Chapter Seven

In this excerpt from Chapter Seven, I explain the importance of those nutrition labels, and why you really should pay attention to just what it says on the tin.

Labeling, not enabling

Not long after I got out of the hospital — I think it was between two and four weeks, but I don’t remember exactly — Kaiser invited me to a free post heart-failure class, which was led by a nurse and a nutritionist. There were several dozen attendees in the room, and other than the nutritionist and one kid who must have been his grandmother’s ride there, I was by far the youngest person in attendance. And I don’t mean by just a couple of years. Everyone else there had to have been at least two decades older than me. If they weren’t, they sure looked it.

I found myself wondering why there was such a huge difference. As far as I could tell, no one in that room was a current hospital patient, so they all must have been through the same experience. Now, granted, my relative youth might have been an important factor, but I’m only assuming that everyone was so much older. Again, it could have been perception, and there may have been younger people in that room who were just a lot sicker.

After all, in the months before I’d gone into the hospital, I had looked a hell of a lot older myself.

But it was a strange sort of encouragement. I felt downright chipper and energetic, and if what I was looking at around that room was the alternative, then I had either really lucked out, really done something right, or both.

This feeling really kicked in at about the halfway point when the nurse had finished talking about the importance of physical activity, then said it was time for a stretch break and asked us to stand up. Three of us did — one patient, the aforementioned grandkid, and I. The nurse quickly covered with the request, “If you can’t stand up, just put your arms up.”

Some of those efforts were totally half-assed as well, and I really began to feel sorry for a lot of folks in that room, also remembering that not all that long before this class, I would have been in their boat, and not paddling along on my own.

I hope this isn’t making the class sound useless, though, because what the nutritionist taught us is still invaluable. It’s advice I follow to this day, and information I alluded to in Chapter 2. This is where I learned to start watching people in restaurants in order to see if what she’d told us was true, and it is — the first thing the vast majority of people do when their food arrives is to grab the salt and start shaking away, even before they’ve tasted a single bite.

She also taught us the importance of those nutritional information labels on the backs of packages that we often wind up ignoring, which brings up another one of those funny doctor moments.

Before I wound up in the hospital and as my doctor was scheduling my echocardiogram, I had mentioned my dieting attempts and how they weren’t working, but I insisted that I always read the nutritional labels. As the conversation continued, though, I realized that I wasn’t really reading the labels. I was only looking at the Calorie information, and only on a few items. After all, if you go by only Calories, an entire jar of 100 grams of olives only has 115 — but it has 735 mg of sodium. And a condiment, like a particularly snooty brand of mustard, only has 5 Calories per serving but 120 mg of sodium.

(Free grammar and science lesson: “Calorie,” with a capital C, refers to the things in stuff you eat. The other one, “calorie” with a lowercase c, refers to a specific scientific unit of measure, and is 1/1000th of a Calorie. No, I don’t know why, but the easy way to remember is that Calorie, with the big C, is bigger than calorie with the little c.)

My M.O. had only been to look at the Calories on pre-packed, frozen entrees, but I hadn’t given it a thought when it came to other things, like bread, buns, condiments, juices, and so on. I also gleefully ignored the serving size rules, meaning that the Calorie counts on the package became meaningless. After all, if the serving size is one fifth of a package at 260 Calories, eating the whole package would actually be 1,300 Calories, or a huge chunk of an adult’s needs for the entire day.

The hypothetical product I’m basing that on would also jump from an already ridiculous 960 mg of sodium to 4,800 mg — way over double the RDA.

Guess who used to ignore the serving sizes and consider “one package” and “one serving” to be synonymous? I used to eat an entire 12-inch pepperoni and sausage pizza for a meal. A meal like that was loaded down with 1,360 Calories, 60 grams of fat, 2,840 milligrams of sodium, and 12 grams of sugar just for fun. Sometimes, I’d even add extra cheese, bringing it up to 1,520 Calories, 72 grams of fat, and 3,180 milligrams of sodium.

Hey, at least the cheese didn’t add any sugar, right? And I won’t say which brand that pizza was, other than that it’s very appropriately named. What I will say is prepare yourself now, because pizza is one of those things that’s going to become very, very rare in your diet if you want this to work.

If your initial reaction to that comment was to express some degree of skepticism or disdain at losing out on pizza, then you are going to have to work extra-special hard at all of the tricks I’m sharing, because you are being your own enabler. In order to succeed, you’re going to have to learn to cut off all of your enablers, including yourself.

