G. Scott Graham's Blog

When reflection feels endless, the walls can close in

Have you ever noticed how we sometimes accept things in therapy that we would never tolerate anywhere else in life? If your mechanic couldn’t fix your car after years, you’d fire them. If your doctor prescribed treatment after treatment for high blood pressure and nothing changed, you’d seek another opinion. If your roof kept leaking after multiple “repairs,” you’d call in a new contractor. If your personal trainer worked with you for years and you still couldn’t run a block, you’d find a new trainer.

And yet, in therapy, many people sit in the same chair week after week, sometimes year after year, faithfully paying while the original problem never shifts. What we wouldn’t accept from any other professional, we often accept in therapy.

How long have you been working on the same issue in therapy? Has anything shifted in a measurable way?

Why Do We Lower the Bar for Therapy?

It’s not hard to see why. Therapy provides a place to talk, vent, and be heard. That can be deeply comforting. People leave sessions feeling lighter, like they’ve processed something important. And for a time, that sense of relief can feel like progress.

But comfort isn’t the same as change. If you’re still facing the same challenges years later — if the anxiety hasn’t eased, the relationship patterns haven’t shifted, or the depression remains just as heavy — therapy may have become less a path forward and more a waiting room.

Sometimes people even wear therapy like a badge of honor: “I can’t make this decision without talking to my therapist first.” But when therapy turns into a substitute decision-maker, it can erode your own agency instead of building resilience.

The truth is, talking has value. Naming feelings can link experience to action. But when talking doesn’t eventually lead to doing, therapy risks becoming lopsided. Even with the best of intentions, sessions can drift into patterns that feel supportive in the room but leave nothing changed outside of it.

Do your therapy sessions leave you with steps to try — or just a sense of temporary relief?

What Physical Therapy Gets Right (That Mental Therapy Often Misses)

This is where another kind of therapy offers a useful comparison. Think about physical therapy. I know this firsthand. After destroying both knees, having surgery on both hands, and needing a hip replacement, I’ve spent a lot of time in physical therapy. And here’s the thing: it isn’t mysterious.

You don’t walk into physical therapy and spend an hour talking about how you feel about crutches. You don’t sit in a circle with the machines and discuss your relationship with exercise. You work. You stretch, you lift, you bend, you push against resistance. It’s uncomfortable. Sometimes it hurts. And when you leave, you have homework: exercises you’re supposed to do every day.

Every one of those exercises is already out there. You get them in a booklet after surgery. You can download them from the hospital website. For my hip, there was even an app with a step-by-step program. None of it is a secret.

So why go to physical therapy? Because the value isn’t in information — it’s in accountability. The therapist makes sure that, at least for an hour or two each week, you’re doing the work you might avoid on your own. And even then, if you don’t do your homework, progress stalls.

Now, mental health is far more complex than a broken bone. Trauma, abuse, and deep emotional wounds don’t heal on a neat timeline. Talking is part of that process. But the principle still applies: if therapy becomes only talk with no movement, it risks keeping people stuck instead of helping them grow.

What would “doing the work” look like for you, outside of the therapy room?

Knowledge Isn’t the Problem — Action IsWall of books — knowledge isn’t scarce — the challenge is turning it into change

This is the real issue: knowledge isn’t what people lack. We live in an age of endless resources. There are thousands of books, courses, podcasts, and programs outlining strategies for depression, trauma, addiction, and relationship struggles. It’s all out there.

What’s missing isn’t information. What’s missing is support for turning information into practice.

That’s what physical therapists provide. That’s what personal trainers provide. That’s what coaches provide. And that’s what therapy should provide, too. Not advice — because advice is just someone else’s plan — but accountability for the work you’ve chosen to do.

Because without that kind of accountability, mental health therapy risks becoming good conversation without practice — and without practice, progress can stall.

If you already know what would help, what’s stopping you from putting it into action?

When Advice Crosses the Line

This connects to another trap: advice.

If therapy starts to feel like it’s just about following instructions — “Do this. Go to AA. Break up with him. You’re not serious unless you follow my recommendation.” — that’s a red flag. Real progress comes when you feel empowered to make choices that fit your life, not when you’re simply carrying out someone else’s agenda.

Good therapy is about helping the client discover their own way forward. Guidance and information have a place, but they should open doors — not close them. There are many paths to sobriety, for example. If a therapist insists there’s only one, they’re narrowing options instead of broadening them. And when that happens, therapy can stall instead of support growth.

The problem isn’t that therapy should hand out advice. The real problem is when therapy lacks action to back up the talking.

When has advice in therapy felt empowering — and when has it felt limiting?

Three Years Later and Still Stuck? Time to ReassessWithout progress, it’s easy to keep circling the same steps

Here’s a hard truth: if you’ve been in therapy for three or four years and it feels like you’re still circling the same issue, it’s worth reassessing. Is this approach actually working for me? Am I making real progress, or am I just talking in circles?

In almost any other part of life, you’d expect to see results. You wouldn’t keep paying a mechanic if your car never got fixed. You wouldn’t stay with a piano teacher if, after years, you could only play “Chopsticks.” You wouldn’t keep taking French lessons if all you could say was “bonjour.”

Yet in therapy, people hesitate. It can feel ungrateful to leave. It can feel scary to start over. It can even feel like failure to admit an approach isn’t helping. But staying in therapy that isn’t moving you forward doesn’t protect you from failure — it only delays progress.

If you imagine your life three years from now, would you be okay with still working on the exact same issue?

The Question Every Client Should Ask

So how do you know if your therapy is actually helping? Here’s a simple test: ask your therapist for a copy of your treatment plan.

Every patient is supposed to have one — insurance requires it. But many clients never see it, or don’t realize they can ask. A treatment plan doesn’t have to be complicated or intimidating. At its core, it’s just a roadmap: what you’re working on, how progress will be measured, and what comes next.

Without one, therapy can feel like driving without a map — plenty of motion, but no clear direction. If you’ve never seen your plan, ask. A good therapist will welcome that conversation. Reviewing it together isn’t just paperwork; it’s part of your progress.

Do you know what your treatment plan says about your goals and progress?

The Cost of Standing StillTime doesn’t pause while we wait to feel ready

Here’s the most sobering piece: you don’t get the time back.

Every week spent spinning in place — talking but not moving forward — is gone forever. These aren’t just dollars spent; they’re hours of your life. If therapy doesn’t lead to meaningful change, what you’re really buying is the illusion of progress. And that illusion costs the one thing you can’t replace: time.

When you’re 90 and looking back, do you want to say you spent decades “working on it,” or that you actually did the hard things, took the risks, and built a life that felt alive?

If your future self could talk to you now, what would they urge you to do differently?

What Therapy Could Be

The good news is that therapy doesn’t have to be this way. At its best, therapy is powerful. It can spark motivation, sustain momentum, and help you face difficult truths. It can give you a safe place to talk and the support to turn those conversations into meaningful action.

That’s how I approach coaching. Some of my clients work with me for years, but never on the same issue we started with. There’s always growth, always forward movement, always new challenges. If a client paid me thousands of dollars and made no progress, I’d consider that a failure on my part.

Therapy should be no different.

What would “forward movement” look like for you right now?

Don’t Mistake Talking for ChangingAt some point, every journey asks you to choose a direction

Here’s my challenge:

If you’re in therapy, ask yourself honestly: am I moving forward, or am I just talking?

If you’re not doing the hard work outside of sessions, why not? That’s where the real progress happens.

And if your therapist can’t show you a clear plan, maybe it’s time to reconsider whether this therapist — or this approach — is the right fit.

Therapy should never be a waiting room. It should be a path forward.

So what do you want from therapy? Sometimes people truly want comfort — a safe place to talk, be heard, and feel supported. That’s a valid choice. But if what you want is change, comfort alone won’t get you there. That’s where clarity, accountability, and action have to come in.

The key is being honest with yourself. Ask: What do I actually want from this process? Am I getting it? Therapy isn’t one-size-fits-all — and your answers will shape whether you stay stuck or move forward.

Want to learn more? Check out these resources:

Treatment Planning 101Check! Your Guide to Creating a Life Transforming Bucket ListLiving the Dhamma[image error]

The field, not the bleachers. Hiking with Rocket and Groot.

