Everything is Liquid - The Decline of a Personal Veneer and its Impact on Navel Gazing

There is no hidden narrative between the lines, no metaphor tucked between them, nor any lines being crossed or measured. There are simply lines we walk upon, moving forward without looking back—except to glance back fondly, with affection. Everything is fluid, ever shifting, and this is all I can say about gazing into my own navel.

Much like a Rubik's Cube, an Ikigai Venn diagram, or the ever-shifting contours of a riverside, perspectives and circumstances in the universe are constantly evolving. Unlike the fixed sides of a cube aligning into a single color or the guiding central pattern of purpose in an Ikigai diagram, our individual yet universal frequency is uniquely shaped by the dominant vibrations awakened by our innate drive to survive. By embracing change, I shift my energy; and by shifting my energy, I transform my perspective.

Some readers might see this type of confessional narrative as crossing a line—too personal, too raw. Some might even think I’ve breached unwritten codes of decency or dared to address taboos that linger in the shadows of divorcee circles.

If anything, I share offends you or unsettles your personal framework, I apologize for shaking the foundation of your beliefs. But let’s remember—your foundation is yours, and mine is mine. At the very least, can we agree, for now, that we share the same sky, breathe the same air—more or less—and navigate the same finite stretch of time?

I’m not here to paint anyone from my past in a bad light—this is simply the story as it happened to me. Everyone involved has their own script and their one act play, and I have no quarrel with their perspectives. I’m not trying to be “right,” not trying to stir the pot, gaslight, or gossip. I’m not out to start a fight. But if one begins, and if it comes to that, I’ll be sitting in my corner, ready for the bell. Just because others disagree or have their feelings hurt, does make me wrong.

Long-distance relationships (LDRs) are a challenge for anyone, but having an LDR with my kids? That was never even a pin on my life map—certainly not part of the plan. I didn’t want it, not even close. When I think back to those days, my mind wanders through the chaos, though not nearly as long as it used to. These days, it’s a few hours here and there. 

Back then, my thoughts would spiral endlessly—days, weeks, even months—until it felt like there was no escape. Now, I find myself breaking down the cherished moments, tears falling as my mind whispers, If only I had done this… or Why didn’t I do that? I should have. She should have. And yet, here we all are, navigating this tangled web of truth—some more deeply entwined than others.

The future—there’s no way to predict it, no surefire way to know what’s coming. But I’ve learned that the real danger comes when your heart and soul wander off with your mind. Maybe there are better ways to plan for the future, ways I hadn’t considered before. So, I ask you: when you think about your future, what do you see?

Add to the LDR the occasional social media thumbs-up, a snide remark here and there, or a silly video or gif sent in passing. Throw in a few group video calls for the play-by-play updates. Once, I was attached to the idea of closeness, but since around 2016-17 (with the pandemic and cancer diagnosis and treatments only amplifying things), I haven’t had much of a day-to-day relationship with most people—including my two kids. 

Recently, my daughter has become more proactive and seeks regular contact, which is truly wonderful. My son, as always, remains his kind and considerate self—a true gentleman. He’s not without his flaws, of course, but I’m incredibly proud of the way he has risen above his inherited moral code. What a fine man he is becoming.

Meanwhile, my daughter continues to blossom into a delicate yet powerful and innovative artist. Her voice is powerful, and she approaches life with the bold intensity of a pure expressionist. Both are stunningly beautiful—it almost feels unfair! They are embarking on their journey, and they are destined to be remarkable.

I love them to bits and pieces and everything in between, but the reality is, we’re all adults now, and our dynamic has shifted. Their message to me is steady and clear: “Don’t worry, we’re fine.” And maybe they are. But we’re no longer the same people—not even the same versions of ourselves—and some days, it feels like we’re not even on the same planet anymore. Is it any wonder that everything feels that it is turned inside out, upside down, and often sideways or lopsided?

I often reflect on how, even at 60 years old, I still find myself needing my father—my daddy—for guidance and advice. Thankfully, despite his 90 years and the onset of dementia, he somehow retains the ability to offer sound wisdom. That’s a superpower

A therapist once asked me how I felt. I said that I felt like I was missing one leg and one arm, but the worst part was denying they were gone.

Later, in another session, I described my emotional state as “...everything is liquid.” Those moments and words feel distant now, but I keep them in context—they were part of a different time. While I still feel those things occasionally, they don’t paralyze me the way they used to.

Although I genuinely enjoy being around people and am quite social, I am also painfully shy. This shyness means I struggle to think quickly on my feet, which often leaves me feeling vulnerable in group settings. Unfortunately, this hesitation or reluctance to dive in is frequently misunderstood. People sometimes mistake it for arrogance, smugness, aloofness, or even worse—that I am antisocial or unintelligent.

