I was done. Absolutely, completely done with the whole thing. For six months, I’d been chasing this dumb idea, this startup concept that I just KNEW was going to be the next big deal, but it was nothing but a huge drain on my spirit.
I mean, you read those titles, right? The ones that promise some sudden, awesome shift, like everything is just going to align because Jupiter moved into the third house or whatever. That’s what I was unconsciously waiting for. I was living my life waiting for a headline to tell me everything was going to be okay. But while I was waiting, I was just letting the real stuff rot.
My work was suffering, my sleep was garbage, and every day felt like trying to push a wet blanket up a hill. The “passion” everyone talks about? I wouldn’t have known passion if it smacked me in the face with a two-by-four. It was all just screens and deadlines and arguing with people about features that nobody actually needed.
The Moment of Deletion
The real shift wasn’t some cosmic event. It was late on a Tuesday night, about two months back. I was staring at the pile of code I’d written for the app. Thousands of lines, months of my life, and a debt on my credit card for some server time I barely used. And I just thought, this is pathetic. This isn’t living. This is just hoping.
I hit the delete button. I archived the whole damn repository. It wasn’t a noble, dramatic exit. It was tired, sweaty relief. In the hour after I deleted the code, I slept better than I had in the entire previous year. That feeling—that sudden, silent peace—that was my “exciting change.” It wasn’t a prediction; it was an execution.
Putting My Hands Back in the Dirt
I had this old, busted-up shed in the backyard. It was supposed to be my workshop, but it was just a pile of rotten wood and ancient tools I hadn’t touched since college. That was my new project. Not digital, not scalable, just messy, physical work. I went from staring at a glowing screen to wrestling with rusty nails and splintered lumber.
This was the real “practice” I needed to log. The log of things that actually hurt my body but fixed my brain.
- First, I bought a proper respirator and safety goggles. I hadn’t realized how important safety was when the biggest threat I faced was carpal tunnel.
- I spent two whole days just tearing out the water-damaged drywall. The smell was something else. A mix of mold, old oil, and dead mice.
- The floor joists were half-rotted. I had to rip them out, buy new pressure-treated lumber, and learn to shim them correctly so the floor wouldn’t be all wobbly.
- I used a circular saw for the first time in years. Felt like a kid again. Made some absolutely terrible cuts, but who cares. That’s why you buy extra wood.
- The whole roof needed new shingles. I climbed up there with a buddy and spent a humid Saturday fighting the sun and nailing them down. Every single strike of the hammer felt like I was driving a nail into my old, miserable routine.
It was exhausting. I was sore for a week straight. My hands were rough, full of splinters, and my clothes were permanently dusty. But when I was standing out there, covered in sweat, looking at a wall I had just framed myself—it clicked.
The Real Passion
The new passion wasn’t some abstract love or a big business deal. It was the love of simple competence, of turning something completely useless and broken into a solid, functional thing. That’s the “passion” the title was talking about, maybe. The sheer satisfaction of seeing something built by your own effort, without anyone else’s approval or funding.
I wired up the lighting, installed a cheap workbench, and moved my old table saw in. Now, I spend my evenings out there. Not coding, not scrolling, but cutting wood, making simple joints, just building things that have shape and weight. Things that can’t be deleted with a single button press. That messy, physical, tangible work is what brought the excitement back. That’s my horoscope. It wasn’t about waiting for an alignment; it was about getting off my butt and aligning myself with the hammer and the saw.