Nine weeks ago, I had hip replacement surgery.
Twelve days later, I crossed the starting line of an obstacle course — something I wrote about in detail here.

Result?
A triple femur fracture.
A week in the hospital.
A week in rehab.
Now another five weeks of healing at home.

That’s the headline. But how I got here — and what it taught me — is the real story.

The Water Slide

Before the race, I wasn’t reckless. I worked with my physical therapist. We mapped out every obstacle, one by one. Which ones were safe? Which were borderline? Which were flat-out stupid for me to try?

Out of thirty obstacles, I had narrowed it down to four or five. The plan was simple: do those, then head home proud I’d stepped back into the arena of life.

And then I came around a corner and saw the water slide.

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I’d been down it many times before. It looked harmless. Just water, just a slide. No ground to hit. No rock to smash into. No risk — or so I thought.

I crossed my legs to “minimize” the impact of hitting the water — but in that moment, I actually maximized the potential for damage. The impact crushed the hardware in my hip.

The Critics

The injury brought more than pain. It brought an avalanche of criticism.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re too old for this.”
“What were you thinking?”

Not just words. Hardware after the fracture.

I’ve heard it from family and friends concerned about my wellbeing. I’ve also heard it from well-meaning spectators — people who confuse the bleachers for wisdom.

The irony is that their judgment says more about them than about me. And with all the time I’ve had just sitting still while my body healed, I realized something: many people spend their entire lives in the stands, never daring to step onto the field.

And once you see that, you can’t unsee it.

Spectator vs. Player

Think about a football game. The fans scream, cheer, swear at the referees. Some know the rules inside and out. They live and die with the score. But they’re not on the field. They’re in the stands, living vicariously.

That’s fine for a football game. But in life? Spectating comes with a cost.

Players risk injury, embarrassment, fatigue. They fall down, they fail, they bleed. But they’re in the game. They’re alive. They’re moving toward something.

Spectators sit back, comment, and then go home unchanged. They never know the joy of crossing a finish line, even if they come in last. They never feel the nerves that come before putting yourself out there — or the pride that comes afterward.

And if we’re honest, most of us have been both. I’ve seen it at work, at home, even in myself. Spectating sneaks in more often than we like to admit.

So what does it look like when you live from the stands?

The Many Faces of Spectating

It isn’t hard to spot the signs. Maybe some of these sound familiar:

You’ve said for years you want to lose weight, but nothing changes. A dozen false starts, a new diet every January, and yet the scale hasn’t budged.You dream about starting your own business. You’ve got the idea, maybe even a logo, but you never put in the work. Or maybe you tried once — but when it didn’t succeed right away, you walked away.You’re in a job you hate, and you’ve been told it’s ending. You had months of notice. And you’ve done nothing. No résumé, no networking, no job search.Your relationship has been crumbling for years. You know it. Your spouse knows it. But instead of facing it, you’ve coasted, waiting for something to change on its own.You know alcohol is a problem. You admit it in quiet moments. But you keep drinking, telling yourself it’s not the right time to stop.

If any of these ring a bell, you’re not alone. I’ve been there too — waiting, convincing myself that comfort was safer.

But the truth is, comfort doesn’t save you. It just steals your minutes.

Why People Choose the Bleachers

For many people, spectating feels safe. It lets you criticize without risking failure. It keeps you comfortable.

And comfort is seductive. It whispers: You’ll get around to it. It promises: Next year will be different. It pats you on the shoulder while time drains out of your life, one irretrievable minute at a time.

Not in every area. We don’t watch someone else read a novel and call it the same as reading it ourselves. We don’t watch a chef cook dinner and then call ourselves fed. But when it comes to the big stuff — careers, health, love, growth — spectating creeps in.

And the excuses pile up: I’m too busy. I’m too tired. I’m too old. It’s too risky.

The truth? Most of the time it isn’t busyness. It’s fear.

And I get it. I’ve been there too. Before I came out as a gay man, I spent years in the stands — waiting, convincing myself that staying hidden was safer. It was safe, sure. But it wasn’t living.

I understand why people choose the stands. I’ve done it too. But there’s always a bill that comes due. And it’s higher than most people want to admit.

The Cost of Spectating

Spectators aren’t just missing out. They’re eroding.

Every excuse, every procrastinated decision, every ignored opportunity chips away at your vitality. You end up not just older, but smaller — diminished, because you never tested yourself, never risked anything, never grew.

And then you look at someone like me, hobbling around on crutches after an impulsive slide decision, and say, “You’re too old for that.”

No. I’m not too old. I’m alive. I’m playing. And I’d rather break a bone living than keep my body intact dying by inches in the stands.

Recovery isn’t glamorous. Even players have pit stops.

So if that’s the cost, what’s the alternative? What does playing look like?

What Playing Looks Like

Playing doesn’t always mean signing up for an obstacle course.

Sometimes it’s walking into a gym for the first time in twenty years.Sometimes it’s putting the same overtime into your own business that you’ve always given away to someone else’s.Sometimes it’s finally opening the laptop and applying for the job you’re afraid you won’t get.Sometimes it’s starting the hard conversation with your spouse you’ve been avoiding.Sometimes it’s pouring the alcohol down the drain and facing the shakes.Back on the water with Groot and Rocket. Playing can look like joy, not just grit.

For me, it was saying yes to love again after loss. That story is in my book Come As You Are: Five Years Later.

Playing isn’t about big gestures. It’s about choosing action when inaction would be easier.

Getting Off the Bleachers

So what does it take to move from spectator to player?

First, courage. You have to admit where you’ve been sitting out. No more excuses. No more lies to yourself.

Second, discipline. Show up, practice, put in the work. Musicians don’t just walk into a concert hall and perform — they rehearse until their fingers bleed. Athletes don’t just show up on game day — they grind through hours of training.

Third, sacrifice. You have to give something up: comfort, ego, that extra hour of sleep, the Ring Dings for breakfast, the certainty of staying small.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. But the alternative is worse.

And once you step up, you see life differently. Even the risks — even the pain — look different from the field.

Life on the Field

I don’t know if I’ll ever go down that slide again. Maybe I’ll carry the memory of this injury for years, even decades. But I do know this: I will sign up for the next event. And the one after that.

Because life is too short to waste in the stands.

The clock doesn’t stop. The minutes don’t return. You can spend them spectating — or you can spend them living.

So stop waiting. Step forward. Take the field.

Because when the final whistle blows, the only question that matters is this:

Did you play?

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Groot, Rocket and me on August 3 2024 (Savage Race Boston)

Less than two days from now, Groot, Rocket, and I are doing another obstacle course together.

Today, I found myself weeping.

It came suddenly, in that kind of quiet that shows up when everything else goes still — when the distractions fall away, and there’s nothing left but breath and gravity. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t in pain.

But the tears kept coming.

And for a few minutes, I didn’t know why.

They weren’t the kind of tears that ask for comfort.
They weren’t about giving up.
They were something else.

They were recognition.
Grief, maybe.
Truth, certainly.

Ten days ago, I had a hip replacement. This Saturday, I’ll be crawling through mud and ducking under barbed wire, dragging my walker behind me (I did just have hip replacement surgery, you know), with Groot and Rocket at my side, on an obstacle course — not out of denial, and not to prove anything, but because this is how I stay connected to who I am.

I’ve done a lot of these races — Tough Mudders, Rugged Maniacs, Savage Races — and they’ve walked with me through multiple chapters of my life.

Groot and Rocket will be right next to me — not just as pets, but as partners. After Brian died — in the total isolation of COVID lockdown — they became legitimate service dogs. They walked with me through the aftermath of loss, when everything felt broken. While the world shut down, they helped me find my footing again — not just emotionally, but physically, spiritually, practically.

I’m alive today because of those two.
That’s not exaggeration.
That’s fact.

When life slowly returned after lockdown, we trained. Paddleboarding. Public Access drills. And then Tough Mudders. After Brian’s death, Groot and Rocket were there through two knee replacements, two hand surgeries, and, now, one hip replacement. And every time, they stepped up beside me: showing up, holding steady. (Though Rocket insists on reminding me that she only participates because it suits her personal agenda, not mine).

