Here’s something that’s been bugging me lately…

We all have more power to brighten someone’s day than we think. Not in some huge, viral way. Just in those little everyday moments when someone’s feeling invisible or alone.

Simply letting them know they’re seen can be really meaningful. And the truth is, most of us already have the power, we’re just not paying attention. Let me give you a few examples:

• Making real eye contact with the person holding a sign on the corner. Not staring — just a quick nod or holding their gaze a second longer. That simple “I see you” can stay with them.

• Sitting with a friend, coworker, or even a stranger, and actually shutting up to listen. No jumping in with advice or trying to fix it. Just being there while they get it out.

• Sending a quick text or leaving a short voicemail that says “Hey, I’ve been thinking about you.” No big reason needed. It lands harder than you’d think.

I forget my power to help all the time. It’s easy to cruise through the day with my head down and miss those chances right in front of me, or see them and still do nothing. But when I actually pay attention and act, I usually walk away feeling better instead of drained.

It’s the Little Things

I think we sometimes forget because the world’s so damn loud. Everything has to be huge and impressive to count these days. If it’s quiet or doesn’t get likes or numbers, it feels like it doesn’t matter. But the stuff that’s really meaningful is usually the quiet personal stuff — one person to another, no crowd, no scoreboard. Just a real moment.

Try it today or sometime this week. Just one small thing — nothing overwhelming.

• Hold eye contact a second longer and give a real smile.

• Text someone you haven’t talked to in ages: “Thinking of you.”

• Listen without cutting in.

• Leave a short note for someone to find later.

Most folks are carrying heavy stuff you can’t even see. Your small move won’t fix their whole life. But it might help them get through the next hour or two. And sometimes that’s more than enough.

You might feel it too — not some big warm glow, but just a little more connected. A little more present and aware that we’re not in this world alone.

This kind of giving doesn’t leave you empty. At least it doesn’t for me. It’s just the opposite… giving fills something in me. It reminds me of how simple it can be to feel more connected to others and feel less alone myself.

I’m curious… has some tiny thing like this ever stuck with you for a long time? Or have you done something simple that ended up meaning way more than you figured? If so, pass it on in the comments so others can learn from it.

If this hits home with you, pass it on to someone who might need it. And don’t forget, you being here, showing up and leaving a note now and then is way more powerful than you think. Honestly.

~ Paul

A while back, I was listening to my friend Ellen talk about something embarrassing she’d done. She was carrying a lot of angst about it; replaying what happened and worrying about what people might think. People who, if we’re being honest, weren’t even that important to her.

And as I listened, there was one thought — or rather one question — I couldn’t shake: “So what?”

Not in a dismissive way. Not minimizing what she felt. Just something that rang true.

So, when Ellen paused, I said it: “Okay Ellen… but so what? Who cares?”

I said it calmly. Maybe even with a slight smile because there was something a little human — almost funny — about how much weight, energy and time she was giving it.

She stopped. You could see the wheels turning. And then something shifted. She laughed and said it back, “You’re right! So what? And who really gives a you-know-what?”

Suddenly, what had felt big and heavy felt lighter and unworthy of all the attention she was giving it. She went from worried and upset, to laughing and relieved.

I believe the shift happened because she had figured out that even if her misstep had bothered someone, it probably wasn’t something they were still thinking about. I think she realized it may have been a mistake, but it wasn’t defining her. It wasn’t actually following her around the way it had been circling in her own head.

This insight didn’t fix everything, but it obviously and almost magically changed how big it felt.

That conversation with Ellen stayed with me and I started noticing how often I do the very same thing... the times I find myself lying in bed, replaying something I said, or didn’t say when I should have. I was letting it grow into something bigger than it probably is.

And lately, when I suspect I may be creating a bigger-than-reality worry about something, I ask myself the same two questions:

So what?
Who cares?

Not to dismiss things that matter, but to check them.

Sometimes the answer is: “Yeah… that mattered. I should handle that differently next time.”

But a lot of the time it’s smaller than I made it. It doesn’t deserve a full replay, and it definitely doesn’t need to keep me awake when I need to sleep.

Sometimes the things we worry about and overthink aren’t worth the time, the energy, or the angst we put into them. And once you see that, it’s a little easier to put one or two worries down.

And that means one, maybe two fewer things we need to toss and turn on.

Paul

In the last two posts I wrote about The Parts of Our Lives We Don’t Always Talk About and When Someone Finally Knows.

This last piece is about something just as important: how to be honest without feeling like you have to tell everyone everything.

Being honest doesn’t mean telling your private story to anyone who asks. There’s a difference between honesty and overexposure, and also between openness and sharing personal things with someone who hasn’t earned that level of trust. Not everyone needs or deserves access to the deeper parts of your life.

When I first shared my big secret, I was careful about who I told. And to be honest. let me admit that earlier in my life, I wasn’t always thoughtful about some things I shared. It took me a while to realize that honesty and boundaries can live in the same place.

Not everyone knows how to handle deeper truths, and not everyone deserves access to the real you. Healthy boundaries don’t cancel out honesty; they’re what make honesty possible.

