I promised myself I wouldn’t dine out in August.

Then I met Keisha.

Keisha had me ready to break all the rules.

We matched on a popular dating app, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. She was gorgeous, fashionable and, more importantly, polite and engaging from the jump. We exchanged a few messages, complimented each other and I did what any rational man who had sworn off restaurant spending would do.

I asked her out.

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One of the prompts on her profile said the best way to ask her out was simple: plan the date and tell her what time to be ready. I could do that.

I told Keisha when and where. The destination was a swanky steakhouse — the same one where I met white Kristen four years ago. Apparently, I have a thing for expensive restaurants with complicated dating histories.

There was just one problem.

The steakhouse was booked for a private event that night.

I immediately told Keisha and, following her instructions, made a reservation at an Italian restaurant across the street.

That’s when I got my first sign that this date might not make it to the table.

“Good evening Darnell that sucks that we’re not able to find another steakhouse,” she wrote.

My first thought was: Who is we?

I kept that thought to myself.

“I hear you. It’ll be great regardless,” I replied.

Strike 1.

The next day, the day of our date, we exchanged cordial good-morning messages. Then Keisha asked:

“So where are we meeting this evening?”

I had already told her.

I sent the information again.

Strike 2.

Then came the knockout.

“Are there any other options to choose from?”

Strike 3.

At that point, I was done.

I had already made the reservation. I had already committed to the date. And I had done exactly what Keisha said she wanted: I planned it and gave her a time to be ready.

But after a financially turbulent five months, something else was happening. I was about to break a promise to myself for a complete stranger.

So I respectfully backed out.

I told Keisha we probably weren’t a good fit and that I would cancel the reservation. I also realized I didn’t need to add another expense to an already expensive year.

Most of my purchases go on a credit card so I can rack up airline points. A few essentials — my mortgage, gas, electricity and my $10-a-month gym membership — are paid separately. Tracking everything this way gives me a real-time picture of where my money goes, and every month I share the good, the bad and the occasionally embarrassing with you.

My credit card statement showed $4,852 in spending last month. That was just $23 more than I spent in August 2025.

That made August my fifth consecutive month with more than $4,000 in credit-card spending.

Professional services once again led the way, accounting for 47 percent of my spending.

But groceries told a more important story. I spent $771.83 on groceries in August, my highest total in some time.

I kept my word.

I bought groceries. I prepared food. I ate at home.

For the most part, anyway.

The $1.86 Dunkin’ charge tells on me. But I have no regrets about that one.

It was the first day of school, and I owed Parker a strawberry-frosted-sprinkle donut.

She started seventh grade last month. She’s only a few months away from becoming a teenager, which means the clock is ticking on the number of years I have left before Dad’s annual back-to-school donut tradition becomes deeply uncool.

For now, though, she still wants her donut.

And some promises are worth breaking.

I probably would have spent more than $200 on that steakhouse dinner with Keisha. I may or may not have seen her again.

Instead, the next day I spent $160 on groceries.

I ate at home for the rest of the month.

That $1.86 donut bought me something the $200 dinner couldn’t: another memory with my daughter.

That’s the kind of spending I can live with.

For three days, a work message sat unread in Slack.

When I finally opened it on a Saturday morning, Manager Courtney had some news for me.

“You need to start taking some time off.”

She was right.

I just had no idea how much.

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Turns out, I had 49 days of vacation banked. And I had to use it or lose it.

So I’m using it.

Starting today, I’ll be away from my day job for much of the rest of the year. How much? Here’s the math: There are 115 days left in 2026 after today. I’ll be off for 83 of them. That includes weekends and holidays, of course.

That means I’ll work just 32 days between now and New Year’s Eve.

I’ve never experienced anything like it.

The most time off I could take before the end of the year was 44 days. I still have five days I’m carrying over into the first quarter of 2027, the maximum allowed.

You’re probably wondering how I accumulated all that time. Well, remember, I rarely take vacations. And in my former life as a jet-setting sports writer, I just kept going.

Apparently, when my company was acquired in 2022, weeks of vacation I had banked rolled over with me. Then they sat there, untouched, for years. I had no idea my vacation balance had become an investment account — compounding.

Now I’m cashing in.

And I plan to take full advantage.

It’s been a long year for a lot of different reasons. I need this time to unwind, think, relax, rejuvenate and recharge. I need to decompress. Clear some space in my head.

I also want to use the time well. I want to plot and plan. Strategize. Learn. Grow. Figure out what comes next.

There’s also plenty to do. I’ll organize our new home. I’ll read. I’ll spend time with Parker.

And I’ll travel.

Boy, I can’t wait to travel.

I’ve already got a special trip booked. There’s no better time to do it.

For once, my calendar is wide open. And I intend to leave it that way.

Manager Courtney was right.

I have earned it.

I hope you enjoyed our five-part series, “R-E-M-E-W.”

Speaking of acronyms.

And yes, I know no one actually hits the dab anymore. But I’m a dad, so I can get away with the reference.

Besides, the picture was too good to pass up. Also, this column has been sitting in my drafts since last November.

Because there’s a message in D.A.B. that I’ve been thinking about for a while.

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D.A.B. isn’t just an outdated dance move from a decade ago.

To me, it’s a way of life.

Discipline. Attitude. Behavior.

Those three words describe much more than how I invest my money. They describe how I’m trying to live.

I’ve learned that a well-rounded life isn’t built from one big decision. It’s built from all the little things we do repeatedly.

Going to the gym even when you don’t feel like it. Eating better even when it’s not easy. Reading even when you want to doomscroll. Cooking instead of dining out. Spending time with family instead of binge-watching sports.

Basically, taking care of the things that matter.

None of these things requires a revolutionary idea. Most require something much less exciting: commitment.

That’s where D.A.B. comes in.

Discipline is doing what needs to be done even when I don’t feel like doing it. Motivation comes and goes. But discipline is what gets me moving when motivation doesn’t show up.

Attitude is how I approach those choices. I can look at exercise as another obligation or as an opportunity to take care of myself. I can look at saving money as deprivation or as a way to give myself more options later.

Behavior is putting it all into action.

Because knowing what I should do doesn’t count for much if I don’t actually do it.

I can read every investing book ever written and still be a terrible investor if my behavior is driven by fear, greed or panic.

I can know exactly how important exercise is and still sit on the couch.

I can make a perfect budget and still spend money recklessly.

Knowledge matters. But behavior is where knowledge becomes real life.

And none of this happens overnight.

That might be the most important part.

A well-rounded life is the accumulation of small choices made over and over again. One workout. One healthy meal. One book. One dollar saved. One investment.

Then another.

And another.

Eventually, those little things add up.

The same principle applies across the board.

So remember D.A.B.

It may be an outdated dance move.

But this dad has finally figured out that it’s also a pretty good way to live.

We’re two months into life in our new home, and to say a lot has happened would be an understatement.