And yes, these races allow service dogs. Not just any dog can come — it’s not some casual “bring your pet along” day. We are a bonded, trained trio, navigating the mud — and life — together.

We’ve done this before, and we’ll do it again. Because it matters.

Most people don’t see it that way.

Since I told people I was doing this race twelve days post-op, I’ve been hit with wave after wave of unsolicited commentary. People telling me it’s too soon. That I’m pushing too hard. That I’m being foolish. That I’m chasing glory or trying to make some statement.

They’ve said I’m reckless.
Prideful.
Attention-seeking.
Stupid.

But very few people have asked: What does this mean to you?

Because if they had, I would’ve told them the truth.

This isn’t a stunt.
It’s a ritual.

It’s not about grit or pain tolerance or adrenaline.
It’s about alignment.
It’s about remembering who I am.

I didn’t make this choice uninformed. My physical therapists have helped me problem-solve and make critical decisions: what to skip, how to protect the incision, how to pace myself, and how to stay safe.

I will ask for help. I will move slowly. I will use judgment.

I am not being a hero.
I am being honest.

Honest to a version of myself that has carried on through incredible grief.
Honest to a way of life that didn’t die with Brian.
Honest to the body that may be healing, but is still mine to live in, to move in, to honor.

Brian Stephens and me at mile 3 on a Tough Muder in 2014 (not his right arm)

Brian did these races too. We did them together. He even ran one with his arm in a cast, laughing through obstacles, cracking jokes while navigating the course with one usable arm.

He knew these events weren’t about showing off.

They were about staying awake. Staying alive.

When I race now, I can still feel him there — in the humor, the resilience, the muscle memory. He’s not watching from afar. He’s walking with me.

So yes — there is grief in this.

Grief in suiting up without him.
Grief in standing in my truth while people around me question my sanity.
Grief in doing something deeply meaningful while being misjudged by people who refuse to look deeper.

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What people don’t see is that this is the hard part — not the course, but the noise.

The way people rush to talk you out of something just because it makes them uncomfortable.

The way people project their fears onto you and expect you to carry them.

The way your clarity gets repackaged as arrogance, just because someone else doesn’t understand.

This isn’t about pride.
It’s about presence.

On Saturday, when I lace up my shoes, and grab my walker, I won’t be doing it to prove anyone wrong. I’ll be doing it because this is the rhythm of my life. And that rhythm doesn’t stop for judgment. It doesn’t pause for misunderstanding.

Each splash of mud will be a prayer.
Each skipped obstacle will say, “I trust my path.”
Each step forward will say, “I know who I am.”

Groot, Rocket, and I have walked this path through grief, through recovery, through transformation. These races are part of our language now — how we mark time, how we return to ourselves, how we remember the man we all loved.

This isn’t about toughness.
It’s about truth.

And sometimes, truth means crying while driving home from physical therapy in your Honda Fit two days before the starting line.
Sometimes it means showing up, knowing people are calling you stupid behind your back because of your choice.
Sometimes it means trusting your own wisdom more than the crowd’s warnings.

Groot, Rocket and me on Mud ‘N Guts (Savage Rave Boston 2024)

I’ve been called a lot of things lately.

But I’ll tell you what I actually am:

Intentional.
Aligned.
Alive.
Sacred.

And on Saturday, you’ll spot me easily — I’ll be the man with the walker, flanked by two dogs, followed by memory, led by truth.

We’re still here.
We’re still taking on obstacles.
And no — I’m not reckless.
I’m ready.

What is Your Truth?

If you’re reading this and you’ve got something like that — something the world is trying to talk you out of — I want to ask you:

What’s the thing that still feels sacred to you, even when everyone else dismisses it?

What have you been quietly holding onto because you know it’s right for you — even if no one else does?

Drop it in the comments.
Name it.
Let the world know that you are not walking away from it.

Because sometimes the only way through the noise is to stand taller inside your own clarity.

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When the Easy Path Isn’t: What it Really Takes to Stay Soft—Even When You’re HurtingPhoto by Martino Pietropoli on UnsplashThe Ending I Didn’t Expect

A week and a half ago, Peter ended our relationship.
No conversation.
No call.
Just an email message.
And just like that, the relationship was over.

On Valentine’s Day, Peter and I met in person and agreed to take a break. He said he needed space to work on himself, without me as a distraction or a safety net. Those were his words. He promised to give me a date, sometime in May, when we’d reconnect and talk things through.
That date never came.

I honored our agreement. I didn’t reach out, even though it was hard. I sent him letters — real ones — but not with the expectation of a response. I even wrote in them: You don’t need to write back. I’m not trying to pressure you. I just need a place to put this love, this longing, this confusion.

Then, on May 14th, 90 days later, I re-initiated contact.

But that’s when something deeper began. Not a breakup — a breach. A quiet shift I didn’t see coming.

A Message, Not a Moment

That evening, my phone buzzed. I was outside working when I saw his name light up the screen. And in that instant, my stomach dropped. I knew.
I knew what he was going to say.

I had my doubts about whether he’d done the work. If he had, I never got to see it. There was no real conversation — no moment where we looked at it together, acknowledged what was true, and sat in the discomfort side by side. We’d talked about that spectrum before — how relationships can navigate between collaboration, negotiation, and ultimatum. And how the worst of all is a fait accompli — a decision handed down with no input, no care, no room for humanity.

And that’s what he gave me.
A decision. Not a conversation.
A cold, silent landing.

In Cleared for Love, I write about what it means to be co-pilots in a relationship — not just passengers along for the ride. Being in the cockpit together means facing turbulence — together. Navigating the map — together. Choosing presence, even when the route changes — together.

But Peter didn’t stay in the cockpit.
He packed his parachute.
Jumped.
And left a note behind.

Maybe that was the best he could do.
But when you’ve committed to co-pilot the plane together — 
you don’t just bail mid-flight.
You talk to your copilot.

And I just stood there, staring at the phone, reading the message — and everything inside me twisted. Not because of what he said. But how he said it.
No call.
No dialogue.
Not even a chance to show who I am or how I hold things.

After everything we had built over eight months, I got a message. A Dear Scott email.
It felt like being erased.
Like I was unimportant.
Like the intimacy we had shared didn’t warrant a final moment of real presence.
Like he didn’t believe we could bring this ending to a place where we looked each other in the eye and said: this matters.

That’s what hurt most. Not the content — the delivery.
The choice to treat me like someone who couldn’t handle the truth, instead of someone who had shared a seat at the table.

And I still don’t have the words for the feeling that came with that. I just know it landed hard. Deep. In a place where I thought we were stronger than that.

But this isn’t about Peter. He’s not the story. The real story began after the message, when something inside me started to twist.

It didn’t hit like rage or despair. It was subtler than that. A kind of twisting. Like something inside me had tilted off-center. A quiet hardening I could almost mistake for clarity.

The Ache After Grace

This is where “ill will” started whispering. Not loud. Not angry. Just familiar. Just convincing.

Despite the pain, because of the skills built through meditation practice, I was able to focus on metta bhāvanā, loving-kindness. I strived to meet it with karuṇā, compassion. I reminded myself that everyone is doing the best they can. That sometimes people leave not to hurt you, but because they don’t know how to stay. I was able to compose a response, which I emailed to him, that was grounded in those qualities. My words embodied them as I typed them on the keypad.

But even as I wrote, I could feel something changing: a tension building beneath the calm.

Then, as the days passed, I could feel a quiet ache.
The quiet efforts of vyāpāda — “ill will” — doing its best to come in some back door to my heart and disrupt my equanimity.

Because no matter how mature I tried to be about it, the truth is — this hurt.
Pain.

Because pain is the primary tool vyāpāda uses to weasel its way into your life and derail your serenity.

Pain that was caused by an attachment — an expectation — that wasn’t met: not that things would go back to how they were, not because I needed a happy ending.
Pain caused by a belief that we would talk.
Pain caused by a judgment that Peter was the kind of person who would not just send a “Dear Scott” letter.
Pain fueled by my belief that I had a clearer read on him — and on us — than I did.
Pain because I believed we would honor what we had.
And we ended up with none at all.

