G. Scott Graham's Blog

Groot, Rocket and me on August 3 2024 (Savage Race Boston)

Less than two days from now, Groot, Rocket, and I are doing another obstacle course together.

Today, I found myself weeping.

It came suddenly, in that kind of quiet that shows up when everything else goes still — when the distractions fall away, and there’s nothing left but breath and gravity. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t in pain.

But the tears kept coming.

And for a few minutes, I didn’t know why.

They weren’t the kind of tears that ask for comfort.
They weren’t about giving up.
They were something else.

They were recognition.
Grief, maybe.
Truth, certainly.

Ten days ago, I had a hip replacement. This Saturday, I’ll be crawling through mud and ducking under barbed wire, dragging my walker behind me (I did just have hip replacement surgery, you know), with Groot and Rocket at my side, on an obstacle course — not out of denial, and not to prove anything, but because this is how I stay connected to who I am.

I’ve done a lot of these races — Tough Mudders, Rugged Maniacs, Savage Races — and they’ve walked with me through multiple chapters of my life.

Groot and Rocket will be right next to me — not just as pets, but as partners. After Brian died — in the total isolation of COVID lockdown — they became legitimate service dogs. They walked with me through the aftermath of loss, when everything felt broken. While the world shut down, they helped me find my footing again — not just emotionally, but physically, spiritually, practically.

I’m alive today because of those two.
That’s not exaggeration.
That’s fact.

When life slowly returned after lockdown, we trained. Paddleboarding. Public Access drills. And then Tough Mudders. After Brian’s death, Groot and Rocket were there through two knee replacements, two hand surgeries, and, now, one hip replacement. And every time, they stepped up beside me: showing up, holding steady. (Though Rocket insists on reminding me that she only participates because it suits her personal agenda, not mine).

And yes, these races allow service dogs. Not just any dog can come — it’s not some casual “bring your pet along” day. We are a bonded, trained trio, navigating the mud — and life — together.

We’ve done this before, and we’ll do it again. Because it matters.

Most people don’t see it that way.

Since I told people I was doing this race twelve days post-op, I’ve been hit with wave after wave of unsolicited commentary. People telling me it’s too soon. That I’m pushing too hard. That I’m being foolish. That I’m chasing glory or trying to make some statement.

They’ve said I’m reckless.
Prideful.
Attention-seeking.
Stupid.

But very few people have asked: What does this mean to you?

Because if they had, I would’ve told them the truth.

This isn’t a stunt.
It’s a ritual.

It’s not about grit or pain tolerance or adrenaline.
It’s about alignment.
It’s about remembering who I am.

I didn’t make this choice uninformed. My physical therapists have helped me problem-solve and make critical decisions: what to skip, how to protect the incision, how to pace myself, and how to stay safe.

I will ask for help. I will move slowly. I will use judgment.

I am not being a hero.
I am being honest.

Honest to a version of myself that has carried on through incredible grief.
Honest to a way of life that didn’t die with Brian.
Honest to the body that may be healing, but is still mine to live in, to move in, to honor.

Brian Stephens and me at mile 3 on a Tough Muder in 2014 (not his right arm)

Brian did these races too. We did them together. He even ran one with his arm in a cast, laughing through obstacles, cracking jokes while navigating the course with one usable arm.

He knew these events weren’t about showing off.

They were about staying awake. Staying alive.

When I race now, I can still feel him there — in the humor, the resilience, the muscle memory. He’s not watching from afar. He’s walking with me.

So yes — there is grief in this.

Grief in suiting up without him.
Grief in standing in my truth while people around me question my sanity.
Grief in doing something deeply meaningful while being misjudged by people who refuse to look deeper.

https://medium.com/media/fda6893698a02633f1ae7e73cafd1cfb/href

What people don’t see is that this is the hard part — not the course, but the noise.

The way people rush to talk you out of something just because it makes them uncomfortable.

The way people project their fears onto you and expect you to carry them.

The way your clarity gets repackaged as arrogance, just because someone else doesn’t understand.

This isn’t about pride.
It’s about presence.

On Saturday, when I lace up my shoes, and grab my walker, I won’t be doing it to prove anyone wrong. I’ll be doing it because this is the rhythm of my life. And that rhythm doesn’t stop for judgment. It doesn’t pause for misunderstanding.

Each splash of mud will be a prayer.
Each skipped obstacle will say, “I trust my path.”
Each step forward will say, “I know who I am.”

Groot, Rocket, and I have walked this path through grief, through recovery, through transformation. These races are part of our language now — how we mark time, how we return to ourselves, how we remember the man we all loved.

This isn’t about toughness.
It’s about truth.

And sometimes, truth means crying while driving home from physical therapy in your Honda Fit two days before the starting line.
Sometimes it means showing up, knowing people are calling you stupid behind your back because of your choice.
Sometimes it means trusting your own wisdom more than the crowd’s warnings.

Groot, Rocket and me on Mud ‘N Guts (Savage Rave Boston 2024)

I’ve been called a lot of things lately.

But I’ll tell you what I actually am:

Intentional.
Aligned.
Alive.
Sacred.

And on Saturday, you’ll spot me easily — I’ll be the man with the walker, flanked by two dogs, followed by memory, led by truth.

We’re still here.
We’re still taking on obstacles.
And no — I’m not reckless.
I’m ready.

What is Your Truth?

If you’re reading this and you’ve got something like that — something the world is trying to talk you out of — I want to ask you:

What’s the thing that still feels sacred to you, even when everyone else dismisses it?

What have you been quietly holding onto because you know it’s right for you — even if no one else does?

Drop it in the comments.
Name it.
Let the world know that you are not walking away from it.

Because sometimes the only way through the noise is to stand taller inside your own clarity.

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When the Easy Path Isn’t: What it Really Takes to Stay Soft—Even When You’re HurtingPhoto by Martino Pietropoli on UnsplashThe Ending I Didn’t Expect

A week and a half ago, Peter ended our relationship.
No conversation.
No call.
Just an email message.
And just like that, the relationship was over.

On Valentine’s Day, Peter and I met in person and agreed to take a break. He said he needed space to work on himself, without me as a distraction or a safety net. Those were his words. He promised to give me a date, sometime in May, when we’d reconnect and talk things through.
That date never came.

I honored our agreement. I didn’t reach out, even though it was hard. I sent him letters — real ones — but not with the expectation of a response. I even wrote in them: You don’t need to write back. I’m not trying to pressure you. I just need a place to put this love, this longing, this confusion.

Then, on May 14th, 90 days later, I re-initiated contact.

But that’s when something deeper began. Not a breakup — a breach. A quiet shift I didn’t see coming.

A Message, Not a Moment

That evening, my phone buzzed. I was outside working when I saw his name light up the screen. And in that instant, my stomach dropped. I knew.
I knew what he was going to say.

I had my doubts about whether he’d done the work. If he had, I never got to see it. There was no real conversation — no moment where we looked at it together, acknowledged what was true, and sat in the discomfort side by side. We’d talked about that spectrum before — how relationships can navigate between collaboration, negotiation, and ultimatum. And how the worst of all is a fait accompli — a decision handed down with no input, no care, no room for humanity.

And that’s what he gave me.
A decision. Not a conversation.
A cold, silent landing.

In Cleared for Love, I write about what it means to be co-pilots in a relationship — not just passengers along for the ride. Being in the cockpit together means facing turbulence — together. Navigating the map — together. Choosing presence, even when the route changes — together.

But Peter didn’t stay in the cockpit.
He packed his parachute.
Jumped.
And left a note behind.

Maybe that was the best he could do.
But when you’ve committed to co-pilot the plane together — 
you don’t just bail mid-flight.
You talk to your copilot.

And I just stood there, staring at the phone, reading the message — and everything inside me twisted. Not because of what he said. But how he said it.
No call.
No dialogue.
Not even a chance to show who I am or how I hold things.

After everything we had built over eight months, I got a message. A Dear Scott email.
It felt like being erased.
Like I was unimportant.
Like the intimacy we had shared didn’t warrant a final moment of real presence.
Like he didn’t believe we could bring this ending to a place where we looked each other in the eye and said: this matters.

That’s what hurt most. Not the content — the delivery.
The choice to treat me like someone who couldn’t handle the truth, instead of someone who had shared a seat at the table.

And I still don’t have the words for the feeling that came with that. I just know it landed hard. Deep. In a place where I thought we were stronger than that.

But this isn’t about Peter. He’s not the story. The real story began after the message, when something inside me started to twist.

