Alcohol vs. Heroin

It’s a closer comparison than I’d previously thought. Check out the data: Roughly 100,000 Americans die from alcohol-related incidents each year. Fewer than 100,000 people lose their lives to drug overdose.

It’s enough to get you thinking. But what really stopped me in my tracks was a comparison Morgan Godvin (pictured, right) drew in our conversation, in the latest episode of 40,000 Steps Radio. I, like many of you, have struggled to fully embrace the concept of harm reduction. Until I started doing my homework on sites like needle exchanges recently, I couldn’t comprehend how we as a society would knowingly stand by as people did heroin - let alone provide them with clean needles to shoot up.

Ready to have your mind blown? As Morgan asked me to consider designated drivers. What do they do, fundamentally? They allow people to drink so much that they pose a mortal threat. So if people are going to drink, or if they’re going to do heroin, it’s our moral responsibility to help them do it safely.

Let’s take this a step further. The designated driver doesn’t advise the alcoholic on how to extract themselves from addiction. Conversely, at those needle exchanges, staff provide resources and counsel, with the hopes of creating a pathway out of addiction for users.

Morgan founded Beats Overdose with the mission of providing harm reduction resources and education at hip-hop shows, and boy does she have a powerful partner in Rhymesayers. You might have heard of a couple of their clients: Atmosphere and Cypress Hill. Hip-hop fans are going to use drugs, right? Many of them right there at the venue. But Morgan will be there, too, with her crew, offering them a pathway toward a brighter future.

Learn more about her and Beats Overdose at her website, morgangodvin.com.

The time I got dressed down by Clint Malarchuk

Jack Black would be so disappointed. I wish I’d kept recording after my podcast conversation with former NHL All-Star Clint Malarchuk. ALWAYS RECORD!!

Clint and I hung out in the studio for a few, and I leveled with him. I hadn’t been sleeping well the past couple of nights. He asked why, and I leveled with him. I’d been nervous as hell about our conversation - not because he was Clint Malarchuk, necessarily, but because I’d overprepared. Having read his book, I knew I’d have to ask questions I already knew the answers to, for the benefit of the listener. But I also wanted to dig into the story behind the story, and what makes Clint tick. I’m at my best when I don’t know the answers. This is why I rarely do pre-interviews. I like conversations to be organic. So leading up to our chat, I turned myself inside out trying to plan how to strike that balance.

And OK, yeah, he’s also the guy who nearly bled out on the ice, and who put a bullet in his skull, centimeters from his brain. There’s a certain amount of intensity there, right?

Clint laid into me (gently, mind you), as any good coach would. Why didn’t I just reach out to him in advance? Why did I cost myself sleep?

Again, I wish I’d kept recording. I needed that reminder. Here I am, the guy who interviews people every week about mental health, and the guy who bangs the drum that it’s OK to be vulnerable, that the only way to live is authentically. Yet I worried that if I’d shown any weakness, that my guest might think less of me. That I might lose the booking altogether.

It felt so damn good to be open and honest with Clint about my mental gymnastics. I held up my show notes, which are usually three or four bullet points. In this case, it was a damn script. A schedule. A rigid outline. All the things I hate. I tried to tear it in half and only ripped a corner off.

“You can’t even rip that paper in half. You’re a mess right now!” Clint said.

Evidence

I busted up laughing. He was right. I was so frazzled I couldn’t properly rip a sheet of paper. He knew exactly how to push the right button in that moment. That’s Clint. The player’s coach.

Look forward to hearing his story in the Feb. 22 episode of the podcast. And order his book. It’s damn good.

Men suffer from body dysmorphia, too

I need to talk about this photo.

My initial reaction was, "Man, do I have a strangely shapen body." Not pride that I got out for a run in the wind and cold just hours after swimming and riding the bike. Not satisfaction that I pulled off the photo despite my entry-level self-timer skills. I immediately felt embarrassed.

I come from a long line of barrel-chested men. I can often joke about it - and mean it, and not just deflect with humor. But sometimes, I absolutely obsess over this feature that, no matter how hard I try, I cannot change. And that, frankly, is just one aspect of this body that carries me through every day. This body that can withstand the cold, the heat, the miles, the blood, sweat and tears.

My reaction to my reaction was shame that, no matter how much I've learned about eating disorders and body dysmorphia, I still slip into this tired thought process. But that reaction is valid. My feelings are valid. Simply dismissing them as skinny white male problems isn't healthy either.

I’m reminded of an episode of “This Is Us”, in which a character suffering from anorexia is judged harshly in an eating disorder recovery meeting. The group’s reaction is, “Get the hell out of here with your ‘skinny girl’ problems.” The episode ends up providing a valuable lesson, that no eating disorder is more serious than another.

To take it a step further, I’m inclined to abstain from the conversation because I’m a man. But to do so would keep men like me struggling in silence. It’s an incredibly complicated issue. I’m all in on talking about it, and grateful that society is becoming more willing to give me a seat at the table.

I was hooked on marijuana

Let’s establish this first: You don’t have to be willing to perform sex acts in exchange for drugs to be an addict.

Bob Saget/Half Baked references aside, it’s time to drop the “You can’t be addicted to pot” narrative.” I was hooked on pot during college, and the first few years after I graduated. I couldn’t bear to not be stoned. When my stash would run out, I’d be despondent. I didn’t want to live if I couldn’t be high.

I convinced myself that it was because I loved being high that much. The fact is, I was just that opposed to being me.

