Jesus, y’all. It’s been a while. In fact, it wasn’t until I landed in Florida on Tuesday — at the end of a whirlwind, cross country drive from California (more on that in a future post) — that I realized with horror I hadn’t written a newsletter here since May. As the legend Tom Petty once sang: If you don’t run, you rust, and the last several months have left my writing muscles dangerously near-atrophied. So, without further pretense, let’s jump back into the Naked Man…
I turned 40 on September 1st—by far the most sobering solar return of my life to-date.
My birthday coincided with a decision to leave my home in Topanga Canyon, outside Los Angeles, and drive East, back to my roots, back to live with my family in Florida for a while. It was a decision that defied all egoic logic (Leave my sexy, sun and surf, California lifestyle and move in with my mother? Eh, what?) But I was sick and tired. Like, existentially sick and tired. Like, dark night of the soul sick and tired. And the idea of living rent free for a few months, licking my wounds, doing some writing and just generally rehabbing my body, mind, and spirit sounded pretty damn good.
In truth, this was a change I’d felt coming on since January. Every few years, I’ve found that life and my own personal evolution asks me to take a step back, re-evaluate and re-align my actions to create a better match with the person I’m becoming. And this usually involves some significant outward changes.
Last time around, it was COVID-19 lockdowns that forced this mandatory peek under the hood. I fought that slowdown pretty good, but eventually surrendered. And the 3-4 month stint in relative isolation eventually navigated me out of Los Angeles proper and into the mountains of Topanga, ushering in a 3-year expansion in my coaching work, a major spotlight on my relationships with women, as well as the deepest healing and integration of old trauma I’ve done personally to date. I let go of A LOT in Topanga. And, truthfully, I felt so attached to the place that I thought 90290 was where I’d land for the long haul.
This summer, though, I started feeling those tricky inner urges again: Time to shift gears, old sport. And, again, when confronted, I balked. How could I leave a sweet setup so soon after arriving, after just digging in and getting comfortable? With dismay, I quickly realized these new marching orders wouldn’t be going away, and wouldn’t be easy for me to carry out, either. There were some things and some people and even an entire old identity of mine I was attached to and did not want to let go of in LA. But, quickly, things started shifting and dismantling and outright imploding to the point that change became inevitable.
So I waved the proverbial white flag and packed up the truck—I’m in Florida. And like the recently departed music legend Jimmy Buffett (one of the Sunshine State’s greatest advocates, whose passing happened to coincide with my birthday, RIP Jimmy) I am, once again, changing my attitudes by changing my latitude, all the while shaking my head at just how kooky this process of coming home to myself really is. Turns out just when I think I’ve let go of a lot, there’s even more to let go of.
I always say that our own personal hero or heroine’s journey is juicier than any book, any movie, any video game, because it’s our skin in the game: We have to lay the cards down on the table, we have to do all our own stunts, we have to free solo the beautiful and breathtaking cliff face that is our life and hope like hell there’s another crevice or foothold up ahead when we need it. (Spoiler alert: there always is.)
And yet along the way, the climb is filled with plot twists: I, for one, never thought I’d get to the same point with California like I got to with New York six years ago, but it’s fairly clear to me after just a week in exile that I don’t think I’m going to return to live in a big city like Los Angeles.
Wow. That felt strange to write.
Similar to back in 2017 (when it became clear that the constant hustle and energetic density of New York was no longer a match for me), or 2020 (when living in a remote adobe house in the Santa Monica mountains became hyper-appealing almost overnight), my soul is again feeling called to (even) quieter pastures. It feels to me like it’s time to go smaller and humbler. Definitely time to make my life even simpler. Maybe this downshift will happen in Mexico or Costa Rica. Maybe it’ll be Asheville or the Outer Banks. Who knows where I’ll end up. But while I sit and wait for my next directions, Central Florida isn’t such a bad place to chill, reflect, and heal. There’s a solid, organic juice place down the road (a few clams cheaper than Erewhon, too), and the most consistent surf break on all of the east coast — New Smyrna Beach — is just a 25 minute drive away.
Is it strange being lease-less, crashing on a futon in my stepfather’s acupuncture treatment room as I enter my fourth decade? You bet. Is it weird bumping into my mother in the kitchen in the mornings? Super weird! In many ways I feel like a kid again. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing at all. It feels nourishing to be with family right now. And it feels like I’m relaxing in a way I perhaps never could have allowed before, simply because I was so attached to a very particular vision of how my life needed to look.
I’ve found that those attachments of how we think we need our lives to look can really get in the way of our purest form of enjoyment and expression. SO in the way. Often, it feels like we’re striving and struggling for someone else’s definitions of happiness only to wake up halfway through life to realize: Holy shit, I’ve been on autopilot. My life has been ruled by fear, scarcity and expectation.
I’m continuing to see how my own life was run by those elements, even in places I thought I was freely choosing my own way (love, money, etc.). And the deeper I go with my healing and letting go of the gunk I took on from my family lineage, from society, and from our culture at large, the more freedom I realize is available to me to create MY version of freedom, peace, and deep contentment. It just may look a little different than I imagined…
Another interesting thing I’ve found, too: the further I get from the empires of influence, the meccas of making it, the more I relax into the version of myself I feel most natural as. Back before the glamour of my fashion life in New York, and before the spiritual glitz and sexy sparkle of Los Angeles, I was a quiet, blue collar kid who liked to draw and write and spend all day outdoors riding his bike, playing sports, and daydreaming. I’d wear the same button-down shirt every day and the same ratty baseball hat. I wasn’t concerned about being popular, or playing the status game, or if the prettiest girl in the room was looking my way. I just wanted to create and have fun and feel connected to forces larger than me. And I feel myself recapturing that pure essence here in Florida.
If the journey home to our true selves can be summed up as the successful shedding of all the non-helpful programming we’ve ever received, then I think simplicity is perhaps the greatest prize available to us in this work. The simplicity of innocence. Of a carefree mind and work that feels like play. Of the honoring of who we are at our deepest core, and of the freedom to be that person in the world unapologetically.
It’s simple, as they say, but not easy. But I have a good feeling about this rare and brilliant (albeit uncomfortable at times) sabbatical. It might just be the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.
More to come-
Sean
Great to see you back, Sean. Glad you’re finding your way back home. I enter my 6th decade this week. We will be in Portugal exploring. Home can be anywhere. Most importantly, as you’re finding, home is inside us. Keep up the great writing.
if you're still in Florida in December maybe consider going to Art Basel Miami for a combo of NYC/LA action (: