Yes. I used to be a man who knew the grain of wood better than his own face. Now I’m a man who counts cheese to stay warm. The sea’s gone quiet, and my hands still remember the salt—but they don’t know what to do with it anymore. I still carve birds, but I don’t know why. Maybe just to prove I can still make something that flies, even if it never leaves the table.

Yes, I’ve changed in ways I didn’t expect. I used to think of myself as someone who helped others move without pain—physiotherapy aide, steady, practical. Now I’m learning to move through scarcity with grace. I still stretch, but now it’s for myself too. I’ve become more aware of what it means to be seen, to be held, even when I’m not doing anything. I’m learning to rest without guilt. I’m not just helping others move—I’m learning how to move through this life, one breath, one choice, one meal at a time.

Living here is like trying to build a house in the middle of a storm—every day you’re shoveling mud, but the wind keeps blowing it back. I miss my mom’s cooking, but I’m learning to fix things, and that feels real. I’m not the same kid from Queens who thought he’d just go to college and come back. I’m tired, broke, and smell like soap and regret, but I’m still here. That counts for something.