I Now Identify as a Hockey Player

I now identify as a hockey player. (Just kidding. Kind of.)

Not literally - my knees would like to be excluded from this narrative - but spiritually? Emotionally? As a reframe? Absolutely.

It’s January, which means we’re all contractually obligated to whisper new year, new me into the void, even if what we really mean is new year, slightly adjusted version of the same emotionally complex person. I’m not reinventing myself. I’m not burning it all down. If anything, I’m holding onto something that followed me straight out of last year and refused to loosen its grip.

Yes. Heated Rivalry continues to occupy an unreasonable amount of mental real estate.

The fixation has not faded. If anything, returning to work confirmed two things:

After two weeks off - the kind where your brain forgets how calendars work - there was no gentler way to ease back into work than what this show unexpectedly created. I’ve bonded with new colleagues over it. Grown adults. High-performing professionals. Swapping opinions like we’re back in the school hallway, half-late to class, deciding whether we’re Ilya and Shane or Scott or Kip.

It’s oddly intimate. Disarming. Human.

And that’s when I stopped asking why am I still thinking about this show and started asking something else:

Is this it? Is this the thing - the story, the fantasy, the mirror - that’s tapping into something deeper than fandom?

If you wanted a traditional TV review, you could find one anywhere else. That’s not what this is.

What I can’t stop thinking about is why this story landed the way it did - for me, and for so many people I keep accidentally discovering are on the same emotional wavelength.

On the surface, it’s about hockey. Rivalry. Tension. Desire. Careers at odds with personal truth.

But underneath it? It’s about something far more familiar.

It’s about realizing - not all at once - that your career can quietly become your entire identity. That you can build a life that looks successful, disciplined, impressive… and still feel like parts of yourself are living in a penalty box.

It’s about asking whether the thing you’ve worked so hard for is actually preventing you from being the person you want to be. Or loving the person you want to love. Or living in alignment with the values you didn’t even realize you’d started compromising.

And maybe… just maybe… it’s about discovering that your career doesn’t have to disappear for you to become whole. That identity and ambition can coexist. That fulfillment doesn’t require giving parts of yourself up - just honesty.

Which brings me to the less fictional part of this week’s essay.

I’m scared about the world we’re living in.

Not in a headline way. Not in a doomscrolling, hot-take, cable-news way. I mean a quieter fear - the kind that settles in your chest when you’re walking your kid to school and suddenly your brain starts playing out scenarios you never invited in.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared than I am now.

And here’s the thing: it’s not about any single story, post, or breaking-news alert. It’s the feeling that something foundational is shifting. That the guardrails we assumed were permanent might actually be… optional.

Becoming a parent does that to you. It forces time travel.

I think about my childhood constantly now, and not because it was perfect, but because it felt safe in ways that feel almost foreign today.

We rode bikes until the streetlights came on. We walked to the pharmacy with friends and bought candy that wasn’t locked behind plexiglass and a buzzer. We spent entire afternoons sledding down the same hill, climbing back up, over and over, no adults hovering nearby. We knocked on doors instead of texting. We figured things out. We scraped knees and kept going.

There was freedom, but there were also rules.

And that distinction matters more to me now than it ever did then.

If you’re new here - welcome! One of the promises I make to myself in this space is not to turn this newsletter into a political soapbox. Sometimes politics brush up against the edges of real life. That’s unavoidable. But this isn’t about parties or policies.

It’s about structure.

The reason my childhood felt carefree wasn’t because there were no rules. It’s because the rules were clear.

And that’s how I’m choosing to parent.

We have rules in our house. Not joyless ones. Not authoritarian ones. Just… rules. Because rules create consistency. Consistency creates trust. And trust creates the kind of freedom where a kid feels safe enough to explore the world.

Which is why watching global systems wobble - rules questioned, norms stretched, order treated as optional - hits me in a deeply personal way.

Because I know exactly what happens when rules disappear.

Reminder: I live with a two-year-old. 

Two words: absolute chaos.

So no, I don’t have a grand solution for the world. I don’t know how this all resolves. What I do know is how I’m choosing to meet the moment in front of me.

By setting rules where I can. By creating order in my own small orbit. By modeling consistency, care, and boundaries… and hoping that enough of us decide to do the same.

Not because rules are comforting on their own. But because they make room for something else to exist: safety, curiosity, and the chance to grow into who we’re meant to be.

Coming back from the holidays and sliding back into the rhythm of work has been grounding in unexpected ways.

And maybe that’s why the hockey-player reframe stuck.

Professional hockey players don’t get to play when they feel like it. They show up. They practice. They commit. They operate within structure - the rules of the game - not because it limits them, but because it enables excellence.

And that’s where this all connects for me.

The show isn’t about hockey.
The fear isn’t about politics.
The rules aren’t about control.

It’s all about identity.

Who we are.
Who we’re allowed to be.
And who we quietly stop becoming when we confuse output with worth.

So I’m leaning into this reframe not because I want to escape my life, but because I want to participate in it more honestly.

Which brings me back to the question I keep circling:

Is this it? Is this the moment where we stop letting our jobs, our fear, or the noise of the world define us - and start choosing who we are with intention?

I don’t have a tidy answer yet.

But I’m asking the question. And for now, that feels like a solid place to stand.

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

🎯 Fraction: Dogs. But Make them Robotic. And Therapeutic.

This week’s fraction forward goes to dogs - specifically the kind that don’t need walks, vet visits, or emotionally negotiated treat schedules. I came across Tombot, a company building lifelike robotic dogs designed to comfort people dealing with dementia, trauma, or deep loneliness.

In a week where so much felt unstable, this stopped me in the best way. Technology not to optimize us, monetize us, or replace us, but to soothe us. Structure with a soft landing. Progress that looks suspiciously like compassion.

🎭 Fiction: The New Food Pyramid

The fiction of the week belongs to the newly unveiled food pyramid from Robert F. Kennedy Jr. - a glossy reminder that confidence and credibility are not the same thing. It’s being pitched as clarity, but reads more like nutritional fan fiction.

In a moment when we’re all just trying to make decent choices and trust something, this feels less like guidance and more like distraction - noise dressed up as wisdom, with a side of misplaced certainty.

If you’re ready to identify as a hockey player with me - join to the team. Forward this to three teammates who might be navigating the same mix of ambition, fear, and figuring-it-out energy. And if you’re up for it, leave a comment and tell me what’s helping you stay grounded these days.

Until next Friday,
Chris