The hardest part has been when I do gather the courage to participate, often, people don't like what they see or hear. What I shared might have seemed offensive, ridiculous, upsetting, or simply disappointing. Eventually, they felt indifferent. And indifference, I’ve learned, is the hardest to bear. So, they walked away. Imagine believing that everything you’re doing, saying, feeling, and even giving is completely normal, only to discover later that it isn’t.

Reflecting on my receptiveness to comedic moments, I sometimes wonder—should I have been a stand-up comedian?

For those who are not painfully shy, it’s difficult to grasp what it’s like to live with this constant tension. Just as I can’t imagine what it’s like to be entirely at ease in social situations, they may not understand that the depths of shyness are endless and moving and paralyzing, at the same time. 

In this way, we share something—an inability to fully see the world from each other's perspectives. For me, shyness isn’t just a feeling or a filter; it’s a way of seeing and being seen. From the outside, it’s often misinterpreted, but from within, it’s an acute awareness of isolation. Living with this every day is paradoxical—liberating in some ways, but deeply lonely in others. 

The dissonance isn’t just cognitive; it penetrates the very core of one’s emotional and spiritual foundations, challenging the duality of existence itself. Within that quantum frequency, I lay down my vulnerabilities and extend my reach toward another person. They look, they see, they try, and they

Imagine knowing that your time alone isn’t by choice—that it’s not about self-pity or placing blame. Those ideas are surface-level explanations people often use to label something they don’t fully understand. They’re like flimsy covers for the deeper structure of what I’ll call “architectural shyness.” 

Unless you are like me—deeply and painfully shy—we will not see or experience the world in the same way, nor even tune into similar archetype emotional frequencies. Not that we should be the same. At some point in the relationship, people feel threatened by me and eventually move on. In simple terms, they just don't like me or want to be around me. Perhaps it's the other way around—that's certainly a real possibility. As the years passed, I stopped trying to be a joiner. Not antagonist, just not a co-laborer.

For those who choose to come into my life, there’s a pattern I’ve come to recognize: a phase of curiosity followed by friendship, then yielding, followed by distance. There’s often a cycle of reconnecting, but eventually, a sense of finality sets in. They realize something—perhaps that I can’t be what they want me to be—and then comes the slow process of retreating, of abandoning, until they’re gone. Once again, we are faced with the possibility that it might actually be the other way around. At this stage in life, there's a real chance that it's both simultaneously—or perhaps some random combination of the two factors.

My kids are making their own choices now, building their lives piece by piece. Watching them do life gives me perspective—it helps me navigate the long hours spent being what I am not, all while imagining what I could be. The gaps between our visits stretch longer, and in those spaces, I see the man I want to be when I’m with them. But then there’s the ache, the undeniable pain of being apart. Deep down, I wish things were different. And yet, I know they are not. Why not? 

I know how to change it—but I don’t. At 60, I understand that my habits shape the life I lead. I know what I need to do, but summoning the inner courage to act has always eluded me. It’s a thread that’s run through my life, from age 16 to 60. The core of who I am hasn’t shifted much, even as the years have passed. I have journals from my high school years.

Reading them today might as well be the same as the day I wrote them.

You might feel the urge to shake your finger at me—and I wouldn’t blame you. Plenty of people did it before, and some still do. But the harshest critic has always been myself. I’ve judged myself, pointed that finger inward, and though the judgment has softened over time, it hasn’t disappeared.

I can see the results of the choices I’ve made. I stand here, carrying the weight of them. Living across countries and continents has scattered the connections that once bound us closer. Geography may not be an excuse, but it’s part of how I see the world. And once again, my shyness lays its cards on the map.

My kids and I keep moving forward, acting as though nothing’s wrong. We carry on, the three of us, as though playing some unspoken game. Is it the quiet hope that gives us our shape? Perhaps. Yet, these days, my life feels closer to acceptance. Although loosely tied to the same family, surrender is not part of my game plan. I simply understand that acceptance in the secret sauce. Not caring but not caring about not caring is the wand.

Acceptance feels deliberate, like a choice I’ve made. Hope, on the other hand—it feels like a virus, waiting for someone to carry it forward. 

We’ve normalized a dysfunctional rhythm between a father and his kids, turning it into something that just is. Our lives are shaped by the habits we’ve chosen—or failed to change. In my case, the habits I’ve built have brought me here, to this exact moment. If my life were different, it would mean I had the habits to create that other life. But this life—this one—is mine. And sometimes, thinking about that too deeply feels like standing on the edge of a minefield, unsure which step might detonate something buried. The day I stopped navigating the minefield, was the day I stopped walking over one. 

Since my world imploded, I’ve been caught in an endless loop of reflection. I think about the years that have slipped by—more hours and days than the months and years can count. What did I do with all that time?

Most of it is a haze, blurred together in memories that refuse to sharpen. I’ve changed so many times, morphing from one version of myself into another, and then yet another iteration, back and forth, on and on. But this man, the one I keep becoming—where is he supposed to do? What does he fit in to? Why is he? And why, no matter how far he’s traveled into another dimension of space and time, does loneliness leave an enticing yet friendly wake? What new habit needs to be learned to get a different result?

How do I accept that this journey inward—this long, winding path toward understanding —isn’t driven by hope, but by deliberate steps? Steps I must choose. Steps I must take. At the same time avoiding navel gazing. At that same time, embrace the messages.

I’m a searcher, not a finder. And that’s okay. Embracing that truth has given me the freedom to stop reaching for something out of reach and to focus on what’s already within my grasp.

When I let myself, I remember pieces of the past. Memories surface, sharp and cold, like driving through a winter whiteout in Southern Ontario, Canada—Highway 26, heading toward Collingwood. That stretch of road is etched in my mind as a chaotic series of images, like a disjointed Hannah Höch collage. It’s smeared with muted trauma, a patchwork of moments that somehow held together the secret I carried: an abusive reality I endured for over 20 years. Yet, as man, I am not permitted to be abused for the natural order states that I am the abuser.

Some of it has faded beyond recognition, while other fragments are so distorted from the truth that they hardly feel like my own. Yet, they remain my truth, recalled as best as I can piece them together. Highway 26 was not just the road I traveled during my marriage; it was also a road I drove with my father. But those stories can wait for another time.

These days, past age 60, I find myself seeing life more clearly. Life is less like a white out; more like Gray-out. Introspection has led to bigger, louder questions. How much of my life have I truly controlled? Think of a Matrix—not the movie with its choice between the real and the artificial. Life, as I see it, is far less scripted. I’ve been here since 1964, and I’ve yet to find a red or blue pill. Maybe they exist, maybe they don’t. I can’t say if there’s another layer of reality, but I do know one thing: my life is what it is because I’ve shaped it. 

If I didn’t build this life, then I’m angrier than I’ve ever been. Who the hell would construct lives for people that lead to suffering—lives worse than others, lives of disease, death, and pain? What kind of monster would create that? No, this life is mine, and I own it—every piece of it. No one is going to take my life from me. It might be a bit messy, but it’s mine. Go bother someone else. I refuse to place blame on a higher power—be it the weather, the economy, the government, or any other authoritarian or egalitarian entity. As for my parents, well, for the sake of Irish luck, maybe just a smidgen of blame.

Reality, in all its messiness, is the only certainty that pushes me to write—to capture, process, and make sense of it all. The systems and structures I’ve constructed have kept me tethered to tradition, to the familiar rhythms of living and working. For now, those binds remain.

During those thousands of days, I made the decision to keep the extent of the pain I was managing—and mismanaging—hidden from everyone. I created measures, and extra measures, writing a playbook in an attempt to combat the pain, but the victories were few and far between. The hardest part was not knowing where the pain came from, and the more I searched, the clearer it became that not knowing its source might have made learning how to manage it impossible. 

You might think it’s shyness, and in the context of the current narrative, that might make sense. But it’s not. I’m social, but I’m also a lone wolf—not as a metaphor, but as a symbol. I’m part of a pack, a small one, of people who are content with our social lives because we’ve each chosen our own path, our pack is small. We are searchers. Finders and searchers don’t always get along.

I admire them because they are using their talents to make our world a better place or at least not worse than they find it. They are not intentionally causing harm to people or other living creatures including themselves. They design their own consent and choose their own dignity. They are conscious human beings who are dialed into the frequency of this planet. From what I’ve seen, a lot more than most generations at their age because today’s generations are taught to see the future. So, as I see it, things will get better for the future generations. I see it in education every day. Something is about to shift - not sure what, but it’s coming. I feel it. Do you?

Right now, my relationship with my kids is geographically distant. Whether that's acceptable or not, I'm not sure. I'd like to have more regular contact with them, but I also wonder if they'd prefer I stay out of the way. It's a complex, double-edged situation. I don't mean to suggest that they don't love me or wouldn't be excited to see me. Rather, I see them growing into who they are, and I want to give them the space to be themselves. From afar, I believe that's one of the most important things I can do for them.

Over the past seven years, I’ve been mourning the loss of connection—not just with my kids but with others as well. Around the same time my marriage was falling apart, my best friend of fifty years ended our relationship. Other friendships slipped away too, but, surprisingly, some long-lost friends reappeared people I hadn’t heard from in ages.

Their return has been an unexpected gift.

I needed my best friend the most during that difficult time, but he couldn’t understand what I was going through. I hid from him too so it is now understandable that he fled. I felt exhausted, as always, and trapped in the belief that I had to be perfect—that I was always the problem. The paradox held me captive. That narrative had been such a constant in my life for so long that it became nearly impossible to view things from any other perspective.