It didn’t hit like rage or despair. It was subtler than that. A kind of twisting. Like something inside me had tilted off-center. A quiet hardening I could almost mistake for clarity.

The Ache After Grace

This is where “ill will” started whispering. Not loud. Not angry. Just familiar. Just convincing.

Despite the pain, because of the skills built through meditation practice, I was able to focus on metta bhāvanā, loving-kindness. I strived to meet it with karuṇā, compassion. I reminded myself that everyone is doing the best they can. That sometimes people leave not to hurt you, but because they don’t know how to stay. I was able to compose a response, which I emailed to him, that was grounded in those qualities. My words embodied them as I typed them on the keypad.

But even as I wrote, I could feel something changing: a tension building beneath the calm.

Then, as the days passed, I could feel a quiet ache.
The quiet efforts of vyāpāda — “ill will” — doing its best to come in some back door to my heart and disrupt my equanimity.

Because no matter how mature I tried to be about it, the truth is — this hurt.
Pain.

Because pain is the primary tool vyāpāda uses to weasel its way into your life and derail your serenity.

Pain that was caused by an attachment — an expectation — that wasn’t met: not that things would go back to how they were, not because I needed a happy ending.
Pain caused by a belief that we would talk.
Pain caused by a judgment that Peter was the kind of person who would not just send a “Dear Scott” letter.
Pain fueled by my belief that I had a clearer read on him — and on us — than I did.
Pain because I believed we would honor what we had.
And we ended up with none at all.

I wasn’t just hurt. I was disoriented — unsure how to reconcile what I believed with what had actually happened.

But the pain wasn’t the danger.
The real threat was what that pain tried to turn into.

And in that moment, I realized how easy it would be — how tempting it would be — to let that ache calcify.
To let vyāpāda build walls.
To let vyāpāda judge.
To let vyāpāda convince me that it could protect me from the pain caused by my attachment to a certain outcome.

It doesn’t need to win.
It just needs to pollute the water.
A single drop of bitterness and the whole system shifts.

The World Rewards Hardened Hearts

I live in a world — we all do — that encourages that kind of response.

Someone hurts you? Cut them off.
Someone disappoints you? Write them out.
Gather your friends. Share your side. Get validation.
Build a fortress around your heart and call it strength.

That is what we do when the numbers are in our favor — when they are not, we walk away from entire groups, churches, friends, and support networks.

It’s everywhere.
Politics. Social media. Relationships. Community groups. Spiritual circles.

We know what it feels like when someone disagrees with us, misunderstands us, or questions something we hold dear — and then walks away.
And yet we do the same thing.
We shut the door.
We don’t just correct — we erase.

We’ve gotten exceptionally good at deleting people.
We’ve gotten exceptionally good at running away.
And convincing ourselves that it’s healthy.
I know — I am tempted to do it, too.
To shut the door and call it healing.

That’s how “ill will” works. It tells us we’re protecting ourselves when we’re actually isolating.

But it is not.
It is caustic and corrosive and crushing, masquerading as truth.
But it’s not the truth — it’s pain, weaponized.

What the Heart Can’t Compartmentalize

Because here’s what I know — not from theory, but from years of practice:
You cannot harden your heart to one person and expect it to stay open to others.
That’s not how the heart works. It doesn’t have compartments.
A hardened heart is a hardened heart.

And no matter how good the justification, no matter how strong the case we build against someone, if we close ourselves off, we don’t just lose them.
We lose ourselves.
We lose the version of us that was capable of tenderness. Of grace. Of holding complexity.
We lose access to the parts of us that make love possible in the first place.

You think you’re only closing off to one person. But soon you’re holding back in other places, with other people. Even with yourself.

I don’t want to lose that.
Not for Peter.
Not for anyone.

Choosing the Soft Path

I want to stay soft.
Even if it hurts.
Especially because it hurts.

Because the version of me that meets pain with openness — that chooses to remain loving even when love isn’t returned — that’s the man I’ve worked hard to become.
Not by accident. Not by default. But through years of choosing softness over certainty. Of failing at it. Of trying again.

This is the real spiritual practice.
The kind that shows up not when you’re on the cushion, but when someone you love walks away.
And you have to decide whether your heart walks away, too.

The Five Hindrances — And How They Show Up

This is the architecture of the hijack.
Five forces.
Five ways the heart gets clouded without even realizing it’s happening.

Because if I don’t recognize them when they show up, they don’t just steer the ship — they become the ocean.

The hindrances I write about in Come As You Are: Five Years Later are all here, stalking me like a saboteur in monk’s robes, showing up with terrible timing and worse advice. In the Buddhist tradition, they’re called the pañca nīvaraṇāni.

We have already talked about vyāpāda — “ill will” — the turning away through anger or resentment.
The other four are the ones that cloud the heart and obscure clear seeing:

Kāmacchanda — Sensual craving
The grasping after what we want.
It shows up as longing for what was, the pull to recreate the good moments with Peter, the hope that maybe if I say the right thing, it won’t be over.
It’s the “what if” loop that haunts me when I should be sleeping.
The craving for contact. For clarity. For a different ending.

Thīna-middha — Sloth and torpor
The heavy dullness of heart and mind.
It creeps in the morning, I don’t want to meditate.
In the afternoon, I scroll instead of walking.
The quiet moment where I tell myself: What’s the point?
This one doesn’t look loud, but it is.
It whispers: Just check out.
And some days, I almost do.

Uddhacca-kukkucca — Restlessness and remorse
The agitated spinning.
This is the mental flurry: Should I have done something differently? Should I not have sent the letters? Should I have pushed harder? Backed off more?
It’s the hamster wheel of imagined fixes for a past that cannot be changed.
A mind that won’t sit still.

Vicikicchā — Doubt
The corrosive uncertainty that unravels trust.
This one hits deepest.
Maybe I was too much. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I don’t know how to do relationships at all.
Doubt of Peter. Doubt of the connection. Doubt of the path. Doubt of myself.

Each of these — every single one — pulls me away from presence. From reality. From what’s actually happening now.

They don’t want me to grieve cleanly.
They don’t want me to love cleanly.
They want me stuck.
Hooked.
Looping.

And they’re so sneaky.
They don’t yell — they whisper.
They disguise themselves as reason, as insight, as protection.
But they’re none of those things.
Their goal is to close the heart.

The Real Work Is Staying

And I’ve learned to recognize their voices.
They dress themselves up like protectors, but they don’t protect.
They poison.
They don’t serve my healing — they sabotage it.
They tempt me with the illusion of safety, when what I want — what I need — is wholeness.

But I’ve lived that kind of safety. It comes at the cost of presence.

And that doesn’t come from shutting down.
It comes from staying in the room.

Yes, it would be easier to disengage.
Yes, it would be easier to be angry.
Yes, it would be easier to rewrite the story in a way that makes me the saint and Peter the sinner.

But that’s not the life I want to live.
I want a life that’s honest. Present. Accountable.
I want a heart that still believes in people, even when they let me down.
I want to love without building escape routes.

Staying soft doesn’t mean staying available to harm. It means refusing to calcify in response to it. That’s the difference. Softness isn’t fragility. It’s strength without armor.

And I can’t have that if I keep choosing the easy way out.

What About You?

Who have you hardened your heart toward?
What would it look like to soften — just a little — today?

What kind of life do you want to live:
One built on stories about betrayal and justification?
Or one that insists on presence — even when it costs you something?

Not every rupture comes with a breakup speech. Some just echo quietly in the background of our lives.
Because the heartbreak isn’t always romantic.
Sometimes it’s trust that cracked.
A conversation that never happened.
A moment — or moments — that went sideways and never came back.

But the same choice remains:
To calcify, or to stay open.
To armor up, or to stay soft.
To live from the wound, or live from the wisdom it revealed.

Because you can’t have both.

If this resonates, share it. Leave a comment. Send it to someone who’s hurting. Not because I need the validation. But because someone, somewhere, might need the reminder:
You can walk through rupture — and still come out soft.
Whatever form that rupture takes.

Intrigued by what you just read? There’s more where it came from. These books go deeper into the same themes — how we navigate rupture, rebuild presence, and stay open when it would be easier to close.

Come As You Are: Five Years LaterCleared for Love: The Co-Pilot's Guide to Lasting Relationships[image error]

Reedsy vs. Read&Rate: Which Book Review Platform Actually Delivers Anything Worth a Damn?Photo by Joran Quinten on Unsplash

I’ve tried both. Paid the money. Did the work. Got the reviews — or didn’t. And if you’re here, you’re probably wondering which one of these platforms is actually worth your time: Reedsy or Read&Rate?