A friend in college told me, “It’s OK to smoke as long as you’re not doing it to be someone else.” I felt reassured. Enabled. I was just after the high, right? To feel something else? In hindsight, I was in complete denial. I was, in fact, trying to be someone else - anybody other than me.

I used marijuana to self-medicate, to numb myself against the depression and anxiety I’d felt as long as I can remember. Ironically, the pot made me super-paranoid, so that was hardly good for anxiety. Well, to solve that problem, I became reclusive. The only time I was comfortable in public was when I was around other people who were drinking or stoned.

So let’s not get into semantics. I don’t want to hear that the brain’s chemical reaction to marijuana doesn’t constitute addiction. We can get addicted to anything. Booze. Work. Sex. Exercise. Rage.

I’ve heard from a number of people recently who are really struggling to quit smoking pot, and my heart goes out to them. They’re addicted. Just like I was. I wish I’d asked for help sooner.

If you or someone you love can’t give up pot, call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Association National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP.

That time the universe threw me a life-preserver

Here’s one from the file of hard-to-believe, the-universe-is-weird stories.

So, I'm dead set on getting into triathlons. However, as a severely anxious person who's more or less terrified of water, and who's been struggling through a stretch of mental health hell, learning to swim has been freaking HARD.

I just had a breakthrough. I hopped into the massive, frigid pool at the YMCA and, using some tips I got recently, crushed two lengths. I was straight-up gliding, yo.

Then I realized I hadn’t pulled down my goggles. They'd come off and sunk to the bottom of the pool. I immediately flushed with embarrassment and its close friend, skin-crawling anxiety. I wanted to bail. I wanted to head straight to the car, sell my nearly new swimming cap/goggles/earplugs/sexy trunks, my running shoes and my bike, and then move to the mountains.

I took some deep breaths. Then in my attempt to get out of the pool, my foot slipped off the ledge, and I looked like a raccoon on drugs trying to scramble up to the deck. By the grace of Sweet Baby Jesus, I got up and, tail between my legs, walked over to the lifeguard to ask if anyone snatched my goggles from the water and brought them to him (I thought they'd float). He scanned the water.

Him: "There they are, about 10 meters out."

Me: "OK, cool, I'll get 'em."

As you've gleaned, I'm not a good swimmer (yet). Nonetheless, because I'm terrified of admitting I can't do something, I attempted to SWIM UNDERWATER and get them from the bottom of the 10-foot section of the pool. Yeah, I don't get me either.

I climbed out, slightly more gracefully this time, and confessed I'm learning to swim and couldn't get them. He fetched a net on an absurdistly long pole, but couldn't retrieve them.

My mind drifted to the mountains - me sitting in a rocking chair, whittling in peace. Then a voice from the lane next to mine snapped me back to reality: "Hey, Chris."

It was my neighbor, Erin - someone with whom I've had open and honest conversations about my mental health issues and my sobriety. I told her my predicament, and like a supercharged guppy, she swam to the bottom and retrieved them.

We chatted for a minute, as I breathed deeply and recentered myself.

Then I swam 18 lengths. They were not pretty, certainly not after the first couple. Several times, I panicked over my breathing and went to my safe place: the backstroke.

But I racked up 20 lengths. I immediately used the momentum and ran 4 miles when I got home. On a broader scale, I need to use the life preserver the universe had thrown me. How in the blazes did I end up swimming in the lane next to Erin? I'd never even seen her at the Y. And there she was, to pull me back from the brink.

I was trying to figure out how to wrap up this entry, and the universe and our husky took care of it for me. To balance things out, she threw up all over a rug downstairs from my office. Rushing to make it to a 1 p.m. meeting, I tried picking it up quickly, only for it to fall out of the paper towel and onto another part of the rug, where it scattered and created a much bigger mess. Then I came upstairs to learn the meeting was postponed.

At least it gave me time to clean up downstairs. Oh, universe. You cray.

This is My Brave, too

Rich, one of 12 performers at the 2019 This Is My Brave show in DeKalb, belts out “The Ukulele Anthem” by Amanda Palmer at The Egyptian Theatre. (Screenshot courtesy of This Is My Brave)

I was a nervous wreck. This was going to be a great meeting. I knew I was about to gain a crucial member to my team for This Is My Brave. Yet as I gave an overview of the show, my skin crawled. I could hear my voice shake. I wanted to crawl under the table, get into the fetal position and cry.

I’ve never been able to explain why my anxiety sometimes runs absolutely wild, why it ties me in knots. That’s the thing about mental illness. There’s often no good explanation. As I’d hoped, during that meeting at OC Creative, a team of creative geniuses here in DeKalb, I came away with an absolute marketing/social media genius in Dana Herra, not to mention the muscle of the company itself, as its owner Brian Oster committed to designing anything we need - including a freaking website, for Pete’s sake.

As I got into my car after the meeting, I began to sob tears of joy. This show means a lot to me. If you haven’t heard of This Is My Brave, it’s a national organization that puts on shows around the country that star members of the community who bravely share their stories of triumphs over mental illness. Coincidentally, when the show was in town in spring of 2019, I missed it because I was in rehab. Now I’m producing the show Oct. 13 at The Egyptian Theatre downtown. It’s surreal. Stay tuned for updates on the show. And if you’re local, let me know if you’d like to get involved. I’m still interviewing folks for the roles of fundraising manager and director, and we’re holding auditions this spring.

When I got home from the meeting, I decided I’d record the first episode of Season 2 of 40,000 Steps Radio - mostly because I wanted to be raw and vulnerable, but also because I’d planned to go to the Y after the meeting, but there were bagels, so I was still digesting.