In Part 2 of this two-part episode, we get into the meat and potatoes of what these first two months of homeownership have really been like — the headaches, the inconveniences, the surprises and all the little things you don’t anticipate when jumping from one home to another.

It’s been a major transition, without a doubt.

But it’s also a transition we were ready for, and one we remain very glad we made.

Because for every headache or unexpected challenge, there have been plenty of moments that remind us why we wanted to make this move in the first place.

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One of those moments came last Friday, when Parker took the school bus to and from school from our new home for the first time. As I walked with her the short distance to the bus stop that morning, we commemorated the occasion with a special song — one that dates all the way back to my own childhood. It was a small moment, but one that felt surprisingly significant.

That same night, we took our first walk together around the neighborhood. With its peaceful streets and quiet surroundings, it gave us another chance to appreciate this new chapter and begin settling into the rhythm of our new community.

There’s still plenty of work ahead as we continue turning this house into our home. But two months in, we’re starting to see it happen — one moment and memory at a time.

Click the play button below to listen now, or find the Money Talks podcast on Spotify. For your convenience, here is a timestamp for Episode 28:

🎙️ Episode 28 — Timestamps:

0:01: Backstage
0:05: The Money Talks jingle
1:06: One important update
3:25: Problems, headaches and anxiety
5:50: There were signs we missed
10:38: Other minor homeowner inconveniences
12:45: The most ridiculous thing to happen yet! 😡
15:35: Now for the good about this place
15:45: Parker’s five favorite things
18:55: Daddy’s five favorite things
26:26: Outro

Editor’s note: This is Part 5 of a five-part series, “R-E-M-E-W,” built around five essentials I’ve come to believe are worth making part of everyday life. Each installment explores one of the practices I’m learning to prioritize as I figure out what it means to live well.

Part 1: Read | Part 2: Eat to live | Part 3: Meditate | Part 4: Exercise | Part 5: Write

I spent two decades writing about the wrong thing.

That’s probably a strange thing to say about a career I once called my dream job.

For nearly 20 years, I wrote about basketball. I chronicled the hopes, dreams, successes and failures of other people. I interviewed them, watched them compete and told their stories.

I loved the work.

But along the way, I became good at documenting other people’s lives without doing the same with my own.

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I couldn’t really see beyond it. I was busy chasing the next story, the next game, the next deadline.

It wasn’t until I launched Money Talks that something changed.

For the first time, I was writing about something much closer to home: me.

Money Talks has become my outlet. More than that, this space has changed my life.

Writing two columns a week forces me to slow down and pay attention to my own life. I’m documenting what I’m learning, what I’m getting right, what I’m getting wrong and what I’m still trying to figure out.

It has made me more accountable.

I keep better track of my money. I pay closer attention to how I spend my time. I think more about whether I’m actually accomplishing the things I said I wanted to accomplish.

Putting those things into words makes them harder to ignore.

That’s part of why I write.

It’s a release.

There’s something different about taking a thought that’s been bouncing around in your head and putting it on a page. It stops being this overwhelming thing you have to carry around. You can see it. Challenge it. Do something about it.

I’ve started doing that outside of Money Talks, too.

I journal for 20 minutes whenever I wake for the 5 AM Club. I write down to-do lists because jotting down things I need to do brings me structure, peace and a plan of attack.

Lately, I’ve even started experimenting with stream-of-consciousness writing. No structure. No destination. Just writing and seeing where the words take me.

Writing helps me decompress. It organizes my thoughts. It gives me direction. When my mind starts filling up, I can write it all down and work through it.

There’s another benefit I didn’t expect.

Writing makes me pay attention.

When I know I’m going to write about something, I experience it differently. I notice the details. I think about why something bothered me. I recognize when something made me happy. I start connecting things that might have remained separate.

That has changed the way I see Money Talks, too.

It isn’t just a place where I share what I know about money. It has become a record of what I’m learning about life.

Money is still important. It always will be.

But the more I write, the more I realize that money is only one part of the story.

How I spend it matters. So does how I spend my time. How I take care of my body matters. So does what I put into my mind. The people I love matter. The things I’m building matter.

Writing gives me a place to keep track of it all.

That’s the biggest difference between the writer I was and the writer I’m becoming.

For 20 years, I was paid to tell other people’s stories.

Now I’m taking ownership of my own.

I don’t always know what I’m going to discover when I sit down to write.

But I almost always feel better after I do.

Editor’s note: This is Part 4 of a five-part series, “R-E-M-E-W,” built around five essentials I’ve come to believe are worth making part of everyday life. Each installment explores one of the practices I’m learning to prioritize as I figure out what it means to live well.

Part 1: Read | Part 2: Eat to live | Part 3: Meditate | Part 4: Exercise | Part 5: Write

I used to think physically fit people were vain — especially the guys flexing in the gym.

I didn’t understand the obsession with muscles, muscle shirts or spending hours lifting weights. I had better things to do with my time.

Give me a basketball.

I grew up playing sports in a competitive community, so I understood competition. I loved a challenge. I never considered basketball exercise. It was love, passion, fun and fellowship.

Exercise was something else entirely.

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An old routine from my high school basketball coach has actually stuck with me. Using a deck of playing cards, you alternate between push-ups and crunches as you work through the deck. Face cards are 10. Aces are 11.

I still pull it out occasionally, including during my 5 AM Club routine.

Beyond that, structured exercise was pretty much nonexistent for years.

I was always mindful of when enough was enough. When the fatty foods and sweets started catching up with me. When the couch became too comfortable. When my clothes got a little too snug or I started losing my breath climbing stairs or, worse, walking.

I’d cut back. Tighten up. Exercise for a while. Get some swagger back.

Then I’d fall off again.

It started with my knees. I eventually had to retire from basketball because I couldn’t play the way I once did. I couldn’t run the same. Couldn’t jump as high. Couldn’t go up for a layup without bouts of excruciating pain.

For someone who considers basketball his first love, that was a tough thing to accept.

It was the wake-up call I needed. I couldn’t afford to carry excess weight. A doctor once told me that he could operate on my knees, but he’d be wasting my time. If I wanted to feel better, he said, I needed to get in better shape.

I’ve never forgotten that.

I’m in my 40s now, and I know my body doesn’t recover the way it once did. I don’t have the luxury of neglecting my health.

More than anything, I want to live.

I want to be healthy into old age. I want the energy to enjoy the life I’m working so hard to build. I want to be around for Parker and her children.

No one knows exactly what life is going to bring. But I can control some of the things that increase my chances of being here to experience it.

That’s why my gym routine is intentionally simple: 45 minutes on the elliptical, Monday through Friday.

That’s it.

I’m not training for a competition. I’m not trying to impress anybody. I don’t need anyone’s validation.

I rarely feel like going. I go anyway.

The reward isn’t just what happens to my body. It’s what happens in my mind when I set a goal and keep it. A little pride. A little more confidence.

You start building evidence that you can trust yourself.

