This is the story of how I stopped eating like a caveman and managed to save more than an hour every day by batch-preparing “modular meals.” If you just want the step-by-step guide, skip down to the Process section. (:

September 2009—All my life I wanted to be a beefcake, but alas, I was a twig. When I started my first year at Ithaca College, I weighed in at a lean 147, and while my classmates were trying desperately to avoid the “freshman fifteen,” I was struggling to not lose body fat.

I had (and still have) a freakishly efficient metabolism.

You can go ahead and hate me.

But the truth is, I admired “average build” people. And when I encountered the bounties of my prepaid meal plan, I decided to give my metabolism a run for its money. I wanted to reach 170 lbs.

Read the whole story on Medium.

This is the story of how I discovered that caring doesn’t work and started making more sustainable choices by becoming selfish.

July 2007—The first time I visited my brother’s farm, I didn’t get it. My mom and I rolled down the dusty road to his house in rural Missouri and piled out of the car like characters in a city-folk-visit-the-countryside comedy.

“Is this the right place? Oh, there’s Eric!”

I grew up in an old farmhouse, so the stillness and isolation felt familiar to me, but I wasn’t prepared for the implications of staying on an actual farm.

Eric and my sister-in-law Joanna were running a local CSA at the time, so as soon as the pleasantries were over they “invited” my mom and me out to the fields to “experience” some land management (aka weeding).

This is bullshit! I thought. Not since getting math homework on the first day of second grade had I suffered such an injustice. My high school brain could feel spring break slipping through my fingers like Missouri soil.

Read the whole story on Medium.

April 2017 — I tried on two hundred running shoes and I didn’t like any of them…which was weird because they all looked so comfy. They were like puppies, scrambling over each other, yipping “Pick me! Pick me!”

I guess I should tell you why I was trying on shoes.

I had just landed some part-time hours at a local running store and the managers wanted me to play Cinderella. I was supposed to get a feel for the shoes and find my favorite but also memorize their features.

Terms like “motion control” and “EVA” and “dynamic stability” and “pronation” and “stack height” whizzed by me. It was all very exotic.

Finally, I picked up a shoe called the New Balance 1400.

This was my Benny Rodriguez / PF Flyers moment. This was the shoe for me. Super-light, super-fast, and super-responsive. At the end of the shift, I practically danced out the door with a pair of size tens, but a little voice in the back of my head kept wondering…

Read the whole story on Medium.

I was going to write this article yesterday, but I got stuck…which is super ironic because the topic is literally “how to get unstuck.” I’ve been writing in a story/advice format and for whatever reason, I just could not come up with a personal anecdote this time. Whenever this happens, I open a checklist called “Levels of Happiness,” which is kind of like the dashboard of my existential car. Usually, it’s something stupidly simple…Whoops, I forgot to breathe. *Inhales deeply* Yesterday, though, I was running through question after question and everything was fine. I had no reason to be stuck. I got to the end of the list and then it hit me… I already have a story—I’m stuck right now!  Read the whole story on Medium: https://medium.com/@fthelines/mental-... #burnout #creativeblock #depression

Summer 2017—My new office building was right next to a homeless shelter, which wasn’t a great sign, but I was desperate. After two years of freelancing from my mom’s house, alarm bells were going off in my introvert brain, like…

MUST. HAVE. ALONE. TIME.

When the realtor met me at the front door, a guy tried to follow us in. “My friend works on the second floor…His name? Uh…”

The inside of the building had this deserted, post-apocalyptic vibe.

I imagined myself slinging code by day and fending off zombies by night. But instead of zombies, we found squatters. I turned on the light of a conference room to find someone sleeping on the table. “Sorry!”

By the end of our tour, I realized it was unrealistic to find a decent office space for $100/mo. I drove home feeling hopeless…

Read the whole story on Medium.

July 2011—Let me tell you about the rock bottom of my depression.  It’s not binge-watching Lost for twelve hours straight or lying paralyzed on my bed or being so socially catatonic that my friend had to wave his hand in front of my face to make sure I was still conscious.

Nope, my rock bottom is a five-word sentence.

I was walking along a canal path with my mom, mostly in silence (which was my M.O. at that point), and she suddenly broke down. She asked  me in this almost begging voice: “What can I do to help?” Flatly, I replied …

This was the breaking point for me. Because even through the fog I could see that I was no longer just a sinking ship. I was emptiness, sucking the joy out of everything, dragging others down into my depths.

I was the void and I had to get better.

Read the whole story on Medium. (:

This is a story about how arthritis destroyed my life at 29 and how I fought back by rerouting myself toward things I can still control. (:

July 2019—I’m sitting at the computer, staring at my outstretched hands like a videogame character who’s just inherited some magical power.

Except…the lightning bolts aren’t shooting out of my fingers, they’re shooting into them. I’m in pain, which is normal for someone who spends all day coding. What’s not normal is that my fingers aren’t recovering.

Over the past month, I’ve gone from powering through ten-hour code marathons to tenderly pecking at the keyboard for a few minutes at a time.

I’m freaking out because the keyboard is not only how I make my living (freelance web design), but also how I interface with reality. Writing, coding, illustrating, chatting, designing, researching…

Everything I love to do hurts.

Read the whole story on Medium.

Back in high school, I was the designated hippie in my friend group. Mostly because I wore Birkenstocks and talked about philosophy.

But the truth is I wasn’t much of a hippy.

I spent my twenties going to the most expensive colleges in the country and followed that financial disappearing act by trying to shop my way to happiness and creativity.

I bought fancy drums and cymbals and music equipment and clothes and shoes. Basically, anything I could lay my debit card on.

Last summer, though, I had to quit my freelance design business because of arthritis in my fingers and went broke instantly. I was filling out job applications at two in the morning, like…

I knew taking a shitty full-time job would lead straight back to depression, so I made a spreadsheet and hacked my expenses down to $600/mo, which my part-time running store job could cover.

I sold my drum set, guitars, and PlayStation. I started eating a vegan and buying everything in bulk.

It was painful at first, but I don’t miss any of it now.

I’m more creative than I’ve ever been and every possession I give away is a deposit into my existential “fuck you” fund.

More is expensive, but less is always free. (: