Growing up on a ranch, my days were defined by structure: feed the horses at dawn, lead trail rides by noon, and if we were lucky, catch the northern lights dancing over the Tetons by night. But ever since swapping saddles and spurs for a writing desk and Wi-Fi signal, my routine’s gotten a little… eclectic. Sure, I don’t wrangle tourists anymore (though you could argue the crazy world of human relationships isn’t so far off), but my day is still a mix of the predictable—and the completely weird. Let’s dive in.
Early Risers Aren’t Always Shining
First off, let me tell you: whoever decided “the early bird gets the worm” clearly didn’t have a group of squawking magpies building a life-coaching seminar outside their window every morning at 5 AM. I wake up early, but not by choice. Living near the edge of wilderness means my alarm clock comes with wings and no snooze button.
I make coffee—black, because life’s already sweet enough (or at least that’s what I tell myself). Then, I grab my boots and head out back to check on my garden. Tending to kale and sunflowers might not sound rugged, but there's something grounding about dirt under your nails before the world starts asking for things.
My mornings are also for movement. I stretch my legs on a short trail near my house, which winds through golden grasses and sagebrush with a view of the Tetons that never fails to knock the sleep cobwebs loose. Here's the thing no one tells you about walks: they’re like free therapy. Whether it’s solving a plot problem for an article or mentally replaying an awkward moment from a miserable first date years ago, my morning trail time sorts me out.
Truth be told, sometimes I bring binoculars to spy on local bird life. Once, I spotted two bald eagles doing a mid-air talon lock—a courtship display that’s equal parts grace and chaos. You could say it's a fascinating metaphor for dating life.
The Midday Creative Chaos Zone
Around late morning, I turn into a guy I call “Panic Jax.” See, structure isn’t my natural state. By now, my to-do list looks like a Jackson Pollock painting: there are article drafts to write, emails to answer, and reminders to hydrate scrawled oddly in the corner (cheers to past me!).
Which brings me to one of my quirky habits: whenever I hit the midday wall—that universal “why-does-my-brain-feel-like-syrup” moment—I pull out my accordion. Yep, you read that right. During one lonely Wyoming winter in my twenties, I taught myself how to play it. It’s not particularly romantic, either—I mostly belt out loud, mood-lifting classics like “Jambalaya” by Hank Williams. It’s weirdly cathartic and way more effective than doom scrolling. (Pro tip: find your offbeat midday pick-me-up—it might not charm your neighbors, but it’ll recharge your soul.)
After the musical interlude, I sit down to craft literature that occasionally leans into self-reflection. Our relationships with other people can get complicated, but the way we relate to ourselves? Now that’s a wilderness of its own. For example, I recently found myself pondering that nail-biting quiet moment after someone says, “Tell me about you.” Why does self-description feel so terrifying? That thought turned into a whole article on personal narratives—and the lies we sometimes tell ourselves to get through the day.
Afternoon Cowboys and Kitchen Experiments
By the time lunch rolls around, I dive headfirst into one of my new passions: trying (and failing) to recreate my dad's sourdough recipe. The man was a bread sorcerer—he could whip one up that was somehow crusty yet soft, tangy yet warm, and always satisfying. Mine? Well, it’s a little more “cowboy chic,” aka lumpy but edible. Still, kneading is meditation, and let’s face it: nothing screams main character energy like pulling a fresh loaf out of the oven and feeling like you conquered the West before sunset.
If I’m deadline-free—which isn't often—I might spend the afternoon fishing in the Snake River. There’s something about standing knee-deep in icy water, casting a line, that feels a little like flirting. Stay with me here: fishing is all about patience, knowing the currents, and recognizing when to reel in or let go—all valuable lessons for modern love too, don’t you think?
Evening Reflections and Running Out of Socks
Here’s where the nostalgia kicks in. When I’m not picking hay out of my hair or answering emails, I try to slow down and soak up the sunset. There’s nothing like a pale pink and orange Wyoming sky to pull you out of your own head. On quiet evenings, I grab a journal and jot down something—anything—that caught my attention during the day. It could be a line someone said during brunch or an observation about how we’re all just trying (sometimes too hard) to impress each other.
One note I wrote recently? “Nobody talks about how weirdly intimate folding socks together can feel.” I realized that one evening as I cursed my laundry pile and wondered why pairing a single sock with another feels oddly symbolic. Maybe it’s because finding a match, whether in footwear or in life, feels rare enough to deserve celebration.
Embracing the Unexpected
The thing about life—especially life lived in love and connection with others—is that it rarely follows a neat outline. Some days are downright messy, and the best thing you can do is ride the current. That’s a lesson I keep learning from nature itself: everything grows according to its own rhythm. The wildflowers bloom with no deadlines. Rivers carve their paths over decades. Eagles lock talons in the sky the way their ancestors have for centuries—flawless yet unplanned.
From feeding kale to magpies at sunrise to mangling sourdough by lunch, my days are far from predictable. And yet, that little bit of chaos reminds me that every moment has magic tucked inside it—even the ones that feel ordinary or downright bizarre.
So, if you’re living a life that sometimes feels like it’s strung together with mismatched socks, sourdough fails, and eagle metaphors, take heart: the beauty of the day isn’t in perfection but in the trying. You’re out there, figuring it out just like the rest of us—and that’s more than enough.