That cutting off begins by doing what I learned to do. Read those nutrition labels on absolutely everything.

* * *

Read an excerpt from Chapter Six or Chapter Eight, or start at the Prologue.

Chapter Six

In this excerpt from Chapter Six, I introduce three psychological tricks you can use to get yourself into the mindset for achieving a healthier lifestyle.

The first three steps to a new you

How did your first diary entry go? Because you did that, right? Good. Now this chapter is going to give you three specific things to do that will help you get into the new mindset necessary to go on this journey and make it easy. We have a lot of old habits and lifetime programming to undo, and a lot of new ways to learn until they’re second nature.

Don’t let that sound daunting to you, because it isn’t as scary or difficult as it seems. I’ve got a nice analogy to explain the process to you, and it comes from my summer camp adventure as well.

We jammed a lot of activities into that weekend, and two of them were things that I’d never done before: canoeing and zip-lining. Now, the old me would have just said, “Well, I don’t know how to work a canoe and dangling on a cable is scary, so I’ll be in my cabin.”

New me was all about it, and a funny thing happened once I got out on that lake. It was a three man canoe, with me in the front, another paddler in the back, and a passenger in the middle — and I found that being able to control that boat was almost intuitive. Before we got out there, I’d thought that it was going to be difficult, we’d hardly move anywhere, maybe we’d wind up going in circles. Nope. We got that canoe going a lot faster than I’d thought possible, and I was doing most of the steering, maneuvering around the lake and avoiding other canoes and people who were fishing.

When that experience was over, I was let down only by the fact that it had been way too brief a trip. I could have paddled all over that lake all day long.

So the lesson there is don’t judge the difficulty of an experience before you’ve tried it, because you may be totally wrong. But the bigger lesson came in the zip-lining.

That experience was somewhat like my first time on Space Mountain — a lot of build-up to the big moment. The staff at camp had to teach us about safety, fit the harnesses and helmets on us, make sure everything was secure, then send us on our hike around a meadow and up to the launch platforms.

Funny how much higher up those platforms seemed from on top of them, but by that point I’d committed. If you’ve never zip-lined, it works like this: You’ve basically got your legs in a harness, and that’s what’s holding you up. This is connected to a rope that has a huge carabineer on the other end, and that carabineer hooks onto the zip-line itself.

All of that’s the easy part. The hard part is literally a leap of faith, because nothing happens until you step off of that platform, and that’s the bit that really takes trust, courage, and maybe a little bit of stupidity. The first time I went, I hesitated for a second or two, and then just let go.

And that’s where the real lesson comes and the magic happens, because once you start going on that zip-line, everything else is physics and gravity. The hard work is done, and your only job is to enjoy the ride and hit the ground running.

I must have liked it, because I went around five times and, again, would have gone more, but we’d hit the time limit for the event. And while taking that first step was always a little weird, it got a lot less scary, but the fun and the adrenaline rush was entirely worth it.

Following the steps I’m going to give you is just like zip-lining. I’m going to provide the instructions and the harness and point you on the way. Then it’s up to you to step off that platform and enjoy the ride. The first step is the hardest, but once you take it, the rest of it follows right from the rules of nature.

For the impatient sorts, so you don’t have to peek ahead, here are the short forms of those steps:

  1. Get out of your routine
  2. Get out of your space
  3. Try something new

One important thing to remember: Some of these may work very well for you and some of them may not. You don’t have to use all three. If you can, great — but if you find one that really does the trick, then stick with it and don’t worry about the others.

Are you ready? Okay. Strap on your helmet and let’s step off the edge.

* * *

Read an excerpt from Chapter Five or Chapter Seven, or start with the Prologue.

Chapter Four

In this excerpt from Chapter Four of The Amateur’s Guide to Do-It-Yourself Miracles, I discuss the big roadblock to self-improvement: ourselves.

Change your mind, change your life

You’ve probably heard this old joke:

Q: How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?

A: Only one, but the light bulb has got to want to change.

It’s a glib quickie that trivializes something that happens to be completely true. Change only comes from within, and it only happens once you decide that you absolutely want it to. Anything else is coercion, and there’s one thing that most people hate: being forced to do something by somebody else. Nothing will make a human being resist and fight back faster than that, especially in terms of lifestyle changes not related to addiction.