Being real means choosing when, how, and with whom you share things. It means taking your time. Sometimes the most self-respecting thing you can say is, “I’m not ready to talk about that yet” or, “That’s something I’m still working through.”

That isn’t hiding. It’s judgment… the good kind.

The goal isn’t for everyone to know everything about you. It’s simpler than that:

To be truly known somewhere.
By someone safe.

Here are a few simple questions to ask yourself:

What have you been carrying alone for a long time?
Does it still need to stay there?
Who is someone I can trust to tell it to?

Maybe there’s one place where part of the story could be shared. Not the whole story; just one honest piece. You probably already know who that person might be. And sometimes one conversation is enough to make things feel a little lighter. And after you do it once, it becomes easier the next time.

If this got you thinking about something you’ve been carrying, that’s enough. And if you feel like sharing, I’d be interested to hear what part of these last three posts, brought up for you.

Paul

In the last post I wrote about the things many of us carry that other people don’t see. This second reflection is about what can change when someone finally knows a little more of the truth.

Carrying things alone takes more energy than we realize. That’s why when people finally say something they’ve been holding for a long time the first feeling is often relief.

Sometimes the relief shows up before the other person even responds.

Seemingly nothing has changed yet. But something actually has: You’re not carrying it by yourself anymore.

I’ve seen this many times over the years: in friendships, in counseling conversations, and in quiet conversations when someone starts a sentence with, “I’ve never told anyone this before…”

When I finally told a trusted friend I was gay, I remember noticing a few things right away. It wasn’t as big a deal as I had built it up to be. He wasn’t surprised, and I felt lighter.

Almost immediately, something inside shifts.

The story doesn’t change. But feeling alone does.

Often it only takes one safe person:

Sometimes it’s a friend or a therapist.
…Someone who knows how to listen without trying to fix everything.

Finding just one place where the truth can finally be spoken out loud.

To be clear… This isn’t about telling everyone everything. It’s not about dramatic confessions or blowing up your life. It’s about choosing honesty where trust already exists, letting one person see what’s actually true.

And something interesting often happens. Instead of judgment, people hear, “I understand.” And that’s enough. Connection deepens in those moments.

Not because anything big happened, but because we’re finally being honest about where we actually are.

You might start small. Just enough to see what it feels like to not carry it alone.

In the next post, I’ll talk about how to be honest without feeling like you have to explain your whole life to everyone.

Paul

A few weeks ago, I wrote an essay called “What You Don’t Know About Me.”

Way more people responded to that piece than I expected. A lot of the messages said some version of the same thing: “It made me think about the things people don’t know about me either.” That stayed with me.

Most of us carry parts of our story that don’t typically make it into conversation. Not necessarily big secrets, just things that, for one reason or another, we don’t say out loud.

Over the next few posts, I want to explore three important topics:

• The things we tend to keep private – and why.

• What can change when we decide to share.

• How to be honest without feeling like you have to tell everyone everything.

None of this is dramatic. It’s just part of being human.

Here’s Part One.

PART ONE – The Things We Keep Private

Most of us carry something about ourselves that very few people know about. Not because we’re dishonest. Usually, it’s simpler than that. At some point – for various reasons – we just decided to keep it to ourselves.

Sometimes we keep things private for good reasons:

To protect someone we love.
To avoid hurting someone unnecessarily.
To give ourselves time to figure something out.

But if we’re honest, some of it also comes down to fear:

Fear of what people might think.
Fear of what might change.
Fear of the awkward silence that sometimes follows honesty.

So we adjust:

We tell the safer version of the story.
We leave certain details out.
We let people see a version of us that’s mostly true, just not the whole picture.

If you stop and think about it for a moment, you can probably name one or two things in your own life that almost no one else knows about.

For me, one thing I carried quietly for years before I ever said it out loud was this: I am gay.

At the time, it just felt easier to keep that to myself and let people assume everything was fine.

And when you keep something like that to yourself, it doesn’t stay contained. It spills into other things. Even the people closest to you don’t quite know you. Once that door is closed, a lot of smaller things stay behind it too.

What you may be holding back might be much smaller; just parts of your story that never made it into conversation.

At first, it can even feel responsible or mature. Like you’re handling things the “right” way. But over time something else starts to happen.

What we keep hidden doesn’t stay neatly tucked away. It shows up in other ways, in our moods, in our relationships, and sometimes in that strange feeling of being a little unseen, even in rooms full of people.

We end up walking around almost ourselves. Close, but not quite. And because we’ve carried it for so long, we stop noticing the weight, until something finally gets our attention, such as:

A conversation hits a nerve, and we react more than we expected.
A wave of sadness shows up and we’re not sure why.
Or we suddenly feel lonely in a room full of people who care about us.

Usually that moment isn’t the real issue. It’s the accumulation of all the moments before it. If you stop for a second and think about it, it’s:

The things you almost never said.
The stories you never trusted anyone with.
The parts of yourself you’ve quietly pushed out of sight.

None of this means anything is wrong with you. It just means you’re human. And probably more like the rest of us than you realize. For now, just noticing is enough.

In the next piece, I’ll talk about something I’ve seen many times: “What happens when someone finally knows a little more of the truth?

Paul

PS: I appreciate you reading and sharing these posts - What I appreciate the most, are the notes, ideas and the questions that you share here - Having a conversation with you means a lot!

