Flaw Salad

Transitions are a peculiar time to write. As you straddle two worlds, you gain new perspective into each, and ideas rush around your head like so many feral squirrels. To grab, quiet, and arrange your thoughts into sensible paragraphs feels impossible but necessary. You see grand insights in glimpses on a drive, in the shower, in those moments before you fall asleep when life passes through crisp focus—a cohesion that turns the frenetic skittering into an elaborate and moving ballet. But it is out of reach. If only you could slow time.

—

“I keep trying to write this essay and failing,” I told a friend. 
“What’s it about?” she asked.
“All of it,” I said with an openhanded gesture of resignation.
“Ah.”

—

In less than a week, I will live in the woods. I am gambling everything on the chance at a new life—something I have done before and am happy to do again. Each time I’ve looked around and decided this husband, this career, this geography, or this lifestyle is not for me, I have found something better. My gut is always correct, and the universe rewards my certainty. Or at least, my certainty engenders the sort of delusional confidence one needs to succeed in most ambitions. And so I am bringing myself, my partner, and our cadre of animals from the sunshine of southern California some 12 hours north into the misty, mossy redwoods. 

As with so many decisions lately, I could not have predicted this for my life as little as two years ago. Some close to me worry that I have strayed from myself when, in fact, I am closer to myself than ever. 

—

Much of the past six months has been spent in deep reflection as I work to right a ship whose course was set by morally inept caregivers. Accepting my parents’ own limitations has allowed me to admit that many of the fundamental beliefs they trained into me are incompatible with my values. For example, I value honesty but have long held the fundamental belief that it is better to tell people what they want to hear than what is necessarily true for me. A few more:

Value: Intimacy
Fundamental belief: Anyone trying to get close is a threat

Value: Gentleness
Fundamental belief: Weapons (verbal, emotional, psychological) will keep me safe

Value: Interdependence
Fundamental belief: No one but me can be relied on

Value: Acceptance
Fundamental belief: I must be perfect to be acceptable

Incompatibilities abound. You cannot become an open, loving, gentle, interdependent person while cowering in a fortress with an arsenal. Connection requires vulnerability, but generations of trauma taught me to be mean and isolated in order to stay safe. These fundamental beliefs are not my nature; they are what I was taught about the world.

Children are blank slates, wholly trusting what they are told and shown. If they are told one must be mean and flawless and self-reliant to survive, they will believe you. If the society in which they operate rewards these traits—praises the “so mature” child, provides material comforts and treats to the “good student,” allows and declines to punish selfishness and obvious cheating—these beliefs will only grow stronger. The greater the rewards, the less likely this child-now-adult will see cause to change. 

—

Blame is not the point. No one is created in a vacuum. Not me, not my parents, not even the ghouls in power. But neither is this an abdication of responsibility. 

As adults, it is incumbent upon each of us to examine our own beliefs and whether they support our values. When incompatibilities arise, we must change our beliefs (though too many change their values instead). Doing so requires first admitting to yourself—and others—that your fundamental beliefs are wrong. Not as easy as it sounds (especially if one of your beliefs is that flawlessness will keep you safe).

And then? You must change every pattern of behavior built on those faulty beliefs. That’s the real motherfuck.

Dark days raise dark questions: 
Why has this taken so long? 
Is something actually broken about me?
Is change even possible for someone like me? 
Is redemption? 
Why bother changing in a cruel society? 
Is there hope for anything better?

Such questions can spiral into a primal scream, and desperate for relief, I look toward that seductive final exit. Survival is not certain. 

Like Gandalf, I am battling generations of trauma across time and geographies, hoping to emerge shimmering and victorious, even as the world blackens around me. It is a hopeful act, my therapist reminds me. Some days the fight is the only light to cling to.