I’ve noticed the results in my physique. Every now and then, I’ll walk up to Parker, lift my shirt and ask, “Do I got abs?”

Six weeks ago, I jokingly asked if I could be a model. She nearly rolled her eyes out of her head.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked again if I had abs.

“Geez, are you trying to be a model or something?” Parker asked.

I’ll take that as progress.

Parker often asks me during our routine 8 o’clock call if I went to the gym. It’s rare that I get to say no.

Truthfully, I don’t love the question. I’d rather she focus on doing her own push-ups than keeping tabs on mine. But I’m proud of the progress she’s making and the way she’s beginning to understand the importance of taking care of herself.

Push-ups have become shorthand in our home for doing the work.

I’ve taught her from a young age that what she eats doesn’t make anyone else poop and vice versa. The same principle applies here: I can encourage her, demonstrate for her and hold her accountable, but she has to do her own push-ups.

I want her to understand that taking care of yourself isn’t vanity. It’s responsibility.

Keep going, sweetie!

Daddy will too.

I no longer exercise just to get my swagger back.

Now I exercise because I want to live well for as long as I can.

I want to be strong enough to enjoy it. And I want to keep proving to myself that I have the discipline to do the things that matter, even when I don’t feel like doing them.

Health really is the highest form of wealth.

And I’m doing everything I can to protect mine.

Editor’s note: This is Part 3 of a five-part series, “R-E-M-E-W,” built around five essentials I’ve come to believe are worth making part of everyday life. Each installment explores one of the practices I’m learning to prioritize as I figure out what it means to live well.

Part 1: Read | Part 2: Eat to live | Part 3: Meditate | Part 4: Exercise | Part 5: Write

Meditation sounded boring to me when I was younger.

Rigid. Stiff. Almost cultish.

I preferred fast-paced action. Give me something to do, somewhere to go, something to chase. Sitting still and doing nothing sounded like the opposite of progress.

The truth is, my life was a chaotic mess back then.

I didn’t prioritize much outside of work. As a workaholic, I didn’t really know how. I chased things instead: success, promotions, recognition, status, money.

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And when I wasn’t working, I gravitated toward distractions that made me feel good. Television. Sports. Music. Games. Dates. Drinks.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with any of those things. I still enjoy many of them.

The difference now is that I can enjoy them without needing them to help me escape myself.

Back then, I didn’t understand that distinction.

I wasn’t free because my mind wasn’t free.

I was constantly moving, consuming or chasing something. There wasn’t much room left to simply sit with myself.

And none of it was making me a better person.

It took me years to realize I had it all wrong.

I found my way into meditation through “The 5 AM Club.” The book’s “20-20-20 formula” broke the first hour of the day into three 20-minute blocks: movement, reflection and learning.

That second 20 minutes made meditation feel doable.

Twenty minutes. I could handle that.

More importantly, the book helped me understand that meditation didn’t have to look the way I had imagined it. It didn’t require an elaborate setup or a personality shift.

For me, that simply meant stillness, silence, calm.

I’m still mastering the routine.

My meditation practice can happen in the morning, midday or at night. I’m less concerned with making it look perfect than I am with making room for it.

What I’ve come to appreciate is what happens when I give myself that space.

A few quiet minutes of getting lost in thought can be enough. The noise starts to fade, and more has room to surface.

Clarity. Ideas. Motivation.

I’ve found that I thrive on that clarity. It helps guide me while giving me something I didn’t always appreciate enough: peace of mind.

That’s why I’ve started thinking about meditation less as an activity and more as a reset.

I don’t always need to solve a problem. Sometimes I just need to stop adding to the noise long enough to hear myself think.

My new balcony has become a perfect place for that. It’s quiet, calm and serene. Unlike my old stoop, everyone doesn’t stop to chat. I can sit there and simply be.

That doesn’t always mean I’m formally meditating. I might just sit with my thoughts and let my mind wander. I’ve learned that those moments have value, too.

Some of my best ideas have come when I wasn’t trying to have an idea at all.

I feel calmer, too.

That matters a lot to me.

I don’t like being frazzled by the outside world. I need time to collect myself. I need space between what the world is asking of me and how I choose to respond to it.

And I’m learning that space can be created at any point in the day.

Life doesn’t only get noisy in the morning.

My reset might be needed in the middle of the day or late at night. It could be a few minutes on the balcony, a quiet moment in my reading nook or simply putting down my devices, closing my eyes and stepping away from everything for a while.

I’m still figuring out what my meditation practice looks like, and I’m not interested in forcing a rigid routine just to say I have one.

I’m more interested in continuing to find those moments of stillness, whenever and wherever they come.

I like who I am a little more when I do.

Editor’s note: This is Part 2 of a five-part series, “R-E-M-E-W,” built around five essentials I’ve come to believe are worth making part of everyday life. Each installment explores one of the practices I’m learning to prioritize as I figure out what it means to live well.

Part 1: Read | Part 2: Eat to live | Part 3: Meditate | Part 4: Exercise | Part 5: Write

My transformation with food didn’t happen overnight.

It’s been more than 15 years in the making.

And it started with a book.

I stumbled across “Eat This Not That,” which bills itself as a “supermarket survival guide.” It did something much simpler for me. It showed me that many of the foods I was buying had better alternatives sitting right next to them.

That changed the way I looked at food. And once I started looking, I couldn’t really stop.

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Before that, I wasn’t giving food nearly that much thought beyond taste.

There was a phase when I could visit multiple fast-food drive-thrus in the same day. Sometimes, back-to-back, within minutes of each other.

Donuts didn’t need an occasion. They’d get devoured anytime, anywhere. Double-stuffed Oreos were definitely in my top five, especially dipped in a glass of cold milk.

And pizza remains my biggest guilty pleasure.

I knew most of it wasn’t healthy. What I didn’t realize was how much of my eating was happening without much thought at all.

I wasn’t always eating because I was hungry. Sometimes I was bored. Sometimes stressed. Sometimes something simply looked good.

Most times, convenience won.

That was the part I needed to confront. I had to start paying attention not just to what I was eating, but why I was eating it.

Change happened slowly. So gradually that I didn’t really notice it happening.

One better choice led to another, then another. I’ve never done a dramatic diet. Never sworn off fast food. I simply started becoming more conscious of what I was putting into my body and how those choices made me feel.

These days, my meals look a lot different.

Fresh-fruit smoothies, oatmeal and eggs have become regular breakfast staples. I reach for salmon, baked or grilled chicken and tuna fish more often than fried chicken and red meat. And vegetables? Lots and lots of vegetables.

The foods I once reached for without thinking have largely been replaced by foods that leave me feeling better afterward.

Eating better eventually made me pay more attention to what I was drinking, too. I’ve become more intentional about alcohol because I notice the difference when I drink less. My sleep is better, and I have more energy.

At some point, feeling my best became more important to me than having another drink.

I’ve also learned that boredom can feel a lot like hunger. When I catch myself looking for something to eat simply because I’m bored, I’ll reach for water instead.