When it comes to people involved in addiction recovery, though, there’s still a lot of disagreement on the best way to approach treatment — voluntary or forced. The two extremes of the argument are summarized this way in a 2015 New York Times series on the subject. Robert L. DuPont, President of the Institute for Behavior and Health, Inc., believes that “Programs with effective coercion and serious consequences… often produce excellent outcomes for most participants.” Meanwhile, author and journalist Maia Szalavitz states that, “It’s hard to create the warm atmosphere necessary for addiction treatment if participants are legally mandated to be there… To improve both addiction treatment access and success, we need less coercion, not more.”

The hardest decision a person can make is the one to change — especially when they don’t think there’s a problem. Remember what I mentioned previously, about my attitude even as my health was failing? I didn’t think it was really serious and I was sure I was going to get better on my own, until someone else flat-out told me I was going to die if I didn’t do something.

But this wasn’t a case of someone telling me I had to change and I complied. I’d heard that advice many times before, but had chosen to ignore it. Often times, it had to do with how that message was delivered. True story: A few years ago, a doctor took my blood pressure and it was ridiculously high. His response was to give me a dirty look and practically shout in my face, “There is something seriously wrong with you!”

Gee, thanks, doc. Mind telling me what that is?

But do you think that I did anything about it then? Nope. All I was thinking in my mind was, “Well, doc, there’s something seriously wrong with you, too.” Not the best way to foster communication and healing, now is it?

What was different this time was, first, that the prognosis was delivered non-judgmentally by my doctors. It was given as a simple statement of fact. This made it a lot easier to not only accept that advice, but to finally make the decision to make the necessary changes in my life.

So the question is this: How do we wind up in that place where it’s easier not to make a positive change? It’s a process that practically begins at birth, it’s happening all around us, and it’s very easy to not see it because it’s so prevalent.

* * *

You can read an excerpt from Chapter Three here, go to Chapter Five, or start at the Prologue.

Puff, puff, past…

Today has been 420 days… exactly 60 weeks, or a year and two months since I quit smoking and… I don’t miss it one damn bit. And it has made life so much easier in so many ways. Herein, I’m going to tell you a few of them.

It’s kind of becoming more true than not, but the quickest way to spot either a tourist or a Baby Boomer in L.A. is to look for the smoker. And the quickest way to spot the ex-smoker is to find the person who is most vocally and vehemently against the habit.

The nasty, nasty, expensive, disgusting, filthy habit.

Guilty as charged. I quit smoking. It was the best thing I ever did for myself, and here are some things I learned in the process.

  1. I can breathe. I don’t get winded. I can run up and down stairs, walk for miles, exercise, dance, sing, whatever. I can breathe.
  2. I don’t waste time smoking. I don’t remember how many breaks I used to take every day at work — it was a lot — but I realize now that I may take two outside breaks a day, or maybe one, but that’s about it.
  3. I’m not as antsy… because I’m not sitting somewhere thinking of the next time I can go smoke. This has made everything easier, from work in general to meetings to public transportation to… well… everything.
  4. I don’t stink. But I can smell smokers from half a mile away and… damn, do they stink. It really is gross as hell guys. You smell like an ashtray’s asshole. Every last one of you.
  5. I have saved probably more than $2,500 to date (pre and post $2 per pack tax that went into effect on April 1, 2017) and will continue to save well over $200 a month. What could you do with an extra $200 per month?
  6. YMMV, but it actually turned out to be remarkably easy for me to quit. Sure, I had a huge bit of incentive to start (“You gonna die if you don’t!”) But I did it cold turkey, without meds, patches, gum, herbs, woo, etc. I did it by figuring out what triggered me to want to smoke, and then playing personal bomb squad and defusing those triggers. Turns out that my addiction was psychological, not physical — and I didn’t replace it with anything, either, so I didn’t eat my way to quitting or take up heroin or start watching reality TV or any of that shit. I just kind of… walked away.

What’s really interesting is that I have a lot of friends who have or did or who are trying to quit in the same time frame — yay, you all! And I just want to tell you all this: You can do it. It’s easier than you think. I’d been a smoker for longer than some of you have been alive. In under a year, I’ve managed to rewire to the point that I cannot even imagine wanting to light up a cigarette ever again. So if you need any advice or moral support or whatever, you know where to come.