Some moments are so small that when they happen we barely notice them. Later we realize they quietly divided our lives into two parts: before and after.

• Before you signed up at the gym.

• Before you bought the guitar.

• Before you tried something that felt a little beyond your pay grade.

• Before you invited a friend to lunch.

Most of us imagine life changes as dramatic events. In truth, they’re usually much quieter.

• A conversation you didn’t expect.

• A decision made when the “perfect” choice wasn’t available.

• A chance encounter with someone who says exactly what you needed to hear.

I remember one lunch meeting years ago with a friend who was a successful entrepreneur. I was always running ideas by him and, more often than not, he was less impressed than I hoped he would be. Still, I appreciated his honesty and clarity.

During that lunch I said, “I have this idea to write a short book that might encourage and help people. The phrase I keep coming back to is Begin with Yes.”

He put his water glass down, looked me straight in the eyes, and said quietly, “Do it. Begin today.”

And I did.

That moment turned out to be one of my “afters.” It changed the direction of my life.

Looking back now, I can see how many moments like that have quietly shaped things. At the time they felt ordinary. Only later did I realize they were small turning points.

It’s humbling to notice how often our lives shift not because of grand plans, but because of small steps we almost overlooked.

So, if you happen to be standing in one of those moments right now – uncertain, hesitant, not quite sure what comes next – don’t rush past it. One day you may look back and realize it quietly divided your life into two parts.

Before that moment… and everything that came after.

Paul

P.S. Mark, thanks for that lunch almost twenty years ago. Turns out you were right.

While I’m still here, I want to smile at strangers.

I want to laugh with friends – the kind that brings tears to your eyes and makes you forget what you were worried about five minutes ago.

I want to be kind and empathetic, even when it costs me something.

I want to eat donuts. And German chocolate cake. Not every day, but without apology.

I want to see as much theatre as I can – especially musicals. Just sit in the dark and feel grateful to be there, and be reminded that people can still build something beautiful together.

I want to take long walks with Toby – my dear and most loyal friend – and let him stop and linger, sniffing everything like it matters, because to him it does. I doubt he’s worried about the future; he’s too busy taking in the present.

I want to hang out at the General Store and start conversations with strangers in line, while letting Toby work his magic.

I want long phone calls that are honest – sometimes sad – and often so funny we can’t breathe.

I want to send a Valentine to our mailman – the one who leaves dog treats with the morning mail, and write “Just thinking about you” notes with stamps, not texts.

I want to share my money and my time while I can. Not someday. But when my intuition nudges me. I used to think generosity came after you had “enough.” It usually comes before that.

I want to listen to the waves, play vinyl records more often (especially show tunes), and appreciate hot showers with tea tree shampoo.

I want to sleep naked and keep a warm blanket nearby.

I want to go to the gym and keep this body working for as long as it’s willing. I didn’t always treat it like something worth keeping strong, but now I’m paying attention.

I want to keep writing. There’s a novel that needs another chapter, and I want the people who read my work and encourage me to know I don’t take their kind words lightly.

I want to stay hopeful. Not naïve, hopeful. There are nights, as I’m trying to fall asleep, when hope feels elusive. Hope is something I have to practice, not something I wake up with.

As another birthday slips by, I know enough to understand that “later” is a story we tell ourselves. I don’t assume I have endless chapters left. The real story isn’t later. It’s right now.

While I’m still here, I want to live like I’m still here. Not someday. Now.

Paul

P.S. If you’re willing, tell me one thing on your “while I’m still here” list.

You don’t know what wakes me up in the middle of the night.
You don’t know which mistakes still come back around when I can’t fall asleep.
You don’t know the dreams I’ve let go of – or the ones I’m still quietly holding onto.
You don’t know the worries I carry that don’t make it into conversation.

And I don’t know these things about you, either.

My point is that from the outside most of us look fine. We handle what needs handling. We show up. We take care of what needs taking care of, and we do the best we can. When someone asks, “How are you doing?” we almost always say we’re doing fine.

But very often “doing fine” isn’t the whole story.

The other night I was walking Toby and found myself replaying a conversation I haven’t had yet. It wasn’t dramatic. Just something honest I’ve been circling in my mind for a while. Somewhere along the walk with my pal, I realized I wasn’t afraid of the conversation. I was afraid of not sounding together. Of being seen not quite sure of myself.

That surprised me, because I write about courage for a living. Now the older I get, the more I notice that most of what makes us human is unfinished. It’s still in process. Sometimes it’s still a little lost. Still forming. And yet we work pretty hard to hide that.

We smooth things out. We lead with competence. We tell the version of the story that sounds resolved. It feels safer that way.

I don’t know when looking solid became more important than being honest, but I see it everywhere. And honestly, I see it in myself, too.

Lately, I’m not so sure strength looks like having it all figured out. I’m starting to think it might look more like letting someone see you before you do.

Not everyone, and not all at once. Just someone you trust enough to say, “I’m still working through this.”

The thing you assume would make you look weak might be the thing that makes someone else feel understood or be something can relate to.

You don’t have to announce it to the world. You don’t have to turn it into a lesson.

