The End Is the Beginning Is the End

In 2012, I faced job loss, and within three months, I was without a home. I sought refuge at my girlfriend's house in another city for six weeks. Following that, I lived in a parking lot for three weeks while starting a new job and awaiting funds. The entire saga — from losing my job to securing a new apartment — unfolded over the course of eight months.

I documented it. This narrative became the cornerstone of my inflated self-mythology. [Author’s Note: Delusions of grandeur are my specialty.]

From that moment on, I ceased to be merely a marketer; I became a storyteller. I was a copywriter for a Fortune 500 tech company, a singer-songwriter, and a blogger discussing sports and personal eccentricities. This was my most significant reinvention until a year ago when I finally reached my limit. I was fatigued by writing, exhausted by life, and utterly devoid of stories. I yearned for a change.

In many ways, my dissatisfaction stemmed from being perceived solely as a writer instead of a complete individual. My value to others was tied to the words I could produce. I don’t believe this was entirely their fault; rather, it was a reflection of my own perspective. I presented my words as both my livelihood and an escape route.

I learned to write my way out of adversity, using it as a source of income while leaning on it due to my limited verbal skills and inability to read social cues.

However, wanting to pivot did not translate into action. In July 2022, I abruptly resigned from all my roles. A year passed without any reinvention; I merely collapsed. I watched my savings dwindle as my desperation for new work intensified, leading to a more diminished and unappealing version of myself.

It became clear that my growth from 2012 to March 2020, and even beyond, was based on a fragile facade built upon financial security. Once that vanished, everything fell apart.

New Person, Same Old Mistakes

Just as in 2012—before I had a resume or a career or a global network to lean on—I found myself struggling to secure a full-time job. Even now, as I write this, I have faced rejection after rejection.

I had a job offer withdrawn that was nearly worth $200,000 annually. Another opportunity disappeared after six exhaustive interviews. There was yet another position I didn’t even reach the second interview for, despite having an established relationship with the company and a wealth of references. I lost two final interviews because I was deemed “overqualified” (which translates to too costly).

These are just a few examples. I also received automated rejection emails from former employers and failed to land interviews for positions I was highly recommended for, resulting in a graveyard of wasted time and paper. The stress accumulated swiftly and heavily this time.

Meanwhile, nothing shifted. Bills piled up alongside resentment, long hours, and the painful absence of progress. I have never been adept at articulating the stagnation of a deteriorating status quo.

That’s when the realization hit me: I was utilizing my writing and relentless effort as a shield, donning hypercompetence as armor. I preferred to exert myself to the fullest as a means of avoiding the repercussions of bringing less than enough to the table.

I was a writer and not a whole person because I was always (and only!) crafting my own narrative. I was using success and influence as a means to validate my existence rather than simply being, you know, myself.

I could have carried myself with confidence, empathy, honesty, and integrity. Instead, I presented myself as a myth, an idea, a narrator, and, above all, a service provider. I sometimes still fall into that trap, usually out of desire or desperation.

When your self-worth is tied to your productivity and speed, and you cease to produce, your value to others diminishes. It did for me, and I faded into the background. But if this were the conclusion of the tale, well …

… wait, something did change, didn’t it? Indeed …

As I mentioned, I detonated my old life and crafted an entirely new one in under three months.

So for one last time, I leaned fully into my pathologies: I asked myself what I could do, how much, and how quickly, deciding to push myself to the limit. Replay that, Sam — for nostalgia. [I acknowledge that’s a misquote. No need to comment on it.]

Back to the Future, Part Zero

Thus, in complete silence, I departed Austin — my home for the past 13 years — on July 22.

I did not look back. I could no longer depend on others to recognize my inherent worth. I had to recognize it myself — and place my trust in me.

And so I vanished completely. I stopped writing. I barely posted on social media (or here!). I limited my conversations. I realized I wouldn’t solve the problem while ensconced in the same environment, surrounded by others telling me what to do and how they felt about it.

What began as a job search evolved into a weeks-long experiment: How far could I take my life if I answered to absolutely no one?

My initial strategy was a lack of strategy. I merely allowed events to unfold. The right flights departed from the right airports at the right prices, and I boarded them. When the time came to open certain doors, the keys always appeared. I slept and ate as I pleased. I didn’t plan too far ahead. When any change will suffice, the only predictor of success is utter chaos.