—

“The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters.”
― Antonio Gramsci

—

Healing is inseparable from one’s environment—not just from the tone and tenor of personal relationships, but from the mores of the society in which one operates. People in AA usually drop their drinking friends and stop hanging around bars. The concept is simple: remove yourself from triggers. Keep as far as possible from whatever combination unlocks your worst self.

But how does one heal from authoritarian instincts and self-centered programming when the entire culture surrounding them celebrates and encourages those traits?

—

Before we go on, a quick lesson in believing evidence and accepting hard truths.

• Question: If you lived in the midwest and your adult child moved to California, would you go visit them? (What if they repeatedly asked?)
• Question: Over the course of 11 years, would you give up even one (1) of your annual vacations to Florida to instead visit your child in California?
• Question: In retirement, would you prioritize your time and resources to finally go visit your child or to, say, build a competition-sized swimming pool in your backyard in a wintry climate? (Would it change your answer if neither you nor your wife were competitive swimmers?)
• Question: If you were considering buying land in Florida and your adult child said they and their partner would not be safe to visit you there, would that affect your decision to invest in the state?
• Question: Would you at least reply to the text?
• Question: Do you still think my dad loves me?

Headline:  Another Millennial Drops Boomer Parent in Favor of California and Pronoun Politics

—

Sometimes what is clear to you is not even visible to others. Part of this is by design. We have been factionalized to such a point that everybody has their own idea of what reality is. Thanks to algorithms and the collapse of mainstream news media, we mostly consume information in highly personalized ways. All of us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought something was common knowledge only to discover that actually a mere handful of people on Bluesky are aware. An easy example is the apocalyptic intent of the regime. While it is plain to me and many others that people like Pete Hegseth are actively trying to bring about the End Times in a highly Christian, Book of Revelations kind of way—and it’s been well reported as such—some still cannot believe it. 

—

People experience resistance to information they don’t want to be true and often simply reject it. They live in a reality governed by whatever beliefs or loyalties they hold, however irrational those may be. 

To wit, many Americans (especially baby boomers, whose lives have been buoyed by social safety nets their generation has systematically destroyed for those that followed) believe we live in a meritocracy. On several occasions, white male financial advisors have told me variations of, “People just need to take responsibility for themselves.” 

Somehow, they can look around the United States and persist in their belief that capitalism is fair simply because they are winning it. No scientific research in the world could convince such a person that they’ve had an unfair advantage because they do not need—nor do they wish—to believe it. 

Their lives are unaffected by other people’s lived experiences. They get to drive their SUVs to their second homes on the weekends and collect their rent checks in peace because it does not matter to them that the people they voted for are denying care in emergency rooms, legislating queer people out of public life, and caging and torturing human beings at the border. Reality, to them, is that they are more deserving of what they have than people who don’t have it. 

—

In the video game Disco Elysium, you eventually meet an old communist revolutionary who has isolated himself in service of his principles. For him, the failed revolution never ended, and he lives a life of solitude as the world moves on around him. His story is a tragedy, and despite my initial revulsion for the old man, particularly when he utters lines like, “The bourgeoisie are not human,” I relate more and more with each passing day.

—

Not a day goes by in which I do not observe some sociopathic driving maneuver that endangers everyone in the driver’s vicinity, all in service of ego or saving a few minutes on a commute. As far as I can tell, there is no remorse. There is no recourse. Even members of “the left” throw tantrums about speed cameras because American society is allergic to accountability—even among “good” people, even when the safety of children is at stake. 

Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a society where people drove as if their vehicles were multi-ton murder weapons snaking their way through others’ homes? (Wouldn’t it be nice to have public transportation?) Instead, we have drivers careening through neighborhoods as if houses were in the way of their $60,000 Ford Fuck Yous. 

My kingdom for a complete stop.

—

On the morning of Saturday, February 28, Americans awoke to news that our president, ostensibly in an effort to detract attention from his pedophilia scandal, started an unconstitutional war. Its opening gambit? Bombing a school of girls. 