I am going to begin doing more of that.

When I let you see one of those things you don’t know about me, maybe it creates a little more connection between us. A little more honesty. What do you think?

P.S. And for the record, yes — I do wake up some nights replaying old mistakes that still kind of haunt me a little.

Paul

Feeling depleted? Me too.

I noticed it this morning almost immediately… It’s kind of a dull, used-up feeling. Not dramatic; just there.

Here’s what I’m going to do today, not as a fix, but just as a start:

• I’m going to take Toby for a walk.

• Then I’m going to go to the gym.

• And I’m going to press pause for a bit – on the noise, the scrolling, the commentary.

I have a pretty good idea why I’m depleted. The news, for one. And giving what I have to give—time, attention, care—then realizing, once again, that for some people it still isn’t enough. That no matter how thoughtfully you show up, the expectation is always for more.

And not getting enough sleep. My Oura ring has been quietly confirming what I already know: I’ve been running on less rest than I need.

Those kinds of things add up.

When the world feels loud and demanding; when effort isn’t met with much care or kindness, and when your body is clearly asking for rest, something in you starts to wear thin. It’s subtle. You don’t always notice it right away—until you do.

Along with walking Toby and going to the gym, here are a few other things I’m trying today:

• Taking in less. Especially less news.

• Letting some things go unanswered.

• Doing one small, kind thing for myself without explaining or justifying it.

Letting “this is enough for today” actually mean I can stop. And feeling depleted doesn’t mean you’re doing life wrong. It usually means you’ve been paying attention. It means you’ve been giving. It means something needs care.

And that something is someone… you.

If you’re feeling depleted too, I’d honestly like to hear about it. What’s been draining you lately?

And if you have ideas – especially small, doable ways to move away from feeling depleted – I’d love to hear those too.

And by the way, the gym helped some. The walk with Toby helped more. And seeing friends at the general store helped a lot.

I’m feeling better.
Not perfect.
But much, much better.

Paul

Last night I rushed to order concert tickets online and somehow ended up with two seats in different rows. Don’t ask me how. I’m still not entirely sure. I just know that in my hurry, I managed to finish the task without actually finishing it.

I woke up early thinking about it – not because it was a big problem, but because it was a pattern I recognized.

The day before had been productive. I’d gotten a lot done. And still, late in the evening, I felt that familiar nudge to squeeze in one more thing. One last task. One more checkmark before calling it a day.

One More Thing…

The rush wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t even practical. It was emotional. I wasn’t racing the clock; I was racing the discomfort of not crossing one more thing off my list – the feeling that I shouldn’t stop yet, and that rest could wait.

Once I was in that headspace, things started pushing back. The website froze. A confirmation screen didn’t load. I had to re-enter information I’d already typed. My phone chimed with a message that had nothing to do with what I was doing.

None of it mattered. But in that moment, all of it felt irritating.

Instead of pausing, I tightened up.

I pushed through anyway. I finished the task. Or thought I did. And now I get to spend time today fixing something that never needed to be rushed in the first place.

No Need to Rush…

What stayed with me this morning wasn’t the mistake—it was the pattern. Rushing, I’m noticing, has very little to do with time and a lot to do with discomfort. It’s a way of outrunning the feeling that maybe enough hasn’t quite happened yet.

And I’m seeing how some days don’t unravel because I did too little—but because I missed the moment when stopping would have been the smarter move.

Sometimes slowing down isn’t about discipline or productivity. It’s just noticing when the urge to keep going is coming from unease—and deciding not to follow it.

Paul

There’s a moment — usually in a quiet morning or a late-night swirl of thoughts — when I am reminded of a simple phrase from a song I have always loved.

It’s a line from a song many of us know. In the musical Cabaret it’s sung with equal parts longing and grit. The woman singing it has been disappointed more times than she can count and still, something in her says: don’t give up. Not yet.

What gets me every time, isn’t the hope of winning; it’s the willingness to try again.

The song isn’t really about certainty or guarantees. It’s about daring to believe the next attempt could be different, even when experience says otherwise. There’s tenderness in that kind of hope, but there’s courage, too. It takes something real to open yourself again after things haven’t worked before.

At this point in my life, I understand that feeling more deeply than I once did. I know what it’s like to walk back toward something — a dream, a relationship, a project, or even a part of yourself — after a discouraging season and hear that small inner voice say, “Maybe this time.”

Not definitely.
Not promised.
Just… maybe.

And somehow, that’s enough to take the next step.

The older I get, the more I trust the power of that word. Maybe doesn’t demand certainty. It doesn’t insist on results. It simply leaves the door open. And sometimes, an open door is all we need.

Maybe this time the good news will come.
Maybe this time the courage will show up.
Maybe this time the idea will take shape.
Maybe this time love — of any kind — will find room in my life.

Wherever you are today — waiting for answers, starting over, repairing something personal and close, or just trying to believe in yourself again — you’re allowed to whisper those words: “Maybe This Time.”

They don’t promise a miracle, but they keep hope alive. And honestly, sometimes that’s enough.

Here’s a link to a new rendition of that song that I’ve been listening to lately, sung by Orville Peck - He was recently in the Broadway revival of the show in NYC. Don’t let the mask put you off - this guy is talented and has an amazing voice:

I hope you appreciate as much as I do.