After 50 episodes in Season 1 starred amazing people from the mental health community, I decided to share my story - for new listeners and longtime listeners who only knew bits and pieces.

Then I went for a run. Afterward, all traces of crippling anxiety had been converted into productive energy, like diamonds squeezed from coal.

It doesn’t always work out that way, but there’s a case to be made for grabbing the bull that is anxiety by the horns and making it serve you. I hope you get the chance to do just that this week, and that you tell me all about it.

New Year, newfound energy

It’s been 4 1/2 months since I last blogged - 133 days, to be precise. Pretty absurd, given that my career has centered around writing, and that I’ve just recently fallen head over heels with audio - podcasting, specifically.

But writing for me sort of became like a mailman going for a walk on his day off. I needed a breather. So I took one. In fact, you might have noticed I also gave myself 3 weeks off from 40,000 Steps Radio for the holidays.

Somewhere along this mental health/substance abuse recovery advocacy journey, I shifted my emphasis to other people’s stories. Because I love stories. Everyone has a unique one, yet in every podcast conversation, I’ve come away with something that resonated deeply. Even if it was a guest with whom I didn’t feel a deep connection, I took something from their story, considered it, and often applied it to my life.

But in exclusively focusing on the guests, I lost one of the greatest things I have to offer. As a former high-functioning, closet drinker, I unfortunately represent a troublingly large part of our population that’s suffering in silence. As someone who’s battled depression and anxiety since before I hit puberty, I’ve got a lot of company. I got into advocacy because I wanted to leverage the crap I went through, and that which I put my loved ones through, to help others. I’ve missed doing just that.

So I’m back to blogging. I’m going to resume doing IGTV/Facebook Live videos at 11 a.m. CST each Tuesday and Thursday, to share my insights (some valuable, some emotional, some downright irreverent) and keep building this community I love so very much.

I’m going to kick off the live videos with a chat on New Year’s resolutions. I don’t think they’re silly, as many do. I just think the approach to a New Year’s resolution is crucial. As a universal theme, we need to focus on lifestyle, and the journey, rather than end goals, or achievements. Personally, I’m committing to meditating at least 5 minutes every day. That’s going to help me accomplish, and enjoy, other aspects of life. Makes for a better journey, don’t you think?

So what’s your resolution(s)? What’s your approach? I’d love to hear, so hop into the chat at 11 a.m. Tuesday, Dec. 4, on IGTV (@40000_steps), or on Facebook Live. See you there!

“It gets easier …

But it never gets easy.”

- Jason Isbell

That lyric from “It Gets Easier” gives me comfort as someone in lifelong recovery. It reminds me that it’s OK that certain things will always be a challenge. That also applies to cutting the cord and surrendering control as the girls go to school.

Almost a year and a half ago, I became a stay-at-home dad, and it’s one of the greatest things that ever happened to me. Without being laid off because of the pandemic, we never would have gone on countless adventures together. Those dozens of picnics wouldn’t have happened. The girls and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to laugh, learn and grow together every day.

Christ, I’m getting misty as I type this. But I assure you, I sat down to say this has already gotten easier.

The fact that the girls aren’t as safe as they were at home makes my skin crawl. The fact that they could be safer at school if people would simply be conscientious by masking up and getting the vaccine makes my blood boil.

But when we get to the front door of the school, they’re eager to get in there. And as they run to me at 3:30 p.m., they’re bursting with stories about their day.

That makes this change more than bearable. But what remains is a quiet house while their not here, and a guy struggling with his identity now that he’s not the primary caretaker from sunrise to sunset. Being a dad was my greatest goal in life, so not having them downstairs playing, or reading, or hanging out on their Chromebooks without permission is making me feel a bit empty.

So I’m doing what I can to fill that void. Naturally, I’m throwing myself headfirst into work. The doggos are back to their early pandemic workout routine, as we get out for walks every 4 hours or so. I’m sneaking in some strength-training here and there - something I desperately need to do as I train for a 101K in December.

I’m also sitting here and writing about my feelings. It hurts a little bit, but so does hydrogen peroxide. This is me healing. This is me grieving. This is me getting better.

Meet Allison!

I mean, I hope you’ve already met Allison Grady. She starred in Episode 27 of 40,000 Steps Radio, during which she opened up about her battles with mental illness and an eating disorder. If you haven’t listened yet, I’ll wait right here while you do so.

OK, now that we’re all caught up, I’m overjoyed to be working with Allison. She’ll be co-hosting the occasional episode of the podcast. In fact, she made her debut in Episode 32, starring my longtime comrade, Matt Kadow, a teacher and a hockey coach who’s built a culture of putting athletes’ brains and mental health first.

On the surface, Allison and I are on different journeys.

I’m nearly 42 years into mine, while she’s about half my age.

She’s a standout college track sprinter. After she led her high school to a state title, biology stepped in and changed her body, which led to her times going down. That led to a battle with depression, anxiety, disordered eating and, eventually, a full-fledged eating disorder.

As a dude, I can’t relate to my body changing so dramatically, with little to no warning. In the same way, she can’t relate to my recovery from alcoholism.

We might not understand the fine details of our journeys, but we both identify with the roots of our struggles: grief, being empathic to a fault, mental illness, and other underlying battles.

It’s sort of like we’re on similar journeys, heading in the same cardinal direction. We’re just taking different routes. I’d say she’s on the interstate and I’m wending my way along back roads, but let’s be honest. We’re both careening around the countryside, getting lost, finding our way back, and trying our best to just follow that North Star.

