I Settled for “Okay” – Until Life Humbled Me
LTMD Journal Entry #19 I Settled for “Okay”… Until Life Humbled Me Companion Journal to Louder Than My Demons – Episode 19: The Humbling Season There are moments that split your life into two chapters. Before. And… After. For a long time, I thought the “after” would be the day I lost my house. Or the day I walked into jail. Or the day I moved into my best friend’s basement. I thought those were the moments that changed me. Looking back… I think I was wrong. Those weren’t the moments that changed me. They were the moments that finally “outted” me. I thought I had a good life. From the outside… I probably did. I had a house. I had a career. I had music. I had dreams. I had people around me. If you had looked at my life from the street, you probably would’ve said… “He’s doing okay.” And maybe that’s the problem. “OKAY” became the goal. Not purpose. Not growth. Not peace. Just… “OKAY”. Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself a simple question. “Is this really the life I’m supposed to be living?” Instead… I accepted “good enough.” “Ego is the costume we wear when we don’t know our actual worth.” That’s a sentence I wrote while preparing this episode. The more I sat with it… The more I realized it wasn’t just a quote. It was my story. For years I confused confidence with ego. Achievement with identity. Success with worth. I kept trying to prove something… without ever asking myself why. Then life started taking things away. Not all at once. Piece by piece. The Marriage. The career. The house. The plans. The certainty. The comfort. Every time something disappeared… I thought life was punishing me. Now I wonder… What if life was simply removing the costume? Carl Rogers once wrote, “The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” That quote hit me differently after getting sober. Recovery didn’t begin because I suddenly became stronger. Recovery began when I finally stopped pretending I already was. There is incredible freedom in honesty. Not the honesty we show everyone else. The honesty we finally show ourselves. So where have you settled? Not where have you failed. Where have you settled? There’s a difference. Have you settled for a relationship because you’re afraid of being alone? Have you settled for a job because change feels dangerous? Have you settled for surviving… instead of living? Maybe the hardest prison isn’t made of concrete. Maybe it’s the story we’ve accepted about ourselves. One thing I’m learning… Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself. It’s finally seeing yourself clearly. The good. The bad. The victories. The failures. Without pretending you’re better… and without believing you’re worse. That’s real confidence. Not ego. Self-worth. This week’s challenge Don’t change your whole life today. Just answer one question. Where have I accepted “good enough” because I forgot my worth? Write it down. Pray about it. Talk to someone you trust. But don’t ignore it. Awareness is where rebuilding begins. LTMD Journal I’ll be honest… A year ago, if you told me I’d be writing this from a basement, I would’ve thought my life was over. Today… I don’t. I still have hard days. I still worry about the future. I still have more questions than answers. But I also have something I didn’t have before. Perspective. I don’t want my old life back anymore. Not because it was all bad. Because it wasn’t all true. Sometimes losing what you built is the only way to discover what was worth building in the first place. For the first time in a long time… I think I’m building that life now. Continue the Journey 🎙 Watch the companion episode LTMD Episode 19 – The Humbling Season Episode 19 Link 📖 Previous Journal Entry Sobriety Through Life’s Breakdowns 18 Months In and Here We Are At Ground Zero ➡️ Coming Next Episode 20 – One Year Later Coming Soon Join the Conversation Where in your life have you settled for “okay”? I’d love to hear your story. Not because I have all the answers. Because maybe someone reading your comment needs to know they’re not rebuilding alone. More from Louder Than My Demons 🎙 Latest Podcast Episodes ⚔️ Outlaw Logic 🇺🇸 RED 22 🎸 Demon Cuts
18 Months In… and Here We Are at Ground Zero
18 Months In… and Here We Are at Ground Zero Last Monday was supposed to be the end of a chapter. For months, I believed I knew where this journey was headed. I thought I was walking into court for resentencing. I thought I knew what the next phase of my life looked like. I thought I had finally reached the point where I could stop looking backward and focus entirely on moving forward. Instead, I walked out of court facing the possibility of a trial. As many of you know, I entered a plea in my case. As I have said since the day I entered that plea, I did so because I was offered a path that would allow me to avoid a trial, avoid the possibility of jail, get back to my children, and begin rebuilding my life. People can agree or disagree with that decision. That’s their right. But I want to be clear about something. I did not enter that plea because I believed I had committed the acts I was accused of. I entered it