Paul

You don’t have to see it for it to be real.

I got this text recently from someone I worked with years ago. We live far apart now and only check in occasionally. Here’s what she wrote (shared with permission, with details changed):

Hey Paul,

I was heading out the door and caught a few minutes of a show that was all about saying “yes.” Guess who came to mind?

I needed that. I’ve been dealing with a lot of loss lately and have felt pretty stuck. There’s no easy way through grief, but “beginning with yes” felt like a small light in the middle of a hard stretch.

You’ve supported me more than you probably realize. I thought you should know.

I read it a couple of times.

Partly because I was touched. And partly because it reminded me of something I forget more often than I’d like.

It’s easy – especially on tired or distracted days – to assume that what we put into the world only matters if we see a response. A reply. A reaction. Some visible proof that it landed. But that’s rarely how it works.

Sometimes something you said years ago shows up for someone right when they’re struggling. Sometimes a simple idea finds a person when they feel stuck and don’t know where to turn. Sometimes encouragement arrives long after you’ve forgotten you ever offered it.

The timing of impact usually has very little to do with the timing of our words. And no good energy is wasted.

Even when we don’t see it.
Even when we never hear about it.
Even when we quietly wonder if any of this really matters.

This note reminded me of that. And it also reminded me of something else. That what we put into the world – kindness, encouragement, steady presence – doesn’t just disappear because we stop tracking it. Sometimes it lands quietly. Sometimes it lands much later. Sometimes it lands when someone is barely holding on.

It made me wonder what might happen if we were a little more intentional about that.

What if the 17,000 of us here on Substack – and the millions more connected through Facebook – made a quiet practice of putting out a bit more good on purpose? Not loudly. Not performatively. Just thoughtfully.

A generous word.
A steady idea.
A reminder that someone isn’t alone.

Not because we expect anything back, but because we understand that impact doesn’t always announce itself.

Something you said.
Something you modeled.
Something you offered without fanfare.

It may already be helping someone breathe a little easier. You don’t have to see it for it to be real.

Paul

P.S. If you’re looking for one easy way to put a little good into the world today, simply sharing this note is one option. You never know who might need to read it right now.

If you’re on Substack, you can share it by clicking the Share button below the post. That gives you a few simple choices – email, Notes, or a link you can copy and send however you like. No pressure. No performance. Just a small act of passing something along, because sometimes that’s enough.

James Baldwin wrote, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it’s faced.”

That line has stayed with me for years. Not because it offers reassurance, but because it points to something most of us would rather skip.

Change doesn’t usually begin with action. It begins with turning toward something we’ve been avoiding.

Not with fixing.
Not with solving.
Just with looking.

Stage Fright

The phrase face the music has been around a long time. It’s said to have originated with actors overcoming stage fright, and it’s come to mean facing reality – or consequences – and moving forward anyway. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just honestly.

Facing the music doesn’t mean you like what you hear. It doesn’t mean the tune is familiar or pleasant. It simply means you’ve stopped pretending the sound isn’t there.

So much of what wears us down isn’t the thing itself – it’s the effort it takes to keep avoiding it. The mental sidestepping. The low-level hum of I’ll deal with this later playing in the background of our days. We need to step out onto our stage and let the curtain open.

There’s a particular kind of relief that comes from facing what’s true. Not because it’s resolved—but because it’s no longer hiding.

Sometimes the music is small:

Making a dentist appointment you’ve been putting off.
Opening an email you already know the contents of.
Admitting you’re more tired than you’ve been letting on.

And sometimes the music is much bigger:

Knowing it’s time to leave a job.
Accepting that a relationship has changed.
Facing a truth you’ve been circling for a while now.

Small Moments Matter

I’m learning that the small moments matter. That facing the little things builds the muscle we need for the bigger ones. We practice honesty in manageable ways, and over time, our capacity grows.

Facing the music often looks quiet from the outside.
A conversation you stop postponing.
An admission you stop softening.
A moment when you stay instead of distracting yourself.

It doesn’t make everything better, but Baldwin was right. Nothing really shifts until we’re willing to turn toward what’s playing—and listen long enough to hear it clearly.

Paul

P.S. If this resonates you, I’d love to know what “the music” sounds like in your life right now. Something small. Something big. Or something you’re still deciding whether to listen to. Feel free to share in the comments—or pass this along to someone who might need a gentle nudge to stop avoiding what they already hear.

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(Here’s a picture of me with the amazing Lisa McCourt at the Eola General Store)

Meeting Lisa for lunch was a beautiful way to get a little connection vibe underway and it happened just before I wrote this short piece for our Begin with Yes Substack Page! So here it is:

We’re living in the most connected era in history, and yet we’re quietly becoming more isolated. Research has been warning us for years: actual human contact matters. Deeply. Not just for mood, but for mental health, physical health, longevity, and resilience.

And yet, look at how easily it’s disappearing:

• We deposit checks without seeing a teller.

• We order coffee without speaking to a person.

• We watch movies alone instead of in theaters.

• We shop without clerks.

• We text instead of call.