Allison is bringing a fresh perspective to the podcast. Please join me in welcoming her!

It’s time we reset the bar

I could hear it coming. In a soundbite broadcast during primetime coverage of the 2021 Tokyo Olympics last night, Simone Biles talked about her fear leading up to her world-class routines.

In the spirit of transparency, these next two paragraphs are new as of 7:20 p.m. CST on Tuesday. I just, for the first time, watched the reel of Simone’s routines over the past couple of days during primetime coverage. The look on her face after both of her attempts at the vault, her signature routine, just shattered my heart. That was the look of a human being, who was considered worldwide to be impervious to pressure, collapsing mentally and emotionally under the weight of expectations no person should ever have to meet.

It was jarring to see her seemingly permanent smile replaced by desperation and helplessness. Even after a floor routine that was far below his standards on Monday, fellow American Sam Mikulak beamed with pride. That’s what these athletes are trained to do, no matter how much anguish they’re feeling inside.

Over the years, Biles has become a media darling not just because she’s the greatest gymnast of all time, or because of that traffic-stopping smile. She’s also become magnetic to journalists because of her willingness to talk about her fears. She’s even gone so far as to say fear makes the sport fun.

I can identify. Leading up to every interview, every race, every musical performance, I’m terrified. And I pride myself on my ability to squeeze that coal of fear and turn it into a diamond. There are few feelings of euphoria as rewarding as entering a situation petrified, and emerging the all-conquering hero.

But what happens when you don’t crush it? Or in Simone’s case, what happens when you’re slightly less than superhuman?

What happens when we lie to others, or even worse to ourselves, by saying that beating back fear is fun?

If you’re questioning my take that Biles has been disingenuous about how much fun she was having, read this paraphrasing by my most trusted news source, the New York Times:

“Four or five years ago, she said, she would have suffered through the competition despite being in mental turmoil, even chancing a serious injury.”

People-pleasing is an absolute epidemic. Over the years, Biles has endured thousands of traumatizing cuts by putting others’ approval ahead of her own happiness.

If that sounds brutal and presumptuous, I assure you we can smell our own. I’m a notorious people-pleaser, so with every passing paragraph of that NYT article, my eyes welled up with more tears as I empathized with Biles.

But I’m coming away from this situation feeling heartened, much the way I did when Naomi Osaka stepped away from professional tennis to focus on her mental health:

First off, Biles’ disclosure is being received by a world that’s a little more compassionate and empathetic than it would have been in 2016. I wouldn’t say we’ve come a long way, but we’ve made progress, and the pandemic has expedited our ability to show compassion to people suffering mental anguish.

Second, I’m grateful that the Simones and Naomis of the world are being open and honest about their suffering, sending tidal waves of awareness across the globe.

Finally, they’re doing more than just talking about it, then pinning their ears back and continuing to compete. They’re honoring their suffering and giving themselves the space to heal.

I’m as eager to share that amazing feat with my daughters. To me that’s even more remarkable than winning four gold medals.

Where’s the trigger warning?

Trigger warning: This blog entry discusses people promoting non-alcoholic drinks without issuing trigger warnings.

I remember the first time I tried a craft non-alcoholic beer. Even though I felt rock-solid in my recovery, I did my research on the potential dangers. I called several people I know and let them know what I was about to do. I sat across the table from that glass and stared at it for a few minutes. Sort of like this.

I installed safety nets galore because my sobriety is my most prized possession. I was wary that if that brew tasted anything like craft beers I’d sampled across the Midwest, I couldn’t predict exactly how my brain would react. There was the real possibility I could hop in the car and drive straight to the liquor store, in pursuit of “the real thing.”

I’ve been learning a lot about trigger warnings, and I’ve redoubled my efforts to include them in the podcast, or any of my advocacy where the subject matter and details could dredge up old memories, or romanticize activities that nearly killed people like me.

In the world at large, I’m seeing more and more trigger and content warnings, so …

(* Pulls soapbox to the center of the room *)

I’m pissed (not that kind of pissed. Angry, in this case) that I’m seeing a barrage of people in the social media recovery community who relentlessly post about non-alcoholic drinks. Look, I’m happy for the overwhelming number of people being named ambassadors by Athletic Brewing Co. I assume they’re getting a sweet discount, maybe a T-shirt or hat, and a few bucks off a race registration.

Here’s the thing, though. It only takes one moment of weakness to completely fuck up someone’s life. Maybe one sip of a non-alcoholic beer triggers memories so strong that the consumer simply can’t keep themselves from reverting to rituals that once nearly destroyed them. Maybe it’s that cognitive dissonance, that what they’re tasting isn’t giving them a buzz, that drives them to find something that will. Because maybe they realize they weren’t in it for the taste, like they thought, and they’re not going to be denied satisfaction.

So, are you cool with posting videos of you pouring a non-alcoholic beer, with the possibility someone is going to be triggered and relapse? Me, neither. Wait, you said no, right?

If you said yes, let me keep making my case, then.

According to one of my favorite sources for addiction and recovery data, The Recovery Village, more than 70 percent of people struggling with alcohol abuse will relapse at some point. More than 30 percent of them falter in their first year of sobriety.

But surely non-alcoholic beer producers are carefully screening their ambassador applicants, making sure they’ve got at least 1 year of sobriety, right? Nope. Or those applicants are lying. I follow (well, followed) a number of ambassadors who don’t have a year of sobriety. One of them has less than two months.

Look, I’m not an old-timer from Boston AA who’s going to tell you I’ve spilled more alcohol than you’ve drunk. But despite emerging from rehab with a finely tuned recovery program, and with an All-Star support system, I waited nearly 2 years to sample a non-alcoholic beer.