Here’s how it played out. No fluff. No affiliate links. No pretending either of these platforms is a magical solution.

Let’s go.

Cost: who takes your money faster?

Reedsy hits you with $50 per book, upfront. No review guarantee. No refunds. Just a “we’ll list your book and see what happens” shrug.

Read&Rate works on a monthly fee ($10 or $20), plus a fake currency called “inkdrops.” You earn those by reviewing other people’s books. Then you spend them to post yours. It’s like Chuck E. Cheese for indie authors — but with more Kindle links.

Winner? Depends. Reedsy is more expensive, but it’s one fee. Read&Rate is cheaper, but makes you work for every token like it’s 1999 Neopets.

Review count: who actually delivers?

Reedsy: I listed two books. I got two reviews. After chasing people.

Read&Rate: I listed 27 review slots, got 15 reviews — not bad. Until the flow dried up completely and I stared at 12 listings that never moved.

Read&Rate wins on volume — at least for the first round. Then it stalls. Hard.

Review quality: who actually reads your book?

Reedsy’s reviews felt like someone actually opened the book. Maybe even took notes. Detailed, thoughtful, even if it wasn’t glowing.

Read&Rate? Four out of 15 were total trash. I’m talking sentences that read like a refrigerator magnet poetry kit got knocked over.

Reedsy wins on quality. Read&Rate wins on quantity. Neither wins on consistency.

Platform transparency: who tells you what’s actually happening?

I asked Read&Rate support how many active reviewers they had. Their answer? “Our community is constantly growing.” Translation: we’re not going to tell you. Maybe we don’t even know.

Reedsy doesn’t share stats either, but at least you’re not required to earn tokens before participating. They’re vague, but not pretending they’re a functioning economy.

Both fail here. Read&Rate fails harder.

Ease of use: who makes you work harder?

Reedsy: upload your book, wait, email reviewers like a panhandler outside Barnes & Noble.

Read&Rate: upload, earn tokens, track token balance, review books, bank “inkdrops,” watch your dashboard, pray someone picks up your book.

Reedsy is a pain. Read&Rate is a spreadsheet with gamification. Pick your poison.

Reviewer incentives: who’s doing this for the right reasons?

Reedsy reviewers apply because they’re interested. Some want money on the side, but they generally care. You can tell.

Read&Rate reviewers are just trying to earn “inkdrops” to get their own books reviewed. Once they hit their quota, they ghost. I know — I did it myself.

Reedsy runs on ego. Read&Rate runs on fake currency and desperation. Both are flawed. Read&Rate breaks faster.

SEO and visibility: who helps you show up in Google?

Reedsy: I searched my book title + Reedsy. Nothing. The review might as well have been taped to a lamppost in a snowstorm.

Read&Rate? Showed up immediately. Front page Google. That alone was worth more than half the reviews I got.

Clear winner: Read&Rate.

Platform bias and distribution limits: who’s in bed with Amazon?

Reedsy doesn’t care where you sell. Post your book, done.

Read&Rate is Amazon-obsessed. Kindle Unlimited, Amazon links, Amazon posting. You can earn extra “inkdrops” by copying reviews to other platforms, but it’s not the default behavior.

If you’re wide, Reedsy makes more sense. Read&Rate expects you to worship at the altar of Bezos.

Exposure perks: who gives you anything extra?

Reedsy has a newsletter. You get in if you beg your network to join and upvote your book. So basically, you pay $50 to become their email marketing intern.

Read&Rate has no bells, no whistles. But it also doesn’t lie about it.

They both want you to work for their benefit. Reedsy just wraps it in a newsletter.

Overall ROI: who actually gave you something useful?

Reedsy gave me two solid reviews — eventually — after I paid fifty bucks per book and chased reviewers like I was collecting signatures for a lost cause. High effort, high cost, low visibility.

Read&Rate gave me 15 reviews for twenty bucks and a decent SEO bump. Four reviews were crap. Three landed on Goodreads. But at least I didn’t have to stalk anyone’s inbox or pretend “inkdrops” were anything but indie author arcade tokens.

So yeah — one gave me credibility I had to dig for. The other gave me stats I had to wade through. Neither handed me a damn thing without work.

Final score: who’s actually worth it?

Let’s call it straight:

Reedsy: more professional, better reviews, slower, more expensive, way less visible
Read&Rate: more reviews, lower cost, less quality, stronger SEO, dies without constant user churn

If you want to build credibility and don’t mind chasing people, go Reedsy.
If you want numbers fast and don’t mind rolling the dice, go Read&Rate.

Or better yet — drop your book to 99 cents, send it to 50 people in your network, and ask for real reviews. You’ll get better ROI — and you won’t have to become a marketing intern for Reedsy or gamify your dignity for Read&Rate.

Other Posts In This Series:Reedsy Discovery (a.k.a. How to Pay $50 to Become Their Unpaid Intern)Read&Rate: The Book Review Platform That’s Basically a Casino Cruise for Authors[image error]

Read&Rate: The Book Review Platform That’s Basically a Casino Cruise for AuthorsPhoto by Derek Lynn on Unsplash

I’ve been exploring book review platforms to boost visibility for my books, and one of the newest players I tried was Read&Rate. Here’s my no-BS experience.

Let’s start with the obvious: it’s cheap. Read&Rate has two plans — $10 or $20 per month. The $10 plan lets you get reviews for one book at a time. Want more? You’ll need the $20 plan, which allows up to 20 books posted at once.

But let’s be clear — you’re not buying reviews. You’re paying for the privilege of stepping into their weird internal economy. Think of it like a casino cruise: you pay to get on the boat, but that doesn’t get you any chips. You’re just now allowed to play — once the boat is far enough offshore.

Enter “inkdrops” — Read&Rate’s fake currency. You use “inkdrops” to post a book for review. How many “inkdrops” it costs depends on your book’s length, price, and availability. Other users then see your book on the platform and, if they feel like it, they pick it up to review. When they do, and the platform verifies the review, the reviewer earns “inkdrops” they can use to get their books reviewed.

It’s clever. On paper. Because this closed-loop system sidesteps direct review swapping, which Amazon doesn’t allow. But like most self-contained ecosystems, it only works if the population is balanced. Spoiler alert: it’s not.

My Dive Into the Read&Rate Machine

I joined on a free 10-day trial and stacked a 30-day coupon on top of it. Forty days free? Sure, why not. I chose the $20/month plan, which gave me 1,000 “inkdrops” — just over half of what it takes to list a book for review.

So I played the game. I reviewed 20 books, earned “inkdrops” from that effort, and used them to buy 27 total review slots. I uploaded 10 of my own titles and have received 15 reviews so far.

At the moment, I’ve got 12 review slots still waiting for someone — anyone — to pick them up. None of these 12 books have been picked up for a review in over a week. But I still I subscribed for another month. Not because I wanted to review more books. I’ve already earned what I need. But becuase I need to keep my listings alive and available. (I did read and review probably 10 books to get them there).

And me — not needing to review any books and just waiting for my books to be reviewed? That’s one of the core problems: the illusion of momentum — until it all stalls out.

What’s Broken with Read&Rate

1. The Reviewer Pool Is a Mirage
You have no idea how many active reviewers are actually in the system. I asked Read&Rate support how many reviewers they have, and the response I got was a canned: “Our community is constantly growing.” Translation? They’re not going to tell you.

But even if they have 10,000 users, it doesn’t mean anything. Once reviewers post their books and earn the “inkdrops” they need, they’re done. There’s no incentive to keep reviewing. The system depends entirely on a constant influx of new users to keep things moving. Without that, books sit. And wait. And nothing happens.

2. No Accountability, No Quality Control
Yes, you can give a thumbs-up or thumbs-down to a review, but it’s performative — Read&Rate doesn’t do anything with that feedback. There’s no way to flag a review, rate a reviewer, or challenge garbage input.

Out of the 15 reviews I received, 4 were clearly phoned in. Short, vague, ungrammatical. Just enough effort to pass the “verified” checkbox. One reviewer basically summarized the subtitle. Another dropped a sentence that read like it was patched together from three different taglines.

And here’s the missing piece no one talks about: Read&Rate verifies that a review was posted, but it doesn’t vet whether the person actually read the book. No comprehension check. No quality threshold. You’re gambling every time you spend “inkdrops” — just hoping someone doesn’t regurgitate your back cover copy using multiple independent clauses strung together without proper conjunctions or punctuation.

It’s not a review system. It’s a roulette wheel.