I wasn’t just hurt. I was disoriented — unsure how to reconcile what I believed with what had actually happened.

But the pain wasn’t the danger.
The real threat was what that pain tried to turn into.

And in that moment, I realized how easy it would be — how tempting it would be — to let that ache calcify.
To let vyāpāda build walls.
To let vyāpāda judge.
To let vyāpāda convince me that it could protect me from the pain caused by my attachment to a certain outcome.

It doesn’t need to win.
It just needs to pollute the water.
A single drop of bitterness and the whole system shifts.

The World Rewards Hardened Hearts

I live in a world — we all do — that encourages that kind of response.

Someone hurts you? Cut them off.
Someone disappoints you? Write them out.
Gather your friends. Share your side. Get validation.
Build a fortress around your heart and call it strength.

That is what we do when the numbers are in our favor — when they are not, we walk away from entire groups, churches, friends, and support networks.

It’s everywhere.
Politics. Social media. Relationships. Community groups. Spiritual circles.

We know what it feels like when someone disagrees with us, misunderstands us, or questions something we hold dear — and then walks away.
And yet we do the same thing.
We shut the door.
We don’t just correct — we erase.

We’ve gotten exceptionally good at deleting people.
We’ve gotten exceptionally good at running away.
And convincing ourselves that it’s healthy.
I know — I am tempted to do it, too.
To shut the door and call it healing.

That’s how “ill will” works. It tells us we’re protecting ourselves when we’re actually isolating.

But it is not.
It is caustic and corrosive and crushing, masquerading as truth.
But it’s not the truth — it’s pain, weaponized.

What the Heart Can’t Compartmentalize

Because here’s what I know — not from theory, but from years of practice:
You cannot harden your heart to one person and expect it to stay open to others.
That’s not how the heart works. It doesn’t have compartments.
A hardened heart is a hardened heart.

And no matter how good the justification, no matter how strong the case we build against someone, if we close ourselves off, we don’t just lose them.
We lose ourselves.
We lose the version of us that was capable of tenderness. Of grace. Of holding complexity.
We lose access to the parts of us that make love possible in the first place.

You think you’re only closing off to one person. But soon you’re holding back in other places, with other people. Even with yourself.

I don’t want to lose that.
Not for Peter.
Not for anyone.

Choosing the Soft Path

I want to stay soft.
Even if it hurts.
Especially because it hurts.

Because the version of me that meets pain with openness — that chooses to remain loving even when love isn’t returned — that’s the man I’ve worked hard to become.
Not by accident. Not by default. But through years of choosing softness over certainty. Of failing at it. Of trying again.

This is the real spiritual practice.
The kind that shows up not when you’re on the cushion, but when someone you love walks away.
And you have to decide whether your heart walks away, too.

The Five Hindrances — And How They Show Up

This is the architecture of the hijack.
Five forces.
Five ways the heart gets clouded without even realizing it’s happening.

Because if I don’t recognize them when they show up, they don’t just steer the ship — they become the ocean.

The hindrances I write about in Come As You Are: Five Years Later are all here, stalking me like a saboteur in monk’s robes, showing up with terrible timing and worse advice. In the Buddhist tradition, they’re called the pañca nīvaraṇāni.

We have already talked about vyāpāda — “ill will” — the turning away through anger or resentment.
The other four are the ones that cloud the heart and obscure clear seeing:

Kāmacchanda — Sensual craving
The grasping after what we want.
It shows up as longing for what was, the pull to recreate the good moments with Peter, the hope that maybe if I say the right thing, it won’t be over.
It’s the “what if” loop that haunts me when I should be sleeping.
The craving for contact. For clarity. For a different ending.

Thīna-middha — Sloth and torpor
The heavy dullness of heart and mind.
It creeps in the morning, I don’t want to meditate.
In the afternoon, I scroll instead of walking.
The quiet moment where I tell myself: What’s the point?
This one doesn’t look loud, but it is.
It whispers: Just check out.
And some days, I almost do.

Uddhacca-kukkucca — Restlessness and remorse
The agitated spinning.
This is the mental flurry: Should I have done something differently? Should I not have sent the letters? Should I have pushed harder? Backed off more?
It’s the hamster wheel of imagined fixes for a past that cannot be changed.
A mind that won’t sit still.

Vicikicchā — Doubt
The corrosive uncertainty that unravels trust.
This one hits deepest.
Maybe I was too much. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I don’t know how to do relationships at all.
Doubt of Peter. Doubt of the connection. Doubt of the path. Doubt of myself.

Each of these — every single one — pulls me away from presence. From reality. From what’s actually happening now.

They don’t want me to grieve cleanly.
They don’t want me to love cleanly.
They want me stuck.
Hooked.
Looping.

And they’re so sneaky.
They don’t yell — they whisper.
They disguise themselves as reason, as insight, as protection.
But they’re none of those things.
Their goal is to close the heart.

The Real Work Is Staying

And I’ve learned to recognize their voices.
They dress themselves up like protectors, but they don’t protect.
They poison.
They don’t serve my healing — they sabotage it.
They tempt me with the illusion of safety, when what I want — what I need — is wholeness.

But I’ve lived that kind of safety. It comes at the cost of presence.

And that doesn’t come from shutting down.
It comes from staying in the room.

Yes, it would be easier to disengage.
Yes, it would be easier to be angry.
Yes, it would be easier to rewrite the story in a way that makes me the saint and Peter the sinner.

But that’s not the life I want to live.
I want a life that’s honest. Present. Accountable.
I want a heart that still believes in people, even when they let me down.
I want to love without building escape routes.

Staying soft doesn’t mean staying available to harm. It means refusing to calcify in response to it. That’s the difference. Softness isn’t fragility. It’s strength without armor.

And I can’t have that if I keep choosing the easy way out.

What About You?

Who have you hardened your heart toward?
What would it look like to soften — just a little — today?

What kind of life do you want to live:
One built on stories about betrayal and justification?
Or one that insists on presence — even when it costs you something?

Not every rupture comes with a breakup speech. Some just echo quietly in the background of our lives.
Because the heartbreak isn’t always romantic.
Sometimes it’s trust that cracked.
A conversation that never happened.
A moment — or moments — that went sideways and never came back.

But the same choice remains:
To calcify, or to stay open.
To armor up, or to stay soft.
To live from the wound, or live from the wisdom it revealed.

Because you can’t have both.

If this resonates, share it. Leave a comment. Send it to someone who’s hurting. Not because I need the validation. But because someone, somewhere, might need the reminder:
You can walk through rupture — and still come out soft.
Whatever form that rupture takes.

Intrigued by what you just read? There’s more where it came from. These books go deeper into the same themes — how we navigate rupture, rebuild presence, and stay open when it would be easier to close.

Come As You Are: Five Years LaterCleared for Love: The Co-Pilot's Guide to Lasting Relationships[image error]

Reedsy vs. Read&Rate: Which Book Review Platform Actually Delivers Anything Worth a Damn?Photo by Joran Quinten on Unsplash

I’ve tried both. Paid the money. Did the work. Got the reviews — or didn’t. And if you’re here, you’re probably wondering which one of these platforms is actually worth your time: Reedsy or Read&Rate?

Here’s how it played out. No fluff. No affiliate links. No pretending either of these platforms is a magical solution.

Let’s go.

Cost: who takes your money faster?

Reedsy hits you with $50 per book, upfront. No review guarantee. No refunds. Just a “we’ll list your book and see what happens” shrug.

Read&Rate works on a monthly fee ($10 or $20), plus a fake currency called “inkdrops.” You earn those by reviewing other people’s books. Then you spend them to post yours. It’s like Chuck E. Cheese for indie authors — but with more Kindle links.

Winner? Depends. Reedsy is more expensive, but it’s one fee. Read&Rate is cheaper, but makes you work for every token like it’s 1999 Neopets.

Review count: who actually delivers?

Reedsy: I listed two books. I got two reviews. After chasing people.

Read&Rate: I listed 27 review slots, got 15 reviews — not bad. Until the flow dried up completely and I stared at 12 listings that never moved.

Read&Rate wins on volume — at least for the first round. Then it stalls. Hard.

Review quality: who actually reads your book?

