One Last Session Here

So this is my last session sitting in the brain of this operation.

This place has been my office and my condo here in Greenville, South Carolina—near downtown, by the YMCA, close to where I grew up. And today it’s making me a little wistful.

This space has been a kind of protective bubble for me. A place where I could think, regroup, disappear a little when I needed to. Change is hard, even when it’s good change. And this is good change. I’m moving into a house—no fussy neighbors, a big yard for my dog, more room to breathe.

I’m also moving into a new brain center. A new place to organize and operate from. One that might offer more flexibility—not just in how I work, but in what I allow myself to do. Physical art again. Painting. I bought a set of drums and I’m getting back into music. I’m trying to give myself as many possible entry points as I can.

There’s no mandate attached to any of this. Nothing has to happen. No version of me I’m required to become on a deadline. I’m just staying open to whatever shows up next.

Today I’m packing up my computer, my office supplies, and all the small elements that made this place mine for so long. The pictures I hung. The books I left out on purpose. Band posters. Preview covers I mocked up and lived with on the walls. All of it is coming down and going somewhere new.

And that’s the strange part—because it turns out you don’t just pack objects. You pack versions of yourself.

This room held drafts that didn’t know what they were yet. It absorbed long nights, false starts, moments of clarity, moments of doubt. It didn’t create any of that—but it witnessed it. And that matters more than we tend to admit.

Taking things down isn’t erasing them. It’s proof they’re portable.

Some of this will go back up exactly as it was. Some of it will look different in a new light. Some things may never make it back onto a wall—and that’s not loss. That’s movement.

If this place was a protective bubble, then maybe this is the moment where I don’t need protection in the same way anymore. I’m not running from it. I’m thanking it. Quietly. Without ceremony.

I’m standing in the doorway for a minute before I leave—not because I’m afraid to go, but because I want to honor what held me while I learned how to stay.

Then I’ll take what matters, close the door, and build something new.

If I’ve learned anything from my time in this condominium—and in this brain I’ve been working inside—it’s that you have to be open to new brains forming. You have to expect change. Be prepared for it. Let yourself evolve as time and events take their turn.

I’ve learned that knowing myself is one of the most important things I can do. And that knowing myself doesn’t mean the story I like to tell about who I am. It means looking past the bullshit I tell myself about myself and getting closer to the truth of what I actually do—and why I do it.

When you strip it down far enough, that truth is usually simpler than we expect.

Every choice matters.
Every day matters.
Every moment matters.

But especially the choices.

The choices are how you define your life. Not the plans. Not the intentions. Not the explanations you give after the fact. The choices.

And the uncomfortable truth is that you don’t have as many of them as you think you do.

Which makes the ones you do have even more important.

This space helped me see that more clearly. It gave me room to slow things down enough to notice patterns, habits, avoidances, returns. It helped me learn when I was choosing and when I was just drifting. When I was acting out of fear and when I was acting out of honesty.

So as I pack this place up—walls bare, shelves emptied, cords coiled—I’m not trying to preserve it. I’m carrying forward what it taught me.

Stay open.
Pay attention.
Choose deliberately.

Then do it again tomorrow.

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