Living a minimalist life on the shore of the Columbia River this November has put me in an appropriately reflective mood. I wake up in the cold cabin, turn off the electric blanket, and step out of bed already dressed in the day’s uniform—sweatpants and an old long-sleeved shirt. It was 39° this morning. As I felt around in the dark for the light switch, I wondered whether the living area behind the heavy curtain would be cold enough to justify a fire. My wood stove devours the Douglas fir faster than I’d like, but I’ve got a cord and a half stacked and plans to stay until the end of January.
By the time the kettle boils, the fire is usually going. After squeezing the last drops from my AeroPress into the cup and adding two tablespoons of heavy cream, I shuffle back to my makeshift desk. My laptop, fully awake, stands ready to take down whatever I decide to wrestle with today.
I came out here, away from most of the distractions of the modern world, to write a book about how I turned my physical life around—losing 90 pounds and keeping it off for four years. Staying inside a normal weight range has allowed me to hike and backpack with real enthusiasm again. But living alone in an empty beach cabin has slowed my pace for the first time in a long while, leaving room for reflection on the life I’ve stepped away from and the one I’ve built.
Out here, without the usual pressure or noise, I find myself thinking less about the weight I lost and more about what I’ve gained. The truth is, every step of this transformation—physical and otherwise—was shaped by people who pushed me, supported me, tolerated me, or believed in me when I didn’t. And as Thanksgiving approaches, gratitude feels like the next chapter I need to write.
I think first of my mother, who gave me a stable launch pad for a very unstable trajectory. She couldn’t have predicted that her son—who ran away at fourteen and hitchhiked from Miami to Colorado—would later join Special Forces, go to college and graduate school, raise a family, move to Russia, and then spend his sixties leading backpacking trips and teaching wilderness skills. But she built the foundation: discipline, curiosity, and enough love that I never doubted I could attempt something bigger than myself. That kind of confidence doesn’t come from nowhere.
I’m also grateful for the men who shaped me in uniform—not the caricatures people imagine, but the teammates, instructors, and sergeants who held the standard so high it forced me to grow into it. They showed me that competence is a form of generosity—that helping a man master himself is one of the few gifts that can’t be taken away. Those lessons echo through everything I do now, from teaching winter-camping classes to weight loss to writing this book.
And then there are the people I’ve guided in the outdoors—students, hikers, cancer survivors—who reminded me what purpose feels like. Watching someone push beyond what they believed possible has a way of turning the mirror back on you. It forces you to be a better steward of your own life. I didn’t expect that helping others move through difficult terrain would help me navigate my own, but it did.
The older I get, the more obvious it becomes that gratitude isn’t a soft emotion. It’s a form of clarity. It forces you to recognize the truth: nobody becomes who they are alone. We’re all shaped by moments we didn’t plan and by people who step into our lives at exactly the right—or wrong—time. My mother has been gone now for ten years. How fortunate I’ve been to have a brother I’m close to, and children who have stepped into adulthood in roles that make me proud of them every day. They—and their spouses—teach me about life in ways I don’t think I ever taught them.
So this year, what I’m grateful for is simple: the chance to slow down long enough to see the architecture of my life clearly, and to acknowledge the hands that helped build it.
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