3. Amazon, Amazon, Amazon
The platform heavily favors Amazon: Kindle Unlimited, Amazon reviews, Amazon purchase links. You can get extra “inkdrops” for copying your review to other platforms, but the system isn’t really designed for wide distribution. Everything revolves around Amazon’s gravity.

4. Goodreads Drop-Off
Reviewers can copy their reviews to Goodreads — and they even earn more “inkdrops” for doing it. It’s copy and paste. Done. But out of the 15 reviews I received, only three made it over to Goodreads.

That’s a lousy return.

Especially because Goodreads reviews show up way higher than Amazon in both Google and Bing. If someone searches your book title, Goodreads is likely to be the first thing they see. And if it’s empty? That matters. That’s visibility and credibility just left on the table.

One Unexpected Win

Search engine visibility. I Googled my book titles and Read&Rate listings actually showed up in the first few results. That’s more than I can say for most review platforms. Whatever their algorithm game is, it’s working.

So, Is Read&Rate Worth It?

Here’s what I can say so far: I got 15 reviews. Four were crap. Only three made it to Goodreads. I had to pour hours into reading 20 books and writing 20 reviews (I don’t write one-sentence wonders — as in “I wonder if Scott even read the book”).

I had to pay for a month subscription becuase no one has picked up my books in more than a week and I needed more time for the ROI to hit.

Still, for twenty bucks, I got more reviews than I would have through most paid services. And I didn’t have to beg friends, pester my mailing list, or send out advance copies to silence.

But let’s not pretend this is high-integrity outreach. The system works — if you work it. And if you’re okay with some of what you get being garbage.

It’s fast food for reviews. Cheap, fast, not always satisfying — and sometimes you regret it immediately.

Check back at the end of June. I’ll update this review when my current subscription ends and I see if anything else actually rolls in.

Other Posts In This Series:Reedsy Discovery (a.k.a. How to Pay $50 to Become Their Unpaid Intern)Reedsy vs. Read&Rate: Which Book Review Platform Actually Delivers Anything Worth a Damn?[image error]

Reedsy Discovery (a.k.a. How to Pay $50 to Become Their Unpaid Intern)Photo by James Tarbotton on Unsplash

I’ve been testing out book review platforms to get more eyes on my work. One of those platforms was Reedsy Discovery. Spoiler alert: if you’ve ever wanted to pay for the privilege of becoming a part-time, unpaid Reedsy street team member, buckle up. This one’s for you.

The Reedsy Setup

Let’s break it down.

Reedsy is free to join, but it costs $50 to list your book for review. That sounds simple enough — except it’s like paying an entry fee to a party where no one shows up, the DJ’s asleep, and someone hands you a clipboard and says, “Cool, now you go find the guests.”

To their credit, Reedsy doesn’t promise fluff. They pride themselves on “honest, independent reviews.” And to be fair, the reviews I finally got were detailed, thoughtful, and well-written — like something you’d see in Publishers Weekly. But getting those reviews? That’s where the wheels come off.

The Reedsy Hustle

I listed two books. Weeks went by. Crickets. Eventually, I was internet-stalking reviewers like it was a job — hunting down LinkedIn profiles, sending DMs, doing everything short of showing up at their house with muffins. A few responded… and then asked for more money. One quoted $100. That’s on top of the $50 I already paid Reedsy. Surprise! Apparently, “independent” means “independent contractor looking for Venmo.”

I didn’t cough up the extra cash, but I did spend my time (which is also money, but less politely invoiced) digging through their graveyard of inactive reviewers. Some hadn’t posted in years. Others had literally never reviewed a book, but still had active profiles. It’s like joining a gym and finding out the “trainers” are cardboard cutouts. This whole thing reminded me of dating apps that claim “millions of singles,” but somehow everyone lives three states away and hasn’t logged in since Obama was president.

The Reedsy Visibility Illusion

Eventually, I landed a review. Great, right?

Except when I Googled it — nothing.

I searched Come As You Are: Five Years Later G. Scott Graham Reedsy.

Three pages of results. Nada. Zip. The reviewer’s social feed post showed up, but the actual review page? Nowhere to be found.

What’s the point of a well-written review if nobody can find it?

The Amazon Letdown

So the review must at least show up on Amazon under the “Editorial Reviews” section, right?

Nope. Not unless you post it there yourself via your Amazon Author Page. My reviewer told me they’d post it to Amazon — and they did. But it landed in the general review section, right alongside every other review from every other reader. It didn’t stand out. It didn’t have any special visibility. And because they got the book for free through Reedsy, it didn’t have the “Verified Purchase” tag either.

They also said they’d post the review on Goodreads… but that never happened.

Reedsy’s “Upvote” Game

Even within Reedsy’s own universe, you don’t get exposure unless you become a salesperson for Reedsy — asking your friends and family to join just so they can upvote your book. Congratulations! You just paid money to become a door-to-door salesman for a platform that profits off your labor. Would you like to add a Tupperware party to your book launch?

You get pressured to spam your network to get promoted on the Reedsy site. And if you fall for it, your friends immediately start receiving marketing emails about editing services, design packages, and general literary “enhancements.” Because nothing says friendship like roping your entire network into someone else’s funnel.

The Better $50

Honestly? For that same $50, I could temporarily drop the price of my book to 99 cents, message 50 people in my network, and say, “Hey, grab this while it’s cheap.” Then I could raise the price back up and, like Reedsy would’ve wanted me to anyway, pester them for action but instead of going on Reedsy to upvote, they could go on Amazon directly and write a one sentence review. If only half of them left one, I’d still come out ahead — with 25 reviews for $50. That’s 25 reviews for the same price Reedsy charges to maybe get you one. Plus, they all get the “verified purchase” label. But hey, maybe Reedsy’s still the genius move, right?

And Then Comes the Spam

And speaking of spam — Reedsy loves it. Once you join, your inbox turns into their personal billboard. Need a cover designer? They’ve got ten. Want to “increase your odds” of getting reviewed? Buy an editing package! Never mind that you’re already $50 in the hole. They’re just getting started.

Let’s Recap The Reedsy Discovery JoyrideYou pay Reedsy $50.You do all the work to get a review.You might get asked to pay even more.Your review ends up buried on a site Google doesn’t even acknowledge.It doesn’t go to Amazon’s Editorial Review section unless you paste it there yourselfIf posted by the reviewer to Amazon, it’s lumped in with general reviews — unverified, unremarkable.You get pressured to spam your own network just to get visibility.And Reedsy turns around and spams you with upsell after upsell.Reedsy Discovery Rating: ZERO STARS

The only thing “discovered” on Reedsy Discovery was how much time and money I could waste for the honor of doing their marketing for them. The reviews I got were solid — but the system that delivered it? Broken, manipulative, and misleading.

If you’re looking for real value and discoverability, don’t list your book here. Unless your dream is to pay for a participation trophy and become Reedsy’s MLM rep — then sure. Knock yourself out.

[image error]

The Match.com Scam: You’re Not the Customer — You’re the Bait

Let me tell you a story — one that might sound familiar if you’ve ever used a dating app and wondered why it felt more like gambling than dating.

I recently got back on Match after letting my subscription lapse. Why did I let it lapse? Because I met someone on Match last August! I deleted the app, stopped logging in, and started a relationship. I didn’t delete my profile — just stepped away.

Upon my return, I uncovered some serious shit. And you’re about to be blown away. It’s staggering. If you’re using Match, you deserve to know how the system actually works.

In this post, I’ll show you exactly how Match:

Exploits emotional vulnerability to bait you into subscribingFalsely claims you’ll have “millions of matches”Misleads you with the promise of “free messaging”Turns your “likes” into tools to pressure othersCan be used effectively— if you understand the system and play it smartHow Match Exploits Vulnerability to Bait You Back

When I logged back into Match, I wasn’t expecting fireworks. I just wanted to take a look.

And what did I see? Six people had “liked” me — that’s what the website said. There was a banner:
“6 Likes — Upgrade to see who is interested.”

I know how Match works. They prey on people, especially those who haven’t logged in for a while, and offer discounts to get you to subscribe. So I decided to run an experiment. I updated my profile, went through the entire checkout process… and purposely didn’t click “Pay.”

The next day? I got a 35% discount offer. Like clockwork.

“Seriously, Scott. We’re giving you full access for less. Plus, 3 members are into you.”

The website said six. The email said three. Four profile photos were attached — none of them matched the people who had actually “liked” me.

After I resubscribed, I discovered the first uncomfortable truth: while I was away, Match was using my profile to market their service.

