Spiritual Belly

I came across this video recently by After Skool, one of my favorite YouTube channels. It tells the story of an 85-year-old woman who wakes up for just one day in her 36-year-old body. She gets to relive all the tiny, ordinary moments—her son waking her up, her husband making coffee, a phone call with her mom. It’s simple. It’s beautiful. It hit me hard. Give it a watch: https://youtu.be/5TcB50M4vHA?si=4K_mTVx-ywQQoUYj (Seriously—go ahead. I’ll wait.) The Beauty in the Ordinary Sorry—I probably should’ve warned you that you might need some tissues. And if you didn’t tear up even a little? Go hug a tree or pet a kitten or something, you Neanderthal. Because wow . That poem cuts deep. Not because anything “dramatic” happens. There’s no plot twist. No epic reveal. Just… life. A child waking you up. The slow shuffle into the kitchen. The warmth of a coffee cup in your hands. Your son rambling on about superheroes and robots and monsters. These are the kinds of moments most of us rush thro...

If you spend any time in modern wellness spaces, you’ll hear a lot about intuitive eating . The idea is appealing — eat when you're hungry, stop when you're full, trust your body to guide you. In theory, it sounds like the most natural and nurturing way to relate to food. But here’s the thing: intuitive eating assumes your intuition is working. Lately, I’ve started to realize that mine might not be. At least, not in the way I thought. When I feel the urge to eat, it’s often not because I’m physically hungry — it’s because I’m uncomfortable. Tired. Frustrated. Bored. Lonely. My “intuition” has been shaped by years of habit, emotional coping, and subtle forms of self-soothing. So what I’ve been calling intuition might actually just be avoidance. That realization has been sobering. I’ve also noticed that despite my efforts to eat more mindfully and compassionately, my progress — especially when it comes to weight loss — has stalled. I’m not looking for perfection, just movement. A...

Last Friday I stood in the middle of a swaying, sun-soaked crowd as the bands Live and Collective Soul played the soundtrack of my high school years. The air was thick with heat and nostalgia. Everyone around me was singing—loud, unfiltered, arms raised. There was something deeply alive about it, something childlike in the best way. For a few hours, we were all seventeen again. At one point, the lead singer of Collective Soul stepped up to the mic and said, “You guys are the choir. We’re the directors. Sing with us.” And with no hesitation, the audience erupted into melody. People who might not sing in their own living rooms were belting out harmonies with strangers, heads tilted back in joy. It was one of those moments that makes you stop and wonder: *Where does that kind of freedom come from?* How do we access that level of expressiveness, that boldness, that uninhibited participation? Because I felt it too—something stirring, some longing to let go completely. And yet, a part of me ...

I used to lead worship at a church where the lights got brighter and the trust got dimmer. I wasn’t the flashy type. I was quiet, reverent. My focus was never on performance, but on creating space for people to encounter the Divine. But when the numbers started dipping, I noticed a shift. The leadership began to question my song choices. They wanted more energy. More pizazz. More… entertainment. Eventually, I wasn’t trusted to plan the music anymore. They wanted to take control of it. The worship gathering began to feel more like a marketing strategy than a holy invitation. Something in me started to crack. Not with rage—but with sarcasm. Little comments slipped out, half-shielded pain wrapped in cynicism. It was my way of holding on to a sliver of power, a way to say, “This isn’t right,” without knowing how to say it out loud. Then came the conversation. The pastor sat me down and said he was tired of my “relationship.” Not the relationship between us—just mine. As if the damage had ...

We were driving home from Morro Bay, winding our way inland after a few days of salty air and slow mornings. The trip had been restful. Easy. I was in the driver's seat, enjoying the ride, when we passed a sign for Andersen’s—the restaurant famous for its split pea soup. It’s a nostalgic place for me. I went there as a kid, and for whatever reason, it holds some kind of warmth in my memory. Without much thought, I pulled into the parking lot. To be honest, I didn’t plan it. I just rumbled in, assuming it would be okay. But it wasn’t okay. No one in the car was into the idea.They don't like the food there, and my wife was worried about the wine we had in the car spoiling in the heat. I offered to bring it inside, but I could feel the resistance. No one said it, but I knew this wasn’t going to be the stop I had hoped for. We left the parking lot and kept driving. Something inside me sank. I got quiet. Real quiet. My face felt heavy. My shoulders slumped. My chest was hollow....