Even gas stations—once small social waypoints—are gone for many of us. I don’t stop for gas anymore. I plug my car in at home.

Convenient? Absolutely. Neutral? Not even close.

We Can Create Human Contact

We’ve traded connection for convenience, and in a world where loneliness is now described as an epidemic, the cost is becoming staggering. But we can create human contact, which is why I protect this one small ritual almost every day:

• Toby and I walk down to the Eola General Store—our neighborhood café.

• I sit out on the patio and visit with people—many of them strangers.

• I get coffee and peanut butter toast or a muffin.

• I talk with friends who work there.

• Toby hangs out beside me, gets treats, almost always gets some loving, and usually makes a new friend or two.

• On the walk there and back, I chat with neighbors. I wave. I smile. I exchange a few words with people out walking their dogs or heading into the day.

None of it is dramatic.
None of it is optimized.
But it’s human. And it’s important to me.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: The world is not going to give us the human contact we need. Technology will continue to reduce it, streamline it, and remove friction wherever possible.

Be Deliberate

So, if we want connection, it won’t be accidental. It will have to be deliberate. That means:

• Choosing the line instead of the app sometimes.

• Choosing the café instead of delivery.

• Choosing environments where interaction is built in—even if it takes more effort.

Some simple ways to keep human contact alive:

• Go to the same place regularly and become a known face

• Take a class where people have to talk to each other

• Volunteer somewhere that requires presence

• Walk your neighborhood instead of isolating indoors

• Say yes to small invitations

• Make eye contact. Say hello. Stay a few minutes longer

Here’s the question most of us never ask: “How much human contact do I actually need, and how much am I getting?” My Oura ring tells me how much sleep I’m behind on. And the truth is, I’m almost always a little behind. I wish it also tracked how far behind I am on human connection, because that deficit matters just as much.

The world isn’t going to keep score for us. And it’s not going to correct this trend on its own. That responsibility belongs to each of us. Which means we need to plan for connection the same way we plan for work, health, and obligations. Not because we’re lonely, but because we’re human. And human contact—real, imperfect, in-person connection—isn’t a luxury. It’s a requirement.

~ Paul

PS: And I want to add that although I can often appear as an extrovert, I’m more of an introvert and reaching out takes a bit of effort on my part, but it’s worth every single step towards connection that I take.

We often begin with wishing. We wish things were different. We hope something shifts. We imagine how good it would feel if this one thing finally changed.

Wishing and hoping aren’t useless. They’re often where clarity starts, but they’re not enough on their own.

If wishing doesn’t transition into doing, very little actually happens. I know this because I lived there for a long time. For years I thought about writing a novel. I talked about it. I imagined it. I pictured the finished thing. But it stayed in the wishing stage.

Part of it was fear. Part of it was the sheer size of the idea. Thinking about a whole novel felt overwhelming—so overwhelming that doing nothing felt safer.

So, it stayed theoretical. A someday thing. A “when I have more time” thing.

Action Cures Fear

What changed wasn’t confidence or clarity. What changed was that one day I opened my laptop and typed a single sentence.

That was it. Not an outline. Not a plan. Just the first sentence of Skyler Bleu – Almost Home. That small act moved the idea out of wishing and into the real world. And here’s the surprising part: once I started doing, the overwhelm softened.

I’m nowhere near finished, but I’m deep in the process now and I’m having an amazing time. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s real. That’s the difference.

Doing is a decision. Not a dramatic one. Not a life overhaul. Just a quiet choice to move—slightly—out of neutral.

It Starts with a Small Step

This is where people get stuck. They assume doing has to be big to count. It doesn’t.

Doing can be:

• typing one sentence

• taking one small step

• beginning without knowing the ending

This is the heart of Begin with Yes—not optimism without action, but optimism grounded in movement… specifically, small steps. Hence, the “begin” in Begin with Yes.

Yes to starting before you’re ready.
Yes to progress that doesn’t look impressive yet.
Yes to repetition.

Because the real difference between people who change and people who stay stuck is rarely motivation or talent. It’s action. It’s follow-through—small, imperfect, and repeated.

If you’ve been wishing lately, that’s not a failure. It’s information.

The question is simple: “What’s one small thing you could do today that would move you half a step forward?”

Not tomorrow. Not someday. But today. That’s where things actually begin!

P.S. The entire novel started with this one sentence:
“If anyone had told Skyler Bleu that moving to Orlando on a whim would change his life in remarkable ways, he might have laughed—and then wondered if they somehow knew him better than he knew himself.”

This past year has taught me a lot. Not in tidy lessons or dramatic breakthroughs, but in quieter, harder ways.

One of the biggest things I learned is what it actually means to stay in my own lane.

For a long time, I believed that caring meant paying close attention—anticipating needs, smoothing rough edges, adjusting myself to keep things steady. What I’m learning now is that vigilance is not the same thing as love, and that living in a constant state of readiness quietly drains you.

Here’s a truth that took me longer than I’d like to admit to fully grasp: You can care deeply and still refuse to organize your life around other people’s struggles. Understanding where pain comes from doesn’t obligate you to carry it.

