It was late June of 2026. My wife and twin teenage daughters departed for a ten-day trip to London and Paris. I was invited and declined.
Five hours on an airplane to Hawaii or Miami is my upper limit. Beyond that, my claustrophobia begins negotiating surrender terms. Ten days sprinting across Europe sounded less like a vacation and more like a competitive endurance event with no trophy at the finish line.
You could say I have become jaded.
In my younger years, I traveled widely—Russia, Ukraine, Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Spain, Italy, France, England, Mexico. Travel opened my wife to the world. It had the opposite effect on me. My brain absorbed so much stimulation that it eventually shut down. While other people became energized by novelty, I became overwhelmed, withdrawn, and vaguely catatonic. Age has not improved the condition.
My family understands this about me.
No one was offended when I declined Europe.
A few weeks after their return, we would all vacation together in Coronado. That was my kind of travel: buffets, poolside canopies, leisurely walks, and visits to Rolex and Breitling boutiques—not to buy anything, but to observe wealthy men purchasing luxury watches with the same casual indifference that others display when buying mangoes and guavas at a roadside market.
My ideal vacation involves no driving, no itineraries, no guided tours, and no obligation to learn anything. Give me an infinity pool overlooking the ocean and enough free time to fantasize that I am immortal.
I spend so much time inside my imagination that eventually I need a vacation from it.
With my family gone, however, I knew the danger.
Left alone, I would disappear into my own head.
Chaos awaited there.
To protect myself, I established a routine.
Morning coffee.
Writing.
Piano.
More coffee.
A kettlebell workout in the garage accompanied by podcasts.
A protein salad.
A nap with more podcasts.
A yogurt snack.
More piano.
A crime documentary.
Dinner.
More piano.
Another crime documentary.
Then bed, where podcasts continued whispering through my earbuds until morning.
The first two days were unpleasant.
I felt guilty, restless, mildly depressed, and perhaps a little insane.
On day three, my wife and daughters video-called from London to report that their hotel room was tiny. The establishment was called the Zedwell Capsule Hotel. Calling it a hotel seemed generous. It was essentially a collection of sleeping pods.
Nothing says “Welcome to Europe” quite like spending your first night in a glorified dresser drawer.
One of my daughters was so distressed by the arrangement that she cried.
After the call, I looked up the pods on YouTube.
I recoiled in horror.
For the first time all week, I felt grateful I had stayed home.
By day four, I had settled into my routine. My family had moved on to more spacious accommodations in Paris. I missed them, but their daily calls and texts reassured me that they had not forgotten my existence.
Meanwhile, I had time to think.
During one kettlebell workout, I listened to Coleman Hughes and Caitlin Flanagan discuss why so many members of Gen Z and Gen Alpha were deciding not to have children.
Economic concerns played a role, but the larger issue appeared to be radical individualism—the belief that spouses, children, and obligations interfere with freedom, mobility, and self-actualization.
The discussion reminded me of sociologist Zygmunt Bauman and his concept of “liquid modernity.”
Bauman argued that modern culture encourages people to remain perpetually fluid: endlessly reinventing themselves, constantly changing identities, refusing permanence, commitments, or fixed obligations. Personal truth becomes the highest authority, even when it is constructed from ignorance, immaturity, or wishful thinking.
Children become burdens.
Marriage becomes negotiable.
Commitment becomes optional.
Self-fulfillment becomes sacred.
Part of me enjoyed my temporary freedom from family responsibilities.
But I had no illusions about where my meaning came from.
It came from responsibility.
It came from being needed.
The fantasy that life improves when every obligation disappears struck me as a cultural scam—a glossy marketing campaign disguising selfishness as enlightenment.
Spend enough time on YouTube and TikTok and the pattern becomes obvious. The algorithms worship youth, beauty, novelty, and self-display.
What passes for radical individualism often looks suspiciously like perpetual adolescence with better lighting and stronger filters.
Then, on day five, something remarkable happened.
My mortgage company sent me an email.
