January 2-8, 2026

January 2–7, 2026

Looking back on this past week, what stands out most is not any single event, but how quietly my mood kept drifting.

At the start of the week, I thought I might be slipping back into familiar territory. Not emotionally at first — physically.

A heaviness in my body, mostly in the chest. That dull pressure I know too well. I took a nap. Then another. Tried a hot bath. Nothing lifted it. It felt uncomfortably close to how things used to begin.

Later I checked my sleep data and realized I’d been running on about five hours a night for weeks. Between building the Diane Method site, preparing the launch, and finishing my album, I’d quietly worn myself down.

The relief was immediate.This probably wasn’t depression. Maybe just fatigue.

Still, the fear lingered. How close that old terrain still feels. How easily my mind imagines falling back into it.

And beneath that, another thought I’m only beginning to admit: I want this method to be real. Not just comforting. Not just temporary. I want it to hold up.

A close friend came to visit mid-week — someone I’ve known for more than twenty years. We talked, listened to music, shared the easy kind of afternoon that only long friendships allow. He drank. I didn’t.

I’ve been sober five years now. Watching other people drink doesn’t bother me. What does stay with me is how often my own drinking was tied to boredom — drinking to pass time, to soften edges, to avoid being alone with my thoughts.

Without alcohol now, my mind is sharper, but it’s also restless.

That restlessness is something I’m still learning to read. Family and work come first, but right behind them is this persistent need for a project — a place to put energy. Momentum.

I tried music. I sat down a few nights and felt nothing. No pull. No spark. I haven’t given up on it, but I noticed something honestly: I may have done as much accessible music as I’m going to do, at least for now.

Then winter reminded me who I am. First day back to work. Seven a.m. walk with my dog. Freezing. I hated every minute of it.

I’ve always hated winter. Seasonal Affective Disorder fits me too well to deny. I don’t understand people who love the cold. The cold hurts. Everything slows. As you get older, it settles into your bones.

Give me sun. Give me heat. Give me life.

Still, I pushed through. Work resumed. Good courses ahead. Structure returned.

The most important thing I noticed this week is simple: I haven’t been practicing The Diane Method. I got absorbed in building it, explaining it, shaping it. That work kept me engaged, but it wasn’t the same as doing the practice.

Now when I look at the memoir drafts, I feel overwhelmed. Too many chapters. Too many loose ends. And that hesitation has kept me from returning to the process that started all of this.

What I’m beginning to suspect is that this isn’t something you do once and move on from.

It needs rhythm. Not intensity. Not ambition.

Just rhythm.


Weekly Journal is published every Friday (Japan time)