Sometimes I don’t need food.

Sometimes I need to hydrate.

Sometimes I just need to break the habit of automatically reaching for something.

The physical difference has become hard to ignore. I feel lighter when I don’t scarf down a bunch of meat. My body feels stronger. I have more energy.

My wallet has noticed the difference, too.

Dining out became a huge money pit. A meal here, a quick stop there, something on the way home because I didn’t feel like cooking. Each decision seemed harmless, but the total wasn’t.

Eating better has helped me spend better, too.

I still have cravings. I still love pizza — I’m not giving that up anytime soon.

I’m not trying to analyze every meal, and I’m certainly not interested in eliminating every indulgence. I just don’t want food to run the show anymore.

I’m eating to live now instead of living to eat.

More than 15 years after an unsuspecting book changed the way I looked at the grocery shelf, I’m still figuring it out.

But I’ve learned that eating well doesn’t have to mean eating perfectly. For me, it means making choices that give me more of what I want from life: energy, strength and the ability to feel good in my own body.

Editor’s note: This is Part 1 of a five-part series, “R-E-M-E-W,” built around five essentials I’ve come to believe are worth making part of everyday life. Each installment explores one of the practices I’m learning to prioritize as I figure out what it means to live well.

Part 1: Read | Part 2: Eat to live | Part 3: Meditate | Part 4: Exercise | Part 5: Write

I was never much of a reader growing up.

I was into sports. Basketball, especially. If I picked up something to read, there was a good chance it had a box score, a player profile or something else sports-related.

When I decided I wanted to become a sports writer, people gave me plenty of advice. One piece came up often: Read. Read a lot.

The advice made sense. Sort of.

Nobody really told me what I should be reading. So I mostly read what I already knew.

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I read more sports stories. I studied how other writers covered games. I paid attention to their voices, their reporting and the way they told stories.

It worked. I became a better sports writer.

But I wasn’t necessarily becoming a better person.

That distinction took me a while to understand. I was getting better at my profession without necessarily expanding my view of the world.

For years, I sat on press row at NBA games alongside some of the smartest people in the business. Many understood before others that the 3-point shot was becoming more valuable — not just because it was worth an extra point, but because it made most mid-range shots less valuable by comparison.

I understood the concept. And I watched the game evolve into the 3-point fest it is today. Just look at a box score. Teams routinely attempt more 3-pointers than mid-range shots.

Eventually, I realized I was taking the intellectual equivalent of a lot of middies.

I was reading. I was learning. I was growing professionally. But I was spending most of my time inside the boundaries of what I already knew.

I had spent years learning how to broaden my game. I hadn’t yet learned how to broaden myself.

That changed when I started reading outside of sports.

I’ve written before about going from reading box scores to reading balance sheets. I remember how uncomfortable that transition was. Learning the language of money, investing and wealth wasn’t easy. It required me to sit with things I didn’t understand and keep going anyway.

I understand why someone wouldn’t voluntarily put themselves through that.

But I also know what can be waiting on the other side.

I can point to a half dozen books that changed the way I think about money and life. They didn’t simply give me information. They changed the questions I was asking.

I’m still evolving as a reader. Lately, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to history and biographies. I want to know more about the people and events that shaped the world around me. I want to understand the lives that look nothing like mine and learn from experiences I could never have lived myself.

That’s one of the gifts of reading. It can introduce you to an idea you didn’t know you were missing, a perspective you hadn’t considered or even a version of yourself you hadn’t yet met.

And we have more access to information than any generation before us. Somehow, sustained reading can still feel harder than ever.

Our attention is constantly being pulled in different directions. We can consume hundreds of pieces of content in a day without sitting with any of them for very long.

Reading asks something different of us. It asks us to stay.

That has been a challenge for me, too.

Audiobooks saved me.

They gave me another way to absorb a book when sitting down with the traditional version wasn’t working. I could listen while driving, walking, cooking or cleaning. I could stop, slow down, rewind and listen again.

These days, one of my favorite combinations is an audiobook and the elliptical. That took some time, too. Music had long been my default on the elliptical. Eventually, I realized I could use that time differently. Now I’m taking care of my body while feeding my mind.

That’s what I’ve learned about reading: It doesn’t have to look a certain way.

Maybe you’re a lifelong reader. Maybe, like me, you had to find your way to it. Maybe you have a stack of books you’ve been meaning to finish, or maybe the better entry point for you is an audiobook on your commute, during a walk or while you’re working out.

The point isn’t to read 50 books a year.

The point is to keep expanding your range.

Because there is a whole world beyond what you already know. And there may be a better version of you waiting on the other side of what you’re willing to explore.

I spent years sitting on press row learning the value of taking the better shot. Then it finally hit me.

I needed to apply that lesson to more than basketball.

I needed to stop settling for intellectual middies, too.

I’m on an unsustainable path.

July was my second-highest spending month of the year, narrowly trailing April.

That’s a distinction I’m not proud of.

I’ve tapped into my freedom fund. I’ve sold equity positions. I’ve used side change to offset the damage.

And still, I’m on a collision course with debt.

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This is not the summer I envisioned.

Most of my purchases go on a credit card so I can rack up airline points. A few essentials — like my mortgage, gas for my vehicle, electricity and my $10 monthly gym membership — are paid separately. Tracking expenses this way lets me monitor spending in real time, and each month I share my progress, for better or worse.

Well, July was worse.

Once again, “professional services” accounted for the largest category of my spending at 28 percent. It’s no surprise. I’m paying legal fees while fighting for something better. It’s the fourth straight month that it’s ranked first in my monthly spending.

At the same time, I bought a home. That’s a major milestone. It’s also a major financial commitment.

The money I’ve spent getting here — from the costs of buying the condo to the expenses that come with owning it — has put additional pressure on my cash flow. I’m building something for the future while watching money leave my accounts in the present.

And last month, another familiar financial headache reemerged:

Car trouble.

I spent $1,226.79 on my vehicle in July, not including gas.

A new set of tires. An overdue oil change. A pair of wiper blades. A deductible for damage road debris caused to my front end. Then there was the rental car I needed while the body shop worked on my vehicle.

That cost another $82.12.

And because July apparently needed one more auto-related expense, I paid $31 for a new license with my new address.

My bank account felt every charge.

Then there’s food.

Here’s where I have less room for excuses.

Food and drink tied automotive as my second-highest spending category, accounting for 17 percent of my July spending.

That’s the high mark this year.

I love good food, y’all!

A work trip to New York contributed. I paid roughly $350 out of pocket for expenses that I’ll recoup through reimbursement. So there’s some relief coming.

But reimbursement doesn’t change the lesson — I’m spending too much on food and drink.

That’s a problem because this is a category I can control.

I can’t control worn tires. I can’t control road debris. I can’t control a roof leak or every legal bill that lands in my inbox.

But I can decide whether I’m going out to eat or making something at home.

Right now, those decisions matter.