It can be done. And, once it’s done, well… it’s pretty awesome. Smell better, live longer, save money, be more attractive to the non-smoking majority. What’s not to love about it?

Chapter Three

In this excerpt from Chapter Three of “The Amateur’s Guide to Making Your Own Miracles,” find out how we can be set up to fail almost from the beginning — by the best of intentions.

Thank you, Mr. President

When I was in elementary school, something called the President’s Council on Youth Fitness (whatever that was) determined that we had to be tested in our physical abilities as part of the Presidential Youth Fitness Program. Now, here are a couple of new details about me I don’t think I’ve mentioned before.

Number one, I was born very premature — something like two months early, possibly more. I spent the first sixteen days of my life in an incubator at Kaiser Hospital Hollywood, in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, which sounds much friendlier under the initialism NICU — especially if you treat it as an acronym. Preemies often have lung issues, and when I was about seven I had a bad case of bronchitis. Air quality in Los Angeles up through the ‘80s and probably into the mid-1990s was also total shit — seriously, it is much, much better now — none of which helped me at all.

I also had viral pneumonia when I was 14, so why I ever started smoking is beyond me, because I never should have in the first place. But flashback to about two or three years before that and here’s the scenario. First, I’ve never really had upper-body strength. Oh, sure, I’ve got legs for days, and in middle-school I could leg-press ridiculous weights — I distinctly remember actually lifting six hundred pounds with no effort. But my chest, shoulders, and arms? Not so much.

Now combine that with bad air and weak lungs, and strenuous physical activity really wasn’t my thing. But around fifth grade, they were suddenly testing us on how many pull-ups and push-ups and sit-ups we could do — for me, I think the answer was “one and a half” of each on a good day. But it got worse, because we were expected to run laps around the schoolyard, and we were grouped and categorized based on how many and how fast.

While I had strong legs, running was not my thing because I would get winded really fast. Also, because it happened to be our Evil Overlords (aka Principal from Hell and Teachers) mandating that we do all this shit, I really rebelled against it. I’d run as far as I could, which was maybe a quarter of the way around the hot asphalt playground of my elementary school, but then I’d stroll the rest of the way with those of us who couldn’t manage to go much faster. Fortunately, my two best friends, who were both named Mike, weren’t big runners either, so at least we had a private triumvir via which to commiserate and bitch about it.

Meanwhile, the jocks would easily cruise through a dozen or more laps in the fifty minutes allotted while the coaches — the bitter alcoholic recently divorced fifth grade teacher Mr. Slane and the butch lesbian ex-military sixth grade teacher Ms. Harrison — took notes and blew whistles and shouted.

In a weird way, this enforced activity missed the same boat that teaching kids strictly for standardized tests does now: It doesn’t effing work. If anything, it does the opposite. They started to test our natural abilities in fifth grade with an eye toward training us to pass the tests in sixth — but then they tried to ride the asses of those of us who weren’t cutting it and guess what? Our response was pretty much to decide, “Okay, we’re going to fail this shit, and we don’t care.”

At least we weren’t actually being graded on this one, right?

Honestly, it’s fine to fail at this kind of thing if your ambition is to not be a jock. But, on the other hand, if you want to actually get an education and this is how they’re feeding you math and history and languages and arts and everything else, well… it’s a really, really bad system. Especially because the current system doesn’t really include that art part at all.

You cannot build people up if you start out by saying, “Well, gosh, you sure suck at this.” And you can’t build yourself up if you start out by saying, “You’re right. I do.”

Improvement only comes from a safe space, and it starts with an acknowledgement of effort. I’m sure that, back in those days, if the response to my pathetic attempts at physical fitness hadn’t been, “Well, shit, you’re a weak little faggot, aren’t you,” but instead had been, “Okay, you did one, that was great. Can you do two? ‘Cause I think you can…” then things would have turned out totally different.

Well, who knows? I could have been a famous retired gold-medal winning Olympic athlete or something now. Why do I think that? Because, even earlier than failing at athletics, I got encouragement from all over the place on my intellectual abilities, especially my writing and my musical skills. Those are what were nurtured by my parents, teachers, and friends.

Guess which two things I have done for all of my life and still do to this day, and which other bunch of things I only rediscovered and learned to love recently.

