Obsessed, Bruised, and Becoming

Finding clarity in hustling and tearing off the masks we wear.

The Art of Becoming is about turning obstacles into opportunities.

I draw on philosophy, the science of resilience, history, and real-life experiences to share the best ways to navigate adversity, cultivate wisdom, and live with purpose.

Life isn’t about avoiding hardships. It’s about becoming someone who thrives in it.

Join me.

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I find clarity when I write.

Struggling to find myself on the printed page, hoping the words will flow.
They don’t always.

But sometimes—if I stay with it long enough—something breaks loose. A thread of truth. A glimpse of who I am beneath the noise.

These two pieces are journal entries—fragments of clarity I pulled from the grind, when I struggled with putting words on a blank, white page. Somehow, the questions shook me loose, and I found the words.

The first is about what the grind has given me—quiet victories, uncelebrated effort, and the strength earned through repetition and rejection.

The second is about the obsession it takes to become yourself fully—especially in a world that rewards the opposite.

They weren’t written to inspire anyone. They were written because I needed to understand myself.

But maybe, in reading them, you’ll see part of yourself too.

Let’s get to it.

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Photo by Hugo Jehanne on Unsplash

Remembering the battles that matter

No one celebrates the grind anymore.

But I do.

I love it. Everything I am comes from grinding.

I don’t remember the thousands of miles I ran in training or the number of burpees I’ve done. But I’ll never forget the first time I ran 50 miles without stopping, or finishing my first Camino de Santiago with a shredded pair of Hokas and a busted knee.

I remember the 1000 burpees I gave myself as a birthday present when I turned 58— and the euphoria I felt when I finished. For a moment, it felt like I won something big, like the Boston Marathon. But no one cheered. I was downstairs alone while Mari and Misha were asleep. My reward was petting my dog. That was good enough.

From the moment I read my first book, I wanted to be a writer (and a superhero, Batman, Spider-Man, not Superman, for no particular reason. But I did want to be Karate Kid or Iron Fist).

It took me 50 years to start writing.

My heart broke when a reader told me an article I wrote helped them with losing their daughter in a car accident.

In my early thirties, before email was a thing, and LinkedIn wasn’t even a glimmer in

Reid Hoffman

’s eye, I mailed out more than a thousand résumés. That’s over $400 in stamps, envelopes, and laser-printed cover letters. I prayed someone would see my potential or need for a paycheck.

No one did. Just silence.

I found clarity in the no’s and the silence that came afterwards. It made me stronger. More driven. More understanding. More resilient. I learned no one was coming to save me.

Every rejection makes me want it more.

Here’s the truth:

It’s the invisible work—the early mornings, the lonely miles, the boring reps, writing a post no one reads or likes—that makes the victories possible. It is in this space where transformation happens.

My victories aren’t trophies. I measure them in the miles I run, the words I write, the people I say ‘I love you’ to—and those who say it back to me. I don’t remember the reps or the miles. But I feel like a hero on the days I write 2000 words. I remember every second with the people I love.

I don’t remember my easy wins. They were bought cheaply and had no value, intrinsic or extrinsic. It seems I only remember when I struggle—when I’m bloody, broken, bruised. When there are 1000 rejections, and the one yes given, I had to fight for.

I remember the battles that mattered. The scars I earned. And the growth that came with each one.

And I am not alone.

We celebrate the friend who made it through two years of chemo and honor the friend who says it’s time to stop. They’re fighting cancer differently. Instead of being nauseous every day, wondering if the cancer is growing or receding, they will enjoy the life they have. However long or short it is.

We honor the single mom who survived heartbreak and still shows up to every parent-teacher conference. And the cop who played basketball with a boy who lost his brother—or sat at the kitchen table with a grieving mother.

Pain doesn’t just build strength; it builds character and gives life meaning. It shows us who we are.

That’s the thing about doing hard things:

You suffer with purpose.
You grow.
You become stronger than your excuses.

It’s not easy.

But that’s the point.

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Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Becoming dangerous to your lies

There is only one thing you must be obsessed with…

Being yourself in a broken world. That begins by tearing off the masks you wear.

By stepping into the version of you that no longer asks for permission—
To do anything.
To be yourself.
To break everything that holds you back.

It continues by breaking the shackles of control from society, your job, your business, your family, even the outdated ideas of who and what you think you are.

You must become dangerous to the lies you’re chained to. You must be a little savage. An animal.

An unrestrained monster.

To become the person you want to be, you must be more than how you were raised, more than what the world expects of you.

You must be obsessed.

Not with an idea, a philosophy, a business, or a game—but with you.

With building yourself. With the development of your character.
With living your dream.
By becoming your own safe place.

That must be your first—and only—obsession.

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Thanks for reading. Follow your obsession.

Love to you and yours,

Michael