A Different Kind of PB&J

This time last year, my life looked nothing like it does now.

I went from being notified that I was being laid off, to surviving a near-death experience, to standing in the middle of my own life asking a question I didn’t expect to be asking so loudly: is this it? Is this the version of me that survives the disruption - or the moment where I finally decide what actually matters?

Not just professionally, but as a parent. As a partner. As a person trying to show up for everyone while quietly wondering if I was disappearing in the process.

There’s a version of this story that skips straight to the resolution. New job. Fresh perspective. Gratitude wrapped neatly with a bow. But that wouldn’t be honest. The truth lives in the messy middle - the part where your identity feels slippery, your confidence takes a hit, and every decision carries more weight because more people are depending on you.

All of this unfolded while living in New York City - a place that refuses to let you wallow for too long. This city is my personal power grid. When I’m depleted, it hands me energy. When I’m stuck, it reminds me that motion is still possible. When I doubt myself, it throws ambition, creativity, and resilience directly in my path and dares me to keep up.

Somewhere between subway platforms, preschool drop-offs, late-night conversations, and early-morning clarity, I started rebuilding. Slowly. Imperfectly. With intention.

And looking back now, I can see that what carried me through wasn’t certainty or confidence.

It was something simpler. Something stickier.

Passion.
Beauty.
Joy.

A different kind of PB&J.

It’s that time of year when many of us start replaying the highlights and lowlights of the past twelve months. In our house, we call it Rose & Thorn. We play it at the end of weekends, on the last night of vacations, and without fail, in the final week of the year.

But this year didn’t feel like it fit neatly into that framework.

Some moments that didn’t feel like roses at the time ended up changing everything. Some thorns turned out to be guideposts. And a lot of what sustained me lived in between - in moments that didn’t look impressive on paper but mattered deeply in real life.

This year wasn’t about chasing happiness in its loudest form. It was about recognizing it when it arrived quietly. Letting it be enough. Letting it count.

That’s where PB&J came in: not as a slogan, but as a way of noticing what was actually working.

The final month of 2025 delivered an unexpected dose of PB&J through a very unlikely source: my television.

When I say Heated Rivalry had me in a chokehold, I mean I was fully incarcerated. No parole. No appeals. Just episode after episode, emotionally compromised and completely unwell.

The passion was undeniable. The beauty lived in the restraint - the longing, the timing, the moments that said everything without spelling it out. It wasn’t just a love story; it was a reminder of what it feels like to care deeply again.

Every episode ended and we’d immediately restart it. At some point, I realized I had trained myself to unwatch it just so I could experience it for the first time again. That’s how you know something got under your skin.

Watching it at the end of a year already steeped in reflection, I couldn’t help but think about my husband and the life we’ve built. It hasn’t been linear. There have been seasons of headwinds and hard conversations where love looked more like logistics than romance. But we’re incredibly lucky. We found something real. Something resilient. Something choosing-each-other-every-day real.

And without giving too much away, the final episode hit me square in the chest, especially the moment of parental acceptance. The beauty of not having to hide who you love from the people who matter most. That kind of safety? That kind of joy? It stays with you.

The other place TV pulled me in this month was a docuseries on the making of The Eras Tour.

For context: I love Taylor Swift’s music. But what really captivates me is the discipline. The precision. The stamina. The absolute refusal to phone it in.

We went to the tour in New Jersey in May 2023, just weeks before becoming dads. Sitting in that stadium, surrounded by girl dads absolutely losing their minds for their daughters, I remember thinking: I can’t wait to do this someday.

And when Taylor finally took the stage, what struck me most wasn’t the spectacle - it was the seriousness. Not precious. Not performative. Serious. A work ethic that treats joy as something you prepare for.

The docuseries made that impossible to miss. The rehearsals. The logistics. The repetition. The excellence. Not just a role model for girls, but for anyone who wants to build something meaningful and lasting.

Our daughter was born in Alabama. The moment we knew her birth mom was in labor, we left NYC and drove through the night. Gas stops only. No sleep. The Eras Tour setlist on repeat the entire way.