Some of the people who “liked” me were from a thousand miles away. See, even though I was gone… my profile wasn’t. If you were on Match between August 2024 and May 2025, you may have been served up my inactive profile as bait.

Match targets users like this — especially those who’ve gone quiet. They know when you’re feeling nostalgic, lonely, or hopeful.

When I came back, I didn’t just subscribe — I went all in. I chose the Diamond level.

Originally, I wasn’t planning to go that far. I thought I’d just get the basic subscription. But in a moment of frustration — maybe from the breakup, maybe from being tired of the guessing game — I said screw it.

Not because I thought Match would deliver my soulmate.
But because I was tired of wasting time wondering who was real.

What I didn’t expect was how rare actual subscribers would be.

The “Millions of Matches” Myth

Diamond-level subscribers can see which profiles are also paying. That’s why I recommend it — but only briefly. Because what you see once you’re inside? It’ll probably shock you.

I set my search parameters to:

Men, ages 21–99Within 200 miles of my rural New England zip code

And fewer than 80 subscribers appeared.

Let that sink in. For a service that boasts “26 million potential matches,” I found fewer than 80 actual subscribers within a huge radius.

At first, I thought — maybe this is a “gay thing.” A man seeking another man might have fewer options on Match. So I changed my profile to a man seeking women and ran the same search again.

I got about 1,600 straight women.

Still a far cry from “millions”… but not bad. (Or at least not as bad as 80).

(And no, I didn’t switch to a woman seeking men. This isn’t a science fair project.)

The point is: even casting a 200-mile net, which includes most of New England, including cities like New York and Boston, the results are a joke compared to the marketing.

The truth: 99% of the people you see on Match aren’t paying customers. They’re window shoppers. Or worse — inactive profiles Match keeps around to sell hope to others.

The “Free Messaging” Trap

Match advertises that if two people “like” each other, they can message for free. Sounds great.

In practice? It’s a trap.

Here’s what happened during a controlled experiment with a friend who lives just a mile away. He’s not a subscriber. I’m a Diamond-level subscriber.

He did a basic search (age 21–99, 200 miles, sorted by distance).
My profile showed up second.
I “liked” him.
He refreshed his search.
I disappeared.

Match pulled me from his search results the second I “liked” him. Why? Because he got a notification:
“Someone liked you.”
But to see who? He’d have to pay.

Let’s extrapolate the rule from this experiment:

If you “like” someone who isn’t a subscriber, you vanish from their search.
The only way they can see you is to pay.

That’s not “free messaging.” That’s a trap — designed to create conversions, not connections.

The truth: You can only message for free if Match let’s you “match” and in order to “match” you have to pay. You become a carrot dangling in front of someone’s wallet. That’s all.

How Your “Likes” Become Match’s Marketing Tools

There are four possible user pairings on Match. Let’s break them down:

1. Neither of You is a Subscriber
You “like” them.
They get a notification they can’t open unless they pay.
You vanish from their search results.
Result: No connection. Just marketing fodder.

2. You’re Both Subscribers
Match doesn’t tell you who’s paying unless you’re Diamond.
If you “like” each other and message, it works. You see the “likes”. You get the message.
But you’re operating in the dark unless you’ve paid top-tier to identify other subscribers.
BTW — it’s highly unlikely that the subscriber pool will change significantly. So if every new subscriber starts with Diamond and connects with the others, you won’t miss out on anyone.
Result: Message / “Like” gets through.

3. You’re a Subscriber, They’re Not
You “like” them.
They can’t see who you are unless they pay.
You vanish from their search.
Result: You just paid to become an ad.

4. They’re a Non-Subscriber, You Are
They “like” you.
You can see their “like” (because you’re a subscriber).
You “like” them back.
Result: Messaging is unlocked — the one and only “free” path (at least for half the equation).

The truth: if you want to connect with someone, and they’re most likely not a subscriber, there’s only one real option:
Get them to “like” you first. Then — and only then — do you stand a chance.

How to Actually Win at Match (Even If It’s Rigged)

If you’re going to use Match (and I don’t recommend it), here’s how to stop wasting your time and energy.

1. Subscribe at the Diamond Level — But Only Briefly
Use Diamond for 30–60 days.
Identify real subscribers.
Connect with them.
Then downgrade to a basic subscription. Don’t unsubscribe — the basic plan still lets you see who “liked” you.
Subscribing is the only way Match.com will work for you — but only if you manage your behavior correctly.

2. Build a Killer Profile (But Only If You’re a Subscriber)
Once you’ve connected with the real subscribers, your only move is to attract non-subscribers by getting them to “like” you first. (Remember: if you “like” them, you disappear from their search results, and they see a blurred image unless they pay.)

So, build your profile out completely. No half measures. You have to give someone a reason to connect with you. If you don’t build a profile that attracts likes, then you are wasting your money.
Be charming. Be flirty. Run your sentences through ChatGPT if you need help. Use great photos. Show yourself in action.

Here are some other tips:

Let people know — subtly — that you’re a subscriber. For example:

“I took a break, but I’ve decided to renew my subscription for the summer of 2025.”

Invite people to “like” you:

“Don’t be shy — “like” me. I promise to “like” you back and wish you the best.”

Remember: your only goal is to get people to “like” you. Then you can sort them out.

3. If You’re NOT a Subscriber, Keep Your Profile Minimal
Don’t build out your profile.
You’ll just get spammed with “likes” you can’t see.

4. If You Are a Subscriber, Don’t “Like” Anyone First
You’re just fueling Match’s marketing engine.
If you “like” someone who isn’t a subscriber, your “like” becomes bait — and you vanish from that person’s results.
Get them to “like” you first. Then respond.

5. If You’re Not a Subscriber, “Like” ONLY Likely Subscribers
Look for detailed, photo-rich profiles — those are probably paying members.
“Like” only those. Anything else is a wasted gesture.

6. If You Are a Subscriber, “Like” Everyone Who “Likes” You
Even if you’re not interested — “like” them back.
It reduces Match’s leverage over them, and maybe you’ll help someone out.
Don’t use the app. Use the website — it’s too easy to mis-swipe on mobile.

Burn the Haystack — Match Style

The Burned Haystack Dating Method, created by Jennie Young, flips the usual “needle in a haystack” metaphor. Instead of endlessly searching, you burn the whole haystack down.

It means:

Message with purposeBlock obvious bad fitsLimit your time on the appDon’t revive dead chatsTreat dating like a focused job search

The idea is to clear out the noise so you can actually spot something real.
Learn more: jennieyoung.substack.com

But Match is a different beast. The algorithm isn’t neutral — it hides and resurfaces users to maximize profit, not compatibility. So your haystack-burning strategy has to evolve.

🔥 Your Match-Specific Burned Haystack Strategy:

Step 1: Join at the Diamond level. That lets you “burn the haystack” by seeing the needles — the actual subscribers.
Step 2: Focus on the subscribers. Connect while you can. You’re not looking for love — you’re doing recon.
Step 3: Downgrade your subscription. Once you’ve found the real users, you don’t need Diamond anymore.
Step 4: Turn your profile into a magnet for the needles to rise to the top of the haystack. Focus on attracting non-subscribers and getting them to “like” you first. That’s the only way to trigger “free” messaging with them.

You can also burn the haystack from the inside:

Block people who are obvious no-gos. This shrinks the pool of people Match can show your profile to — and increases the odds that the right people will see you.

But don’t block dormant users (like I was). They might come back with a subscription.

Think of it like reducing hay around the needle. You want your profile to appear in a smaller, more targeted pool.

Leaving? Strip Your Profile or Be Used as Bait

Taking a break from Match.com? Before you go, save your full profile to a document on your computer. Then strip it down to the minimal profile (I would even delete your pictures). Don’t let Match use you as bait — like they did with me.

Conclusion: Hope Sells Better Than Love

Match isn’t here to help you fall in love.
It’s here to help you almost fall in love — just enough to keep paying.

Every “like”, every message, every offer…
It’s all calibrated to keep you scrolling, subscribing, and alone.

Because once you connect?
They lose a customer.

So no — you’re not a user of Match.
You’re the product.

Match Group, Inc. owns and operates the largest global portfolio of popular online dating services — including Tinder, Match.com, Meetic, OkCupid, Hinge, Plenty of Fish, and OurTime. I have to believe their approach to making money is the same across all platforms, so how they treat unsubscribers and subscribers is likely identical. (In fact, OurTime and Match.com look almost exactly the same — except OurTime has a pink banner and Match.com has a blue one.)

