I’ve lived a lot of lives.

When people ask where I’m from, my instinct is to pause. The answer depends on how you measure it: geography, culture, or the sheer variety of experience. I was born in San Francisco in the 1960s, an era when the air was thick with hope, rebellion, and the faint aroma of patchouli. The “Human Be-In” and the “Summer of Love” weren’t just historical events to me; they were the wallpaper of my childhood. Peace, love, and hope were imprinted into my DNA before I could spell “metaphor.”

And then, like a leaf caught in a crosswind, I moved — a lot. My mother, the original nomad, relocated six times before I was born, setting the stage for my own whirlwind upbringing. By the time I hit double digits, I had racked up addresses like frequent flyer miles: three years in San Juan, soaking in the Caribbean’s sun-drenched beauty, and a year in the UK, where I stumbled into my first romance (I was 10, and she had braces — it was doomed from the start). Phoenix, Arizona, followed, a desert landscape as dry as my teenage sarcasm. My adolescence played out like a reel of That ’70s Show, except my bell-bottoms were real, not retro.

But let’s rewind to San Francisco in 1979. I’d returned to the city for college, ready to dive into academia, only to find the waters murkier than I’d imagined. The lectures were fine; the monotony wasn’t. I wanted more than textbooks and tidy syllabi. I craved life — messy, unpredictable, and unfiltered.

So I left.

In 1980, I enlisted in the Air Force. If you’re imagining Top Gun glamour, dial it down. Military service wasn’t just jets and swagger; it was discipline, growth, and a crash course in humanity. It was where I learned that life’s fragility isn’t a Hallmark platitude — it’s a brutal fact. The Marine Barracks Bombing in Beirut proved that. As a volunteer on the recovery team, I faced the kind of horror that rewires your soul. Body after body came through our makeshift morgue — each one a son, a friend, a heartbeat that had stopped. That experience planted the seed of my philosophical journey. I needed answers — and fast — to the big, thorny questions about meaning, suffering, and why the hell any of this happens.

Here’s the thing: Philosophy didn’t give me answers. It gave me better questions.

The classics became my compass. Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus taught me to endure. Seneca reminded me to appreciate what I had. Kierkegaard introduced me to the torment of choice, while Nietzsche warned me to brace for chaos. These weren’t just ideas; they were survival tools, the intellectual duct tape that held me together as I navigated wars, intelligence missions, and the chaos of a world teetering on the edge.

Over 20 years, the Air Force became my proving ground. I wore many hats: law enforcement officer, military intelligence analyst, and occasional philosopher in fatigues. I investigated everything from local crimes to global crises, from the Grenada invasion to Gulf War I and II. Living in Europe for a decade expanded my worldview in ways I can’t overstate. You can’t truly grasp the richness of humanity’s tapestry until you’ve shared meals, stories, and struggles with people from dozens of nations.

And then there was Beirut.

That morgue — that defining moment — haunted me long after I’d left the Air Force. PTSD isn’t a tidy diagnosis; it’s a ghost that lingers in the corners of your mind. Philosophy helped. So did action. After retiring from the military, I joined Homeland Security, where I spent another 21 years at the heart of some of the most pivotal events of the modern era. From 9/11 to the Boston Marathon Bombing, I worked alongside the unsung heroes of every three-letter agency you can name. Hollywood might paint them as shadowy operatives, but trust me, these are some of the most loyal, hardworking patriots you’ll ever meet.

My work wasn’t without its toll. Identifying the 9/11 terrorists was an experience I wouldn’t trade but wouldn’t relive. It deepened my respect for life and sharpened my awareness of its impermanence. Over the years, I wrote thousands of dossiers — some on threats, others on refugees seeking a safer life. Each story was a thread in the intricate web of humanity’s struggle for survival and meaning.

Let me pause here: Life is absurd. Its fragility is as baffling as it is terrifying. One minute, you’re arguing over the best Led Zeppelin album and the next, you’re staring down an existential abyss. It’s absurd, yes, but it’s also beautiful. Life’s fragility forces us to lean into the present — to hug tighter, laugh louder, and savor the moments that, frankly, make it all bearable.

So, where does that leave me now?

Today, I write. Not just for catharsis, but to connect, to provoke thought, and to share what I’ve learned — sometimes the hard way. My fascination with philosophy, minimalism, and the tiny living movement has reshaped my life. These aren’t just academic interests; they’re lifelines. In a world drowning in consumption and clutter, tiny living offers a way out — a way back to what matters. It’s not just about square footage; it’s about clarity, intention, and a smaller carbon footprint.

Here’s a nugget for you: The fewer things you own, the fewer things own you.

Embracing tiny living has been like rediscovering Emerson, Thoreau, and Leopold with fresh eyes. Their calls for simplicity, sustainability, and reverence for nature feel more urgent than ever. Climate change isn’t just a buzzword; it’s the backdrop of our shared story. Writing about it, alongside tiny living and philosophy, feels like a privilege and a responsibility.

And here’s another thing: Philosophy isn’t a dusty relic or an intellectual parlor trick. It’s a lifeline. When the world doesn’t make sense (spoiler: it often doesn’t), philosophy offers a lens to see it more clearly, or at least differently. Whether it’s the Stoics urging me to accept what I can’t control or Zen teachings whispering, “Be here now,” these ideas anchor me. They don’t solve life’s absurdities but make them bearable — sometimes even funny.

But writing isn’t my endgame. It’s a bridge. I want to meet people — like-minded souls who care about the planet, intentional living, and finding meaning in a world that often feels meaningless. My goal isn’t to rake in profits or climb some arbitrary ladder. It’s to spark conversations, share insights, and maybe, just maybe, make this messy, beautiful life a little better for someone else.

So, tally-ho.

And After All This, What’s the Take-away?
Life is short, fragile, and bursting with opportunities to grow, connect, and make a difference. Whether through philosophy, tiny living, or simply being present for the people and moments that matter, the crux of everything is this: Live with intention.