When I saw this news, I wept. I wept for the girls, for their parents, for the city of Tehran, and for the cruelty of the nation of which I am a citizen. I feel culpability for this, as all Americans should. This is our doing. Our president. Our weapons. Our war. This blood is on our hands, whether we want it to be or not. 

Somewhere along the line, Americans allowed themselves to personally disavow their government, as if emotional divestment were an effective civic strategy, as if apathy and disengagement will somehow make so-called public servants actually care for their constituents. How could they? 

Each of us is a member of a populace, and that populace is meant to hold its leaders to account. It is our civic duty to engage with our government, and civic duty is not optional. Belief that it is has gotten us here. Hellworld. 

—

As citizens of a country that had just started a psychotic, illegal, and wholly unnecessary war, my partner and I set out to protest as soon as we collected ourselves that Saturday morning. Perhaps foolishly, I assumed everyone left of center—and maybe even some of those Republicans who appreciated the regime’s anti-war campaign rhetoric—would be out en masse. I viewed the slaughter of schoolchildren as an egregious war crime that would enrage my fellow citizens, and I expected to see hordes outside yelling.

Of course, I was wrong. When a protest finally started, around 2 p.m., maybe 50 or 60 people showed up. In a city of 1.4 million, that is such a statistically negligible percentage (0.00004%) that it might as well be none.

Sunday afternoon, someone in the group chat finally acknowledged the protest info I had shared and asked how it was. “Sparsely attended,” I said. “I was surprised. Am.”

“I bet there will be more in the next week or two when ppl have time to organize,” came the reply.

When people have time to organize.

Get the permits together. Work with the police. Follow the rules. Protest on the weekend when no one’s plans will be disrupted. Keep traffic flowing. 

Housebroken city. Housebroken country.

—

Upon sharing my disappointment about the protest (and lack thereof) with my therapist, she suggested that perhaps I am expecting too much of people. Am I? I guess that depends on how you define “expect”:

• a) to anticipate what will happen. By this definition, yes, I was expecting too much of Americans to come out and show that they give a damn about our government’s sociopathic behavior. It was embarrassingly naive of me to assume they would. 
• b) to hold to standards. In terms of standards for a populace, expecting just 1% of Americans to be angry enough to yell about slaughtering children, about starting an unconstitutional war that will only lead to greater suffering across the globe, about the constant parade of cruelty especially towards girls? No, that is not too much. In San Diego, just 1% would be 14,000 people. Imagine how comforting it would be to our global neighbors to see that the American people—even just 1% of them—are opposed to the obscenity of our government. But no. As a population, we could not be bothered (until a couple of scheduled hours a month later).

For a western therapist, definition (a) would be important. Keeping your clients tethered to reality is a big part of the job, so my therapist questioning my expectations makes sense. She wants her client to live as effectively as possible in the world in which they exist, and from an individualistic survival perspective, operating under definition (a) leads to a lot less emotional upset. If you only expect what will likely happen, you won’t be disappointed. This is a great strategy for keeping yourself calm.

Calm is not my goal. A better world is.

—

Outrage is an appropriate response to the global order of power and its consequences. A healthy society would be experiencing and expressing collective anger. 

Two days after our despot leader unilaterally started an illegal war, I opened my work laptop to a tiled screen of smiling faces, each discussing their weekend or the weather, none acknowledging the crisis in Iran. Because of course we don’t discuss “politics” at work. We are not humans there. We do not expect (a) to be humans there. We expect (b) nice, polite conversation that ruffles no emotional feathers. That’s what it means to be a coworker: shoving all that makes you a person, including and especially your moral compass, deep into a corner of your psyche that won’t interfere with corporate goals.

(As an aside, in my annual review last month, I was dinged on Corporate Values because—and this is a direct quote—“You don’t view your coworkers as family.” Ha.)