Small opportunities trickled in, and I seized them. Momentum built upon momentum. I transformed into a one-person agency, offering strategy and design. The influx of work prompted me to bring others on board. In just 90 days, I matched the income I had generated in the previous 18 months.

It progressed slowly, but once the train began rolling, it sped away. As my life evolved, these changes spurred further transformations. I drifted farther from home, saying yes to opportunities I had previously declined and diving headfirst into endeavors I used to overanalyze until I reached paralysis by analysis.

There’s much more to this story, but I’ll reserve that for my memoir. This is an update, not an exhaustive account.

The past three months have embodied a philosophy of “ready, fire, aim.” A controlled burn. A breakdown of what I thought was feasible and reasonable. It was thrilling, and it was a resounding success in more ways than I can enumerate. More ways than you may realize.

I encountered remarkable new individuals, reconnected with significant people from my past and present, and found the closure, optimism, and clarity that had been elusive since the pandemic began. With each passing day, small sparks reignited in my mind. I felt myself awakening.

These past three months have resembled time travel — a return to the Fall of 2019 when I felt at my peak, and life was full of possibilities.

Four years later, I carry a bit more weariness and wisdom, but beneath that rugged exterior lies a youthful energy I’m not sure I’ve ever truly possessed. Amidst all the swirling changes is a sense of stillness, calm, and tranquility. The future awaits, but redemption resides within.

I appreciate this version of myself. It feels authentic and, despite the chaos created, normal. I have returned home to myself, regardless of how far I have wandered.

Four years ago, I penned: “The horizon calls, the frontier is open, and this spacecraft is cleared for takeoff.” I launched then, and within a year, I crashed back to reality. We all did.

On July 22, I launched again and successfully landed in less than three months. After 12 flights and two lengthy drives, I’m making my way back to San Juan. I believe I’ll settle here for a bit before gazing out again toward the horizon and pondering what else lies ahead.

This wild journey, this chaotic interlude between extended life chapters, is nearing its end, and not a moment too soon or too late.

I received a fresh start regarding my pre-pandemic life, aspirations, and dreams. I am fortunate, privileged, and deeply grateful. [Let’s be clear: I also exerted myself tremendously to achieve this escape velocity. I effectively compressed the last four years into 90 days. What I accomplished was not easy, even if it was my only option.]

In 2023, everything remains very much on the horizon. And I am filled with hope. Joyful. Healthy. Present.

And it’s that final word I wish to discuss.

The horizon always appears the same, no matter how far you’ve traveled or how you visualize it. It remains an infinite expanse of blue or gray, ever forward. It’s an illusion.

What lies beyond the horizon is continually transforming, often in ways you cannot perceive. It can change dramatically. However, don’t let those shifts blind you to the real transformations that matter.

If you truly wish to understand what has changed, look around — at what’s not out there. Examine what resides within you and who stands beside you. Your presence is the best predictor of your future. Everything else remains uncertain.

If the past four years have imparted any lesson, it’s that plans and the world can shift in an instant. Storms pass, skies clear, and the winds and temperatures fluctuate.

But if the past four years have taught us something deeper, it’s that you will also undergo significant changes.

So when you find yourself gazing into the horizon, remind yourself that while you pursue the infinite, things are evolving right here. Beside you and within you.

Remind yourself that conditions may not always be ideal for embarking on a journey, no matter how skilled or prepared you may feel.

Remind yourself that all the steps taken, places visited, dreams chased, lost, and rediscovered were worthwhile.

Remind yourself that the lessons learned were the correct ones, even if they were the wrong ones. Especially, and precisely, if they were the challenging ones.

Life is not solely about where you’re headed or where you’ve been, or even how you arrived there; it’s about where you are. And who you are.

The most meaningful moments in life aren’t stories; they are simply moments — often not particularly reflective ones, but immersive ones. Moments that resonate from within rather than without. They typically pass in the blink of an eye. They are the moments that change us. Perhaps they don’t fit a narrative arc. Perhaps they merely are. The moments we live through and only recognize in hindsight as profoundly alive.

The horizon stretches infinitely. We do not. Therefore, I remind myself not to gaze so far outward that I lose sight of myself and proclaim, “I’m not here, this isn’t happening.” I strive to remain rooted in my reality, especially as I work to dismantle it.

Somewhere within you exists a place you long to be. Seek that place. Go there, and return home.