gatekeepers who quietly kept the world moving.

Understanding people was my job.

Ironically, I was becoming a stranger to myself.

About five years into that grind, I started drifting.

A little compromise here.

A little isolation there.

Then came the drugs.

Like most addicts, I concealed everything. Which is the exact opposite of what recovery teaches. The Twelve Steps call it rigorous honesty. Scripture calls it confession. Different language. Same principle.

Eventually I reached a point where I seemed to know everyone.

But no one really knew me.

The hardest part?

I didn’t know myself either.

So…I went to rehab.

While I was there, we spent a lot of time doing inner work. Somewhere along the way, I remembered a random afternoon years earlier in Los Angeles.

My meetings had wrapped up early, so I drove to the Santa Monica Pier. I paid an absurd forty bucks to park, threw my suit in the car, stripped down to my underoos, and made a beeline for the Pacific.

The hot white sand burned my feet.

The water was freezing.

Perfect.

I waded out until my feet no longer touched the bottom and simply floated.

The California sun warmed my shoulders. Saltwater sprayed my face. Children laughed somewhere behind me. I stared into the horizon and completely lost track of time.

No meeting.

No phone calls.

No destination.

Just...floating.

Then something caught my attention.

When I finally turned around, the lifeguard tower I'd entered near was nowhere close.

I had drifted what felt like a couple hundred yards down the shoreline.

It only felt like I'd been in the water for a few minutes.

Without resistance...

Without direction...

The current had quietly carried me somewhere I never intended to go.

I've thought about that moment a lot over the years.

Because that's exactly what my life had become.

I hadn't intentionally set out to lose myself.

I didn't wake up one morning hoping to become addicted to drugs.

I didn't plan on neglecting my marriage.

Or abandoning my health.

Or isolating from the people who loved me.

I simply drifted.

Current by current.

Decision by decision.

Compromise by compromise.

The scary thing about currents is they don't ask permission.

They don't announce themselves.

They rarely feel dangerous.

They simply move you one inch at a time until you look up and realize you're nowhere near where you thought you'd be.

At my lowest, I weighed well over 350 pounds.

I'd lost sight of the things that actually mattered.

My beautiful wife.

Our family.

Real community.

Purpose.

Even my own reflection reminded me I'd stopped fighting for myself.

Life had become one long reaction to whatever was directly in front of me. I was chasing opportunities, saying yes to everything, trying to be everything for everyone.

Somewhere along the way...

I disappeared.

So I took stock.

Not once.

Over and over again.

I started making changes.

Some worked.

Some didn't.

I had to learn that growth isn't about finding the perfect system; it's about having the humility to pivot when something stops working.

Recovery taught me that accountability isn't a destination. It's a daily decision.

The funny thing is, almost ten years later, my buddy asks me one simple question:

“How are you doing?”

And somehow, it still stopped me in my tracks.

Because while I don't drift toward drugs anymore...

I still drift.

Toward busyness.

Toward ambition.

Toward production over presence.

Toward measuring my worth by what I accomplish instead of who I'm becoming.

The currents have changed.

The temptation to drift hasn't.

Maybe that's just part of being human.

I've learned the ocean doesn't care how strong of a swimmer you are.

Life doesn't either.

Marriages drift.

Friendships drift.

Faith drifts.

Health drifts.

Businesses drift.

Communities drift.

Left unattended, almost everything worthwhile slowly moves off course.

Which means the goal isn't perfection.

It's awareness.

Take stock.

Pick a landmark.

Start swimming again.

Maybe that's what Light Up & Lean In has always meant.

Not pretending everything is okay.

Not sitting still while life quietly carries us away.

But having the courage to notice when we've drifted...and intentionally choosing to swim back toward the people, the purpose, and the life that matter most.

The current is always there.

The question is whether we'll surrender to it…or decide, one stroke at a time, where we're actually going.