Think Like CJ

Writing Without Lines

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About My Blog

I’m CJ. I write about discipline, endurance, grief, and becoming who you are through repetition, not perfection.

  • Running

    I dread running.

    On the days leading up, I feel intimidated. As the day nears, excuses creep in, and by the morning, I’m ready to execute them, almost not go at all.

    But when I do run, the dread melts into the never-ending distance. Negative thoughts shred beneath my feet as I trample through the town.

    Excuses turn laughable as I digest the first few miles, watching the distance slip into the background. Roads stretch further than I can see. Distance consumes.

    I start my watch, ready to embark on an hourless journey that somehow feels like minutes when it ends. The only true time with yourself—undistracted, opportunistic, yours.

    Running is an art created by your mind but driven by your feet.

    Distance running is no small feat. Pain torments your feet, triggering fight or flight as each step presses deep into the pavement, springing you toward the next mile marker.

    The world looks different from a runner’s POV. Everything moves in slow motion while the figure in your mind zips by every building, pedestrian, car.

    Reality takes a back seat when running knocks.

    Every 45 minutes, like clockwork: 20 grams of carbs. Gu’s are a classic. Slurp it down like dessert, chase it with water. Energy inserted. Miles to be taken down.

    A Runner’s High is real. A euphoric pulse when the world stops, your heart falls silent, in tune with your moving body, keeping melody like a jazz band.

    Time loops and stretches, dismantled, surgically placed into my skull.

    Running is irreplaceable, unexplainable, evocative—a fogless route to clarity.

  • I Don’t Relax

    How do you relax?

    I don’t.

    Even when the world is still,
    my mind races—
    a million nanoseconds a minute.

    No time to separate reality
    from daydream,
    anxiety from the real picture.

    I run from what’s hard,
    tough it out
    like a boxer’s last seconds
    before the bell—
    body tired, fists up.

    Dodging mental bullets from the left,
    emotional grenades from the right.

    At 5’6”, I stand tall,
    hiding the weight
    my insides refuse to regurgitate.

    I train for an Ironman,
    almost pressing Did Not Finish,
    but the tether chord yanks me back,
    drags me to air,
    to movement,
    to life.

    And still—
    my mind paints the most genuine love,
    falsifying the present,
    creating a false negative,
    yearning for forever
    with that one.

    People come,
    people go—
    seasons shift,
    pulling, plucking,
    without reason, without return.

    And still,
    I don’t relax.

  • A Letter to My Father

    Dear Dad,

    Congratulations, you’d say, as I walked through Emen’s door toward both you and Mom, co-parenting with your new partners. You’d hug me, and we’d take pictures together. You’d be proud of me—I’d graduated high school!

    I’d go on to be accepted into Indiana University’s Group Scholars Program, paving the way into the BA program that fall. What a beautiful thing to share with you.

    You’d drive to my graduation on May 6, 2017.

    “That’s my babygirl!” you’d shout when they said my name over the PA with a Bachelor of Arts in English. I could hear your voice from a mile away.

    I would move to Charlotte to begin a new life, seeking opportunity. You’d cheer me on, urging me to be my best, to chase life’s endeavors. You’d tell me to feel nothing, to let life’s worries go.

    I’d fall a few times along the way, and you’d be there—a phone call away—ready if I needed you. You loved your babygirl.

    The passing of my Papaw on Mom’s side crushed Mom and me. You’d understand the impact he had on me, never questioning the bond he had with Mom, especially after losing Mamaw Melanie. You were so genuine in your care. I’d be so thankful for such a good father.

    I’d find my way back to Muncie, IN—exploring teaching, nurturing, building for four years before moving into my own office at Ball State University Teachers College as Assistant to the Associate Dean.

    You’d have told me not to stop at my Bachelor’s, that it’s never too late. I’d go on to begin my MA soon after. I’d go even further, completing not one but two Ironman 70.3 races, and now counting down the days to my first full Ironman 140.6.

    None of this would have been possible without you—without your guidance, empathy, and the kind of unconditional, undivided love I never actually received.

    I’d be 31 when I wrote a letter to you for the world to read, fabricating encouragement that never existed, illustrating a father-daughter companionship that was never had, never even imagined. It was fraud.

    What a waste—to have never known the accomplishment of your own strand of DNA.

    With all my love,

    Your Only Daughter

  • A Letter to Silence

    I’m realizing on my ten-day journey that sometimes life really does fly and time doesn’t slow down… I missed yesterday BUT making up for it with two letters today! 😇

    Dear Silence,

    Sometimes I can’t stand you. Other times, you’re my saving grace, the forefront of my safety, the stopping ground in a war zone.