I need to sit down, continue focusing on increasing my income and being a good steward of what arrives.

That’s it.

Just the basics.

It’s stripping me down to my bones at a time when I feel like I’ve come so far and accomplished so much.

I bought a home. I’m fighting for something better. I’m working. I’m building.

And yet, I’m watching my money disappear faster than I can replenish it.

That’s a hard reality to sit with.

But maybe that’s exactly what I need.

I know how to revert to the basics to persevere. I’ve built habits, like this very column, that force me to look at the numbers and understand where every dollar is going.

That awareness gives me a chance to do something about it.

I know what it feels like to tighten the belt, get focused and redirect.

I’ve done it before. And that’s where I am now.

So as I look at another month of spending, I’m left with the same question hanging over me.

When will it end?

I still don’t know.

But I know what I need to do until it does.

Get back to the basics.

Earn more. Spend less. Track every dollar.

And keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Last night, I looked up and saw a rainbow stretching across my new neighborhood.

I stood there for a moment, taking in the kind of beauty that makes you stop and pay attention.

Hummingbirds have become regular visitors outside my balcony. The squirrels around here seem to have endless energy, turning sticks into toys and the courtyard into their own playground. Every morning reminds me that this place moves to a different rhythm than the one I left behind.

The surprising part isn’t everything I’ve noticed since moving.

It’s everything I’ve noticed about myself.

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I’m still walking too fast. Still rushing through errands. Still fighting the urge to honk the instant a traffic light turns green.

Changing my address happened in a day.

Changing myself has taken a little longer.

I didn’t expect slowing down to be something I’d have to work at.

The quiet has been the biggest adjustment.

After nearly nine years of city living, I became intimately familiar with how much energy it took simply to navigate life. Sirens in the middle of the night. Noisy neighbors. Remembering street cleaning and snow removal days. Searching for parking. Wondering if I had forgotten something that would cost me another ticket. Another inconvenience. Another headache.

When you live with that long enough, it stops feeling like stress. It just feels like life.

Now, nearly everything I need is within a three-mile radius. My preferred gas station and grocery stores. My new gym. An incredible library. Parks and walking paths. Golf. Bowling. Restaurants and bars.

Parker’s school is virtually across the street. In less than two weeks, she’ll start seventh grade, and for the first time she’ll be able to take the school bus from my house. She can walk. Ride her bike. Simply enjoy the freedom of being close to the places that make up her everyday life.

The geography of our lives has changed. So has the way they feel.

But places don’t just shape our routines. They shape our instincts.

And Chicago changed me.

For 8 1/2 years, I learned a rhythm that came with living in a big city. Move with purpose. Pay attention. Stay aware. Get where you’re going. Don’t waste time.

That rhythm served me well.

It challenged me, sharpened me, taught me resilience and became a home I never expected to love so much. It taught me how to move through uncertainty, adapt and keep going when things weren’t easy. It gave me stories, perspective and a version of myself I wouldn’t trade.

Chicago didn’t just shape where I lived. It shaped how I lived.

That’s what I’m noticing now: I brought more of Chicago with me than I realized.

I’m still figuring out which parts of that rhythm I want to carry with me and which ones I’m ready to let go of.

I still rush through errands that don’t require rushing. And I want to honk when the car in front of me doesn’t immediately move when the light turns green.

Those instincts still show up before I do.

Our circumstances changed overnight. My habits are taking their time.

The neighborhood has slowed down.

I’m learning that peace has its own pace.

I’m still catching up.

The honeymoon lasted a week.

Six nights after closing on our new home, it rained again. This time, the rain sounded different. I knew what was coming.

Just after 2 a.m., I woke to the steady drip of water falling from our living room ceiling.

I grabbed a mop bucket and a few old towels, slid them underneath the leak and convinced myself it was a small problem.

I was wrong.

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By sunrise, I had done all I could do. Parker left at 9 a.m. to spend the Fourth of July with family, and I hoped the worst was behind us.

Not even close.

By afternoon, the National Weather Service was sending flash flood alerts to our phones. I canceled dinner plans just after 4:30. Dinner could wait. Home Depot couldn’t.

The rain kept coming. A second leak appeared in the living room.

Then I heard dripping in Parker’s bedroom.

My lone mop bucket suddenly felt useless.

I made a frantic trip to Home Depot for buckets, tarps, towels and anything else that looked remotely helpful. By the time I left, nearby parking lots were underwater. I hurried home, spread everything out and started catching water.

Then another leak appeared.

I turned around and went right back.

Somewhere between 8 and 10 p.m., my attention shifted.

The leaks would still be there, but Parker was coming home.

For the first time all weekend, I stopped thinking about the house and started thinking about what she would feel like when she walked through the door.

Her bedroom looked nothing like it had the day before.

Her bed had been moved. Her pink rug and lamp had been replaced by blue tarps and orange buckets. She had just spent the past few days arranging everything exactly how she wanted it. Now it was barely recognizable.

I kept running through scenarios: Book a hotel. Tell Parker she could stay with family. Or welcome her home and let her see that life doesn’t always go according to plan.

I chose home.

When I picked Parker up, I told her about my Fourth before she could tell me about hers.

I explained that the house looked different. That we’d taken on more water. That her room wouldn’t look the way she left it — but that we’d figure it out together.

She listened. She asked questions.

She took the news the same way she takes most things — with a quiet strength that continues to amaze me.

In that moment, I realized she’d been listening all along.

She slept in my room that night.

As India Arie played softly in the background, I cried.

It wasn’t the first full weekend in our new home that I had imagined. It wasn’t the Fourth of July I had pictured, either.

Every time it’s rained since, I’ve listened a little more closely.

The buckets are gone.

The tarps have been folded away.

The repairs are still ahead.

But when I look around, I still feel what I felt when we first walked through the door.

Home.

On the day we closed on our new condo, Parker and I hit record.

We were running on just a few hours of sleep — physically exhausted, hungry and more than a little delirious after a whirlwind day of paperwork, packing and moving.

There was also pure excitement.

After everything it took to get here, we finally had the chance to turn the page.

To leave the last chapter behind and create new memories in a place we could truly call home.

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Listening back, you can hear the excitement in our voices. You can feel the anticipation of everything that’s still to come.

One month later, I know this wasn’t just about buying a condo but the life Parker and I are continuing to build.

That first night, surrounded by boxes and the remnants of a very long day, we finally got to take in the reality that this was our home.

Click the play button below to listen now, or find the Money Talks podcast on Spotify. For your convenience, here is a timestamp for Episode 27:

🎙️ Episode 27 — Timestamps:

0:01: Backstage
0:28: The Money Talks jingle
0:48: Parker spills the tea
2:14: How we spent our first night in our new home
3:02: Saying goodbye to the only Chicago home we knew
5:40: Speaking of timestamps
6:17: Parker gives an important update — on her height
7:50: Turning the page and embracing a new chapter
10:20: Why we’re loopy and functioning on three hours sleep
11:15: Why we’re so excited about this move
14:42: An early source of inspiration for launching Money Talks
18:20: One of the best features of our new home
21:40: The long list of freebies that came with the condo
24:24: Comparing our mortgage to our old rent
25:30: More freebies!
34:00: Daddy gives one last important message to Parker
35:02: Outro

The rain sounds different from here.

