The Year I Stopped Performing and Started Aligning

If I had to name this year in two words, it would be Growth and Discovery. Writing in public has been a significant part of my journey; it has allowed me to explore new ideas and connect with others.

Not growth in the highlight-reel sense. Not discovery in the loud, breakthrough moment kind of way. This was quieter than that. More internal. More honest. This was the year I started paying attention to what was actually happening beneath the surface instead of rushing toward the next thing.

At the start of the year, I was locked in. Focused. Driven. I finished and published Bleed, and I’m genuinely proud of that. It mattered to me to prove I could take a book from idea to completion. That accomplishment still stands tall.

But somewhere along the way, that same drive started pushing a little too hard.

When Momentum Turns Into Friction

The biggest internal friction I felt this year wasn’t burnout. It was indecision.

After Bleed, I wrestled with what came next. Not on the page—I didn’t have an outline or chapters sitting half-finished. The wrestling happened in my head. Do I stay in that world and expand it, or do I challenge myself creatively and move somewhere new? I want to be a better writer across the board. Fiction, nonfiction, short stories. Not just productive, but better. That tension sat with me longer than I expected.

But underneath that creative question was another one, quieter and harder to name: What if Bleed didn’t get the reach it deserved? What if I made something I was proud of, and it never mattered in the way I wanted it to?

That’s not writer’s block. That’s decision paralysis. I wasn’t stuck because I couldn’t write. I was stuck, not knowing what to commit to next. And I didn’t know how to close the gap between making something and making something matter.

At the same time, I was doing what I’ve always done. Building. Creating. Showing up. As a father, I can’t mail it in. My daughter deserves my full presence. At work, I have to show up to show out—my students and my colleagues depend on that. And with my writing, I refuse to put out work I’m not proud of. That’s three full-time commitments to excellence running at the same time.

None of it is backbreaking on its own. But “up to par” became the standard I held for everything, all at once. The weight wasn’t in any single thing. It was in the refusal to let any of them slip.

I don’t think I was performing in a fake way, but I was moving fast. Too fast. I was acting like someone who had already made it, even though the world hadn’t caught up yet. I was rehearsing for an audience that wasn’t there.

And eventually, my body tapped me on the shoulder.

A health scare reminded me of something I say often but wasn’t fully living: Everything in moderation, even moderation. I had pushed past my own advice. The crash didn’t come from writing or working. It came from not knowing when to pause from holding too many standards too tightly for too long. Something had to give, and my body decided it would be the thing that made me pay attention.

That was the moment it clicked. Doing more wasn’t the answer anymore.

What Alignment Actually Looks Like

Alignment doesn’t mean doing less. It means doing things in the proper order, on a timeline that allows you to thrive rather than merely survive.

For me, alignment now looks like pacing. Planning. Letting projects breathe instead of forcing them to finish quickly. Slowing down gave me clarity that speed never did. When you move too fast, you miss the details. When you slow down, you start noticing the nuance. That’s where good work turns into meaningful work. That’s where something becomes profound, not just completed.

And that shift led me directly to what I’m building next.

Why a Psychological Thriller? Why Now.

I’ve written a children’s book. I’ve written nonfiction. I’ve written gritty fiction. A psychological thriller was always on the list.

So why now?

Because this genre gives me room to explore tension, control, perception, and the unseen forces that shape people, it challenges me in a way that nothing I’ve written before has. And instead of disappearing for months and reemerging with a finished product, I’m doing something new.

I’m writing this book in public.

That idea scares me more than anything else I’ve done. Not the writing itself—I know I can do that. What scares me is the silence. What if I put the process out there and no one sees it? What if I’m building something in real time, and it’s proof, right there for everyone to watch, that I’m making something no one cares about?

But there’s another fear, one that cuts deeper: What if I start it and don’t finish it?

I hate loose ends. I want to prove to myself—and to anyone watching—that I can execute. That I can plan, track, and complete. The public part isn’t just for accountability. It’s for credibility. I want people to see the work and the follow-through. I want them to witness firsthand what can be done with some planning and intention.

I’ve already proven I can finish books in private. Now I’m testing whether I can do it with the lights on.

So why this book? Why not wait for the next one?

Because why not now? There’s no reason to wait. No perfect moment. No ideal conditions. The decision to start is the only thing that separates planning from doing. And I’ve spent enough time in my head this year. It’s time to move.

What I Was Really Performing

I wasn’t performing for applause. I was performing for proof.

Proof that I made it. Proof that I’m not just good, but good enough to be seen. “Fake it till you make it” works when you’re building competence. But I’m past that. I’ve made it in the “done” sense. I’ve written books. I’ve built a body of work. I’ve shown up.

The next level isn’t about doing more. It’s about being seen doing it.

And that’s where the performance stopped feeling real. I wasn’t faking competence. I was faking visibility. I was acting like someone the world already recognized, even though the recognition hadn’t come yet. That’s exhausting. Not because it’s dishonest, but because it’s anticipatory. I was living in the future instead of the present.

The shift to alignment is me deciding to stop rehearsing for an audience that isn’t there yet. I’m building the work. The visibility will come. Or it won’t. But either way, I’m not performing for it anymore.

Looking Ahead Without the Noise

Next year, I’m not chasing stagnation. I’m chasing growth again. One percent better each day. Transparent. Honest. Healthy.

There isn’t a flashy new standard I’m holding myself to. The shift is subtler than that. I’m learning to enjoy the ride. To let things build organically. To value completion over speed.

If no one applauds it publicly, success next year still looks like getting things done. Finishing books. Building a body of work. Creating something someone else can point to and say, “Maybe I could do that too.”

Championized exists for people who want to move but don’t know where to start. People who need structure, encouragement, and permission to begin imperfectly. It isn’t for laziness, but it is for humanity. Creativity. Progress done the healthy way.

I didn’t stop performing because I failed.

I stopped performing because performance didn’t feel real anymore.

Living does.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been waiting for the right time, know this: the right time is a lie we tell ourselves to delay the hard part. Start now. Build ugly. Improve as you go. Momentum doesn’t care about the calendar. It only cares that you started.

The work is the work. The visibility will follow. Or it won’t.

Either way, you’ll have built something real.