[image error]

When Strength Comes Back Fast — And What That Taught Me About Equanimity, Grief, and Healing

A few months ago, I couldn’t open a jar of pickles.

Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I wasn’t trying.

Because I couldn’t.

After two hand surgeries — right hand in October 2024, left hand in December — my grip strength was gone. My physical therapist, Todd Holt, pulled out a hand dynamometer (that “squeeze thingy” that measures grip strength), and the results were humbling:

14 pounds of pressure from my left hand38 from my right

For context, the average for someone my age is around 85 pounds.

That number felt miles away.

But I kept at it — squeezing putty, doing finger stretches, showing up. Nothing extreme. Just a bit of consistent, daily effort.

A few weeks later, Todd had me test again.

My left hand had jumped to 64 pounds. My right to 74.

I was stunned.

How could that kind of rebound even be possible? I hadn’t been hitting the gym or building new muscle. I hadn’t even been doing that much.

But Todd wasn’t surprised.
He nodded and said, matter-of-factly:

“This isn’t from muscle growth. There hasn’t been enough time for that. It’s muscle memory. Your nervous system just remembered how to connect again.”

When I heard those words, it landed like lightning.
Because this was exactly what was happening with my equanimity.

Muscle Memory and Mental Health: The Surprising Parallel

I wrote in my newest book, Come As You Are: Five Years Later, that my equanimity muscle had atrophied.

Not “might have.”

Had.

After more than two decades of dedicated vipassanā practice — I’ve been sitting since 1996 — I’d come to rely on equanimity like oxygen. It grounded me through the shock and heartbreak of Brian’s death in 2019. It was the inner strength I leaned on when everything else collapsed.

But in the years that followed, I drifted from the cushion. My practice faded. Life moved forward.

And when I fell in love again — something beautiful, unexpected, and deeply real — I was blindsided. Falling in love again four years after losing the love of my life unleashed what therapists often call anticipatory grief — but this wasn’t hypothetical or imagined. It was grief grounded in reality. I knew what loss felt like. I’d lived it.

The fear of losing again struck with a ferocity I didn’t expect.

And I found myself caught off guard.

And my equanimity was nowhere to be found.

Vipassanā, Grief, and the Speed of Spiritual Reconnection

Eventually, I returned to the mat. Not with the same rigorous consistency I had five years ago — if I’m honest, I’m not practicing daily.

And yet… the results stunned me.

My equanimity came back fast.

I couldn’t believe how little I had practiced and how much calm, balance, and perspective came rushing back in return.

It was as if the mental pathways — forged over years of discipline and silence and sitting — had never fully disappeared. They were just waiting for me to tap them again.

Todd’s comment about muscle memory echoed in my mind:

“The strength was there. The connection just needed to come back online.”

Physical Recovery and Emotional Healing: An Unexpected Bridge

This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed striking parallels between my physical recovery and emotional well-being.

In Come As You Are: Three Years Later, I wrote about the disconnect between how people respond to visible injuries versus invisible grief.

“Over the last two years, I’ve had both knees replaced. People ask about my knees all the time. They acknowledge the limitation and move on.

But when it came to my grief — when people did ask — it wasn’t acknowledgment. It was advice. Platitudes. A deluge of discomfort dressed up as support.

And now?

No one asks anymore.

Not about the grief. Just the knees.”

What I didn’t realize when I wrote that passage was just how deep the metaphor runs.

Because healing — whether it’s your hands, your knees, or your heart — doesn’t always mean starting from scratch. It means reconnecting. It means trusting that the strength, the memory, the capacity is still there, waiting.

Equanimity After Loss: What I Learned from Falling in Love Again

Rebuilding equanimity after loss — especially after falling in love again — isn’t just about being calm or composed.

It’s about being willing to stay in contact with everything.

Even the terror.
Even the grief.
Even the tenderness of knowing that what you love can be taken from you — again.

And still choosing to open.

Still choosing to stay.

And here’s what surprised me most:
The more I sat, the more I remembered what it felt like to let go — not of love, but of control.

Equanimity isn’t apathy. It’s not detachment.

It’s trust in the unfolding.

It’s the ability to be with what is — without needing to flinch, fix, or flee.

The Truth About Healing: You’re Not Starting Over

If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of grief — or just trying to find your footing again after a setback — I want to offer you this:

You’re probably not starting over.
You’re reconnecting.
And your nervous system remembers.
Your heart remembers.
Your practice remembers.

You just have to begin again.

Even gently.

Even imperfectly.

The signal is still there. It just needs time — and space — to come back online.

Want to Go Deeper? Read the Books That Brought Me Back

If any of this resonates, you might find comfort, insight, and even a little companionship in the Come As You Are series:

Come As You Are: Meditation & Grief
My raw, unfiltered experience of grief in the early days after Brian’s death, grounded in vipassanā, ānāpāna, and mettā-bhāvanā. Come As You Are: Three Years Later
Reflections on what changed (and what didn’t), how grief echoes through time, and the aching difference between how people support physical healing vs. emotional pain. Come As You Are: Five Years Later
A deeper exploration of falling in love again, the terror of anticipatory grief, and how I relearned equanimity — not as a theory, but as a lived, trembling return.

These books weren’t written to teach from the mountaintop. They were written from the floor.

And if you’re somewhere on the floor right now — maybe reaching for your own version of that pickle jar — I hope you’ll find something in them that reminds you:

You’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
You’re just reconnecting.

Come As You Are: Meditation & GriefCome As You Are: Three Years LaterCome As You Are: Five Years Later[image error]

Grief Doesn’t End — And That’s Not a Problem

Why I wrote Come As You Are: Five Years Later , and why I keep writing about  grief .

The road to grief and love never ends (photo by G. Scott Graham)

A few weeks ago, I was a guest on a podcast. I shared some very personal, sometimes messy details about my life — my inner world, my struggles, the grief I’ve carried, and what it’s been like to fall in love again after losing my husband.

Afterward, a friend reached out. She told me how much she admired the vulnerability it must have taken to speak so openly. I appreciated it. But I also felt a strange urge to push back.

Because what I said on that podcast, and what I’ve written in my newest book, Come As You Are: Five Years Later, doesn’t feel like bravery to me.

It feels like honesty.

Yes, this book is raw. I talk about grief. About dating again. About falling in love — and how terrifying that was. I talk about the fear of losing again. I talk about feeling broken, and finding new kinds of wholeness that didn’t require me to be “healed.”

It wasn’t easy to write, but it felt important. Not because I think I’m special. Not because I have some grand wisdom the world needs to hear. Quite the opposite, actually.

I wrote it because I think this is normal. This is what it’s like to grieve someone you loved with your whole heart. This is what it’s like to love again when you know what love can cost. This is what it’s like to try — imperfectly — to stay open.

And yes — grief comes back. Not as a failure, but as part of love’s ongoing echo.

“This is the story of grief returning through love.
It’s about the way joy and grief live side by side — how they don’t cancel each other out, how they’re part of the same terrain.”
 — Come As You Are: Five Years Later

Our culture often treats grief like a problem to solve. Like something that you’re supposed to get over. Something that has a timeline. Something that is supposed to be medicated. But that is not the truth.

I used to see it that way. Not anymore.

“Falling in love again didn’t erase my grief for Brian.
It just rearranged it.
Integrated it into something bigger, more complex, and more alive.”
 — Come As You Are: Five Years Later

I wrote this book because I want people to know that whatever they’re feeling — the pain, the longing, the confusion, the joy that catches them off guard — it’s all part of the story. It’s not evidence that something’s wrong with you. It’s just the weather. Not the weather forecast.

“Grief didn’t mean I had failed.
It meant I had loved.”
 — Come As You Are: Five Years Later

I hope you’ll read the book. Not to be entertained. Not to be impressed. I hope you read it because something in you wants to feel less alone.

And if you’re grieving — whether it’s been five months or five years or five decades — I hope it helps you find a little peace.

Because you’re not broken.
You’re just alive.
And being alive means loving.

And loving means loss.
Every time.

But it’s still worth it.
Every time.

Come As You Are: Meditation & GriefCome As You Are: Three Years LaterCome As You Are: Five Years Later[image error]

Equanimity: Present Moment Echoes and the Art of Desire

Equanimity has always come easier to me when sitting with pain than when sitting with pleasure. Maybe it’s because I lean more toward stoicism — because I can grit my teeth and endure rather than surrender. But I don’t think it’s just that. I think I’ve built a genuine ability to be with suffering, to meet it without flinching, to let it move through me without resistance.