Reedsy’s reviews felt like someone actually opened the book. Maybe even took notes. Detailed, thoughtful, even if it wasn’t glowing.

Read&Rate? Four out of 15 were total trash. I’m talking sentences that read like a refrigerator magnet poetry kit got knocked over.

Reedsy wins on quality. Read&Rate wins on quantity. Neither wins on consistency.

Platform transparency: who tells you what’s actually happening?

I asked Read&Rate support how many active reviewers they had. Their answer? “Our community is constantly growing.” Translation: we’re not going to tell you. Maybe we don’t even know.

Reedsy doesn’t share stats either, but at least you’re not required to earn tokens before participating. They’re vague, but not pretending they’re a functioning economy.

Both fail here. Read&Rate fails harder.

Ease of use: who makes you work harder?

Reedsy: upload your book, wait, email reviewers like a panhandler outside Barnes & Noble.

Read&Rate: upload, earn tokens, track token balance, review books, bank “inkdrops,” watch your dashboard, pray someone picks up your book.

Reedsy is a pain. Read&Rate is a spreadsheet with gamification. Pick your poison.

Reviewer incentives: who’s doing this for the right reasons?

Reedsy reviewers apply because they’re interested. Some want money on the side, but they generally care. You can tell.

Read&Rate reviewers are just trying to earn “inkdrops” to get their own books reviewed. Once they hit their quota, they ghost. I know — I did it myself.

Reedsy runs on ego. Read&Rate runs on fake currency and desperation. Both are flawed. Read&Rate breaks faster.

SEO and visibility: who helps you show up in Google?

Reedsy: I searched my book title + Reedsy. Nothing. The review might as well have been taped to a lamppost in a snowstorm.

Read&Rate? Showed up immediately. Front page Google. That alone was worth more than half the reviews I got.

Clear winner: Read&Rate.

Platform bias and distribution limits: who’s in bed with Amazon?

Reedsy doesn’t care where you sell. Post your book, done.

Read&Rate is Amazon-obsessed. Kindle Unlimited, Amazon links, Amazon posting. You can earn extra “inkdrops” by copying reviews to other platforms, but it’s not the default behavior.

If you’re wide, Reedsy makes more sense. Read&Rate expects you to worship at the altar of Bezos.

Exposure perks: who gives you anything extra?

Reedsy has a newsletter. You get in if you beg your network to join and upvote your book. So basically, you pay $50 to become their email marketing intern.

Read&Rate has no bells, no whistles. But it also doesn’t lie about it.

They both want you to work for their benefit. Reedsy just wraps it in a newsletter.

Overall ROI: who actually gave you something useful?

Reedsy gave me two solid reviews — eventually — after I paid fifty bucks per book and chased reviewers like I was collecting signatures for a lost cause. High effort, high cost, low visibility.

Read&Rate gave me 15 reviews for twenty bucks and a decent SEO bump. Four reviews were crap. Three landed on Goodreads. But at least I didn’t have to stalk anyone’s inbox or pretend “inkdrops” were anything but indie author arcade tokens.

So yeah — one gave me credibility I had to dig for. The other gave me stats I had to wade through. Neither handed me a damn thing without work.

Final score: who’s actually worth it?

Let’s call it straight:

Reedsy: more professional, better reviews, slower, more expensive, way less visible
Read&Rate: more reviews, lower cost, less quality, stronger SEO, dies without constant user churn

If you want to build credibility and don’t mind chasing people, go Reedsy.
If you want numbers fast and don’t mind rolling the dice, go Read&Rate.

Or better yet — drop your book to 99 cents, send it to 50 people in your network, and ask for real reviews. You’ll get better ROI — and you won’t have to become a marketing intern for Reedsy or gamify your dignity for Read&Rate.

Other Posts In This Series:Reedsy Discovery (a.k.a. How to Pay $50 to Become Their Unpaid Intern)Read&Rate: The Book Review Platform That’s Basically a Casino Cruise for Authors[image error]

Read&Rate: The Book Review Platform That’s Basically a Casino Cruise for AuthorsPhoto by Derek Lynn on Unsplash

I’ve been exploring book review platforms to boost visibility for my books, and one of the newest players I tried was Read&Rate. Here’s my no-BS experience.

Let’s start with the obvious: it’s cheap. Read&Rate has two plans — $10 or $20 per month. The $10 plan lets you get reviews for one book at a time. Want more? You’ll need the $20 plan, which allows up to 20 books posted at once.

But let’s be clear — you’re not buying reviews. You’re paying for the privilege of stepping into their weird internal economy. Think of it like a casino cruise: you pay to get on the boat, but that doesn’t get you any chips. You’re just now allowed to play — once the boat is far enough offshore.

Enter “inkdrops” — Read&Rate’s fake currency. You use “inkdrops” to post a book for review. How many “inkdrops” it costs depends on your book’s length, price, and availability. Other users then see your book on the platform and, if they feel like it, they pick it up to review. When they do, and the platform verifies the review, the reviewer earns “inkdrops” they can use to get their books reviewed.

It’s clever. On paper. Because this closed-loop system sidesteps direct review swapping, which Amazon doesn’t allow. But like most self-contained ecosystems, it only works if the population is balanced. Spoiler alert: it’s not.

My Dive Into the Read&Rate Machine

I joined on a free 10-day trial and stacked a 30-day coupon on top of it. Forty days free? Sure, why not. I chose the $20/month plan, which gave me 1,000 “inkdrops” — just over half of what it takes to list a book for review.

So I played the game. I reviewed 20 books, earned “inkdrops” from that effort, and used them to buy 27 total review slots. I uploaded 10 of my own titles and have received 15 reviews so far.

At the moment, I’ve got 12 review slots still waiting for someone — anyone — to pick them up. None of these 12 books have been picked up for a review in over a week. But I still I subscribed for another month. Not because I wanted to review more books. I’ve already earned what I need. But becuase I need to keep my listings alive and available. (I did read and review probably 10 books to get them there).

And me — not needing to review any books and just waiting for my books to be reviewed? That’s one of the core problems: the illusion of momentum — until it all stalls out.

What’s Broken with Read&Rate

1. The Reviewer Pool Is a Mirage
You have no idea how many active reviewers are actually in the system. I asked Read&Rate support how many reviewers they have, and the response I got was a canned: “Our community is constantly growing.” Translation? They’re not going to tell you.

But even if they have 10,000 users, it doesn’t mean anything. Once reviewers post their books and earn the “inkdrops” they need, they’re done. There’s no incentive to keep reviewing. The system depends entirely on a constant influx of new users to keep things moving. Without that, books sit. And wait. And nothing happens.

2. No Accountability, No Quality Control
Yes, you can give a thumbs-up or thumbs-down to a review, but it’s performative — Read&Rate doesn’t do anything with that feedback. There’s no way to flag a review, rate a reviewer, or challenge garbage input.

Out of the 15 reviews I received, 4 were clearly phoned in. Short, vague, ungrammatical. Just enough effort to pass the “verified” checkbox. One reviewer basically summarized the subtitle. Another dropped a sentence that read like it was patched together from three different taglines.

And here’s the missing piece no one talks about: Read&Rate verifies that a review was posted, but it doesn’t vet whether the person actually read the book. No comprehension check. No quality threshold. You’re gambling every time you spend “inkdrops” — just hoping someone doesn’t regurgitate your back cover copy using multiple independent clauses strung together without proper conjunctions or punctuation.

It’s not a review system. It’s a roulette wheel.

3. Amazon, Amazon, Amazon
The platform heavily favors Amazon: Kindle Unlimited, Amazon reviews, Amazon purchase links. You can get extra “inkdrops” for copying your review to other platforms, but the system isn’t really designed for wide distribution. Everything revolves around Amazon’s gravity.

4. Goodreads Drop-Off
Reviewers can copy their reviews to Goodreads — and they even earn more “inkdrops” for doing it. It’s copy and paste. Done. But out of the 15 reviews I received, only three made it over to Goodreads.

That’s a lousy return.

Especially because Goodreads reviews show up way higher than Amazon in both Google and Bing. If someone searches your book title, Goodreads is likely to be the first thing they see. And if it’s empty? That matters. That’s visibility and credibility just left on the table.