—

I am entertaining the notion of humanity as a superorganism. Before you dismiss this as too outrageous, consider that I am currently transmitting thoughts from my own brain into yours, silently, across time and space. Consider also how long an individual human can survive in the wilderness, completely off the land, with no contact with other humans, ever. Typically, the rare ones who attempt this don’t last more than a few years. 

Although “superorganism” may be too specific a scientific term, we are undeniably interdependent. Collaboration is part of our species, and collaboration requires rules. This is what a conscience is for. 

But what good is a conscience if we do not access it, much less follow it?

—

Over the weekend, a friend and I ducked into the only specifically sapphic bar in town—one of something like 22 lesbian bars in the entire country. Before long, the place started filling up with gay men. I was annoyed that our bar was now overrun. We only have one. They have many. Why were they in ours? 

Still, when one called Ricky approached my friend and me to shower us with drunken compliments, I maintained as open and friendly a demeanor as possible. He had gorgeous icy eyes, and I told him so. He complimented mine in turn. We shared a moment of genuine connection. 

By way of explaining his state of inebriation, Ricky told us it was his birthday. Then he lowered his voice to say that he was a member of the military and afraid of deployment to Iran.

We knocked on wood for him. “Here’s hoping you don’t have to go,” I said, “but if you do, try not to commit any war crimes.” It was a dark comment, for sure, but his response surprised me.

“I’m praying I don’t,” he said with a look of real fear and pleading in his beautiful eyes.

Although the setting was not appropriate for a serious response (and I am taking stock of my own sense of appropriateness here), I was stunned by his apparent feeling of powerlessness about his own actions. He did not seem to be aware that whether or not he committed a war crime was a matter entirely up to him. 

Even in the military, you are responsible for the actions you take. Thinking I wish I didn’t have to do this and committing a war crime anyway is still committing a war crime. You can make the choice not to follow orders and to experience consequences (up to and including death) instead.

You always have a choice. 

(Is that too much to expect (b)?)

—

“Our integrity sells for so little, but it is all that we really have. It is the very last inch of us. But within that inch, we are free… An inch; it is small, and it is fragile, and it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away; we must never let them take it from us.” 
― Alan Moore, V for Vendetta

—

  Cities grate. With the incredible glory of humans coexisting comes the incredible strain of humans bumping into each other (literally, figuratively). 

Friction is part of the experience of cities, the price you pay for the bounty of human experiences you can enjoy by mingling with people of every race, creed, gender, sexuality, background, etc. Being exposed to so many other people is the goal of a city. Governments and design are supposed to help lubricate that friction, to make the tight proximity a little more comfortable. 

Trees and greenery, for example, soothe the nervous system and clean the air. Free public spaces help people spend time with their neighbors. Libraries provide the dignity of a restroom, internet, air conditioning, and comfort. Robust public transportation helps move mass quantities of people with minimal impact. Building codes and mixed-use zoning enable unique and vibrant spaces that cater to many different types of families, living situations, and communities.

At least, they’re all supposed to do that. (China gets it.) Instead, in the United States what has happened is a near complete abandonment of the social contract, especially in San Diego. Over the course of my time here, I have seen services taken away, public spaces become gated by fees, cars bloated to dangerous and road-clogging sizes, inadequate investment in infrastructure, over-investment in policing, and resistance to any kind of change in a public-serving direction (as if those resisting are not themselves members of the public).

On Nextdoor, where I occasionally visit for neighborhood updates, the tenor of disgust is palpable. People there rally to fight the building of new housing, which our city desperately needs. They complain about neighbors sleeping on the streets but have no appetite for helping them. They rage about bicycles and pedestrians and cheer on sadistic policing behavior, including ICE, the single most evil entity in the single most evil country in the world.

Moreover, there is no amount of public effort that can change this trend—in this city, anyway. Several times in 2026 alone, there have been huge coordinated efforts to call into city council meetings and fight against things like budgeting for more police and fewer youth sports, etc. Despite hours of pushback from the public this city government is meant to serve, they moved forward with their plans anyway. 