I’ve posted a photo of an AF brew exactly once. And like that glass of beer, I stared at the post, read it and re-read it multiple times, before I posted it.

So why the hell did I post it? Well, did you read it? Yes, the post is a ringing endorsement of Athletic’s Run Wild IPA. But here’s the paragraph at the heart of it.

It’s a trigger warning.

If you’re promoting non-alcoholic drinks, please put one at the top of your next post. Hell, you can copy and paste mine. It’s on the house.

Congratulations, I’m Sorry

I’ll never forget the day my wife and I found out we were having twin girls. I was over the moon. By and large, boys are gross. Oftentimes they’re far less sensitive, I sure as hell don’t fall into that category, so I was excited that having girls would offer a better chance that I’d have children who shared my empathetic wiring.

I was also pumped for my parents - my mom, in particular - who already had two sons and was hoping to name me Mandy, until it was revealed her youngest, too, would be a boy.

As my elation faded, it occurred to me that it would be a challenge to raise daughters in a world that cruelly demands that women look a certain way. Barbie is one of the worst things to happen to our society. Her body is anatomically impossible, for f___’s sake. She never aged. Her body never changed. Real women’s bodies do.

My wife, Kayla, shows our daughters, Anna and Elise, her Milwaukee Marathon medal after the 2015 Lakefront Marathon in Milwaukee.

As a sports writer, it broke my heart when a freshman would shatter all her school’s cross country records, and by the time she was a senior, she would be battling to advance through postseason regionals.

That young girl’s hips weren’t to blame, though. It’s the rest of us in society. The parents and coaches who dangerously live vicariously through our children and insist that if they work harder - run more, hit the weight room more - they’ll get back to whipping ass.

It’s as impossible as it will be for my daughters to keep up with the highlight reels they’ll see in social media. I fear they’ll do anything to avoid body-shaming that runs rampant in our society.

So what the hell do I do? Well, lucky me, the answer is better phrased as “Here’s what WE’LL do.” My wife doesn’t look like Barbie - thank Christ. She’s much sexier. She’s 5-foot-4, has gorgeous curves and muscles as big as mine. And that’s just on the surface. Since the girls were born, they’ve watched her run dozens of races. They’ve watched her take joy in cooking and use food to celebrate with friends and family.

I asked Allison Grady, the incredible guest of the latest episode of 40,000 Steps Radio, for some tips on how to raise daughters and help them avoid the sort of hell she’s lived through. In the podcast, she opened up about her battles with disordered eating, depression and anxiety.

Allison Grady, a standout sprinter who was recently named captain of North Central College’s women’s track and field team, smiles at a recent indoor meet.

To my relief, she said the best tool in our belt is modeling. That we can do. But don’t misunderstand me. It won’t be easy. Since getting sober, I’ve gotten into the best shape of my life. Yet I’ll catch myself beating myself up if I overeat, or if I happen to feel bloated one day and judge myself when I look in the mirror and my stomach isn’t perfectly flat. It’s gross. Not the stomach, but the knee-jerk reaction I need to work on.

But I’m willing to do the work. Not just for my kiddos, but for Allison, and all the Allisons to come. She preached to me and my listeners the importance of body neutrality - a term I’d never heard. Body positivity focuses on celebrating the outward appearance of your body. That creates an unfair disadvantage for those of us who didn’t inherit what society considers terrific genes. I’ll always have man boobs, tiny wrists. I’ll never have a jaw. No number of pushups are changing those things.

Body neutrality keys on what we can do with our bodies, and accepting them as nothing more than a body - a vessel for everything we seek to accomplish.

Let me catch myself there. How about everything we seek to experience? Because that’s what I truly want for my girls: a life full of experiences. That’s what I want to share with them. And brownies and pie, of course. I can share the brownies and pie, I suppose.

On suicide: It could have been me

No episode of 40,000 Steps Radio has shaken me like Episode 25, starring Michelle Chestovich. I was giving it a final listen yesterday before publishing it, and I found myself shuddering as I cried at my desk. I couldn’t help but imagine the harrowing scene Mike Butler walked in on without warning. His wife and Michelle’s “baby sister”, Gretchen, had hung herself.

Just when I pulled myself together, toward the end of the episode Michelle shares her daughter’s baffled response to Gretchen - a dynamo, a celebrated physician, a supermom and a friend who’d give you the shirt off her back - taking her own life.

“But she was the fun one.”

My blood went cold. Because I’ve always been the fun one.

Yet countless times, in the wee hours of mornings, I lay in bed wishing I could simply disappear. If it weren’t for the incredible woman lying in bed next to me, and my darling girls across the hall, I’m certain I would have killed myself.

How could it have been Christopher? I’m sure that’s how my friends and family would have reacted. Christopher with the beautiful family, with the successful career as a newspaper editor. Christopher the marathoner. Christopher the fun one.

The reality is that Christopher many times considered driving out of town with enough liquor in tow to either kill himself with the booze, or by eventually driving into the ocean.

I can’t tell you why the afternoon of March 22, 2019, was the moment I decided to ask for help. That I decided I had to go to rehab. That I was willing to do whatever it took to take my life back.

Already with countless beers under my belt, I snapped and walked out of the newspaper office, bought more beer and decided I’d drink myself to death in a parking spot near the airport. I got through several beers before I had the storied moment of clarity and messaged Kayla, asking her to pick me up and get me help. She did, of course. After a night in the ER, the following Monday I checked into treatment. I’d love to say we haven’t looked back, but of course we have. We need to know our enemy to keep us safe.

