You’re most likely looping right now if you’re reading this. You’re on Facebook, scrolling, reading comments, posts, opinions, reeling the reels. It’s what you do at this time of day. Before this, you probably got up, brushed your teeth, dried your mouth with the towel that always sits on the same side of the sink—or maybe you turned around and used the big towel you dried your ass with yesterday. You put your toothbrush back in the cup or the perforated stand that makes it look like a little trophy. You don’t even notice it anymore, though you once thought it looked cute sitting on a Target shelf eight months ago.

You poured yourself the same coffee you’ve been buying at Publix for years into cups that sit in the same cabinet above the same toaster that toasts the same flavored bagel you’ve loved for decades. The toaster hides the everything-bagel birdseed you can never fully clean. You’re wearing one of two lounge pants you rotate between morning and night. Sure, you own more, but only the top two ever see daylight. The others hang around just in case it’s laundry day and your favorites are in the hamper. They’re not as comfy or broken-in. Hell, your favorite pair probably has a hole in the rear. You don’t care. They’re yours.

You sit in your go-to spot on the couch or chair. Maybe the TV hums in the background. Maybe you’re half-watching videos on your phone. You sip your coffee, maybe drink a glass of water to balance the caffeine, pop a vitamin, stretch a little, think about your breakfast. Most of us rotate between the same three morning meals. If you work nine to five, your mental clock’s already ticking. Emails wait. Texts you ignored yesterday wait. You think about your gas gauge—maybe you even know the day you’ll fill up. Thursday, probably.

If it’s Thursday, you can wear that outfit again because it’s been over a week since the last time. Cooler air helps hide the repeat under a light jacket. You grab a coffee on your commute, same shop, same card, same smile at the barista who already knows your order—but you still repeat it, because three months ago someone messed it up and you haven’t let it go. Maybe you treat yourself to a pastry if you’re feeling wild. You’ve been trying to lose the same ten pounds for years, doing the same workout routine that stopped working long ago.

You park in your usual spot at work. If someone beats you to it, you’re irritated. No tree shade today. You walk in, maybe light a smoke, flick the butt in the same tray—or in the grass if you’re an asshat—and greet the same people with the same three lines: “What’s up, Stew?” “How’s it hangin’, Art?” Then you sit down at your desk, prep table, counter, or driver’s seat. Doesn’t matter what it is. It’s your loop.

We all loop. If you’re reading this, it’s because you came across it during one of your many loops. Me journaling this right now is also a loop, but I started writing to change mine—to alter the old patterns that were turning into lassoes. I call it tetherment. It’s not a real word, but it’s mine. I made it up because I needed one. I was tired of being caught by my own loops.

Words are loops too—the ones we think and the ones we say. They lasso us. Sometimes they choke us. I’ll probably loop back to that thought later. Or forget to. Brevity sneaks in when I write; it’s another loop of mine.

We sit or stand at our stations—desk, counter, grill, steering wheel—and start the next loop. Our thoughts tighten into task mode. Some people like their work; benefits are benefitting, paychecks are steady, 401k looks sexy. That’s not most of us. I’m somewhere in between. I own my business. I have good months where things feel steady and others where I’m watching the thermostat with a penny crunched between my cheeks.

We drone through our tasks, eat lunch at the same time, at the same three spots within five minutes of work—because any further gives you anxiety about being late. Once, six weeks ago, you were late to a Zoom and got chewed out. Now your brain replays that moment every time you try to relax. Sticky, shitty loops.

Some eat while they work. Some take the same cigarette break, sip the same Red Bull, munch the same candy bar. All loops. And as the day winds down, your mind builds the next set: commute, dinner, sports, show, sleep. Something different—a date, a plan—feels like a threat to the system. Disruption makes your nervous system twitch. It wants bubble wrap: safe, predictable, cozy. So you stay on autopilot. For years.