Aside from getting elected to office, what is a normal citizen to do? 

How do you withstand a city when everything that could make it pleasant is violently kept from its people?

—

A few days ago, I said, “Hey man,” to someone camped on the sidewalk, and he looked surprised.

“Wow, thanks for acknowledging me,” he said in the genuine, grateful tone of someone who has been ignored all day every day by a parade of passersby with their lattes and shopping bags, paying no mind to the individuals at their feet.

—

Someone recently spread around a survey about perceptions of forest biodiversity. Always eager to help science, I participated. One question stood out to me. It was along the lines of, “How do you view yourself in relation to nature?” The choices were four Venn diagrams, each with circles labeled Self and Nature in various stages of overlap, including two disparate circles that did not touch.

What intrigued me was the notion that anyone could view themselves as completely separate from nature when I am someone who views myself as completely of nature.

To view oneself as separate from nature is to view oneself as a god.

I fear I am surrounded by such people.

—

“tearing down all the old structures that locked us into our destinies”

—

I told my therapist the plan to move to the redwoods and what I was hoping to find there: nature, community, a fresh start among people who have also chosen a life in “God’s country.” Something primeval whispers to me in those mossy forests, and if it’s an energetic placebo effect, so be it.  

My nervous system needs a break from the constant barrage of incivility. Maybe it’s gotten worse. Maybe I’ve gotten more sensitive to it. I don’t know. I wouldn’t be the first 40-something to move to the woods.

“I’m not saying moving to [small town] will solve all my problems,” I said to the Zoom screen containing the only third of my therapist I ever see. “But it sure could solve a lot of them.”

She considered this for a moment. I watched her expression morph from one of reservation to one of belief. She sees it. 

She encouraged me to enjoy the honeymoon period of my new life.

My vita nova.

—

A new life comes with a new name. Most people will never name themselves, and it is understandable why. To choose a word to paint over your face, your memories, and your future is daunting. Impossible. You root around the depths of your vernacular for a sound that feels like home. Syllables you can wear into the life unfolding before you. Who is this someone new? What will you call them?

Like your parents before you, you envision a person and then give them a word. Their word. Your word. 

When you accept this person as yourself, you are no longer the someone you once were. They have died so the new you can be born.

Another optimistic act.

—

Among my many playlists, each titled with some fragment of language I found interesting at the time, is one called, “tearing down all the old structures that locked us into our destinies.” Its origins are a mystery, but the phrase is apt. Growth requires demolition, and that comes with grief.

In the rubble of my past are people who deserved better love than what they could get from the aching, bleeding, lashing self who pulled at them with grappling-hook need. It contains the richness of friendships I missed out on as well as the stark hollowness of many I thought I had. The times I harmed and the times I was harmed. Sins and scars, all mingled together. Upon this rubble, I must build, grotesque as that may seem.

—

Caring friends who learned to love a mask worry for me. Who is this stranger looking back through different eyes, expressing new ideas, living an unfamiliar life? Who is this person borne of strife? They have seen a liquefaction and cannot believe that the wet and quivering mess nosing its way out of the cocoon could be anything but monstrous. 

An understandable crisis of faith. 

—

In a small town, people know who you are. You cannot hide behind anonymity. To step into this light is to live with your belly exposed, vulnerable. This is the goal: to be seen and accountable, to be in community with people who expect (b) you to see them, too. 

I do not expect (a) utopia. Change comes with inevitable tradeoffs. Friends and beaches and burritos will be missed. Obstacles will be encountered. Life, with all its many joys and sorrows, will continue apace. And I will keep railing against my own limitations until they make space for the person I so desire to be.  

No more languishing in shadow.

—

Have courage, I tell the trembling [New Name] as they prepare to enter the light. You are beautiful. They’re going to love you. Just be yourself.

And with that, I have become my first official friend in my new life.

—

Excelsior.