I learned this in vipassanā. The adhiṭṭhāna sittings — one-hour sittings, three times a day, starting on Day Four of a Vipassanā course as taught by S.N. Goenka — where for that entire hour you don’t move, don’t shift, don’t even open your eyes. Just sit.

The first few minutes are fine. My breath is steady, my posture is strong. Then the aches begin.

A dull, creeping burn in my knees. A slow tightening in my hips. The sharp pull of my lower back screaming for relief. My body whispers at first: “Shift your weight. Stretch your legs. Just move a little, no one will notice.”

Then it demands:
“You can’t sit here for an hour. You’re ruining your knees. This is insane.”

The minutes crawl by.

Surely, an hour must have passed already. The teacher must have fallen asleep — that’s the only explanation. There’s no way we’re still in the middle of this sitting. I fight the urge, but eventually, I can’t help myself. I sneak a glance at my watch.

Thirty-five minutes.

I want to laugh. Or scream. This is never going to end.

The pain builds. The frustration builds. Every second stretches longer than it should, time itself taunting me, refusing to move faster.

And then, suddenly — like a mirage on the horizon — the familiar sound of the last five minutes begins. The soft hum of chanting, the teacher’s voice giving closing instructions.

And just like that, I know I can do this.

Nothing changed — my legs still ache, my back still throbs — but my resistance dissolves. The moment I stop fighting, a deep wave of equanimity flows through me, spreading like warmth through my veins. The pain is still there, but I no longer need it to go away.

And this is the lesson I carry with me: everything passes. Pain, longing, discomfort — they all rise and fall. It’s the resistance that makes the pain unbearable.

So you sit and strive to be equanimous through it all. Embracing the truth of our existence.

I learned this is what it means to be fully alive.

Loss and Grief

The skill of equanimity, forged during those adhiṭṭhāna sittings, has carried me through much suffering, especially grief — the loss of my sister, my brother, my mother, my father, my husband. Each loss, a lesson in sitting with suffering instead of resisting it.

Because of vipassanā, I am not afraid to meet death head-on.

Too many people treat death like an inconvenience, something to be outsourced — just like they do with aging parents, just like they do with their own children. They send kids to boarding school. They put parents in nursing homes. They turn away from life’s hard truths because they lack the strength to face them.

I refuse to be that kind of person.

My Mother’s Death

My mother lived with me until the day she died. She was on hospice, but she was home. And Brian — my husband — was steadfast: We are not putting your mom in a home. There was no debate, no hesitation. He believed, as I did, that she deserved to be with family, to be cared for with dignity — not discarded like an old piece of furniture.

As her death neared, I built her casket in the garage. Measuring the wood, sawing, sanding, fitting the pieces together. It felt surreal — constructing the box that would hold my own mother. But it also felt right. This is what we do. We don’t turn away. We take care of our own.

She died in the room I now sleep in.

I remember lifting the casket, feeling the weight of her one last time as we carried her to my pickup truck. I remember gripping the wheel, knowing what was coming next. Watching as the box I built to hold her — to hold the woman who raised me — was taken from me and into the crematory.

There was no running from it.

I met it fully, without turning away.

Brian’s Death

When Brian died, I faced death the same way.

I will never forget the moment I was allowed onto the scene of the accident — the automobile fire that took his life.

His body was burned beyond recognition. The kind of sight that sears itself into your mind forever, leaving scars even deeper than the loss itself.

The tears came in a rush, but I didn’t pull away.

I walked forward, knelt down, and placed my hands on what remained of his shoulder.

I told him I loved him.

One last time, in his presence.

Even now, I still have nightmares from that moment. But if given the choice, I would do it all over again.

Too many people turn into cowards when life hands them something raw and real. They hide from it. They choose ignorance over courage.

I refuse to.

I will meet life fully, even when it rips me apart.

I know this is what it means to be fully alive.

The Challenge of Equanimity in Love

Today, I face a different challenge: desire.

Peter, my boyfriend, and I have had the most breathtaking, blissful, almost cinematic moments together since meeting some 6 months or so ago. Every second imprinted on my skin, my cells, my memory. I hear a song from a concert we went to, and I’m there.

It was The Disco Biscuits at Infinity Music Hall in Hartford, CT.

I can still feel it — the sensual charge in the air, thick, electric, alive. The music wasn’t just sound; it was something deeper, something that coursed through us like a pulse, a force we surrendered to. The band played without pause, an unbroken stream of rhythm and melody, pulling us under, wrapping us in its grip.

Peter stood in front of me, his back to my chest, our bodies moving together, perfectly in sync. My arms held him close, locking us into the moment, his breath rising and falling against me, his heartbeat drumming in time with mine. The rhythmic beat pulsed through the space, through his body, into mine, binding us in something wordless and undeniable.

We danced like this, pressed so close it was impossible to tell where I ended and he began. Every movement was instinctual, primal, like answering a call buried deep in our bones. The whole room moved as one, caught in the same fevered rhythm. It blurred the line between dance and something more, something deeper — passion, connection, surrender.

Lasers sliced through the darkness, illuminating faces lost in the same bliss, the same ecstasy of motion. Nothing existed beyond this — no past, no future, only the raw, organic energy of human existence — passion, connection, and life itself. We were consumed by it, by each other. It was better than any concert I had ever been to in my entire life, and it wasn’t about the music, the performance, or the energy of the crowd. It was because I was with Peter, completely in sync, lost in the rhythm, caught in something so intense it felt like reaching the edge of a moment that never had to end.

And I’m not just remembering it — I’m experiencing it again.

When I hear that song and I am there am I living in the past or living in the present?

Or maybe, this is what it means to be fully alive.

The Love Letter: Desire as a Present-Moment Experience

It had been nearly a month since Peter and I had any contact. We have taken time so he could work on his personal development. A month of space, of quiet, of letting him work through his own storms without me as a distraction or failsafe.

During our time apart I have started writing him. Handwritten letters.

Last Thursday, like every Thursday, I sat down to write him such a letter.

Only this time, I let every ounce of longing, every flicker of memory, every pulse of desire spill onto the page.

This wasn’t just any letter. This was a letter to mark our month apart. A love letter, a hungry letter, a letter dripping with the heat of passionate moments we had shared.

I wrote about how my body remembers him.

How my fingertips remember tracing the shape of him.
How my lips remember the way he tastes.
How my skin, even now, carries the ghost of his touch.

I wrote about the specific ways I miss him — not just I miss you in some generic, sentimental way, but I miss you here. I miss you like this. I miss the weight of you against me, the way your breath felt against my neck, the way our bodies moved together like we were built to fit.

I poured everything into that letter.

And then, I sealed it and sent it into the world.

Not knowing if he would ever read it.
Not knowing when or if I’d ever hear back.
Not expecting a response.

But I do imagine him reading it.

I imagine his eyes widening as he takes in my words.
I imagine him feeling it — the depth, the fire, the rawness of it all.
I imagine the letter reaching into him, shaking him, blowing him away.

I don’t need a reply to know that it lands.

The Echo of Desire

I wake up in the middle of the next night.

Heart pounding.
Body aching.
My mind filled with images of Peter, of us, of every moment we had shared.

The letter had done something to me. Writing it was a present-moment act, but it left a ripple, an aftershock, an echo that continued to — no, continues to — move through me long after the ink has dried.

Desire. Most people see desire as a source of suffering — something to resist, suppress, or extinguish. And I understand why. When we lose what we crave, when something we long for inevitably slips away, it hurts. The logic seems simple: the stronger the attachment, the deeper the desire, the sharper the pain when it’s gone.

Desire, when clung to, can be suffering — yes. But desire, when met with equanimity, when embraced as a real, living, breathing moment — is that planting seeds for suffering?

I don’t think so.

This is what it means to be fully alive.

Embracing Desire

Warm water runs over my hands, soap bubbles clinging to my fingers as I scrub a plate. I watch the suds swirl and slip away down the drain. The scent of lavender dish soap lingers in the air. The rhythmic clatter of dishes fills the quiet kitchen.

I am here.

And yet, I am with him.

Thoughts of Peter move through me like an undertow, subtle yet undeniable.

One moment, I’m at the sink. The next, I’m back at the concert — his frame pressed against mine, the music through him to my body. I can feel my lips on the back of his neck, the way we moved as one.

He’s not here. There’s no music. And yet, I feel it.

Some might say I’m lost in the past. That I’m not present.

But they’d be wrong.

Because this moment includes the echo.

Desire Without Suffering

I’ve been taught that suffering comes from clinging, from chasing, from resisting impermanence. But does desire itself lead to suffering?

