Who’s Driving This Thing Anyway?

The Starfish Story

A man was walking along a beach after a storm, and the shore was littered with thousands of starfish, washed up and dying in the sun. He saw a child picking them up one by one and throwing them back into the ocean.

“You’ll never save them all,” the man said. “There are too many. What difference can you make?”

The child picked up another starfish, gently tossed it into the waves, and said:

“It made a difference to that one.”

Who’s Driving This Thing Anyway?

By Mike, The Adapted Adventurer

You ever notice how the same brain that says, “I’m too tired,” is the same one that lights up after a workout and says, “That felt good?” It’s like riding with two passengers—one pulling you down, and the other cheering you forward.

And that’s when it hit me:

The brain isn’t the boss. I am.

I’ve been doing some deep reflecting lately. I’m hitting the gym, reading more, thinking harder. This fire started after watching Brene Brown’s TED Talk on vulnerability. Something about her honesty sparked my own. I began to see the way I’d been living—waiting for someone else to fix it, or at least understand it.

But I wasn’t showing up for myself.

And I wasn’t being fair to the people who love me.

When you live with chronic illness, injury, or even just the weight of aging, it’s easy to slip into a mindset of “I can’t.” And when you believe that long enough, it becomes your identity. I was blaming my illness for everything—even the way I treated the people around me.

The truth?

My partner, my family, they took the brunt of my frustration.

I expected them to just understand, to read my silence, to respond with patience—even when I wasn’t showing them love in return.

Sometimes my anger was just fear.

Sometimes my silence was just shame.

But that didn’t make it easier on them.

That’s why I’m choosing a different road now.

I’m taking the wheel back—not just of my body, but of my thoughts, my habits, my emotions. The brain may want quick rewards, but I get to decide what kind. Junk food or movement. Self-pity or purpose. Lying down or living.

We all have a choice. And I’m choosing what feels good after the moment—not just during.

That means respecting my body, moving when I can, eating with intention. It means appreciating the people who stuck around, who caught my pain and never threw it back at me.

To those loved ones: I see it now. Thank you for staying.

Not everyone is ready to hear this.

Some will say moving doesn’t help. That it’s too hard. That it won’t work.

But maybe… just maybe… one person reading this will take that first small step.

And if it helps even one—

well, then it made a difference to that one.