Ruts. Grooves. Humdrums. You’ve carved a trail into your brain, a hiking path from the same mental foot traffic day after day. You start at the trailhead when you wake and end where you began before bed. A loop. You know the whole path—where you’ll trip, where you’ll slip, where you’ll fall—but you trust it because it’s familiar. You’ve seen detours and said, “Nah, it’s getting dark soon. I’ll try tomorrow.” But you don’t. We don’t.

If your loops feed negativity, then negativity becomes your baseline. Wake up hating your job, and your brain will serve up reasons to keep hating it. Your brain is your yes-man. “Today sucks.” “You bet it does.” “I hate my job.” “Hell yeah, you do.” “No one likes me.” “You’re right, pal.” It’s doing its job—turning your thoughts into your reality. Casting your own spells.

“I’m stupid.” “Bet.” “Life sucks.” “Got you.” “I’m tired.” “Perfect, I’ll keep that mood steady all day.” We do this. We cast these little rituals with our thoughts, stir our own cauldrons. A dash of hopelessness, a pinch of negativity, a cup of “my life is shit.” Poof—another miserable day, conjured by none other than you.

Then we wonder: “Why can’t I catch a break?” “Why am I always struggling?” “Why did Brian get the promotion?” You’ve been walking the same trail for twenty years and still expect the scenery to change. It won’t—until you grab the wheel.

Your brain is an algorithm. I call it a brainrithm. Like social media, it feeds you more of what you click. You think about Taylor Swift, you get Taylor, Travis, Nashville, and the Chiefs. You think about being broke, you’ll start noticing bills and busted tires. I’ve become obsessed with algorithms lately—digital and human. They mirror each other. When I’m hungry, I only see food signs. When my gas light comes on, I only see stations. The key is to realize when your brain has switched itself to autopilot. That’s when you can take the wheel back.

You’re just looping.

Looping keeps you safe—or confined. Like a dog tied to a stake all its life. Cut the chain, and it still walks circles in the dirt because that’s all it knows. I travel to dissolve my patterns, to keep from clamping back to that stake. Because I was that dog—for years.

About four years ago, the trail markers started showing up. Subtle signals guiding me toward new paths. I was in my reckoning—breaking addictions but still tangled in emotional and behavioral loops. Sobriety cleared the fog, but it didn’t rewrite the wiring. It just gave me the clarity to see the mess.

Drinking carved deep grooves into my brain, and when I stopped, those grooves didn’t vanish—they just waited for me to fall back in. My routines, even sober ones, were still traps. They kept me from growing. The stake is your brain. The chain is your nervous system. The dog is you. The circle you’ve worn into the ground is your reality.

You can switch jobs, change scenery, even chase goals, but if your thoughts and habits stay the same, your life won’t. You’ll just have a new backdrop for the same movie.

One of my favorite quotes came from a spiritual guide I follow: “Stop doing stupid shit in your life that makes it suck.” I laughed when I heard it, but man, it hit. Sometimes it’s really that simple. For someone who drank away thirty years, I can confirm—it’s that simple. On paper, anyway. In practice, it’s a grind. Rewiring my brain has become my full-time devotion.

It starts with how you talk to yourself. “God, I’m an idiot.” “I’ll never get out of this hole.” “I’m broke.” “I’m fat.” “I hate myself.” We all do it. Your brain listens and keeps you aligned with those statements. It’s not turning on you—it’s following orders. You have to break that chain. It’s hard. Only because you tell yourself it is. That’s another loop feeding itself. Grab a machete and carve a new path.

Start small. Watch your language. The way you describe yourself. Even sarcasm counts. Your brain doesn’t know it’s a joke. It hears it and builds around it. Remember Stuart Smalley on SNL? The daily affirmations bit was funny—but true. Self-talk works, if you believe it. Be delusional in your favor.