I’m sitting on my balcony, my new stoop, listening to it fall through the trees surrounding our condo. With the windows open, the rain sounds almost like I’m camping in a rainforest. It’s peaceful. Serene. And every so often, I catch myself looking around and thinking, How did I get here?

I never planned to buy a home here. I never dreamed about it. I never even really considered it. But on June 26, I stood inside this place after closing and felt something I still have trouble putting into words: disbelief.

The two-bedroom condo sits just outside Chicago, in a neighborhood I never expected to call home.

But the more I pictured our life here, the more it started to make sense.

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Parker has gone to school just about across the street since third grade. She’ll attend the same junior high, located in the same complex, for seventh and eighth grade, too.

And she’s genuinely excited about it.

She’ll tell me some random fact about the neighborhood, point out something I didn’t know was there or fill me in on the history of a place we’ve driven past a hundred times.

She knows this area. She’s comfortable here. It’s part of her world already.

That matters. A lot.

Then I started noticing how much this place fit my life, too.

The balcony. The trees. The garage I always wanted. The views from our bedroom windows. The bathtub I waited nearly nine years to soak in.

I gave the place a 10/10. Parker gave it a 1,000/10.

My balcony has become my new stoop, which was easily my favorite place in Chicago. I don’t have to think about my surroundings the way I have for the past 8 1/2 years. I don’t have to circle the block looking for a parking space. I have an assigned spot in a garage.

Almost everything I need is within three miles: my new gym, my preferred grocery stores, the bowling alley where I joined a league. I’m spending far less time in traffic, and everyday errands have become remarkably simple.

Those little things have made life feel lighter.

Then it hit me.

I hadn’t simply found a home. I’d found a place that finally gave me the space to do what I’ve been trying to do all along: parent, write, think, create, invest and live intentionally — with a little more peace.

The more time I spend here, the more this place feels like a vacation home.

Except I get to come home to it.

And that might be what I love most about it. Not just the condo itself, but the way it fits into our lives. The way Parker gets to stay rooted in a neighborhood she already knows and loves. And the way I get to find a rhythm that feels more natural.

It’s not the plan I had.

It’s better.

Our new home has become a place where I can settle in, exhale and be more present for the life Parker and I are building together.

We love this place.

And that feels like a pretty good way to begin.

I was on the phone with my brother the first time I gave Aldi a shot.

Big mistake.

I had just walked into what felt like a foreign country.

For the past four years, Walmart had my loyalty. It was my one-stop shop for groceries, household supplies and just about everything else. For a while, it was even one of the stars of my investment portfolio.

But my loyalty to corporations has its limits. When shopping somewhere starts costing me more time, money or aggravation than it’s worth, I’m out.

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The unraveling started in 2022, when Walmart announced it was closing several Chicago stores, including the Neighborhood Walmart just blocks from our home. Suddenly, my closest Walmart was 6.3 miles away — about a 15-minute drive with no traffic but closer to 45 minutes when Chicago behaved like Chicago.

For nearly two years, I put up with the inconvenience.

Then, on Nov. 1, 2024, I hit my breaking point.

The culprit wasn’t prices.

It was the checkout lines.

Automation hasn’t made checking out any faster. Maybe this is where I officially become an old man, but grocery delivery doesn’t appeal to me. Neither does curbside pickup. I’d rather pick my own fruit, thank you.

Meanwhile, something else kept nagging at me.

Walmart has long been known as the low-price leader. But my receipts kept telling a different story. Parker would size up the cart and predict whether we’d top $100.

She wasn’t far off.

My last five Walmart trips totaled $93.47, $159.30, $180.84, $84.96 and $146.95.

By then, I was making fewer trips to Walmart anyway.

An Aldi sat just one mile from home — about a five-minute drive.

So I decided to give it a try.

That’s when everything went sideways.

First, I didn’t have a quarter for the shopping cart. Back to the car I went to rummage through the center console.

Then I needed lime juice.

I must have walked around that store five times and still couldn’t find it.

Then I reached the checkout.

No bags. Of course.

I’d left my reusable bags at home because it never occurred to me I’d need to bring my own.

This was a very different shopping experience.

But once I got over the learning curve, I noticed something else: I was spending a lot less money.

My last five Aldi trips were $64.75, $71.90, $10.53, $80.80 and $13.39.

That’s hardly a scientific study, but it lines up with broader research. Consumer Reports recently found that a comparable basket of groceries at Aldi averaged about 8.3% less than at Walmart.

The irony is that the place that initially left me completely disoriented has become my regular grocery store.

Aldi isn’t perfect. The produce can be hit or miss. The checkout lines aren’t always short. And I still head to Pete’s when I want the best fresh fruit.

But most nights, I don’t need specialty ingredients. I just need dinner. Aldi has become my default, and Pete’s fills in the gaps.

These days, there’s a quarter in my dashboard.

My reusable bags stay in the seat-back pocket.

And I’m still looking for the lime juice.

Tuesday has become my favorite day of the week.

Again.

Longtime Money Talks readers might remember I wrote those exact words in 2023. Back then, Tuesday nights belonged to Wallstreet Trapper. Unless duty called, I was locked in to “Trappin Tuesday’s” every week, soaking up lessons on earning, spending, saving, investing and building wealth.

Three years later, Tuesday is still my favorite day.

Only now, it’s because of a bowling league.

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Yeah, I didn’t see that one coming, either.

I’m officially old. Not because I joined a bowling league. Plenty of people bowl their entire lives. I’m officially old because of how excited I am about it.

Every Tuesday, I catch myself looking forward to league night. I’ve already turned down Tuesday invitations because I’m not giving up bowling.

I didn’t dip my toe in the water, either.

I paid $168 up front for the entire 12-week league instead of week by week.

Then I spent another $169.06 on a new bowling ball and another $42.78 on a two-ball bag, ball cleaner and a towel.

Let me translate that for anyone who knows me only as a guy who writes about investing:

I spent almost $400 to become slightly better at throwing a 13-pound ball at 10 pins.

The $168 also came with a few perks: two free games each week and discounts on bowling and concessions.

But the best part wasn’t a discount or a free game.

It was knowing that, for 12 weeks, I had a standing commitment to spend a few hours each Tuesday doing something I genuinely enjoyed.

That’s not something I’ve always made time for.

I searched the 363-column Money Talks archive and found only 10 columns that included the words “relax” or “relaxation.”

Five each.

One was about my root canal in 2025. Another was about turning off the TV.

Apparently, relaxation hasn’t been a recurring theme around here.

That’s part of why I didn’t mind putting money into this experience.

