Daily Jack Diary

January 2, 2026

Today a close friend of mine, David, is coming to visit. We’ve known each other for more than twenty years—through work, long business trips, shared projects, and a few memorable trips that had nothing to do with work at all. He’s been around for a lot of my life, including some of the darker stretches. He knows my family history, my son’s struggles, and my own long relationship with anxiety and depression. We’ve shared things with each other that don’t usually come up in casual conversation.

I don’t have big gatherings at my house anymore. I used to. Over the years, those slowly narrowed—from large groups, to smaller ones, to just one-on-one visits. That suits me better now. David is one of the few people I still invite over without hesitation.

Yesterday, though, something unsettled me.

I noticed a familiar heaviness creeping back in—a physical feeling more than a thought. Exhaustion. A kind of dull pressure in my body that I recognize too well. It felt uncomfortably close to how things were during my worst periods of depression. I took a nap in the afternoon, then another later on. I tried a hot bath. Nothing quite shook the feeling.

At some point, I checked my sleep data and realized I’d been averaging about five hours a night for the past couple of weeks. Between building the Diane Method site, preparing the launch, and releasing my new album, I’d quietly run myself into the ground. The realization was oddly comforting. This wasn’t a relapse—it was fatigue.

Once I allowed myself to rest, the fog began to lift. The relief was immediate, but it also brought something else with it: a reminder of how close that old terrain still feels in my mind. The idea of slipping back into that place lingers, even when things are going well.

There’s another layer to that fear, if I’m honest. I’ve come to believe that the Diane Method has helped me in a real way. I want that to be true—not just for me, but potentially for others. The idea that it might not hold up feels personal. That’s something I’m still sitting with.

While soaking in the bath, I happened to start listening to Woody Allen’s recent novel. I hadn’t looked into it beforehand, and it surprised me. The opening revolves around a man recounting his life out loud, talking himself toward clarity. No AI—just walking, speaking, and listening. The parallel was impossible to miss. It made me smile, and it also reminded me what skilled writing sounds like when it’s done well.

Mostly, though, today feels grounded again. I’m looking forward to spending time with a friend, having a normal day, and letting my nervous system settle back into its rhythm. Sometimes the work isn’t about pushing forward—it’s about noticing when to stop.