Clusterf*ck: A Story About Radical Acceptance

I’m the richest broke person I know.

The stars aligned for me early in life.

By age 12, I was six feet tall, naturally athletic, and excelled in sports.

Throughout school, I achieved decent grades with minimal effort and was a confident writer. Although I was shy, I easily made friends and rarely lacked interest from the opposite sex.

After graduating high school, I moved to different parts of the country, and in each location, I quickly found apartments, landed jobs, and joined new social circles. My long-term romantic relationship flowed smoothly, I breezed through a degree, and found great satisfaction in my artistic pursuits.

After settling down, I was in the right place at the right time when buying and selling our houses. I became a proud father of two beautiful, healthy daughters. Job opportunities appeared when needed, and—while there were gigantic obstacles to overcome—I completely shifted careers in my early 30s, which unfolded like I’d planned it all along.

But in 2016, my best friend’s brother died.

Everything changed.

We weren’t all that close growing up, and his wasn’t my first intimacy with death. But alongside his suffering and eventual passing, something fundamentally shifted inside my brain.

Maybe it was because he was a few years younger. Perhaps it was because our family spent many days with his. We held tightly to each second while trying to overlook the reality that he was wasting away in front of our eyes.

Maybe, it was because I understood that The Universe doesn’t give two flying fucks about our plans, our promise, or providing us with any illusion of equity.

Maybe.

But on many nights, I sobbed in bed, soaking my pillow, searching the darkened ceiling for answers. My ex-wife held her hand on my shoulder as it heaved.

Soon, this sadness carried into the day and squelched any semblance of light. Thinking felt like wading through mud. I was perpetually emotionless, other than oscillating between sad and sadder. Endless, looping rumination.

For the first time, I considered suicide.

I didn’t want to die. I just wanted some relief.

It was clear that this physical manifestation of a psychological weight—one I’d carried for a very long time—now demanded my attention.

My ex also demanded action. However, in retrospect, I was fearful of examining my psyche.

So, instead of seeking therapy, I sought the easiest possible first step: medication. I made an appointment with my doctor, walked into the clinic, talked with him for 10 minutes, and walked out with a Prozac prescription.

Thus began my formal journey into uncovering Derek 2.0. And nearly nine years later, I never could’ve imagined all the ways my life would be changed.

But 2024 really took the gloves off. From a lot of vantage points, it was the worst 12 months of my life.

As a result, I’m stripped bare as I enter 2025. There’s zero safety net. And any misgivings I once held about my alignment with The Universe have long since been repudiated.

But don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.

I’m explaining.

And I’m also accepting.

Acceptance Doesn’t Mean Acquiescence

Months of tossing and turning.

Choking myself awake at 3 am because I thought I was drowning.

Worrying until I was sick. Losing and gaining weight. Aging a decade in a year.

Crying so, so much.

Eventually, I reached a point where I couldn’t continue feeling like shit. Something had to give.

So, piece by piece, I accepted reality. And it sucked. But I recognized that by denying the truth—kicking and screaming at what was before me—I’d never be capable of exiting my tar-like suffering.

I needed to feel my pain.

I had to turn toward it. Seek a better understanding of it. Figure out its underlying causes and pore through its history. Map out its storyline.

I had to acknowledge how I clung to it. How I stored it in every cell of my body. How I continued falling back on it long after it clearly wasn’t a viable path to freedom.

And finally, I had to release it—but that didn’t mean I had to submit to it.

I could work my ass off to accept the present while simultaneously working my ass off to change my future.

Thus, I changed how I talked to—and relaxed with—myself. I adjusted how I cultivated and maintained mindfulness. I engaged with opposite actions and implemented anti-rumination and coping strategies.

I gave myself permission to feel disappointment, sadness, and grief. And I acknowledged that life can be worth living, even when there is pain.

Granted, the road before me stretches far into the horizon.

However, instead of constantly struggling to create some alternate state of being, I’ve given myself permission to experience reality, settle into the beauty of the present moment, free myself from clinging, and open up the possibility of responding skillfully—and with compassion—to whatever The Universe throws at me.

And a curious thing has happened: By turning my mind toward willingness, I’ve also opened the floodgates to gratefulness.

Living Life Through the Lens of Gratitude

Sitting with my suffering has gifted me with stinging clarity.

Going back decades, I can see how my dysregulation negatively impacted every facet of my life, including my marriage, my relationships with my girls, and my career.

I can draw straight lines to all of the growth I’ve hindered. And I can observe how what I’d once considered ease was just me lightening myself by unloading my suffering onto others.

But don’t get me wrong: Learning the curvatures of my pain has opened my eyes to far more beauty than pain.

My emotional tools are razor-sharp. Instead of running from them, I face my feelings, ask them what they can reveal, and then compassionately release them back into the ether.

My heart is wide open. I recognize the transformative power of kindness and compassion with every fiber of my being. I am—we all are—struggling, and the smallest acts can have the biggest impact (it’s trite because it’s true). Even a simple smile can make someone’s day—or save their life.

I’m more in tune with life’s most important treasures as they occur, which are little moments with my girls. My healing gives them greater space to open up, and the most glorious feeling is listening to—and sharing in—the details of their day. How much they hated school, how they bombed their Spanish test, or how Trent’s an idiot for dating Becky again.

I’m also starting to heal some deep wounds with my ex. We’re thankful for the great memories, and apologetic for the not-so-great ones. We’re even to the point where we’ve shared some details about our post-relationship relationships.

In addition to medication and traditional therapy, ketamine therapy continues to provide me with a path toward physical, psychological, and—dare I say it—spiritual authenticity.

I’ve been back in school for two years now, and with each passing day, I’m increasingly sure that I’m on the right path.

I’ve participated in a three-month intensive outpatient program, where I’ve learned more about myself in 90 days than I have in the past three decades. Before their graduation, I believe these tools should be required learning for every high school senior to help them transition into adults with equanimity. Emotional intelligence equips adults to live a more balanced life.

I volunteer with a crisis-centered mental health organization. I wholly understand that sometimes we just need someone to talk to, even if it’s a stranger, and I’m very proud of my involvement.

I’ve allowed my mom into my world. I was always scared of scaring her.

I’m a better friend. I’ve rekindled relationships with some of my extended family. I’ve started socializing again by stepping far outside my comfort zone and meeting new people.

I started this Substack, where I combine my passion for writing, my personal experiences, and some of what I’m learning to reach others who might be going through something similar.

Sure, the past year’s been tough.

But looking back at this list, I might be the richest broke person I know.

And I’ll accept that reality, too.