The ball upgrade had been a long time coming. My old ball had been with me since high school.

The league was the part I never expected.

It didn’t take long to remember why I’d always loved bowling.

Some of my favorite memories with my grandfather were made in bowling alleys.

We weren’t chasing perfect games.

We were just chasing one more game.

I can still hear him.

“Just roll the ball.”

“Put it on the second arrow.”

I carried those moments — and those words — with me into my first night.

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The league was designed for beginners. It was a chance to learn, improve and spend a few hours each Tuesday night having fun.

Still, I had questions.

Would I be good enough?

Would I embarrass myself?

Would I be accepted?

Turns out, I was worried about the wrong things.

I joined a team with two brothers who have been in the league for years. They knew the lanes, the routine and everyone around them. I was the new guy, but they welcomed me immediately.

My bigger problem? They are both Packers fans.

The younger brother showed up in a Packers shirt in Week 2. So naturally, I responded by wearing a Vikings shirt last week.

“This is going to be a problem,” he said.

I called our unforeseen circumstance a “friendly rivalry.”

“There’s nothing friendly about it,” he said.

All right then. Game on. We’ll see about it in Week 1 of the NFL season when my Vikes host his Packers.

I wasn’t the only new person on the team. The third member of our team was learning bowling from scratch.

Watching him learn the game has been one of the best parts of this experience. Each week, he’s picking up something new and getting better. By Week 3, he broke 100 for the first time.

That same week, my new ball arrived.

I wasn’t learning how to bowl from scratch. I was learning how to bowl differently.

My old ball was beat up, covered in dents and scratches and had nowhere near the movement of a modern bowling ball.

But I knew that ball.

I knew where to stand. I knew how fast to throw it. I knew what it would do when it left my hand. I bowled a 180 with it while out with Parker on July 9.

The new ball was a different story.

It had more torque. More spin. More potential.

And for a while, none of that mattered because I had no idea how to control it. The first time I brought it out for league night, I felt like I had forgotten how to bowl.

I couldn’t figure out where to stand, how to release it or how much speed to use. The ball was sliding all over the lanes, and I was searching for answers.

Then one of the cheeseheads gave me a lesson I didn’t even know I needed.

He explained how the lanes are oiled: more oil in the middle, less on the outside. That changes how the ball reacts as it travels down the lane.

I made a few adjustments. I increased my ball speed and kept my placement on the right side of the lane a little longer, putting it on that second arrow just like Grandpa taught me.

And slowly, the ball started doing what I wanted it to do.

The strikes started coming.

After opening with a 144, I finished with a 160 and a 141 for a 148.3 average. Two days later, I returned to use my two free games that came with joining the league.

Then I didn’t want to leave.

So I paid $8.97 for another three games. Best eight bucks I’ve spent in a while.

In the second game of that extra set, I bowled a personal-best 232.

My cousin Stefan once bowled a 285 and made it look effortless.

I’ve got a long way to go.

But I’m coming for you, Stef!

On the way out last Thursday, I wanted to tell everyone within earshot about my 232.

The people next to me. The people behind the counter. Anyone who would listen.

Just like an old man would.

“I’m not the average girl from your video,
And I ain’t built like a supermodel,
But I learned to love myself unconditionally,
Because I am a queen,
I’m not the average girl from your video,
My worth is not determined by the price of my clothes,
No matter what I’m wearing I will always be,
The India Arie.” — India Arie

I cried in front of Parker on the Fourth of July.

It was close to midnight, and she was lying in bed beside me, blurry-eyed and exhausted after a long day.

We had spent the evening talking about the messages that shape us and the voices we choose to let into our lives.

Then India Arie started singing.

And I lost it.

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India Arie has been a part of my life for a long time.

Long before Parker. Long before Money Talks. Long before I understood how powerful a message could be.

Her music always feels different. It doesn’t demand attention. It earns it.

It’s not built around telling people what to chase. It’s built around reminding people what they already have.

She isn’t just singing about love. She is singing about the kind of love that begins with knowing your worth.

That has always been the beauty of India Arie.

She has spent 30 years creating music that asks people to look deeper. Beyond appearance. Beyond approval. Beyond the expectations placed on us by a world that often rewards the surface over the substance.

Her catalog is filled with examples of that truth.

“Video” challenged the way women are often taught to measure their beauty. “I Am Not My Hair” pushed that message even further, reminding women and girls that their identity extends far beyond their appearance.

It was the first song I played for Parker that night.

Because before she ever worries about how the world sees her, I want her to understand that she is so much more than what people can see.

India Arie has always explored more than self-love. She has also celebrated the beauty, vulnerability and intention of Black love through songs like “Brown Skin,” “Purify Me” and “Ready for Love.”

Then there was “Steady Love.”

That one felt different.

That one felt personal.

Those words have stayed with me for years.

Because somehow, India Arie captured me in a single lyric.

That’s why her music has always felt so personal. She has spent her career reminding us who we are.

And that’s why I struggled so much with what happened next.

Just before the Fourth of July, India Arie found herself at the center of a cultural conversation after responding to a Threads post about rapper Yung Miami’s “Spend Dat.”

“I finally realized that not EVERYBODY wants to get free. And it was a very, very, very rude awakening. smh. because the mass acceptance of this song is a crystal clear sign of this much bigger truth.”

Her words sparked a debate.

Some people agreed. Others pushed back.

A few days later, I was lying in bed with Parker on the night of the Fourth of July, watching Dr. Boyce Watkins break down the conversation in a 65-minute video.

Watkins has built a platform around economic education and financial empowerment through his “Money in the Morning” daily class, which he describes as “the home for intelligent Black people.” His messages often challenge me to think differently about wealth, ownership and the choices we make.

This time, I was watching with Parker.

And as the conversation unfolded, I wanted her to understand who India Arie is and why her words matter.

So I paused the video.

And I played “I Am Not My Hair.”

I watched Parker listen, and I thought about the world she is growing up in.

The messages she will encounter. The voices she will have to learn to question. The things she will be told to value.

And then I thought about India Arie.

For three decades, she’s pushed back against those same pressures, which made this moment even harder for me to process.

She has spent her life trying to help people see themselves differently.

And somehow, when she challenged a mindset that deserved to be questioned, she became the target.

Because the message at the center of this conversation was not complicated.

“Spend Dat” is built around celebrating spending money quickly, displaying wealth and glorifying the lifestyle described in its lyrics.

The chorus says:

“Where all my scammin’-ass n**** at?,
Spendin’ that money fast,
Twenties, fifties, hundreds, cash,
Boy, go in that Goyard bag.”

And then repeats the message:

“Spend that shit.”

I read those words and sat with the reality of what was happening.

This was the song receiving that level of attention.

This was the message being defended.

The conversation was never about a song.

It was about what we value, what we celebrate and what we normalize.

I understand why some people pushed back.

Music is personal.

People connect with different sounds, different stories and different experiences.

