“You’re like a vapor,” he said. “It’s like you’re here, but not really.”

I felt a mix of shock and sadness when he said it.

What is that supposed to mean?

We had been together for decades. We did almost everything together. We were tight — the most solid couple I knew.

And yet something in me knew he was right.

Part of me felt called out.

Another part felt relieved.

I was tired of playing what felt like a perpetual game of solitaire.

I didn’t want an audience.

I wanted a partner.

For years I had mistaken my restless quest for novelty for vitality.

I cranked out endless challenges for myself — just to keep myself entertained.

And maybe out of trouble.

Moving every couple of years — this went on for decades.

Changing jobs whenever boredom crept in.

Immersing myself in fitness programs, languages, theology, wine, psychology — whatever sparked interest.

Moving to Spain for a year on a whim.

My creative energy was constantly being channeled somewhere.

It just wasn’t staying anywhere long enough to deepen.

From the outside, it looked alive.

Inside, it felt scattered. Unfinished.

I wasn’t really present — not for him, and not for myself.

Most days I lived somewhere else — high in the tower of my own mind, waiting for someone to come meet me there — or give me a reason to venture away from it.

I wanted intimacy.

But real vulnerability scared me.

I had become very good at being almost there.

Close enough to be valued.

Far enough to protect what was underneath.

The strategy was simple:

Don’t let anyone close enough to stir something in you.

Or hurt you.

Stay impressive.

Stay entertaining.

Stay in motion.

At the time, I wouldn’t have called this avoidance.

I called it independence. Autonomy. Being low-maintenance.

But something was off. And I couldn’t ignore it forever.

The emptiness I felt wasn’t really about my marriage. It was existential. And it was mine.

My husband eventually stopped waiting for me to show up fully. I don’t blame him.

But this was the only way I knew how to be.

Navigating external change had almost become a reflex. I was good at it too.

Staying still was another thing entirely.

The kind of intimacy I wanted required stillness.

But I was addicted to movement.

And there was nowhere left to move.

No new city.

No new role.

No new fascination to chase.

If I wanted real intimacy — with anyone —

I was going to have to risk it with myself first.

And that meant landing.

Not performing.

Not distracting.

Not searching.

Just landing.

It turns out movement is easy.

Contact is not.

Real change usually begins when the body is allowed into the conversation.

This is the work I do with clients inside RE•ORIENT — a long-form 1:1 engagement for thoughtful men who already understand themselves well and are ready to move beyond insight alone.

If this resonates, consider sticking around. I’m glad you’re here.