Insight and Action

Another lesson was about the difference between insight and change. Learning new frameworks about behavior, history, patterns, and even trauma can be incredibly helpful. But insight alone doesn’t create stability or well-being. At some point, understanding has to be paired with action. Structure matters. Follow-through matters. Not perfectly; but honestly.

I’ve also been noticing how easy it is to keep too much to myself. Silence can start out as protection or privacy and slowly turn into isolation. I’m learning that there’s a middle ground—sharing what’s real without oversharing, naming what’s true without turning it into a crisis. It’s about sharing my insights in a constructive, non-threatening, honest way. That kind of honesty turns out to be a form of self-respect.

It’s Your Time… Use it Wisely

Time has been another quiet teacher. Not in a dramatic, “clock is ticking” way, but in a clarifying one. Time is a real asset, so spend it wisely. The older I get, the more obvious it becomes that how I spend my emotional energy matters as much as how I spend my days.

One distinction I keep coming back to is this: Caring about people is different from carrying them.

When we carry too much for too long, we lose parts of ourselves, and often, the other person loses something too.

I don’t have this all figured out. I’m still practicing. And maybe that’s the point. Old dogs really can learn new tricks. Not by becoming different people, but by letting go of what no longer works.

Staying connected to yourself, especially later in life, isn’t selfish. It’s necessary. And it turns out, it’s never too late to make that adjustment.

~Paul

There’s a kind of courage that doesn’t get talked about much. It’s not the courage of certainty. It’s the courage of uncertainty. Leaving before you know exactly where you’re headed.

A friend of mine recently walked away from a position she’d held for over twenty years. The job had been meaningful. There were good people, good memories, and real contributions made, and staying would have been easy, comfortable, and predictable. But the position no longer fit.

She isn’t ready to retire. She doesn’t have a perfectly wrapped next chapter waiting in the wings. What she does have is a clear inner-knowing that it was time to begin something new—even if she can’t yet name what that something is.

So, she said yes anyway.

Yes to change.

Yes to uncertainty.

Yes to the possibility that the next chapter will reveal itself only after she steps forward.

That kind of yes often comes with doubt. And fear. And the quiet question of “Am I doing the right thing?”

That’s normal. It’s scary. And it’s also courageous.

We tend to think we’re supposed to eliminate fear before moving on. But most meaningful transitions don’t work that way. Fear doesn’t disappear—it just stops being in charge. There really is a time for everything, and sometimes that time includes bravely starting a new thread without knowing exactly how it will weave itself together.

If you’re standing in that space right now—between what no longer fits and what hasn’t fully formed yet—I hope you hear this:

You don’t need all the answers to begin.

You don’t need a five-year plan to move in the right direction.

And you don’t need to be fearless to be brave.

Let the doubt exist, if it’s there, just don’t let it crowd out the excitement. Let that in, too.

Keep moving, because a new chapter doesn’t reveal itself all at once. Like a book or a story, it’s revealed one sentence at a time. And to see what’s ahead you have to turn the page.

So sometimes, saying, “Yes, I’m willing to move towards whatever may be next—one small step at a time” is more than enough.

~ Paul

The other night, I was talking with my adult kids and grandkids and the conversation turned to work — anxiety, stress, and the constant low-grade worry that seems to ride along with most jobs these days.

They were describing something I know well.

And without really thinking, I said, “If I could change one thing about my long career, I would have figured out how to spend far less time anxious and worried.”

That surprised them. And it surprised me a little, too.

I spent my working life in healthcare — first as a social worker, then as a rehabilitation center director, and eventually for 25 years as the CEO of a nonprofit health and social service agency. I cared deeply about the work. About the people. About getting things right. And because of that, I worried… a lot.

Hindsight is 20/20

Looking back, two things stand out:

First, much of what I worried about was never impacted — even slightly — by my worry. The stress didn’t make me smarter, it didn’t improve outcomes, and it didn’t prevent problems.

Second, most of the things I worried about never actually happened.

So much of my anxiety was spent rehearsing futures that never arrived.

The bottom line? Most of my worry was, as they say, pissing in the wind.

Then one of my kids asked a follow-up question, “Given all that, what would you have done differently? And more specifically, how could you have stopped worrying so much?”

It’s a fair question. And here’s the honest answer:

I don’t think there’s a way to stop worrying altogether. But I do think there are ways to worry less — and they’re simpler than we often make them.

Here are some things I would have practiced earlier and more consistently:

• Identify what you’re worried about.

  Then assess the effect of each possible outcome. You’ll likely see that it’s something not worth the worry.

• Separate what you can influence from what you can’t.
  If you can take a concrete step, take it. If you can’t, worrying about it is just mental noise.

• Ask one grounding question: What actually needs my attention today?
  Not next month. Not every possible outcome. Just today.

• Limit worry time.
  Worry expands to fill whatever space we give it. Give it less room.

• Talk things out sooner.
  Anxiety thrives in isolation. A short, honest conversation often shrinks it fast.

• Notice when worry masquerades as responsibility.
  Caring is essential. Chronic worry is not the same thing.

I’m as certain as anyone can be that we’ll never eliminate worrying completely. But reducing it? That’s possible.

So, if you want to be on the worry less train with me, practice a few of these simple ideas and let’s see what we can do. No perfection required. Just a little less time pissing in the wind.

