There’s something so satisfying about carbonated beverages. But the thing is, carbonation seems to be in direct competition with trying to keep a healthy body. Honestly, I let carbonation win most of the time. Some days, I definitely drink more soda than the recommended daily amount.
Kicking a soda habit seems small against the backdrop of things that are far more addictive or harmful, and honestly, that’s been my justification for the half-hearted attempts I’ve made to cut back.
It’s not that bad, right?
Way back on September 9, 2016, I wrote about the first time I gave up soda for a while. The title of that entry? Noise, Noise, Noise.
The Grinch and I were having a moment, apparently.
That entry — nine years ago — was full of burnout: too many tasks, too many interruptions, too little quiet. I wrote about how drained I felt at the end of every day. Not just tired, but in the words of Bilbo Baggins, “like butter scraped over too much bread.” Like I was pouring everything I had into work that didn’t matter, while things that did — focus, stillness, clarity — had long since slipped away.
Nine years ago. And today? I drank about 90 ounces of Dr. Pepper. Twenty of those after 10 p.m.
Sometimes, obvious things hide in plain sight — then hit you like a baseball bat.
This isn’t just about soda.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve been exploring the metaphorical canyon of my life, and it’s crazy — honestly a little frightening — how long I’ve known what I need, and how hard it’s been to want it.
I’ve written about the noise. The distractions. The unrelenting overstimulation that doesn’t soothe — only numbs. Some of it comes from work, some from the sheer pace of life.
But a lot of it, I’ve chosen.
I’ve said yes to the distractions that masquerade as comfort — the drinks, the screens, the sarcasm, the cynicism — because they help me avoid the real discomfort: the part of me that feels unworthy of rest, and the part of me that still believes rest equals weakness.
It’s easy to say I want a healthier body. A quieter mind. More presence with my wife and kids. Less noise on my to-do list. And I really do want those things.
But when I’m tired, overwhelmed, or sitting with the ache of what I don’t want to say out loud, what I reach for is something easy. Familiar. Fast.
That’s why desire feels like it works against me sometimes. Knowing what I need doesn’t mean I want it.
How many times over the years have I told myself stories about moderation, about stress, about “having a thing”? The truth is, I don’t drink soda at night because I’m thirsty (shocker, right?). I drink it because I want a boost. And as silly as it sounds, it gives me a tiny sense of control.
A few more sips and I can push off the fatigue a little longer. Get a little farther ahead. Cross one more thing off the list.
This struggle isn’t really about discipline. I haven’t run much in the last ten months, but this week I logged 37 miles (and man do I feel it — lugging 30 extra pounds around).
I have discipline.
It’s about desire.
Discipline without desire is just self-punishment. And for a long time, that’s how I’ve approached self-improvement — as if the only way to grow is to suffer through it.
I’ve seen that same pattern in some of my relationships. When I feel disconnected — when I know I should talk to someone about something difficult — I don’t lean in. I tend to retreat. Sarcasm, silence, distraction. Not because I don’t care, but because I don’t always know how to want what would help: openness. Closeness. Vulnerability. A real, sometimes awkward, sometimes-crying-on-shoulders kind of presence.
In March 2020 — just weeks before the world shut down — I wrote that I felt emotionally immature. Stuck. Bottling everything up. Over the course of twenty years, I had gone from unfiltered to unavailable. Somewhere in there, I lost my balance between honesty and self-protection maybe even fear of what I wanted to say.
Looking back, I think I knew what I needed. I just didn’t feel strong enough to want it.
So I built a kind of insulation around the good things. I told myself I wanted to want healthier habits. I wanted to want deeper conversations. I wanted to want clarity and rest and connection.
But that’s not the same as actually wanting them.
Wanting to want is safer. It lets you live near the edge of change without ever stepping into it.
Until today, I hadn’t really stopped to consider how many years I’ve spent hovering near the things that could heal me — while clinging to the things that only help me cope.
It’s hard not to judge myself for that. But I’m learning. I’m watching more closely for the difference that makes a difference.
Receiving anything without proving myself first has always been hard for me. Still is. There’s a version of me — arms crossed, angry coach-like — watching from the sidelines, waiting for me to finally earn the good stuff. That version is tired. Skeptical. A little afraid of what happens if the star player stop over-performing.
So I overdo. I stay up too late. I drink too much caffeine. I push too hard at work. I scroll too long. I joke too much. Say I’m fine when I’m not. I hold back when I should speak. I ramble when I should listen to the quiet voice inside me.
Underneath it all, I stay in motion so I don’t have to reconcile the gap between what I need… and what I currently want.
I drink zero sugar soda, so it’s not really about sugar. It’s about escape. Something sharp. Something quick. Something that cuts through the fog when everything else feels dull.
But this season — this canyon I’m writing from — is about slowly wanting something different. And not just saying I do.
It’s not just about better outcomes — better sleep, clearer thoughts, more ease in my own body.
It’s about wanting not to need the thing in the first place.
Over the years, I’ve seen glimpses of that version of myself. The one who can sit in silence without needing to fill it. The one who can say no — not to punish himself, but because peace is finally starting to matter more than performance again.
I want to want less fatigue. Fewer inputs. More clarity.
You know, I think that’s where real change starts.
Not with shame. Not with rules. Not even with more motivation.
But with a slow, deliberate — sometimes wandering — practice of learning to want what’s actually good for me.
Perfection isn’t coming around the corner. I’ll still drink too much soda sometimes. I’ll still scroll when I meant to read. I’ll still chase noise when I know I need quiet.
But some nights, I will catch myself before I grab another can.
Some nights, I’ll choose water.
I’ll say no to the next thing on the to-do list.
I’ll turn the lights off a little earlier.
Not because I’m trying to prove anything.
Just because, for a few quiet moments, I’ll want to.
That’ll be something new.
And I want more of it.
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