One Unexpected Win

Search engine visibility. I Googled my book titles and Read&Rate listings actually showed up in the first few results. That’s more than I can say for most review platforms. Whatever their algorithm game is, it’s working.

So, Is Read&Rate Worth It?

Here’s what I can say so far: I got 15 reviews. Four were crap. Only three made it to Goodreads. I had to pour hours into reading 20 books and writing 20 reviews (I don’t write one-sentence wonders — as in “I wonder if Scott even read the book”).

I had to pay for a month subscription becuase no one has picked up my books in more than a week and I needed more time for the ROI to hit.

Still, for twenty bucks, I got more reviews than I would have through most paid services. And I didn’t have to beg friends, pester my mailing list, or send out advance copies to silence.

But let’s not pretend this is high-integrity outreach. The system works — if you work it. And if you’re okay with some of what you get being garbage.

It’s fast food for reviews. Cheap, fast, not always satisfying — and sometimes you regret it immediately.

Check back at the end of June. I’ll update this review when my current subscription ends and I see if anything else actually rolls in.

Other Posts In This Series:Reedsy Discovery (a.k.a. How to Pay $50 to Become Their Unpaid Intern)Reedsy vs. Read&Rate: Which Book Review Platform Actually Delivers Anything Worth a Damn?[image error]

Reedsy Discovery (a.k.a. How to Pay $50 to Become Their Unpaid Intern)Photo by James Tarbotton on Unsplash

I’ve been testing out book review platforms to get more eyes on my work. One of those platforms was Reedsy Discovery. Spoiler alert: if you’ve ever wanted to pay for the privilege of becoming a part-time, unpaid Reedsy street team member, buckle up. This one’s for you.

The Reedsy Setup

Let’s break it down.

Reedsy is free to join, but it costs $50 to list your book for review. That sounds simple enough — except it’s like paying an entry fee to a party where no one shows up, the DJ’s asleep, and someone hands you a clipboard and says, “Cool, now you go find the guests.”

To their credit, Reedsy doesn’t promise fluff. They pride themselves on “honest, independent reviews.” And to be fair, the reviews I finally got were detailed, thoughtful, and well-written — like something you’d see in Publishers Weekly. But getting those reviews? That’s where the wheels come off.

The Reedsy Hustle

I listed two books. Weeks went by. Crickets. Eventually, I was internet-stalking reviewers like it was a job — hunting down LinkedIn profiles, sending DMs, doing everything short of showing up at their house with muffins. A few responded… and then asked for more money. One quoted $100. That’s on top of the $50 I already paid Reedsy. Surprise! Apparently, “independent” means “independent contractor looking for Venmo.”

I didn’t cough up the extra cash, but I did spend my time (which is also money, but less politely invoiced) digging through their graveyard of inactive reviewers. Some hadn’t posted in years. Others had literally never reviewed a book, but still had active profiles. It’s like joining a gym and finding out the “trainers” are cardboard cutouts. This whole thing reminded me of dating apps that claim “millions of singles,” but somehow everyone lives three states away and hasn’t logged in since Obama was president.

The Reedsy Visibility Illusion

Eventually, I landed a review. Great, right?

Except when I Googled it — nothing.

I searched Come As You Are: Five Years Later G. Scott Graham Reedsy.

Three pages of results. Nada. Zip. The reviewer’s social feed post showed up, but the actual review page? Nowhere to be found.

What’s the point of a well-written review if nobody can find it?

The Amazon Letdown

So the review must at least show up on Amazon under the “Editorial Reviews” section, right?

Nope. Not unless you post it there yourself via your Amazon Author Page. My reviewer told me they’d post it to Amazon — and they did. But it landed in the general review section, right alongside every other review from every other reader. It didn’t stand out. It didn’t have any special visibility. And because they got the book for free through Reedsy, it didn’t have the “Verified Purchase” tag either.

They also said they’d post the review on Goodreads… but that never happened.

Reedsy’s “Upvote” Game

Even within Reedsy’s own universe, you don’t get exposure unless you become a salesperson for Reedsy — asking your friends and family to join just so they can upvote your book. Congratulations! You just paid money to become a door-to-door salesman for a platform that profits off your labor. Would you like to add a Tupperware party to your book launch?

You get pressured to spam your network to get promoted on the Reedsy site. And if you fall for it, your friends immediately start receiving marketing emails about editing services, design packages, and general literary “enhancements.” Because nothing says friendship like roping your entire network into someone else’s funnel.

The Better $50

Honestly? For that same $50, I could temporarily drop the price of my book to 99 cents, message 50 people in my network, and say, “Hey, grab this while it’s cheap.” Then I could raise the price back up and, like Reedsy would’ve wanted me to anyway, pester them for action but instead of going on Reedsy to upvote, they could go on Amazon directly and write a one sentence review. If only half of them left one, I’d still come out ahead — with 25 reviews for $50. That’s 25 reviews for the same price Reedsy charges to maybe get you one. Plus, they all get the “verified purchase” label. But hey, maybe Reedsy’s still the genius move, right?

And Then Comes the Spam

And speaking of spam — Reedsy loves it. Once you join, your inbox turns into their personal billboard. Need a cover designer? They’ve got ten. Want to “increase your odds” of getting reviewed? Buy an editing package! Never mind that you’re already $50 in the hole. They’re just getting started.

Let’s Recap The Reedsy Discovery JoyrideYou pay Reedsy $50.You do all the work to get a review.You might get asked to pay even more.Your review ends up buried on a site Google doesn’t even acknowledge.It doesn’t go to Amazon’s Editorial Review section unless you paste it there yourselfIf posted by the reviewer to Amazon, it’s lumped in with general reviews — unverified, unremarkable.You get pressured to spam your own network just to get visibility.And Reedsy turns around and spams you with upsell after upsell.Reedsy Discovery Rating: ZERO STARS

The only thing “discovered” on Reedsy Discovery was how much time and money I could waste for the honor of doing their marketing for them. The reviews I got were solid — but the system that delivered it? Broken, manipulative, and misleading.

If you’re looking for real value and discoverability, don’t list your book here. Unless your dream is to pay for a participation trophy and become Reedsy’s MLM rep — then sure. Knock yourself out.

[image error]

The Match.com Scam: You’re Not the Customer — You’re the Bait

Let me tell you a story — one that might sound familiar if you’ve ever used a dating app and wondered why it felt more like gambling than dating.

I recently got back on Match after letting my subscription lapse. Why did I let it lapse? Because I met someone on Match last August! I deleted the app, stopped logging in, and started a relationship. I didn’t delete my profile — just stepped away.

Upon my return, I uncovered some serious shit. And you’re about to be blown away. It’s staggering. If you’re using Match, you deserve to know how the system actually works.

In this post, I’ll show you exactly how Match:

Exploits emotional vulnerability to bait you into subscribingFalsely claims you’ll have “millions of matches”Misleads you with the promise of “free messaging”Turns your “likes” into tools to pressure othersCan be used effectively— if you understand the system and play it smartHow Match Exploits Vulnerability to Bait You Back

When I logged back into Match, I wasn’t expecting fireworks. I just wanted to take a look.

And what did I see? Six people had “liked” me — that’s what the website said. There was a banner:
“6 Likes — Upgrade to see who is interested.”

I know how Match works. They prey on people, especially those who haven’t logged in for a while, and offer discounts to get you to subscribe. So I decided to run an experiment. I updated my profile, went through the entire checkout process… and purposely didn’t click “Pay.”

The next day? I got a 35% discount offer. Like clockwork.

“Seriously, Scott. We’re giving you full access for less. Plus, 3 members are into you.”

The website said six. The email said three. Four profile photos were attached — none of them matched the people who had actually “liked” me.

After I resubscribed, I discovered the first uncomfortable truth: while I was away, Match was using my profile to market their service.

Some of the people who “liked” me were from a thousand miles away. See, even though I was gone… my profile wasn’t. If you were on Match between August 2024 and May 2025, you may have been served up my inactive profile as bait.

Match targets users like this — especially those who’ve gone quiet. They know when you’re feeling nostalgic, lonely, or hopeful.