And right now, the worry-less train’s about to depart. Hope you’re coming with me!

Paul

Lately I’ve been thinking about how noisy the world has become. Not just the literal kind—traffic, leaf blowers, and Christmas music that’s been playing since Halloween—but the constant digital noise.

Everyone’s talking, posting, sharing, selling, inspiring, reacting. Some days it feels like there are more influencers than there are people to be influenced. Even when it’s good noise, it’s still a lot.

Every day brings another newsletter, another post, another ping that wants a tiny piece of our attention. And sometimes, even the kindest, most thoughtful content starts to blur together with the “Hey, look at me!” content.

So, here’s what I want to say: it’s OK to turn the volume down. I don’t want to be a part of the noise in your life. I want to offer you valued inspiration—on your terms.

If your inbox feels crowded, or your brain just needs a little quiet, you don’t have to unsubscribe—you can simply adjust the settings right here on Substack. Settings page at www.substack.com/settings and you’ll see a list of all the newsletters you’re subscribed to.

You can:

• Switch to “digest” mode so you only get one summary email per week.

• Uncheck notifications for comments or chats you don’t follow closely.

• Read on your own time by visiting my Substack page directly instead of receiving every post by email.

You’ll still be part of this community—you’ll just receive content in a way that works better for your peace of mind.

And I get it. I recently did a major cleanup of my own inbox and unsubscribed from a bunch of things. Not because they weren’t good, but because my brain just needed fewer open tabs. It felt like taking a deep breath.

And that’s really what I want this space to be: a pause in the middle of all the noise, and a quiet moment of reflection or encouragement that doesn’t compete for attention, but instead, gives a little of it back.

With the holidays coming and “Jingle Bells” already echoing from every grocery store speaker, I keep thinking about Silent Night. Not the performance version, but the feeling of it: calm, grounded, still.

Maybe what we need right now are more of those silent-night moments. Tiny, ordinary pauses that help us breathe again.

Moments like:

• Sitting in the car for an extra minute before going inside.

• Walking the dog without your phone.

• Making your morning coffee in silence, just listening to the signs around you.

These are small things, but they make a difference.

So take care of your attention. Protect your peace. Adjust the volume until it feels right for you. I’ll still be here when you’re ready to listen.

With warmth,
Paul

P.S. If you’d like to stay subscribed but hear from me less often, scroll to the bottom of any email from this Substack and click “Manage Subscription.” You can choose digest mode, adjust notifications, or pause emails altogether—whatever helps you find your quiet without losing touch.

Every once in a while, a small moment in an ordinary day reminds us that the world is still full of good people. This one started with a bag of candied nuts and ended with a quiet reminder that kindness has a way of circling back.

This past week I was in New York City for a few days. On my way to see a musical — one of my favorite things to do — and on my way to the theater I stopped at a little stand selling candied peanuts, almonds, and cashews.

I saw the sign that said no credit cards and reached for my wallet, only to realize I didn’t have any cash. The vendor smiled and said, “Tell me what you want. I’ll be here till nine. If you come back this way, you can pay me then.”

Before I could even answer, he scooped a small bag of candied cashews, handed it to me, and said, “Here, take these anyway.”

That was it. No hesitation. No keeping score. Just a small act of trust in the middle of a busy New York street.

Later that evening, while I was at the theater waiting for the second act to begin, the woman sitting beside me noticed me eating the cashews. She smiled and said, “I love those! They bring me back to such sweet memories. When I was little, my dad would often bring me home a bag from a street vendor near where we lived.”

I told her about the man who’d given me mine for free. We both laughed softly, and for a moment, it felt like all those small kindnesses — hers, mine, his, her father’s — were somehow connected. A quiet thread of generosity weaving its way through the city.

On my way home after the play I stopped at an ATM, withdrew some cash, and went back to that same corner. I handed the vendor a ten-dollar bill for a three-dollar bag. His face lit up, genuinely surprised and happy that I’d come back. He grinned, reached for another small bag, and insisted I take more.

Earlier that week, I saw another musical called Two Strangers Carry a Cake Across New York City. And yes — it was exactly what the title promised: two strangers walking through the city, carrying a cake, and somehow (it was a musical, after all) finding love along the way.

Thinking back to that play and its “make-believe” New York City, I remembered the candied nut vendor — his easy kindness, his unguarded trust. That’s when it hit me: there’s still so much love and kindness in the world. It’s not always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s wrapped in a crinkly paper bag and handed to you with a smile.

You just have to notice it, be open to receiving it, and willing to pass it on.

What it reminded me of — and maybe it’ll remind you too — is that the world, despite all the bad news, still has so much quiet kindness in it.

So, here’s today’s reminder, for you and for myself:
Look out for strangers. Not because they’re dangerous, but because sometimes a stranger can make your day a little bit sweeter. Offer some kindness… just a word or two or a small helping hand.

A stranger I met last week reminded me that this world — even on an ordinary day — is still full of good and kind energy waiting to be shared.

And maybe your kindness, like those candied nuts, leaves a little sweetness behind.

Paul,

PS: If you’ve had a small, ordinary moment that made your day brighter, I’d love to hear it in the notes below. We could all use a few more of those stories.