I change routines often to keep my mind from numbing out. For every ten things I try, maybe three stick—but that’s enough. It’s like going to the gym for your neurons. Try brushing your teeth with your other hand. It’s awkward, but it’s rewiring. I did that for a month. It felt like trying to start a cold car every morning, but it worked. I changed my mornings too. Used to roll straight from bed to coffee and phone. Now, I go straight to the mirror and talk to myself. Half asleep, hair wrecked, eyes puffy, but I talk. Positive things. It started when I quit drinking. Every morning I said, “I’m not drinking today.” I did that for a month. That one simple loop change probably saved my life. I’m on day 1,409 of zero hangovers. The shit works.

You just have to believe it. Because if you don’t, your brain will see through your bullshit.

When I shower, I switch the water from hot to cold in intervals—been awake less than a minute, but I’m talking to myself the whole time. “Today is amazing.” Not will be. Is. When I was staying sober, I didn’t say, “I don’t want to drink.” I said, “I’m not drinking.” Subtle difference, big impact. “Yo brain, I’m driving today.” Brain: “Yeah, sure, man.”

The emotional rewiring didn’t start until this year. Opening my deli brought back all my old loops. Chadcuterie was on autopilot. It made enough to pay bills, support my family, my hobbies. But every time I saw a new charcuterie business pop up or had a slow week, it got in my head. I’ve opened restaurants before; I knew the grind, but this one was different. Sobriety didn’t erase the anxiety—it exposed it.

Vodka didn’t help me cope with emotions. It just locked them in a closet. And when I took the bottle away, the door burst open. I’d lie awake for hours, anxious, hearing the same thoughts on repeat. “I’m right back where I started.” “My work owns me again.” “I’m trapped.” “I’m going to fail.” Every slow day fed those fears.

The first day I opened Graze, I made $200. Later I realized I’d left out a major bill. I locked the door and cried. I was furious with myself. I thought sobriety was supposed to fix everything. It didn’t—it just gave me a fighting chance to start fixing myself.

Now I’m not trying to stop feeling. I’m learning to stop reacting from feeling. Emotions aren’t bad—they’re part of being human. It’s how you respond that defines you. I’ve always been quick to bark. I’m better now, but I still have moments that derail me. The work is in catching it. Redirecting the energy.

Because that’s all it is—energy. The mind directs the flow. If it points at anger, that’s what expands. If it points at gratitude, that’s what multiplies. Where your attention goes, your energy grows. It takes awareness, practice, stillness. And that’s hard in a world of distraction—especially when you carry one in your hand all day.

That’s why I write before I plug in. If I stay in the writing long enough, I forget to connect. My mornings are quieter, cleaner. I started today the same way: looked in the mirror and said, “Today is amazing.” I put on Gregorian chants. Sometimes jazz. Always something different.

When I walk, I find a new path. I take a different route to work. Not every day, but often. Sometimes I stop somewhere random just to rewire my head. I’ll drink coffee with my other hand. Switch up workouts. Read The Nag Hammadi and Jack Reacher side by side. I even build my boxes backwards sometimes—literally mess up my own assembly line—so my brain doesn’t run the show.

I’m working on the wardrobe next, but my skin’s picky. Same fabrics, same comfort zones—it’s a process. Music, though, that’s been the biggest reset. I’ve listened to the same 2,000 songs for years. They’ve become noise. Sometimes I drive in silence now. At work, I put on classical or jazz. It’s all rewiring.

Neuroplasticity—the science of changing your mind. Your brain’s clay. Stop making the same ashtray from high school art class. Sculpt something new.

Writing was my first real rewiring. Putting thoughts into words, wrestling with them—it’s changed me. Something deep inside nudged me to start. When you step off the old trail long enough, you meet that voice—the one that’s been waiting for you. That’s when the trail markers show up. That’s when “I AM” starts to make sense.

Algorithms equal brainrithms. Brainrithms equal your mind’s energy control device. Walk away from your echo chambers—social, mental, habitual. Stop. Listen. Where’s your energy going right now? Fear? Anxiety? Chaos?

You’re a supreme being in a meat suit. Act accordingly. Nothing can affect you if you don’t allow it. This is your world. Make it what you want.

“Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?”