because, at the time, I believed it was the best decision for my family, my future, and my ability to move forward. Afterward, my ex-wife exercised her legal right to appeal the conviction. The appeal process moved forward, and events that followed ultimately brought us back into court. What I expected to be a resentencing hearing turned into something entirely different. What changed the direction of the hearing was a request for restitution. As I understood the original plea arrangement, restitution was not part of that agreement. During the proceedings, restitution was raised, and that request became a significant point of disagreement. From there, the conversation shifted away from resentencing and toward the future of the plea itself. By the end of the hearing, the discussion was no longer about the sentence I expected to receive. It was about whether the plea agreement should continue to exist at all. In a matter of hours, the future I had spent months preparing for disappeared. For most of the day, I couldn’t quite figure out what I was feeling. Part of me was disappointed. Not because I wanted the outcome I was expecting, but because I had spent months preparing myself for it. I had accepted that this chapter was ending one way, and suddenly I was being told it might end another. Part of me was hopeful. For the first time in a long time, there was a possibility that the truth I have maintained from the beginning might actually be heard in a courtroom. And part of me felt like I was standing at Ground Zero all over again. That’s the feeling I’ve been wrestling with ever since. Eighteen months in, and here we are at Ground Zero. Except we’re not. Or maybe we are. All of the above and yet none of the above. Legally, it feels like Ground Zero because a case I thought was approaching resolution may now be headed toward trial. Financially, it feels like Ground Zero because I’m living in a friend’s basement, driving an old car, working multiple jobs, and still trying to build stability. Physically, it feels like Ground Zero because my workouts aren’t where I want them to be, my diet isn’t where I want it to be, and some days I feel like I’m still trying to regain momentum. Emotionally, it feels like Ground Zero because the support system that carried me through the last 18 months may have to carry me a little longer. But the truth is, this isn’t Ground Zero. Ground Zero was eighteen months ago. Ground Zero was the day everything came crashing down. Ground Zero was uncertainty without a plan. Ground Zero was fear without direction. Today, I have eighteen months of sobriety. Many of those lessons have become the foundation of Louder Than My Demons, where I document this journey one step at a time. I have eighteen months of recovery. I have eighteen months of therapy, meetings, hard conversations, and personal growth. I have eighteen months of Louder Than My Demons. I have eighteen months of songwriting. I have eighteen months of trying to become a better father, a better friend, and a better man. The circumstances may look similar from a distance. The man standing in them is not. That’s what I realized as I drove home from court. The mission hasn’t changed. I still need to stay sober. I still need to take care of my health. I still need to improve my finances. I still need to build Louder Than My Demons. I still need to write songs. I still need to be present for my children. I still need to become the man I want to be. The mission hasn’t changed. The road has. What happens next remains uncertain. There is a hearing scheduled regarding the withdrawal of my plea. There may be a trial. There may be further developments. Time will tell. But for the first time in a long while, I walked out of a courtroom carrying something I didn’t expect. Hope. And whether that hope leads to a trial, another plea agreement, or something else entirely, I know this much: Eighteen months ago I was trying to survive. Today I’m trying to rebuild. The mission hasn’t changed. The road has. It feels like Ground Zero. But it isn’t. Or maybe it is. All of the above and yet none of the above. The mission hasn’t changed, and neither has this journey. If you’d like to continue walking it with me, subscribe to the Louder Than My Demons YouTube channel, where I share the victories, the setbacks, and everything in between. Thanks for reading, and thank you for being part of the journey. Recover LOUD! Jozey Louder Than My Demons
A Letter to Myself | 500 Days Sober