    Even the tightness of a closed room, where you reside away from the noises of the world, lifts me from life’s outward abyss.

    Sometimes your very presence takes my breath away and unleashes storms inside my body, a release of the week’s upsets.

    You have a way of expressing the void in a beautiful way. Your ability to unwind me, twist me, and intertwine me through your fingers is unearthing.

    I’ve learned to summon you in any space I occupy. When I need you, you are there. Your most gorgeous and pure form is peace. The solitude of your presence is effortlessly my favorite breath.

    Thank you for peace and tranquility,

    CJ

  • A Letter to the Nights I Don’t Remember

    Dear Blackout,

    You had me running up to cars past midnight, my mom in my right ear — sitting eight hours away — while I begged strangers to get me an Uber because I couldn’t control my own mind. I’d abandoned my car somewhere I wouldn’t find until morning, when I’d retrace my steps with another Uber driver using my phone’s location from the night before.

    “Me and you both don’t know what we’re about to pull up on,” I told my driver that morning, a sickness boiling in the pit of my stomach, adrenaline still high.

    We pulled up to find my 1996 Buick Century parked diagonal in the corner of an apartment complex lot, half on the curb, half in the lines.

    You showed up more often than I’d like to admit — the drunk drives, the long belligerent nights, the many yards I’d almost sleep in.
    The strangers who’d carry me back into safety.
    My mom, who sat in my ear, whose time froze each time I lost mine.
    The soiled sheets, the broken distances, the false revivals.

    You arrived like a dare.
    You left like a shame.

    It’s almost grotesque that you exist at all. How did I ever let you strip me of awareness? You twisted faces, bent stories, pushed words out of my mouth I would never have spoken sober.
    You manipulated me with every second you consumed.
    Who was I when I was with you?

    The first time I blacked out, I thought it was strange, almost fascinating. But fascination gave way to fear. How do you explain something you know happened but can never remember? You were a thief, taking pieces of me I’ll never get back.

    You ripped me of my dignity and invented an alter-person inside me — someone less kind, unfair, unaccountable, with esteem buried six feet deep, unable to tell right from toxic.
    Shame on you for trying to destroy my canvas.

    How could you do that to me? You were supposed to keep me occupied, happy.
    You weren’t supposed to make me miss so many hours of my life.

    And yet, I remember enough now. Enough to know I will never let you write another night for me.

    Forever and always,

    CJ

  • A Letter to My Body

    Dear Body,

    It feels strange to begin writing a letter to the very thing typing alongside me now — the artifact I stand within, the foundation of my being.

    You were sensing and moving long before my mind came into play. To say you’ve been with me since day one is an understatement — more like day one minus 31 weeks.

    I often wonder what my everyday choices are doing to you in the long run. Hard to tell — even decline moves in slow motion, almost invisible until it isn’t.

    Over the years, we’ve drawn closer. We’ve begun to meet in the middle, finding common ground. Horizons have started to paint the sky again.

    Each day I wake with the intent to nurture, to cleanse, to care for you. Yet somehow, caring for the very vessel that carries me is one of the hardest things to do — so easily forgotten in the noise of distraction.

    I only hope that one day, I can give back to you everything you’ve done for me.

    You are my temple.

    Love,


    Your Mental Skin

  • A Letter to Alcohol

    Dear Booze,

    Ridding you from my life may not have changed the entire trajectory of my being, but one thing is certain: it freed me of the shackles that held me down silently.

    The world is more magnificent without you. The workings of my brain, most days, run rampant without slowing—but placing my mental health first has become a steady routine. This is all thanks to you no longer orbiting my life.

    During our time together, I carried this angst like a second skin. Each cycling day drew me deeper into its realm, until it enveloped so much of me that the world seemed at fault for my unhappiness, my failures, my mistakes. It wasn’t until I broke things off with you that I learned to accept my actions, and regulation finally returned.

    For a decade, I envisioned a life free of you—thriving in excitement without the adrenaline you sparked, indulging in life’s beauty without your interference.

    My mom would always remind me of her greatest year, her thirtieth. What a beautiful year it was—the one in which she left my father in the shadows that had traced her every step for so long.

    On my thirtieth, I decided I would never pick you up and spin you round and round again. I reclaimed a confidence that continues to rejuvenate itself with every sober moment I live.

    It’s been 506 days since I last felt the effects of your poison, allowed you to direct my choices, or blur my most cherished senses. Life isn’t always easy, but I would rather endure every hard day than ever live another with you in my head.

