I first fell in love with mountain biking 30 years ago. It was a new sport at the time, and I had just moved to the mountains of Colorado, surrounded by amazing bike trails. I can still remember those first rides, and the mix of joy and terror that felt like a drug. 

It wasn’t long before mountain biking became a central part of my life. My first date with the woman who became my wife was a mountain bike ride. All of my best friends have been my riding buddies. Mountain biking has featured prominently in most of my vacation trips. I started a little side hustle business selling mountain bike repair kits. And at the height of my riding, I had 5 different mountain bikes, all suited to different kinds of terrain, seasons, or challenge.

I’m an expert mountain biker now, and have been for much of those 30 years, but I certainly wasn’t in the early days. Back then, it only took a short time to see that if I wanted to get really good at the sport, I would need to learn how to fall. And I was all in. I wanted deep in my bones to get really good at mountain biking.

It’s a bit of an inside joke with my wife. I like to collect journals. I don’t actually write in them. Well, until last week I didn’t. But I love the idea of journals and artfully composing inspired reflections in them. It turns out I’ve had lots and lots of ideas about how a journal is supposed to look, how it’s supposed to work. So many ideas, in fact, that I’ve not actually written anything in any of these journals for years. 

At the beginning of last year, I thought it would be different. I got online and I ordered this custom leather cover for journal inserts. When it arrived I marveled at its beauty. I loved the soft leather, and felt a rush of something like self-importance to see my name embossed on the front. This is it. I’ll finally write in this one. 

But first, I need to research the latest ideas on journaling. 

I found a great system that would keep my ideas really well organized. I went ahead and numbered all the pages in the corner in my tidy little handwriting. Aaaaahhhh, progress. 

I dutifully carried my lovely new journal with the numbered pages with me to my office and back. But writing in it? Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t quite ready to go that far. 

Until last week. 

About once a year I need to take steroids for a sinus condition. My family finds this quite amusing, as the effect the drugs tend to have on me is that I go into hyperdrive, doing all sorts of long-neglected tasks around the house. And, inevitably, I end up organizing the cupboards and the pantry. Perfectly. 

The decluttering of these spaces has a peculiar effect. There’s a spaciousness. A freshness. Contentment.

Recently, fueled by curiosity rather than steroids, I decided to undertake a decluttering of my mind. And I can hardly believe how good it feels.

I’ve read about digital detox before, and have admired those who could put their phones away for weeks at a time, even if I wasn’t so envious of the circumstances that often brought them to that point. But, I reasoned, I’m not that badly addicted to my phone, and so maybe detox was taking it too far. So when I heard a podcast recently about a more pragmatic approach that recognizes the role of technology in our work lives and family lives – he called it digital decluttering – it sounded like something I might be up for.

Here’s why I was ready to try it…

In Part 1 of my letter to my younger burned out self, I described how an understanding of how our minds work points us away from effort and struggle. (click here to read Part 1)  Here’s Part 2…

Ordinary Jason,

Something about less effort sounds good right about now. But what does that have to do with mental speed?

Burned Out Jason

I’d always wanted to start an innovative school. So I did. And it’s an amazing school.  But after 10 years of blood, sweat and tears, I was so burned out that I couldn’t recognize my life anymore. I felt isolated and alone, totally exhausted, and nothing I tried seemed to make much of a difference. […]

I’m grateful to all the Paleo pioneers for leading us down the path of greater understanding of how our bodies really work. Because of them, millions of us no longer waste time and energy on health and fitness strategies that are based on a misunderstanding, and many of us have discovered a level of wellness that we didn’t even know was available.  So it may not surprise you to learn that there is also a huge misunderstanding of stress in our culture. The way we currently think about stress leads us all too often in the wrong direction and causes us to spend far more energy than is necessary trying to cope with, or manage, our stress. A deeper understanding of how our minds work has the potential for a life-changing shift and will dramatically change the frequency and amount of stress we experience. And if a Paleo lifestyle advocates a life of less stress, then it only makes sense that we would strive to understand the real source of stress.

A little more than 7 years ago, after a lifetime of privately poking fun at picky eaters, I became a very picky eater. In response to some unusual health issues that had surfaced, I jumped on the Paleo Diet bandwagon. Lots of protein and fat. Very low carbs. No sugar. No dairy.

I loved it. I had tons of energy; I could ride my bike for hours at high intensity; and I could eat truckloads of food and be as trim as I was in high school. And, despite a long history of being a kitchen nincompoop, I was so excited about my new diet that I became the go-to guy for most of the cooking for our family of four.

Recipes, it turns out, can make anyone look pretty good in the kitchen. My coup de grace was the full Paleo Thanksgiving that I made a few years ago for friends and family. My mom still talks about that as if I might have my own cooking show someday. (There were low points too. Like the barely edible spicy meatballs, that I resorted to covering in chocolate sauce to get my boys to try a few bites.)

But a funny thing happened along the way.

“How about this one?”

“Ummm… licorice maybe? Kinda earthy. Not sure.”

Here I was, a few weeks out of sinus surgery, hoping to regain my sense of smell, which had gradually dwindled over the last few years until it was completely gone. With it, my sense of taste had left as well. At times, this was an advantage, as I no longer minded dealing with the garbage and the dog poo cleanup. Sometimes it just sucked, as the joy of eating good food has diminished, and some of my favorite smells – the moist autumn leaves under my bike tires, and the sweet aroma of the Russian Olive tree in the springtime – had become merely memories. And at times, it was awkward, since farting in my office while I’m alone didn’t really register with me, but seemed to have a different effect on my clients who might cock their heads a bit as they entered.