When I came back, I didn’t just subscribe — I went all in. I chose the Diamond level.

Originally, I wasn’t planning to go that far. I thought I’d just get the basic subscription. But in a moment of frustration — maybe from the breakup, maybe from being tired of the guessing game — I said screw it.

Not because I thought Match would deliver my soulmate.
But because I was tired of wasting time wondering who was real.

What I didn’t expect was how rare actual subscribers would be.

The “Millions of Matches” Myth

Diamond-level subscribers can see which profiles are also paying. That’s why I recommend it — but only briefly. Because what you see once you’re inside? It’ll probably shock you.

I set my search parameters to:

Men, ages 21–99Within 200 miles of my rural New England zip code

And fewer than 80 subscribers appeared.

Let that sink in. For a service that boasts “26 million potential matches,” I found fewer than 80 actual subscribers within a huge radius.

At first, I thought — maybe this is a “gay thing.” A man seeking another man might have fewer options on Match. So I changed my profile to a man seeking women and ran the same search again.

I got about 1,600 straight women.

Still a far cry from “millions”… but not bad. (Or at least not as bad as 80).

(And no, I didn’t switch to a woman seeking men. This isn’t a science fair project.)

The point is: even casting a 200-mile net, which includes most of New England, including cities like New York and Boston, the results are a joke compared to the marketing.

The truth: 99% of the people you see on Match aren’t paying customers. They’re window shoppers. Or worse — inactive profiles Match keeps around to sell hope to others.

The “Free Messaging” Trap

Match advertises that if two people “like” each other, they can message for free. Sounds great.

In practice? It’s a trap.

Here’s what happened during a controlled experiment with a friend who lives just a mile away. He’s not a subscriber. I’m a Diamond-level subscriber.

He did a basic search (age 21–99, 200 miles, sorted by distance).
My profile showed up second.
I “liked” him.
He refreshed his search.
I disappeared.

Match pulled me from his search results the second I “liked” him. Why? Because he got a notification:
“Someone liked you.”
But to see who? He’d have to pay.

Let’s extrapolate the rule from this experiment:

If you “like” someone who isn’t a subscriber, you vanish from their search.
The only way they can see you is to pay.

That’s not “free messaging.” That’s a trap — designed to create conversions, not connections.

The truth: You can only message for free if Match let’s you “match” and in order to “match” you have to pay. You become a carrot dangling in front of someone’s wallet. That’s all.

How Your “Likes” Become Match’s Marketing Tools

There are four possible user pairings on Match. Let’s break them down:

1. Neither of You is a Subscriber
You “like” them.
They get a notification they can’t open unless they pay.
You vanish from their search results.
Result: No connection. Just marketing fodder.

2. You’re Both Subscribers
Match doesn’t tell you who’s paying unless you’re Diamond.
If you “like” each other and message, it works. You see the “likes”. You get the message.
But you’re operating in the dark unless you’ve paid top-tier to identify other subscribers.
BTW — it’s highly unlikely that the subscriber pool will change significantly. So if every new subscriber starts with Diamond and connects with the others, you won’t miss out on anyone.
Result: Message / “Like” gets through.

3. You’re a Subscriber, They’re Not
You “like” them.
They can’t see who you are unless they pay.
You vanish from their search.
Result: You just paid to become an ad.

4. They’re a Non-Subscriber, You Are
They “like” you.
You can see their “like” (because you’re a subscriber).
You “like” them back.
Result: Messaging is unlocked — the one and only “free” path (at least for half the equation).

The truth: if you want to connect with someone, and they’re most likely not a subscriber, there’s only one real option:
Get them to “like” you first. Then — and only then — do you stand a chance.

How to Actually Win at Match (Even If It’s Rigged)

If you’re going to use Match (and I don’t recommend it), here’s how to stop wasting your time and energy.

1. Subscribe at the Diamond Level — But Only Briefly
Use Diamond for 30–60 days.
Identify real subscribers.
Connect with them.
Then downgrade to a basic subscription. Don’t unsubscribe — the basic plan still lets you see who “liked” you.
Subscribing is the only way Match.com will work for you — but only if you manage your behavior correctly.

2. Build a Killer Profile (But Only If You’re a Subscriber)
Once you’ve connected with the real subscribers, your only move is to attract non-subscribers by getting them to “like” you first. (Remember: if you “like” them, you disappear from their search results, and they see a blurred image unless they pay.)

So, build your profile out completely. No half measures. You have to give someone a reason to connect with you. If you don’t build a profile that attracts likes, then you are wasting your money.
Be charming. Be flirty. Run your sentences through ChatGPT if you need help. Use great photos. Show yourself in action.

Here are some other tips:

Let people know — subtly — that you’re a subscriber. For example:

“I took a break, but I’ve decided to renew my subscription for the summer of 2025.”

Invite people to “like” you:

“Don’t be shy — “like” me. I promise to “like” you back and wish you the best.”

Remember: your only goal is to get people to “like” you. Then you can sort them out.

3. If You’re NOT a Subscriber, Keep Your Profile Minimal
Don’t build out your profile.
You’ll just get spammed with “likes” you can’t see.

4. If You Are a Subscriber, Don’t “Like” Anyone First
You’re just fueling Match’s marketing engine.
If you “like” someone who isn’t a subscriber, your “like” becomes bait — and you vanish from that person’s results.
Get them to “like” you first. Then respond.

5. If You’re Not a Subscriber, “Like” ONLY Likely Subscribers
Look for detailed, photo-rich profiles — those are probably paying members.
“Like” only those. Anything else is a wasted gesture.

6. If You Are a Subscriber, “Like” Everyone Who “Likes” You
Even if you’re not interested — “like” them back.
It reduces Match’s leverage over them, and maybe you’ll help someone out.
Don’t use the app. Use the website — it’s too easy to mis-swipe on mobile.

Burn the Haystack — Match Style

The Burned Haystack Dating Method, created by Jennie Young, flips the usual “needle in a haystack” metaphor. Instead of endlessly searching, you burn the whole haystack down.

It means:

Message with purposeBlock obvious bad fitsLimit your time on the appDon’t revive dead chatsTreat dating like a focused job search

The idea is to clear out the noise so you can actually spot something real.
Learn more: jennieyoung.substack.com

But Match is a different beast. The algorithm isn’t neutral — it hides and resurfaces users to maximize profit, not compatibility. So your haystack-burning strategy has to evolve.

🔥 Your Match-Specific Burned Haystack Strategy:

Step 1: Join at the Diamond level. That lets you “burn the haystack” by seeing the needles — the actual subscribers.
Step 2: Focus on the subscribers. Connect while you can. You’re not looking for love — you’re doing recon.
Step 3: Downgrade your subscription. Once you’ve found the real users, you don’t need Diamond anymore.
Step 4: Turn your profile into a magnet for the needles to rise to the top of the haystack. Focus on attracting non-subscribers and getting them to “like” you first. That’s the only way to trigger “free” messaging with them.

You can also burn the haystack from the inside:

Block people who are obvious no-gos. This shrinks the pool of people Match can show your profile to — and increases the odds that the right people will see you.

But don’t block dormant users (like I was). They might come back with a subscription.

Think of it like reducing hay around the needle. You want your profile to appear in a smaller, more targeted pool.

Leaving? Strip Your Profile or Be Used as Bait

Taking a break from Match.com? Before you go, save your full profile to a document on your computer. Then strip it down to the minimal profile (I would even delete your pictures). Don’t let Match use you as bait — like they did with me.

Conclusion: Hope Sells Better Than Love

Match isn’t here to help you fall in love.
It’s here to help you almost fall in love — just enough to keep paying.

Every “like”, every message, every offer…
It’s all calibrated to keep you scrolling, subscribing, and alone.

Because once you connect?
They lose a customer.

So no — you’re not a user of Match.
You’re the product.

Match Group, Inc. owns and operates the largest global portfolio of popular online dating services — including Tinder, Match.com, Meetic, OkCupid, Hinge, Plenty of Fish, and OurTime. I have to believe their approach to making money is the same across all platforms, so how they treat unsubscribers and subscribers is likely identical. (In fact, OurTime and Match.com look almost exactly the same — except OurTime has a pink banner and Match.com has a blue one.)