The message informed me that my house was essentially paid off.
If I wired approximately $3,700, the loan would be satisfied.
I stared at the screen.
My fifteen-year mortgage had become a thirteen-year mortgage because I had consistently paid an extra three hundred dollars toward principal every month.
I had not realized how close I was.
According to the online loan schedule, the mortgage still appeared to have years remaining. Apparently the system never fully accounted for the extra payments.
In practical terms, I had just discovered that I no longer owed roughly sixty thousand dollars I had assumed was still hanging over my head.
I called my wife in Paris.
“The house is paid off,” I told her.
I could hear the relief in her voice.
She shared the news with our daughters, who would soon be driving. We were already anticipating the possibility of a third vehicle and insurance premiums that might require federal disaster assistance.
The timing could not have been better.
Providing security for my family made me happier than any luxury purchase ever could.
I was grateful I had not squandered money chasing vanity.
No pec implants.
No liposuction.
No Porsche.
Restraint had quietly accomplished what indulgence never could.
Restraint, I realized, is a superpower.
On day seven, another responsibility arrived.
A UCLA student named Hannah—a longtime family friend—had seven enormous duffel bags stored in our office. She was flying from Portland to Los Angeles and needed transportation to her dorm.
I agreed immediately.
Internally, I panicked.
Driving to LAX stresses me out.
Driving around UCLA stresses me out.
Driving anywhere that involves students, luggage, and uncertain parking stresses me out.
Hannah suggested taking an Uber to a Starbucks near the 405 to make things easier.
I refused.
Not because I was noble.
Because I knew her.
I had known her all her life.
She was bright, disciplined, scholarly, and unusually composed for nineteen. Her parents were dear friends of ours. My wife loved her mother like a sister. Her father possessed the rare combination of business success and genuine kindness.
I texted:
“It would be my pleasure to pick you up at LAX.”
This was technically a lie.
I dreaded every minute of it.
I checked Google Maps repeatedly.
I monitored her flight obsessively.
I left Torrance shortly after six.
Forty-five minutes later, after navigating detours and traffic, I spotted Hannah outside the Alaska Airlines terminal.
She climbed into the car.
We talked.
About UCLA.
About Europe.
About my paid-off house.
About our upcoming Coronado vacation.
By the time we reached Westwood, I had relaxed.
The weather was glorious.
At 7:15 p.m., sunlight still illuminated the streets. Students wandered casually through campus wearing shorts and T-shirts.
The scene reminded me of Italy in the summer of 1973.
I suddenly remembered a gelato vendor who spent his afternoons whistling Paul McCartney’s “My Love.”
Not for customers.
Not for tips.
For himself.
The memory remained vivid because the man seemed genuinely in love with life.
At Hannah’s dorm, we made three elevator trips carrying duffel bags to the tenth floor.
I was wearing a Nirvana T-shirt.
A tall, skinny student walked past wearing the exact same shirt.
He looked at me and smiled.
“Nice shirt.”
The room itself was small and claustrophobic.
I immediately thought of my family sleeping inside London pods.
Hannah thanked me.
I wished her well.
Then I drove back to Torrance.
When I pulled into my driveway and the garage door rose, I felt unexpectedly satisfied.
I texted Hannah’s father.
Mission accomplished.
Then I sat alone in my car and asked myself a question.
“When was the last time you did something nice for someone? When was the last time you got off your butt and helped a friend?”
The answer embarrassed me.
I realized the favor had benefited me as much as Hannah.
I struggle with religious faith.
Yet the thought that entered my mind was unmistakable.
God had shown me mercy.
God had gotten me out of my own head long enough to do something useful.
Inside the house, I was starving.
But I had already eaten my meals for the day.
I didn’t need more calories.
I drank a glass of sparkling water instead.
The hunger subsided.
I watched a single crime documentary and prepared for bed.
Just before turning off the light, I repeated the lesson that had quietly woven itself through the entire week:
Restraint is a superpower.
Cinemorphosis 
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