Now, the idea behind all the Presidential Fitness shit was sound and noble. It’s just that the approach was bad. However, irony alert — it was probably largely due to government intervention in an effort to make people thin that America got fat in the first place.

I’ll get back to that part in a moment. But first of all… how are we going to define “fat?”

* * *

 Putting the “die” in diet

According to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), if you’re American there’s nearly a 37% chance that you’re obese, meaning that you have a Body-Mass Index (BMI) greater than or equal to 30. For a woman of average height, 5’4” (1.62 m), this means a weight of 174 lbs. or more (79 kg). For the average man, those figures are 5’10” (1.77 m) and 207 lbs. (94 kg). However, keep in mind that the BMI can be really wrong for very athletic people. An in-shape male bodybuilder of average height who is mostly muscle and weighs 230 lbs. is probably not actually obese.

But you’re probably not a bodybuilder, or mostly muscle instead of fat. You probably wouldn’t be reading this book if you were. You might be sighing in relief to yourself right now to realize that you aren’t obese, but many estimates put the number of overweight adult Americans at two thirds of the population — those with a BMI between 25 and 29.9.

If you’d like to calculate your own BMI, here’s the formula, in both metric and imperial units:

In the above, k is your weight in kilograms and m is your height in meters; P is your weight in pounds and I is your height in inches. Here’s how the formula breaks down for me:

 k/m^2 (or) P/I^2 x 703

Of course, if you’re averse to even simple math, you can always search “BMI Calculator” online and find many options for plugging in the numbers to see your own results.

76.1/1.88^2 = 21.5 (or) 167.8/74^2 x 703 = (0.0306 x 703) = 21.5

How did you do? Even if you did come up with a BMI in the normal range, read on, because this book isn’t just about losing weight. It’s about avoiding unhealthy outcomes in the first place, but that only applies to one third of you.

The question is: Why is it that so many of us are or have been overweight in the first place?

* * *

You can read all of Chapter One, excerpts from Chapter Two or Four, or start with the Prologue.

Chapter Two

And more of the book drops, although this time you only get a hint, which is the very first part of the (much longer) second chapter. If you’re a math nerd, this would be about 18%. Bon apetite!

It starts early

I grew up as a typical American Gen-Xer, in a boringly suburban middle-class life — not quite upper-middle, but not lower either. Pretty average. I was an only child from what was the second marriage for both of my parents, so while I had half-siblings they were all much older than me and we didn’t grow up together.

Other than a brief little time of trouble with one particular neighbor family that led to their kids bullying me, there really wasn’t a lot of drama. I can’t remember ever seeing my parents fight, and they stayed married until my mom died. We had a dog and a house, I took music lessons, avoided sports, loved science and science fiction, and read relentlessly.

Yeah, I was a nerd then and I still am now and I’m proud of it.

There was always food on the table and in the fridge, and my mother was an excellent cook. She had grown up in a poor Irish-American family in Pennsylvania, lost in the middle of seven surviving kids out of thirteen. To them, “exotic” food was baking the potato instead of mashing it, so it was probably only natural once she landed in a stable marriage that she learned how to cook “fancy,” although her repertoire covered mostly Italian and Mexican food, and nothing Asian.

That was fine with us, though. My father was a huge fan of spicy food, and so am I.

My mother made incredible lasagna, enchiladas, and a casserole that was an amazing combination of ground beef, sour cream, egg noodles, corn, and cream of mushroom soup. Sunday lunch was quite frequently roast beef and mashed potatoes. There were always seconds, leftovers, and dessert.

Consequently, I always carried around a little extra weight growing up and averaged around 185 in high school. That’s still considered normal based on BMI for my height, but just barely — it’s ten pounds less than the lower limit for being overweight. There were also times in my adult life, on-and-off, when I averaged around 225, which is nine pounds under what would be considered obese for me.

A funny thing did happen once I moved from home after college, though — my weight dropped to 165, but it didn’t stay there and I yo-yoed. I had periods of being skinny and periods of being fat, but I could never really figure out a particular cause other than diet. For example, when I started working in TV I gained weight because it involved a lot of sitting around writers’ offices where they fed us constantly — and not the healthiest food, either, but a lot of it. And free.

