Date: June 29, 2026
Today was the official beginning of the low iodine diet.
On paper, that meant restrictions.
In reality, it became something very different.
I spent the day reading labels, opening pantry doors, and asking one simple question:
“What do I already have?”
Instead of focusing on everything that disappeared from the menu, I began building a Green List. Oatmeal. Black beans. Corn. Green beans. Fruit. Sweet potatoes waiting for the next shopping trip. One by one, uncertainty gave way to possibility.
The pantry became a laboratory.
I joked that I felt like Mark Watney in The Martian.
Not because I was stranded.
Because I found myself saying the same thing:
I’m going to have to science the heck out of this.
Somewhere between oatmeal and canned vegetables, I realized this journal wasn’t going to be about food.
It was going to be about paying attention.
Today’s discoveries had very little to do with iodine.
They had everything to do with perspective.
I caught myself writing a sentence I never expected:
The old me felt like a burden.
That sentence didn’t come from self-pity.
It came from realizing how much has changed.
Insurance will get me to Chicago.
Jeff will probably help with groceries.
My son would help.
Even my ex offered if needed.
For years I measured my value by how much I could carry for everyone else.
Today reminded me that receiving help is part of being human too.
Another discovery surprised me.
The bedroom isn’t just where I sleep.
It’s my Sanctuary.
No desktop computer.
No pressure.
Just a place to think, pray, listen, read, recover, and occasionally enjoy a cup of coffee while watching The Martian.
The office is different.
It’s The Bridge.
Morning pages.
Trading.
Writing.
Execution.
One day the old bedroom that my older brother Ray and I shared will become The Observatory. The room with the big windows and the built-in bookshelf where stories, podcasts, and books will find their voice.
For the first time, I can see my house not just as rooms, but as spaces with purpose.
Tonight, another ordinary object found a new mission.
The travel mug sitting beside my recliner became the Mission Control Mug.
Small things matter.
A cup.
A journal.
A checkmark.
A bowl of oatmeal.
They are all investments in the life ahead.
Dinner was simple.
Oatmeal.
Apple syrup.
Enough.
As the evening closes, I took my medication, put my feet up in the Captain’s Chair, pour coffee into the Mission Control Mug, and watched The Martian one more time.
Tomorrow will bring another appointment.
Another page.
Another meal.
Another opportunity to choose alignment before outcome.
Mission Status
☑ Sol 1 complete.
Crew Status
Captain: Learning.
Mission Control: Online.
Coffee: Operational.
Hope: Increasing.
Tomorrow’s Command
Engage. 🚀☕🌿
✅