    With everything in me,

    CJ

  • A Letter to My Younger Self

    I promised myself I’d post the first of ten letters last night, but it didn’t happen. So today, I’m keeping that promise by posting not one, but the first two. This is where it begins.

    Dear Carly girl,

    Honestly, I didn’t want this to be the first letter I wrote to you. I thought it would come last, once all the others had taken shape. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it belongs here at the beginning—as the framework, the foundation, the place where everything else grows from.

    I wonder sometimes about the things you used to daydream about—what worried you, what made you nervous, what made the rest of the world disappear for a while. What was it, little one, that made your chest clench or your heart race? What was it that made you feel alive?

    For a long time, I blamed our earliest years for the weight we carried into adolescence. That’s part of the truth, but not the whole. Life never paused, no matter how unready you felt. Some days dragged on forever, but time still moved, and you still had to live it.

    The world you stepped into was frightening, but it wasn’t only that. It was beautiful too—I just wish you could have seen more of it, instead of being swallowed by shadows. At thirteen, the door was cracked open for you to decide. You closed it. You walked away. From then on, love began to feel like loss.

    And with that missing half of love came the quiet pull of alcohol. You drifted through high school, already counting down the days until twenty-one, certain it would be your real arrival into adulthood. But what looked like freedom was a trap. A prize wrapped in chains, disguised as belonging. The world celebrated it. You mistook it for survival.

    When people ask what I’d change about my life, a dozen answers rise up. But really, there’s only one. I would protect your innocence. It must have been unbearable to hold your feelings so tightly with nowhere to put them. The world would have looked brighter if your mind had been cared for first—before the desperate search for love, before the escape routes, before the silence.

    If I could sit with you now, I’d tell you this: your feelings were never too much, and your voice was never too heavy. You deserved tenderness long before you found it. And you still do.

    With love,

    Me

  • 10 Days of Letters I Never Sent

    I’ve been carrying words inside me for years, words I never said out loud, words I never wrote down, words that got stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat.

    So for the next 10 days, I’m challenging myself to let them out.

    Each day, I’ll post a new letter—letters I never sent to people, places, moments, and even parts of myself. Some will be raw, some reflective, some tender, and some angry. All of them will be honest.

    Here’s a glimpse at what’s coming:

    A letter to my younger self. A letter to alcohol. A letter to my body. A letter to the mirror. A Letter to London…and more.

    This isn’t just about looking back, it’s about finding freedom in the words I’ve held inside too long.

    I’d love for you to follow along, and if you feel inspired, maybe even write your own “letter never sent.” Share it in the comments, or just keep it for yourself.

    Day 1 starts this evening: A Letter to My Younger Self.

    See you in a bit.

  • Thirty Quiet Joys

    Daily writing prompt
    List 30 things that make you happy.
    View all responses

    Happiness often sneaks in quietly, wearing the faces I love most. It looks like my Momma Greatness, steady and unwavering in her love, and the four-legged companions who’ve wrapped themselves around my heart: Oso Boy, Sassy Girl, Chester Boy, and Opal Kitty. Each one greets me like I’m the best part of their world.

    Some mornings, joy starts small. A fresh cup of black coffee. The comfort of my Teddy Bear blanket. A blank journal just waiting to be filled. A brand-new pack of yellow Ticonderoga pencils, and the soft promise of an unused eraser. There’s something about the beginning of a day. The smell of early morning, the poetic hush of rain tapping against the roof.

    I find happiness in conversations that stretch out for hours, where honesty sits at the center and nothing needs to be forced. In authenticity, the kind that can’t be manufactured. In stacks of books I may or may not finish, or ever even start. In loud music that drowns out the static. And in the month of December, when everything feels a little more magical.

    Comfort has its own kind of joy. Holding hands, the tender surprise of a perfectly cooked ribeye (rare, of course), or the nostalgic sweetness of Banana Laffy Taffy when I need a lift. At the gym, happiness hides in the effort, the sweat, the push, the quiet strength built rep by rep.

    Sometimes joy hums softly in the background: the chirp of crickets at night, or the wind kissing my skin as I fly downhill on a bike and everything else disappears. When I return, Oso Boy meets me with wide eyes and a heart that always remembers. The smell of freshly cut grass. A new water bottle. A good night’s sleep. Snow falling in complete silence—these are my quiet reminders of happiness.

    There’s nothing loud or showy about this kind of joy. But these thirty things, simple and sacred, are the pieces that weave through the fabric of my life. They’re always there. Waiting to be noticed.