There’s a very simple rule for weight-loss that tends to be buried under an avalanche of fad diets and pseudoscience. If you want to lose weight and it’s not being caused by an underlying medical condition, eat less and move more. When I’ve done this, I’ve lost weight. When I haven’t, I’ve gained. I’ll cover this concept in much more detail later on, but that’s really the secret in a nutshell, and yet it’s alarming how many people don’t get it. Sorry, but there are no magic foods or pills you can put in your pie hole to melt the pounds off. Surgery does work, but see above, re: existing medical issues. I have several friends for whom this was the case, and the lap band worked miracles for them, but chances are you won’t need to go that far.

This was also why my efforts from 2013 onward to lose weight didn’t work — there was an underlying medical issue I was unaware of, although one that I was able to fix.

As part of my care after getting out of the hospital, Kaiser invited me to a free class taught by a nurse and a nutritionist, and the nutritionist had some amazing stories, but one in particular is relevant here. She had a patient who had been trying to lose weight by eating healthier, and this patient proudly informed the nutritionist one day that they had eaten fifteen oranges in an effort to be healthy.

There’s just one little problem there. Even fruits and vegetables have calories, in this case about 45 per orange, so the patient had just consumed a third of their required daily caloric intake. Oranges are also full of sugar in the form of fructose, glucose, and sucrose. Finally, in sheer weight, that patient probably ate about four pounds of oranges. Can you imagine yourself eating four pounds of anything in one sitting?

Of course, food wasn’t the only thing that was going to slowly lead to my heart problems. I picked up two other not-so-great habits in college…

Read an excerpt from Chapter Three.

Can’t live / in fear

One of the most important things you can do for youself is to let go of your fear — it will open doors you never imagined even existed. Today, it put me in a music video.

A subject that I’ll discuss a lot in my book is how fear holds us back — whether it’s keeping us from going to the doctor, from having new experiences, or overcoming addictions.

In my post about my fear of roller coasters, I mentioned that I finally conquered this fear after a group of friends shamed me into taking a ride only for me to find out that I actually love roller coasters, but I think that peer pressure might be an early theme for me.

Fortunately, I had peers who mostly pressured me into good things.

One other thing they talked me into back in the day was auditioning for a play in college. Now, beyond third grade plays that don’t really count, I hadn’t really acted on stage before. I had taken one disastrous drama class in middle school and had played in the combos for a few small musicals, but part of the point of being in the backing band is that you aren’t on stage.

I figured, “Well, I haven’t done this before, there’s no way I’m going to get cast, and it’ll stop my friends from bugging me to get involved in theatre,” so I auditioned.

I got cast. In a featured speaking role. With lines and everything. I went from afraid to terrified, but I had already committed, so there was only one way to go…

And that, dear readers is how the acting bug bit me. Not that I ever wanted to pursue it as a profession — I prefer playing odd supporting roles and leaving the real work to the real pros, and I’ve certainly done some odd ones. If I had to pick favorites, they’d be the depressed unicycle riding bear in an adaptation of a John Irving short story, The Pension Grillparzer, The Dreamer in Tennessee Williams’ Camino Real, a leather-clad Jesus figure leading his blind mother along and whose dialogue is entirely in Spanish, and basically every spear-carrier in The Comedy of Errors rolled into one in the form of a slightly greedy, slightly drunk, river-dancing Irish cop, but which doesn’t seem to have any reviews online..

At least the L.A. times did say something nice about me: “Jon Bastian’s bear and Matt Ryan’s hand-walking man own the house…”

Along the way, I’ve also done extra work in film and T.V., and a series of flash theater performances put on by L.A.’s own Playwrights’ Arena over the course of a year in celebration of their 20th anniversary. I think I managed to do thirteen of those, which were all live in various locations around the city, and very much right up close and personal with the audiences.

None of this would have happened if I had let fear stop me from auditioning for that first play way back in college. And it hasn’t just been about the experience acting on stage. I’ve made a lot of close friends through all these various shows and performances, and every so often I get to help an artist make a statement.

That’s what I was doing today, for a music video for a song by Deidra Edwards called “We Already Know,” which involved a large and very diverse group of people singing in a park in an act of political resistance, and then some studio follow-up shooting. I’m very excited about this one because of the message, and because it’s also both a real and symbolic return to performing for me, which is something I’ve been working my way back into over the course of this year.

One of the lines we sang in the song says, “Can’t live in fear,” and that is certainly the case. It’s something that I think we already know, but we also like to resist the thought and let our fears win out.

But when we don’t let them win, magic happens.