I could talk about this all day. The misery I was experiencing. The thrashing, screaming and sobbing in our bedroom as I said I wanted to vanish. The days on end without me saying much of anything as I withdrew from everyone. The hiding. The self-hatred.

But here’s where we flip the script. I’ve never been happier and healthier than I am today. I got my life back, and I take time to practice gratitude every day.

I am hope personified. Please latch onto that and use it. If you’re suffering, know you’re not alone. Someone is waiting to help, whether it’s a friend, a family member, or someone ready to answer the phone at a suicide hotline.

If you have the slightest inkling someone you love is suffering, be the place where they can ask for help. Be available. Ask how you can help. If they express they have a problem, don’t let that opportunity get away from you. They’re asking for help. Do everything in your power to find it for them.

I’ll leave you with this. I’m so glad you’re here. And I’m so glad to be here with you.

Put some cheese on that broccoli

As we dissected the semantics of “self-help” in the most recent episode of 40,000 Steps Radio, Brian Hazard and I were laughing like brothers Tom and Ray Magliozzi, hosts of the legendary NPR show “Car Talk” (RIP, Tom). People are repulsed by the term “self-help”, even while they’re pushing the importance of taking care of ourselves. Here’s a transcript:

Me: Even still while I think about self-help, even though what I’m doing is kind of self-help-ish … It wasn’t until I was like 30 that I stopped mocking self-help. Talk about deflection. Did you go through that?

Brian: Well, think about the irony, that our entire society is based on this idea that you’re supposed to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and take care of yourself. And yet we shit on the term self-help immediately.

“You need to take care of yourself.”

“Oh, you like with self-help?”

“No, not that. Don’t say that word. You’re supposed to help yourself, not self-help.”

Our guts busted, and by the time our interview wrapped up, my face hurt. Only first when I was having coffee with Deanna Cada, my new bestie and the executive director of the DeKalb County Mental Health Board, did I realize how important the hilarious back-and-forth was.

Ever since the episode dropped, I’ve been promoting it as laugh-out-loud funny. Which it is. I knew much of what we talked about - hating Nickelback as a social faux pas, the deeply unsettling feeling of eye contact over Zoom, and the struggles associated with being left-handed - would appeal to the nerds in the listenership. But when I heard that the podcast stopped someone in their tracks and made them rethink things they thought they fully understood, my heart grew two sizes. After all, that’s how I got sober (and how I stay sober): I had to rethink so many things about why I was drinking, and on a more transcendental level, why I’m here.

While hanging out with Deanna, I spent a few minutes throwing out my shoulder patting myself on the back, as we talked about the way the podcast covers a vast array of issues, and how it conveys that there are countless paths to recovery - be it recovery from substance abuse or unnecessary suffering from mental illness. Taking credit is extremely difficult for me, so it felt good to have breakthroughs where I actually feel proud about something I’m putting into the world. On Deanna’s advice, I plan to keep unpacking those breakthroughs at my next therapy appointment.

I guess I spent too much time laughing with Brian to realize we were talking about some seriously heavy stuff, and that we were serving food for thought. But I think that’s the point. For a lot of folks, talking about recovery and mental illness is like broccoli. It’s so good for us, but a lot of folks need some cheese to make that proverbial broccoli a bit more palatable. As a Wisconsin native, I’m happy to slather veggies with cheese, so we all get healthier together.

Meeting People is Easy

I used to think Radiohead was full of shit when they made that claim. But I’m coming around on the idea.

My 7-year-olds recently starting hanging out with the children of our neighbors two doors down. While we await the vaccine for littles, they’ve become our bubblemates. Even though the kiddos had just met, as I descended the stairs from the studio the other day, my heart melted as I saw my daughter Elise with her arm around the shoulder of 4-year-old Addie as they watched a movie together.

They make it look. So. Easy. It’s harder for us adults, right? But by opening up about my recovery and my battle with mental illness, what seemed so impossible before - making friends - is now a daily source of joy.

Next week, we’ll be doing another two-fer on 40,000 Steps Radio. I’ve got another episode in the can already, and it’s slated for July 6. That makes 25 brave souls who’ve starred on the podcast. And I’ve got another 13 guests penned in through October. This doesn’t take into account the folks who’ve said they’ll be on, but we haven’t pinned down a date yet.

How’s bragging camp going, you ask? Quite well, thanks.

Seriously, though, how did this happen? Organically, for the most part. As I run my finger down the guest list, a couple of them are folks I’ve known from a previous life. But some I’ve met through other guests. A few have reached out to me, having taken notice of what we’re up to here. In a couple of cases (see: Catra Corbett), I took a shot and cold-called them (cold-DM’d, really). Still waiting to hear back from Julien Baker. Any minute now …

I now consider all of these folks my dear friends. We check in on each other, and I’ve learned so much from them. I’m inspired daily as Martin Parker gets up before sunrise to get in his workout before his Parkinson’s symptoms ramp up. Danielle Mains opened my eyes to the impact addiction and mental illness have on the partner, and the entire family. This month alone, three guests on the pod have celebrated 20-plus years of sobriety. That provides so much comfort.

I’m looking forward to editing Corey Harrington’s book as his burgeoning career as a motivational speaker continues to …. burgeon? That’s not quite right. Anywho, Ryan Mains and I are running a 101K together in December. Michelle Quirk is crafting my calorie plan. Her company, Mindful Marathon, is a new paid sponsor of the podcast. She joins Ron Partch, owner of DUI & Behavioral Health Counseling Centers, and Gateway Foundation, where Jim Scarpace is executive direct. I don’t have a link for Jim yet. He’s down for June 29.

Look, I know what I’m doing isn’t for everyone. For many in recovery or battling mental illness, 100 percent anonymity is where it’s at. But a little bit of community goes a long way. You can be anonymous and find terrific communities on social media. You can hit virtual meetings and never show your face. But if you’re longing for more, deeper connections with people fighting the same fights, they can be found. As always, if you’re in a crisis, call 9-1-1, or Google whatever issue you’re facing, and there’s a hotline out there for you.

If you just wanna talk, your boy is always here. Email me at christopher@40000steps.com. I’ve suddenly found meeting people is easy.

Don’t you just love what I’ve done with the place?

Hey, you made it! Welcome to the shiny, new website. It kind of feels like I’ve made it, now that I have a URL that doesn’t include the word “wordpress”. I mean, 40000steps.com - it feels legit, doesn’t it?

Just about all the pieces are in place. In fact, the only missing element is merchandise, and I just pulled another trigger this morning by placing an order for my first batch of 40,000 Steps gear. So scour under those cushions, start saving all your loose change. You’ll soon be able to rep the podcast with a dope T-shirt and camping mug.

With the hopes of the good folks at Squarespace cutting me a big, fat check and becoming an advertising partner, I’ll tell you I’m super-pleased with the final product. All the elements are slick, smooth, and the site is easy to navigate. One difference you’ll notice between this site and the old one is that there’s a page exclusively for podcast episodes - which you can listen to, or download, right here on the site - and another page for The Big Blog.

And the site came together pretty quickly. Which worked out wonderfully because it was important to me to get this badboy up and running in time for my first episode starring a bona fide A-lister, Catra “Dirt Diva” Corbett.

Look, I love all my podchildren. And all of my guests deserve a standing ovation for having the guts to answer all the tough questions (tongue firmly in cheek), and to advance conversations surrounding addiction and mental illness. But it was generous of Catra to take a break from running whatever 200-mile race she’s currently making her bitch to star on a podcast that, while it’s bound for greatness, is still just a wee baby.

Although, with the launch of the new site, the pod certainly feels like, at the very least, a toddler taking its first massive, awkward steps. Enjoy the new site, and please let me know if you feel anything is wonky. We’re in this thing together, and I’m so grateful to have you with me on this journey.

It was like Christmas in June

As I’ve relentlessly written and podded about, theme months are great, but it’s crucial that we sustain awareness year-round. Nonetheless, whether it was as a newspaper editor or as a podcaster, I’ve always been mildly obsessed with timely planning and scheduling of story subjects. And I’m not sure I’ve ever been more proud of a series than I am of the lineup during June, which is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month.

Each and every guest has been affected by suicide, whether it was their own ideations while they were suffering from mental illness or addiction, or because, in the case of the June 29 guest, Michelle Chestovich, they lost a young, vibrant, compassionate, brilliant family member.

Here’s one of the things I love most about podcasting. All these June episodes are evergreen, as journalists call it. They’ll be as impactful a year from now as they are today. So even as June wraps up, let’s keep sharing these episodes around, whether on social media, or with people we think might benefit from hearing them. Let’s go one step further. Share them with everyone you love. You simply never know for sure who’s suffering in silence.

Here’s the rundown:

June 8: Dawn Kepler, Collegiate Recovery Community coordinator at Michigan State University. She's nearly 21 years sober, and at one point back when she was a student, she suffered suicidal ideations and kept pills in her backpack with the thoughts that she might take them at at once.

June 15: Catra Corbett. The "Dirt Diva", owner of more than 100 finishes in 100-plus-mile races, is a household name in both the trail-racing circuit and the recovery community. She'll celebrate 27 years of sobriety on June 24. Like most of us battling mental illness, she’s experienced suicidal ideations, and she’s lost many friends.

June 22: Brian Hazard. You'll want to tune in just for the story where he sets his hair on fire with grain alcohol. And you’ll want to be prepared for your face to hurt from laughing so hard. Brian is a counselor, a suicide survivor, a mental health champion, and on June 17, he celebrated 24 years of sobriety.

June 29: Michelle Chestovich. A doctor by day, Michelle gives advice to professionals battling burnout and mental health issues in her podcast Re-mind Yourself. But it wasn't until she lost her kid sister to suicide 3 months ago that she began learning about grief in earnest. As she goes along her journey, she's bringing her listeners along and turning up the volume on the subject of suicide prevention on social media.

I stand with Naomi Osaka

When I got the push notification that Naomi Osaka had withdrawn from the French Open, I cringed. Last week, she'd announced she wouldn't do press conferences after matches. She put the media on blast for asking the same questions repeatedly, causing her to doubt herself, and generally being disastrous for her mental health.

I've been a journalist more than 15 years, so the situation made me deeply uncomfortable. I confess I committed a cardinal sin by jumping to conclusions when I read the first few words of the notification (I had to click through to see the rest) "Naomi Osaka withdraws from French ...."

I'd already read on CNN this morning that she'd been fined for skipping the presser after her straight-sets victory in the first round. So I sat down ready to empathize with Naomi, but also to say I wasn't sure this was the right way to go about it. That she knew she'd be fined, and withdrawing from the event wouldn't make for good optics. That she knew what she'd signed up for.

Again, my initial reaction was short-sighted. And this is why we read the whole article - or at the very least, the whole headline for Pete's sake.