But I have always believed repetition matters.

What we say. What we hear. What we celebrate. What we normalize.

They shape us, whether we realize it or not.

That’s why India Arie had me wiping away tears in front of Parker on the Fourth of July.

Because for 30 years, she has been intentional.

Her message has not changed.

Her voice has not changed.

Her heart has not changed.

At 11:56 p.m., with Parker barely keeping her eyes open, I played one more India Arie song.

“There’s Hope.”

I wiped away my tears.

Parker was quiet.

Then she looked up at me.

“I like it,” she said.

I hadn’t planned on seeing Ella Mai this summer.

Truthfully, I hadn’t planned on seeing much of anybody.

I’ve written before that I’m not much of a concertgoer anymore. Somewhere along the way, live music became one of those things I figured I’d get back to eventually. There was always something else to do. Something else to handle. Something else that felt more important in the moment.

Then, sometime in May, a woman I’m dating made a suggestion.

“We should go see Ella Mai.”

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She had some nerve.

We hadn’t been dating very long, but she shot her shot.

And she swished it.

I bought the tickets on June 3.

The funny thing is, I didn’t buy them because she asked. I bought them because I wanted to go. She just happened to be in position to benefit.

Ella Mai has been in my rotation for years. The Grammy-winning R&B singer broke through with 2018 hits like “Boo’d Up,” “Trip” and “Shot Clock,” followed by “DFMU” and “Little Things.” After a three-year hiatus, she returned to the road with her “Do You Still Love Me?” tour.

Her Chicago stop was at The Salt Shed, a venue I had never visited.

By the time Friday arrived, I had no idea what kind of night it would become.

The weeks leading up to it had been a lot: car trouble and an emergency situation at home — the kinds of things that have a way of rearranging even the best-laid plans.

Friday was no different.

I had to facilitate Parker’s transition in the suburbs, which was scheduled for 6 p.m. The show started at 7. After that, I still had to pick up my date on the South Side before making the drive to the North Side.

There was no chance we were getting there on time.

We walked into The Salt Shed around 8:30.

Ella Mai had already taken the stage, but she couldn’t have been more than a few songs into her set. She was already locked in. So was the crowd.

The place was packed.

The night was beautiful.

And with the Chicago skyline behind the stage, it was easy to understand why people had shown up.

Ella Mai has always stood out to me because of the way she carries herself. Her music has always centered on love, but so has the energy she brings with it. There’s a gentleness there that feels rare in an industry that often rewards the opposite.

She showed that late in the set when she stopped the show for roughly 10 minutes after noticing attendees who needed medical attention. There was no rushing through it. No trying to get back to the next song. She waited until people were taken care of.

That moment stayed with me.

Maybe part of it is because she’s a Scorpio like me, born one day after me — although she’s more than a decade younger.

But mostly, I appreciate that she has remained herself. She hasn’t needed to lean into stereotypes to sell music.

As a girl dad, I notice those things.

I appreciate artists who can show young women that strength and confidence don’t have to come at the expense of kindness, humility or authenticity.

When I walked out of The Salt Shed on Friday night, I wasn’t thinking about the tickets I bought on June 3.

I was thinking about the fact that, despite everything that happened between buying those tickets and walking through the gates, I still ended up having the night I hoped I would have.

A night filled with music, good company and a rare moment where I wasn’t thinking about the next thing on my list.

There’s a difference between taking profits and touching the stove.

I spent Q1 doing the former, trimming positions that had run higher than I expected and teaching myself how to take what the market had given me. It wasn’t comfortable, but it felt measured.

Q2 was different.

I kept taking profits where I thought they made sense. But one decision stood above everything else I did between April and June.

I sold part of my buy-and-hold portfolio.

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It wasn’t an emergency.

It wasn’t panic.

It was intentional.

And I’m still not sure whether it was discipline or rationalization.

I’ve spent nearly four years building routines that remove emotion from investing.

Buy every month. Stay invested. Trust compounding. Ignore the noise.

Those rules exist for a reason.

The moment you start making exceptions, each one becomes a little easier to justify.

That’s what made the quarter so uncomfortable.

Was I being opportunistic?

Or was I convincing myself I was smarter than the process that got me here?

The answer still isn’t as obvious as I’d like it to be.

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June marked my fourth straight month of spending more than $4,000.

I keep waiting for this stretch to let up, but instead it feels like every time I look up, another expense is headed my way.

It feels like everything is hitting me at once. And the biggest bugaboo is a familiar one.

Since April, my professional services category has accounted for 49%, 23% and now 35% of my monthly spending. It has completely reshaped my budget, and at times, it feels like a bomb has been dropped on my finances.

Then, over the holiday weekend, road debris left my vehicle with minor body damage. Now I’m staring at yet another bill that needs immediate attention, whether I decide to file an insurance claim or pay out of pocket.

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It’s amazing how quickly financial pressure can cloud your thinking.

Vision gets blurred. The goal gets distorted.

Fatigue flew out the window a long time ago. I’m nearing exhaustion as setback after setback keeps arriving.

I’m feeling the weight of constantly having to adjust.

What’s worse is watching so much money leave your accounts after spending years being intentional with every dollar.

Because I invest as aggressively as I do, there isn’t much room in my budget for superfluous spending. So when the money that remains has to go toward expenses I’d much rather avoid — and those expenses are large enough to force me to tap my freedom fund while threatening my investing strategy — the situation can’t help but feel like a storm.

Most of my purchases go on a credit card so I can rack up airline points. A few essentials — including rent, gas for my vehicle and apartment, electricity and my $10 monthly gym membership — are paid separately. Tracking my expenses this way lets me monitor my spending in real time, and each month I share the numbers, for better or worse.

I’ve had to bite the bullet and pull from my freedom fund, the safety net I worked so hard to build.

This is where things become uncomfortable.

My freedom fund exists for seasons like this, but that doesn’t make using it feel any better. When this passes, rebuilding it moves to the top of my priority list.

This season has also exposed a habit I hadn’t fully acknowledged before. The more my bills pile up, the more tempted I am to splurge.

My only explanation is that I abhor watching so much money leave my accounts without enjoying at least a little of it myself. It’s not the healthiest financial instinct, and June reflected it.

I spent $629.19 on food and drink — the third straight month I’ve eclipsed $600 and the second consecutive month it ranked as my second-largest spending category. If there were ever a time to tighten that up, it’s now.

As overwhelming as this season feels, perspective still matters.

Despite the string of setbacks, my average monthly spending through the first six months of 2026 is only $89 higher than it was during the first half of 2025.

Considering everything that’s happened, that number surprised me.

I expected this year’s spending to be much higher at the halfway point, but the close numbers reminded me I went through something very similar last year too.

I’m disappointed to see the pattern repeat itself another year — and likely more consecutively than that.

The storm is real, and so is the preparation that came before it.

My freedom fund is doing exactly what it was built to do, even if I don’t know when this stretch will pass.

I’ll get through it.