Watching the docuseries now brought me right back to that moment… when everything changed forever. It reminded me why I do what I do. Who I do it for. And how much passion, beauty, and joy one tiny human can bring into your life.

As I sat down to write this final Is This It? of 2025 (but arriving in your inbox on January 2nd), I couldn’t help but think about another unexpected source of PB&J this year: AI.

Yes, I know. Cheesy. Corny. Who died and made me Time magazine, handing out “Person of the Year” honors? But in all seriousness, this part is deeply sincere.

I’m not just talking about one platform. I’m talking about all of them. Resume rewrites. Interview prep. Creative writing. Career resets. Vacation planning. Identity sorting. Future imagining.

Earlier this week, I opened ChatGPT and noticed something eerily familiar: a “Your Year with ChatGPT” moment. Like Spotify Wrapped, but for your inner monologue.

And when I clicked through to the awards section, there it was: the most accurate fictional accolade I’ve ever received. I laughed out loud. And then paused.

Because this year, AI didn’t replace anything for me. It reignited things.

It helped me rediscover a passion for creativity. It helped me see the beauty in a world that’s changing faster than we can process. And it brought real joy through curiosity, learning, and momentum - the kind that makes you feel like you’re moving forward again. I know this sounds crazy, but as an elder millennial that was seeking meaning, purpose, and more realistically a job, the power of AI lit a spark in me that no other technology had ever done before. It kept me motivated this year, it kept me intrigued, it kept me asking questions and learning, and most importantly, it made me believe I had an edge up. 

I turned 39 in October.

For reasons I can’t fully explain, 40 feels like a line in the sand. A made-up milestone that somehow still carries weight. Am I officially “old”? Probably not. Honestly, I feel better than I ever have, but I also feel more aware of how little I actually have figured out.

Will I feel different on October 25, 2026? I doubt it. But I suspect I’ll still be asking better questions.

As I head into a new calendar year - and toward that personal marker - I’m not pretending I’ve arrived anywhere. The truth is, I’m still very much in motion. Still recalibrating. Still learning how to hold ambition, responsibility, and identity in the same hands without dropping one of them.

What I do have now is a framework - not a finish line.

I want to move through whatever comes next guided by passion, beauty, and joy.

Every goal I set.
Every risk I take.
Every uncomfortable conversation.
Every new beginning.

Not because I have it all figured out, but because I finally know who I am right now. And after a year of having the ground shift beneath me, that feels like real progress.

I’m still figuring things out. Still taking it one messy step at a time. But for the first time in a long time, my career, my identity, and the life I’m building are moving in the same direction.

And when I ask myself, is this it? - the answer isn’t certainty.

And honestly?

That feels like more than enough.

The weekly section where I will call out a fraction: something that felt like progress this week year (like a fraction forward) and a fiction: something that turned out to be a distraction or illusion. 

🎯 Fraction: Podcasts have been my self-prescribed medication this year. Somewhere between long walks, late nights, and quiet resets, I found a few voices that offered new perspectives and small mindset shifts toward the person I’m still becoming.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Mel Robbins is not my favorite listen. The tone? Grating. The delivery? Not for me. And yet, I can’t stop paying attention.

The idea I’m taking with me into 2026 is her deceptively simple 5-4-3-2-1 countdown. When something feels hard, awkward, or heavy… don’t negotiate with it. Count down. Move anyway.

I’ve been doing exactly that over the past two weeks with my family, when emotions ran high and patience ran low. No big breakthroughs. Just a few moments where I didn’t stall, spiral, or avoid.

A fraction forward - and sometimes, that’s enough.

🎭 Fiction: The belief that I’ll get another long stretch of quiet to think, plot, and hatch a plan before making my next move. This year gave me a rare gift: five months where life actually did slow down long enough for clarity to form. I don’t expect that kind of pause again anytime soon. Things don’t calm down on schedule, and waiting for another perfect window is just another way to stand still.

If this felt familiar, forward it to three people who might see themselves in it. Passion, beauty, and joy multiply when shared. Thanks for being here.

Until next Friday,
Chris

PS. Click the link below to make AI a part of your 2026 highlights reel!

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