How to escape a funk

Have you ever been so tired you want to quit?

Photo by Sarah Ardin on Unsplash

I had a wonderful weekend.

It started in earnest Friday morning on my stoop, soaking up abundant sunshine while putting a dent into “Rich Dad Poor Dad.” I made Parker blueberry and banana French Toast. We took our routine walk around the neighborhood. I did laundry and watched Game 4 of the NBA Finals.

On Saturday, we attended a special screening of The Little Mermaid courtesy of Black Girls Code. The movie and popcorn we enjoyed would have cost more than $30 but was free of charge. When it was over, we walked to Shake Shack, a company whose stock I own, and split the incomparable SmokeShack burger, as well as a cookies and cream milkshake — my favorite. Then I took Parker for a stroll along the Riverwalk, her first time experiencing it.

In the evening, I received an unexpected package. It contained stickers adorned with our Money Talks logo. They’re smaller than I anticipated, but they weren’t expected to arrive until next week. I also enjoyed a great telephone conversation with my mother just before sunset from my stoop.

To cap the weekend, I took Parker to Youth Sunday at church, where the congregation proudly wore HBCU apparel and celebrated the 2023 confirmation class as they publicly committed to follow Christ. I wore a Norfolk State University alumni shirt. Parker threw on a Norfolk State hoodie I got her last fall.

The sermon was delivered by a recent high school graduate on his way to Howard University, where he wants to study to become a sports journalist. After the service, I gave him my email address and let him know I would assist his pursuits however I can.

Before turning my attention to this column, we went grocery shopping and enjoyed delicious, homemade chicken tacos with Spanish rice and black beans for dinner.

But as I cooked Sunday night, I found myself in a funk.

“What’s a funk?” Parker asked.

In searching for the appropriate explanation, I was forced to examine what I was feeling and why. A 59-degree day with showers in the second week of June certainly contributed to my sullen state. But that wasn’t it. There was something more.

Eventually, I figured it out. When I did, I immediately shared it with Parker before pivoting from what I had planned to write in this space. The “why” was a lesson Parker needed to know.

I’m tired.

This journey we’re on has been rewarding in so many ways, many of which I’ve shared. But the process isn’t always pleasant, and long-term success never is linear.

I’ve drastically altered my lifestyle over the past nine months for a purpose, to get to a higher place and to set Parker on a better path. Structure and discipline have replaced spontaneity and drifting. The endgame is worth it, but the process is at times exasperating and sometimes it feels like there’s no end in sight.

Two pizza delivery drivers hurried hot pies to my neighbors as I sat on my stoop over the weekend. Both made me long for a piping-hot pepperoni. A Chinese food restaurant delivered to another neighbor, and suddenly I craved orange chicken. More than anything, I missed the convenience of not having to cook and wash dishes.

While on the Riverwalk, we passed hundreds of patrons living it up on boats and kayaks, at bars and restaurants. Everyone, it seemed, was spending money freely and having plenty of fun. When we got home, I pulled out leftover spaghetti.

I know I’m better off without my old habits. But the allure of backsliding is always there. Skipping a workout and gorging on pizza would bring temporary pleasure. Ditching water for a weekend and downing some old fashioneds would be a lot more fun. Turning to weed instead of walks would be so much easier.

But nobody said this was easy.

The hardest part for me has been appreciating slow-and-steady progress. Sure, my abs are more defined. But I’m still waiting for the next paycheck. Toss in annoying setbacks — another $320 car repair bill last week and a random $14.58 arrearage the IRS demanded as if that would solve the debt-ceiling crisis — and the hits feel never-ending.

Plus, there is a lot more I must do, much of which I have no experience doing.

I also feel alone. Only a handful of people are backing me, yet none can do the work for me. That’s on me, and I know I’ll be better for it.

When days like Sunday arrive, however, the goal gets blurred. Just don’t give up.

Never give up.