A Google search revealed that Naomi had not just withdrawn from the major event. She's stepping away from tennis altogether, indefinitely.

It broke my heart, because Naomi has been open about her prolonged bouts of depression since she won her first major, the 2018 U.S. Open.

It made me sad because Naomi a premier young talent, and her matches are appointment television for my girls and me.

It immediately made me wistful because one of the first visuals that came to mind was her wearing a Breonna Taylor mask at the U.S. Open last summer. That's the role model I want my kiddos watching.

Tears in my eyes, though, I stand and applaud her. It takes some serious bravery to step away when you're among the very best in the world at your craft. But Naomi sent a message we all need to hear, to believe, and to repeat: "It's OK to not be OK."

On a personal level, this situation resonates deeply. I was a pretty doggone good newspaper editor, but I couldn't continue to subject myself to the pain the job was inflicting on me.

I hope Naomi's actions might lead journalists to choose their questions more wisely. To read the room. At the very least to listen to the room and not repeat the same questions colleagues are asking, or simply rephrase them with the hopes of evoking a different response or getting the soundbite they already have in their head. That's bad journalism, and it's sadly common.

I hope she catches her breath and takes all the space she needs to heal. And I hope she returns some day. Whether or not she does, I'll be damn impressed either way.

Alcohol Awareness Month? Really?

I feel like that misnomer summarizes nicely why we should never stop making noise about issues such as alcohol ABUSE and sexual assault.

Someone at some point designated April as the month to focus on those issues. As Lynnea Erickson Laskowski emphasized in the latest episode of 40,000 Steps Radio, we need to keep them in the spotlight 24/7/365.

We also discussed the importance of using the right terminology when it comes to assault. For instance, Lynnea reserves her biggest, sturdiest soapbox for the strangle vs. choke debate. Rightfully so, as people predominantly associate choking with food. When someone is strangled, however, research shows it's likely that the strangler intends to murder the victim at some point.

Now let me step up onto my soapbox and say just how misguided the name Alcohol Awareness Month is. We all know what alcohol is. It's the only drug that average, everyday people will shame you for not using. It's everywhere. It's on your social media feed. It's in all your favorite shows. Did you notice that all but one advertisement during that game you're watching was for alcohol?

You might not have because our brains are bombarded by the narrative that it's normal to make alcohol a central part of your life. That it's how you have fun. That it's how you relax. That it's the solution to all your problems. Strike one, strike two, and strike three. In the long haul, all three of those intimations are false.

What most people aren't aware of is the scope of alcohol abuse. The jury is out on exactly what percentage of Americans are alcoholics. It's widely reported that it's one out of eight. At least one news source has had the audacity to say that figure is inflated. Conversely, back in 2015, JAMA Psychiatry estimated nearly 30 percent of people have exhibited symptoms of alcoholism at some point in their lives. As a guy who somehow hid his drinking and his symptoms from his family, friends, and employer, I think we'd be startled to know just how many people are suffering under the radar.

Now factor in a pandemic and the crippling anxiety stemming from issues that have dominated headlines this past year, and I shudder to think of what the real number looks like.

As for the fallout, check out these figures, courtesy of The Recovery Village. Heavy drinkers are ...

• 96% more likely to have their abilities as parents affected

• 85% more likely to be depressed

• 73% more likely to have seizures

• 43% more likely to have cancer

• 90% more likely to experience Delirium Tremens (a potentially fatal complication during detox)

• 2.06 times more likely to report high blood pressure

• 2.26 times more likely to report cardiovascular disease

• 2.77 times more likely to report nerve damage

Look, Alcohol Awareness Month is a misleading, if not reckless name. But at least it led some people to make some noise about addiction. For instance, my friends at Still I Run, a community of runners raising mental health awareness, asked me to pen a blog for them in recognition of the cause of the month.

Ironically, as we flip the calendar, the weather's just going to keep getting warmer, the rites of passage are coming, and the gatherings are going to ramp up. As the parties start, we need to keep cranking the volume when it comes to alcohol abuse awareness.

Thanks, Coach, for the pep talk

Michelle Quirk is one helluva coach. Through her side hustle, Mindful Marathon, the pediatrician-by-day coaches up aspiring runners and pavement-pounders who haven't laced 'em up in a while.

After graciously joining me on IGTV recently, and agreeing to be a guest on 40,000 Steps Radio, she returned the favor and featured me on her YouTube channel.

In our initial meeting a few weeks ago, I shared a bit of my story, including the fact that I'd run a marathon the day after I got out of rehab. She followed along gleefully. She even gasped a couple of times.

It struck me. My story is interesting. Just for good measure, she confirmed that out loud and asked that I tell it on her channel. I shared the dirty details of my drinking days, talked about going through rehab, and then I gave the blow-by-blow recap of the race. I felt like I was back out there again, experiencing all the revelations I felt during the marathon. It was exhilarating. It was therapeutic. And who knows. My story might even help a person or two.

It's easy for me to lose perspective. My story is my story, so to me it can feel wholly unremarkable. Then consider the fact that I cringe when complimented or acknowledged, and that I have this deep-seated insecurity that tells me I don't deserve to be happy, loved, and successful. I don't know where that came from. I was perfectly loved and supported as a child. But it's there. It's a whole thing, and I'm working on it.

With her grace, her warmth and her encouragement, Michelle ... well, there's no better way to put it. She made me feel special. And I'm eternally grateful for that.

I urge you to check out her coaching practice. Whether you think you need more mindfulness, better fitness, or simply someone like Michelle who will root you on tirelessly, guess what?

You're right.