A Letter to Myself — 500 Days Sober Today marks 500 days sober. That sentence still feels strange to write. There was a point in my life where I honestly didn’t know if I was capable of changing. Not really changing. Not temporarily getting it together. Not surviving another rough patch. I mean truly rebuilding my life from the ground up. A year and a half ago, I was exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. I was losing myself slowly and pretending I wasn’t. The alcoholism kept growing. The cocaine use kept growing. The boundaries in my life kept slipping. And like a lot of people struggling internally, I became very good at hiding pieces of myself while convincing myself I still had control. Until eventually… I didn’t. What followed was the hardest period of my life. Not just because of what happened around me… but because for the first time, I had to honestly look at myself. I had to stop blaming. Stop running. Stop numbing. Stop pretending. And I had to ask a question that changed everything: Who do I become now? The answer didn’t come overnight. It came through rehab. Through therapy. Through faith. Through difficult conversations. Through consequences. Through patience. Through discipline. Through learning how to sit still with myself again. And somewhere during all of that, the foundation for Louder Than My Demons started forming. Not as a brand. Not as a podcast. As survival. The Five S’s slowly became part of my life: Sobriety. Spirituality. Self-Care. Strength. Songwriting. And eventually… Service. Because I’ve learned something over these last 500 days: Selfish recovery doesn’t last. Healing really begins when your pain starts helping somebody else survive theirs. I’m not writing this because I think I have all the answers. I definitely don’t. I’m still rebuilding. Still learning. Still growing. Still healing. But I also know this: I’m not the same man I was 500 days ago. I’ve become closer to God. Closer to my children. Closer to the people who truly stood beside me when life fell apart. My son showed strength and grace beyond his years and helped guide me closer to Christ during some of the darkest moments of my life. My daughter never stopped believing in me. My family. My friends. Stacie. Curran. My band. They helped hold me together when I honestly wasn’t sure I could do it myself. And somewhere along the way… I realized love didn’t disappear from my life. It just showed up in places I wasn’t looking for. I also realized something else: Numbers aren’t the point. Not views. Not downloads. Not followers. Truth is the point. Connection is the point. Service is the point. If one person listens to something I say late at night and realizes they aren’t alone… that matters. So for my 500th sober day, I decided to write a letter to the version of myself who thought everything was over. The version of me sitting in confusion, fear, shame, anger, addiction, and uncertainty. The version of me who couldn’t yet see what was still possible. This is that letter. Watch the Full Video Today at 6:00 PM, I’ll be premiering the live reading of this letter on YouTube. This was filmed in one take. No script edits. No performance. Just the truth. ▶️ Watch the premiere here: https://youtu.be/7BqUYcqodKc December 29, 2024 A Letter To Jozey “Dear Jozey… I know you think your life is over. I know you’re sitting there replaying every conversation… every mistake… every warning sign… trying to figure out where everything broke. You keep asking why. Why this happened. Why it ended this way. Why somebody you loved could choose destruction over peace. And maybe the hardest thing you’re going to learn… is that you may never get that answer. She chose. She chose how this story unfolded. She chose how far things went. She chose actions you couldn’t control. And eventually… you’re going to have to stop trying to understand every choice another person made… and start focusing on your own. That’s the part nobody tells you about survival. At some point… you stop asking: ‘Why did this happen to me?’ And you start asking: ‘Who am I going to become now?’ Right now, you don’t know that. Right now you’re exhausted. You’re angry. You’re embarrassed. You’re heartbroken. You feel like your identity collapsed overnight. You lost the woman you loved. You think everybody is staring at the worst moment of your life. And they are. But if you’re honest… this didn’t happen overnight. Your alcoholism kept growing. The cocaine use kept growing. Your boundaries kept slipping. Little compromises. Little lies to yourself. Little moments where you ignored the voice telling you something wasn’t right anymore. And eventually… all of it catches up to you. And that part hurts to admit. But it’s the truth. And the truth is the first thing that finally starts setting you free. But here’s what you don’t understand yet… this isn’t the end of your story. It’s the beginning of the first honest chapter you’ve lived in a very long time. You’re going to realize very quickly that you cannot survive this alone. And for the first time in a long time… you’re going to ask for help. Real help. Rehab. Therapy. A great lawyer. And somehow… when your entire world feels like it’s collapsing… you’re going to find the right one of each. Exactly the people you needed. Not to save you. But to help you rebuild yourself. You’re going to spend a long time trying to understand why all of this happened. And eventually… you’re going to realize that some answers never come. Some people choose chaos. Some people choose destruction. Some people choose to hurt others. And you can drown trying to understand it. Or… you can rebuild. And that’s what’s coming. Not all at once. Not overnight. Not easily. But slowly… you’re going to start becoming somebody stronger. And just when you think everything is over…