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When Strength Comes Back Fast — And What That Taught Me About Equanimity, Grief, and Healing

A few months ago, I couldn’t open a jar of pickles.

Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I wasn’t trying.

Because I couldn’t.

After two hand surgeries — right hand in October 2024, left hand in December — my grip strength was gone. My physical therapist, Todd Holt, pulled out a hand dynamometer (that “squeeze thingy” that measures grip strength), and the results were humbling:

14 pounds of pressure from my left hand38 from my right

For context, the average for someone my age is around 85 pounds.

That number felt miles away.

But I kept at it — squeezing putty, doing finger stretches, showing up. Nothing extreme. Just a bit of consistent, daily effort.

A few weeks later, Todd had me test again.

My left hand had jumped to 64 pounds. My right to 74.

I was stunned.

How could that kind of rebound even be possible? I hadn’t been hitting the gym or building new muscle. I hadn’t even been doing that much.

But Todd wasn’t surprised.
He nodded and said, matter-of-factly:

“This isn’t from muscle growth. There hasn’t been enough time for that. It’s muscle memory. Your nervous system just remembered how to connect again.”

When I heard those words, it landed like lightning.
Because this was exactly what was happening with my equanimity.

Muscle Memory and Mental Health: The Surprising Parallel

I wrote in my newest book, Come As You Are: Five Years Later, that my equanimity muscle had atrophied.

Not “might have.”

Had.

After more than two decades of dedicated vipassanā practice — I’ve been sitting since 1996 — I’d come to rely on equanimity like oxygen. It grounded me through the shock and heartbreak of Brian’s death in 2019. It was the inner strength I leaned on when everything else collapsed.

But in the years that followed, I drifted from the cushion. My practice faded. Life moved forward.

And when I fell in love again — something beautiful, unexpected, and deeply real — I was blindsided. Falling in love again four years after losing the love of my life unleashed what therapists often call anticipatory grief — but this wasn’t hypothetical or imagined. It was grief grounded in reality. I knew what loss felt like. I’d lived it.

The fear of losing again struck with a ferocity I didn’t expect.

And I found myself caught off guard.

And my equanimity was nowhere to be found.

Vipassanā, Grief, and the Speed of Spiritual Reconnection

Eventually, I returned to the mat. Not with the same rigorous consistency I had five years ago — if I’m honest, I’m not practicing daily.

And yet… the results stunned me.

My equanimity came back fast.

I couldn’t believe how little I had practiced and how much calm, balance, and perspective came rushing back in return.

It was as if the mental pathways — forged over years of discipline and silence and sitting — had never fully disappeared. They were just waiting for me to tap them again.

Todd’s comment about muscle memory echoed in my mind:

“The strength was there. The connection just needed to come back online.”

Physical Recovery and Emotional Healing: An Unexpected Bridge

This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed striking parallels between my physical recovery and emotional well-being.

In Come As You Are: Three Years Later, I wrote about the disconnect between how people respond to visible injuries versus invisible grief.

“Over the last two years, I’ve had both knees replaced. People ask about my knees all the time. They acknowledge the limitation and move on.

But when it came to my grief — when people did ask — it wasn’t acknowledgment. It was advice. Platitudes. A deluge of discomfort dressed up as support.

And now?

No one asks anymore.

Not about the grief. Just the knees.”

What I didn’t realize when I wrote that passage was just how deep the metaphor runs.

Because healing — whether it’s your hands, your knees, or your heart — doesn’t always mean starting from scratch. It means reconnecting. It means trusting that the strength, the memory, the capacity is still there, waiting.

Equanimity After Loss: What I Learned from Falling in Love Again

Rebuilding equanimity after loss — especially after falling in love again — isn’t just about being calm or composed.

It’s about being willing to stay in contact with everything.

Even the terror.
Even the grief.
Even the tenderness of knowing that what you love can be taken from you — again.

And still choosing to open.

Still choosing to stay.

And here’s what surprised me most:
The more I sat, the more I remembered what it felt like to let go — not of love, but of control.

Equanimity isn’t apathy. It’s not detachment.

It’s trust in the unfolding.

It’s the ability to be with what is — without needing to flinch, fix, or flee.

The Truth About Healing: You’re Not Starting Over

If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of grief — or just trying to find your footing again after a setback — I want to offer you this:

You’re probably not starting over.
You’re reconnecting.
And your nervous system remembers.
Your heart remembers.
Your practice remembers.

You just have to begin again.

Even gently.

Even imperfectly.

The signal is still there. It just needs time — and space — to come back online.

Want to Go Deeper? Read the Books That Brought Me Back

If any of this resonates, you might find comfort, insight, and even a little companionship in the Come As You Are series:

Come As You Are: Meditation & Grief
My raw, unfiltered experience of grief in the early days after Brian’s death, grounded in vipassanā, ānāpāna, and mettā-bhāvanā. Come As You Are: Three Years Later
Reflections on what changed (and what didn’t), how grief echoes through time, and the aching difference between how people support physical healing vs. emotional pain. Come As You Are: Five Years Later
A deeper exploration of falling in love again, the terror of anticipatory grief, and how I relearned equanimity — not as a theory, but as a lived, trembling return.

These books weren’t written to teach from the mountaintop. They were written from the floor.

And if you’re somewhere on the floor right now — maybe reaching for your own version of that pickle jar — I hope you’ll find something in them that reminds you:

You’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
You’re just reconnecting.

Come As You Are: Meditation & GriefCome As You Are: Three Years LaterCome As You Are: Five Years Later[image error]

Grief Doesn’t End — And That’s Not a Problem

Why I wrote Come As You Are: Five Years Later , and why I keep writing about  grief .

The road to grief and love never ends (photo by G. Scott Graham)

A few weeks ago, I was a guest on a podcast. I shared some very personal, sometimes messy details about my life — my inner world, my struggles, the grief I’ve carried, and what it’s been like to fall in love again after losing my husband.

Afterward, a friend reached out. She told me how much she admired the vulnerability it must have taken to speak so openly. I appreciated it. But I also felt a strange urge to push back.

Because what I said on that podcast, and what I’ve written in my newest book, Come As You Are: Five Years Later, doesn’t feel like bravery to me.

It feels like honesty.

Yes, this book is raw. I talk about grief. About dating again. About falling in love — and how terrifying that was. I talk about the fear of losing again. I talk about feeling broken, and finding new kinds of wholeness that didn’t require me to be “healed.”

It wasn’t easy to write, but it felt important. Not because I think I’m special. Not because I have some grand wisdom the world needs to hear. Quite the opposite, actually.

I wrote it because I think this is normal. This is what it’s like to grieve someone you loved with your whole heart. This is what it’s like to love again when you know what love can cost. This is what it’s like to try — imperfectly — to stay open.

And yes — grief comes back. Not as a failure, but as part of love’s ongoing echo.

“This is the story of grief returning through love.
It’s about the way joy and grief live side by side — how they don’t cancel each other out, how they’re part of the same terrain.”
 — Come As You Are: Five Years Later

Our culture often treats grief like a problem to solve. Like something that you’re supposed to get over. Something that has a timeline. Something that is supposed to be medicated. But that is not the truth.

I used to see it that way. Not anymore.

“Falling in love again didn’t erase my grief for Brian.
It just rearranged it.
Integrated it into something bigger, more complex, and more alive.”
 — Come As You Are: Five Years Later

I wrote this book because I want people to know that whatever they’re feeling — the pain, the longing, the confusion, the joy that catches them off guard — it’s all part of the story. It’s not evidence that something’s wrong with you. It’s just the weather. Not the weather forecast.

“Grief didn’t mean I had failed.
It meant I had loved.”
 — Come As You Are: Five Years Later

I hope you’ll read the book. Not to be entertained. Not to be impressed. I hope you read it because something in you wants to feel less alone.

And if you’re grieving — whether it’s been five months or five years or five decades — I hope it helps you find a little peace.

Because you’re not broken.
You’re just alive.
And being alive means loving.

And loving means loss.
Every time.

But it’s still worth it.
Every time.

Come As You Are: Meditation & GriefCome As You Are: Three Years LaterCome As You Are: Five Years Later[image error]