I don’t think so.

Desire is not the enemy. Clinging is.

So when I wake in the night, body thrumming, mind spinning with thoughts of him, I won’t fight it. I won’t scold myself for feeling it.

I will let it move through me.

This is what it means to be fully alive.

Letting Go Without Resistance

I will allow the ache of longing to sit in my chest, let the warmth of Peter drift through me — without reaching, without trying to keep it.

I will feel it fully, and then, like soap bubbles disappearing down the drain, I will let it pass.

This is equanimity.

Not denial. Not numbness. Just observing. And feeling.

Feeling everything — completely, honestly — without getting lost in it.

I can desire without clinging.
I can love without losing myself.
I can revel in it without being consumed by it.

Desire doesn’t have to be a problem.

Desire can just be desire.

Echoes and Being Fully Here

When I wrote Peter that letter — a love letter so raw I could feel the words in my bones — I poured myself into it.

And now, nights later, I still wake up from dreams of him, aching, skin humming.

But is that suffering?

No. That’s just an echo.

We understand this with the body: after a long hike, muscles burn the next day. That’s not reliving the hike — it’s the body processing what it’s been through.

Why should it be any different for the heart?

After a concert, music lingers in your nerves.
After deep laughter, joy reverberates.

These are echoes of experience, still alive in the present.

If I resist them, I create suffering.
If I allow them, I am simply living them.

This is presence — not shutting out echoes of past moments, but letting them move through me without becoming them.

What Do You Think?

Can we experience longing and love, fully and intensely, without suffering?

I think we can.

I think we must.

Because isn’t this what it means to be fully alive?

Forge your path with these Buddhist books from G. Scott Graham:Living the Maṅgala Sutta (Living the Dhamma)Living the Eight Precepts (Living the Dhamma)[image error]

Success Without Structure: Some of Us Aren’t Built for RoutinesBlowing up your alarm clock is the first step in joining the Routine Resistance!Resist the Routine!

For years, I believed in the power of routine. Not just believed — I worshiped it. I saw routine as the secret weapon of the successful, the master key to unlocking productivity, the one thing separating those who achieve their dreams from those who don’t.

And why wouldn’t I?

Everywhere we look, we’re bombarded with stories of high achievers who swear by their morning routines, evening routines, and sacred habits that supposedly make them superhuman.

You know the drill:

Wake up at 4 AM.Meditate for 20 minutes.Journal your deepest thoughts.Write for an hour.Go to the gym.Cold shower.Protein shake.Be an unstoppable, ultra-optimized machine before the rest of the world even rolls out of bed.

We’re told that this is how greatness happens. AND, if you can just stick to the routine, success is inevitable.

And I believed it.

So I tried. Over and over again, I tried.

And I failed.

No matter how many times I started, no matter how badly I wanted to be one of those hyper-disciplined, perfectly structured people… I could never sustain a routine for long.

And every time I failed, I told myself the same story:

“I’m just not disciplined enough.”
“I don’t want it badly enough.”
“I’m lazy.”
“I’ll never achieve my full potential.”

Sound familiar?

But here’s the truth — the thing no one tells you when they’re selling you the routine myth:

Some of us aren’t built for routines.

And forcing yourself into one won’t unlock your potential. It’ll just burn you out.

The 21-Day Habit Lie (and the Gurus Who Love It)

Let’s talk about the 21-day habit rule — that golden number that self-help gurus, internet “coaches,” and so-called experts repeat like scripture.

I am sure that you have heard it before:

“It takes 21 days to build a habit!”

They say it with such confidence, as if it’s some scientifically proven law of human behavior, rather than just another convenient marketing slogan designed to sell you their next productivity course.

Here’s the real story:

The “21-day rule” is most commonly attributed to Maxwell Maltz, a plastic surgeon who popularized the idea in his 1960 book, Psycho-Cybernetics.

Maltz noticed that his patients took around 21 days to psychologically adjust to their new appearance after surgery.

And from that, he casually extrapolated: Well, if it takes 21 days for people to get used to a new nose, then surely that’s how long it takes to form any habit, right?

And just like that — without real scientific backing — the “21-day habit” myth was born.

Since then, self-help gurus have clung to it like gospel, repeating it endlessly in books, seminars, and motivational speeches. And when their clients inevitably fail to transform their lives in three weeks?

They don’t blame the faulty advice.

They blame you.

“You’re just not disciplined enough.”
“You don’t want it badly enough.”
“You’re lazy.”
“You’ll never achieve your full potential.”

It’s a convenient way to shift the blame — because if the system works and you’re struggling, then clearly you must be the problem.

Well, here’s the real science:

A study published in the European Journal of Social Psychology found that, on average, habit formation takes 66 days — not 21. And even that varies widely depending on the person and the habit itself.

So, no, just forcing yourself to do something for three weeks does not magically turn it into a lifelong habit.

If that were true, I would still be:

Running every day (tried it, didn’t last though I did manage to rack up one marathon, twenty-six half marathons and more 5Ks than I can count).Eating vegetarian-only (I did it for 35 years, and stopped).Playing the piano regularly (I was a music major for two years in college and practice was central to my life, now my piano performs as a dust collector).

Clearly, repetition alone doesn’t guarantee lasting change.

And yet, for years, I kept trying to force routines into my life, believing they would magically transform me into the best version of myself.

The INTJ Illusion

For most of my life, people told me I was an INTJ.

And it made sense.

I am decisive. A shoot first, aim later kind of person. I break things down into logical steps. I seem structured and strategic.

And because of that, I convinced myself I was an INTJ — the “Mastermind” type, known for discipline, planning, and long-term goal execution.

And you know what INTJs love? Routines.

So, naturally, I believed that was the key to my success.

If I could just stick to the plan, I’d finally reach my full potential.

But something never felt quite right.

No matter how hard I tried to lock myself into a structured system, I would always drift. I’d get bored. I’d lose interest.

And every time that happened, I felt like I was failing at being the person I was supposed to be.

Until one day, I stumbled upon an old MBTI assessment I had taken in college. And guess what?

I wasn’t an INTJ.

I was an INTP.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

INTJ vs. INTP: Why Routine Never Worked for Me

INTJs thrive on structure, planning, and efficiency. They love setting up systems, executing them flawlessly, and refining them over time.

INTPs? Not so much.

Here’s how we differ:

INTJs work methodically every day toward their goals.INTPs work in bursts of obsessive energy, then move on to the next fascinating thing.INTJs create detailed plans and follow them to the letter.INTPs rebel against rigid plans and prefer flexibility.INTJs find security in daily habits.INTPs feel trapped by them.

I had been forcing myself into the wrong box for years.

It’s not that I lacked discipline. It’s not that I was lazy.

It’s that I was never meant to live my life by a rigid routine.

The Stephen King Myth

I think of myself as a writer. I wrote this.

Wannabe authors and self-proclaimed life coaches love to repeat the so-called Stephen King rule: “Write every day, even when you don’t feel like it.” (I have no idea if he actually said that, but people love to act like it’s gospel and supposedly Stephen King writes for one hour everyday whether he wants to or not and that’s it. That’s how he writes a book.)

For years, I thought I berated myself because I couldn’t do that.

You see, I believed it.

So I tried. Over and over again, I tried.

And I failed.

No matter how many times I started, no matter how badly I wanted to be “a real writer like Stephen King”… I could never sustain that routine for long. And when I did, the writing that I produced was pathetic. Pathetic.

Here’s the truth: I don’t write every day. Some days, the words don’t come, and I let them be. Here’s the truth: sometimes, weeks pass, and I don’t write at all — no guilt, no shame, just space. And here’s the truth: when the fire finally sparks, I write for ten hours straight, consumed, obsessed, chasing the story until there’s nothing left of me but the words on the page.

And the most profound truth— despite not following the so-called “golden rule” of writing — I’ve published 26 books (so far).

Clearly, I’m doing something right.

Join the Routine Resistance

Let me say it loud and clear:

Routine doesn’t work for everyone.

If you’re constantly struggling to stick to a routine — if you feel more focused on maintaining the habit than actually doing the thing — maybe you’re not meant for routines.

Maybe you’re like me.

Maybe you thrive in bursts of passion and intensity rather than in slow, steady drips.

And if that’s the case, it’s time to stop trying to force yourself into someone else’s mold.

Resist the routine.

Join the Routine Resistance.

Because life doesn’t magically open up when you follow some perfect, external system.

It opens up when you follow the way you’re naturally built to work.

What do you think? Are you part of the resistance?

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