Life Began at the End of My Comfort Zone

My foundations in life and the written word - essay #4

Dear friends,

This is the fourth and final in a series of essays I am sharing about myself. These essays were originally published in the early days of Beyond the Bookshelf when I had less readers and less practice as a writer. I have spent months reworking and editing to make these more personal and relevant. My hope is that through these essays you will come to know me a little better and in doing so, gain insight into my passion for exploring life through the written word.

The early hours of the morning are quiet. Alone with my thoughts, I look out the window at the still, sleeping world. An ethereal presence clings to the ground, avoiding its nemesis, the light, slowly peeking above the eastern horizon. Hanging in the heavens, a solitary star bears witness while its companion, the moon, hangs shyly behind a veil.

Foggy spirits creep along the earth, leaving a damp trail as the only remnant of their passing. They linger, ever-present yet slightly out of reach. In the distance, their silhouette is bolder, opaque beasts that refuse to give up their secrets.

These early hours are of magical and unperceived things. Other worlds exist at the edges, briefly meeting as darkness gives way to light and night gives way to day. What mysteries the fog contains become unknowable, for it slinks away as the sun is born and stands its watch upon the sky.

Clarity comes to me in that space—at the edge of night and day. Mysterious forces at work illuminate my mind, and for a moment, I comprehend creation. In an instant, the sun’s brilliance washes everything away, and I go about my day.

“In life our first job is this, to divide and distinguish things into two categories: externals I cannot control, but the choices I make with regard to them I do control. Where will I find good and bad? In me, in my choices.”—Epictetus (c. 100 A.D.)

The sexual abuse I experienced in my teens shattered my sense of control. To protect myself, I overcompensated by attempting to control everything around me. I projected contentment, but inside, I was dead. It was impossible to control everything without losing myself in the process.

My need to control my environment strained relationships with my wife, children, coworkers, and others. My biggest fear was losing control and finding myself in another vulnerable situation. However, vulnerability is the foundation of authentic connection. Only when I faced my trauma and spoke openly with others did I begin to free myself from the prison of my mind. That was the beginning of healing.

In recent years, I discovered prominent author Ryan Holiday. His modern interpretations of the writings of Marcus Aurelius and others have introduced Stoicism to a new generation of readers like me. Stoicism is a school of philosophy founded in Ancient Greece that quickly gained popularity in the Greek world and resonated with Roman audiences as well. It teaches that virtue is the ultimate good. By practicing the four virtues—wisdom, courage, moderation, and justice—an individual can lead a well-lived life. Central to its teaching is control—not over the world but oneself.

In his book The Obstacle Is the Way, Holiday argues that trials can become triumphs. The very thing blocking my path can point the way forward. In my life, the obstacle was control. My fear of vulnerability had made me grasp for control wherever I could find it. But once I recognized this pattern, I began to release control over external matters and focus on what I could govern: my emotions, judgments, creativity, perspective, and decisions.

Focusing inward gave me a power I hadn’t known. I didn’t need to exert force on the world to make a difference. By choosing how I responded to situations, I influenced outcomes without coercion. My actions became a quiet example for those around me—their reactions, though outside my control, often changed in kind.

In The Manual for Living, Epictetus wrote, "Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: Some things are within our control, and some things are not." For years, I believed happiness came from control. If I could manage every detail, I could prevent pain. But that illusion led only to suffering. I could not change the past, but I could choose how I live in the present.

The clarity from the early morning light and Stoic teachings became the foundation for deeper self-inquiry. Eventually I hired a personal coach. His program helped me uncover my innate blueprint—the core of who I am. Years of societal pressure had buried my identity. Through deep conversations, we unearthed it.

Out of this process I developed my philosophy for life: the Best Version Ethos. I believe I owe the world—and myself—the best version of who I can be. Whatever strengths I possess, I have a responsibility to use them in service of others. This ethos might not reshape society, but it reshapes me—and that's enough.

For many years, being the best version meant being the best Sailor I could be. I sincerely believe in the ideals of our Constitution and have served in uniform to uphold them. I strove to exceed expectations, constantly seeking growth. Understanding my blueprint means I can continue to give my best now that I’ve hung up my uniform.

The pursuit of lifelong learning is a crucial component of this ethos. Growth is ongoing. As I learn, I grow. I question: What do I owe the world? I can’t answer for everyone, but I believe I owe myself—and others—the effort to grow, to learn, and to contribute meaningfully.

In a world that often feels fractured, I want to be a source of civility, kindness, and reasoned discourse. Lifelong learning and the Best Version ethos are my tools. When I strive to be better—for myself, my family, and my community—it becomes harder to succumb to cynicism, negativity, and division.

It’s not always easy. Growth often requires stepping outside my comfort zone. But that’s where transformation begins.

I am reminded of a story passed down in Cherokee tradition about how what I feed my mind is just as, if not more important, than what I feed my body.

One evening an old man told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, doubt, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, home, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, forgiveness, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”

The old man replied, “The one you feed.”

This story stays with me. In pursuit of my best self, I have become more intentional about what I consume—books, music, and conversations. I become what I take in.

For me, this means exploring the intersection of life and literature. When I ask, "What should I read next?" I’m asking, "How can I grow?" My reading is deliberate. Each fall, I create a reading syllabus for the year ahead. I organize it around a central idea but remain flexible, allowing inspiration to guide me. This plan anchors my growth.

I still don’t know exactly what my best version looks like. I’m uncovering it daily. It involves reading and writing, loving my family, staying grounded in nature, and promoting literacy. I want to keep learning and help others do the same.

The earth turns, day replaces night, and the fog returns and retreats. These things are beyond my control. But I can stand witness in the early morning, feel wonder stir within me, and meet the day with intention. The past fades like fog, and clarity arrives. The sun crests the horizon—a new day begins. And my best version awaits.

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Until next time,