Another year is about to come to an end. This month doesn’t just mark the end of 2025, but also the end of my 36th year of being alive. In five days, I’ll be 37 years young. Ha — I’m already starting to sound like a middle-aged guy with my cliché play on words.
At heart, I’ll always be a big kid, but this man-child can’t stay in the Peter Pan phase forever. I’ve been stuck there for what feels like my whole life. Still, I have to give myself some credit. When I look at the big picture, I’ve made enormous progress — especially considering that when you waste so many years, any progress feels huge. But I have to remind myself: dwelling on the past is just another way of wasting time. It’s okay to reflect. Just don’t regret. And this past year has brought a lot of change.
For years I chased artificial happiness. I don’t regret all of it — I had plenty of fun, and those wild experiences turned into stories that helped shape who I am today. But I stayed in that Peter Pan phase too long. I had no ambition to grow up — not past 21, anyway. I floated year after year, barely keeping my head above water. By luck, and by the grace of God, I didn’t drown completely. I was just drifting, unmoored, and lost.
I lived like that for a long time. Then once again, God did me a solid. I don’t know why, because at that point I wasn’t spiritual at all. I was 24, and the party had been over for years, but somehow I missed the memo. I was living in a tent on the side of a hill next to my friend’s beautiful split-level home. And then, very randomly, I crossed paths with a beautiful 21-year-old girl who would end up changing the entire course of my life.
Neither of us knew it at first. We were both still living a carefree lifestyle. But that lifestyle ended quickly. Less than six months later we found out we were bringing a new human being into the world — and everything changed instantly. It was like flipping two lights on in a dark room at the same time. Suddenly the bigger picture was clear. My wants and desires didn’t seem that important anymore. Now it was about giving our baby girl the life we always dreamed of… and it wasn’t going to come easy.
Earlier I mentioned I was living in a tent, but I didn’t explain why. I wasn’t in the tent every night — I did a lot of couch surfing too. Honestly, I was a bum with good friends. Before that year, I had always managed to find some sort of job. McDonald’s for a few months. Dollar Tree for a few months. The longest job I ever kept was working as a barista in a coffee shop for over three years. That was probably my favorite job — friendly atmosphere, good people… and beer on tap. That was my downfall. We got free drip coffee anytime, but I started filling my cup with beer. It worked until it didn’t. One day the owner checked my cup, and the rest is history. After that, my drinking got worse, and with it came harder substances.
Then came the moment everything changed: finding out I was going to be a dad. I knew I couldn’t keep living selfishly. I had to get clean and find work. Getting off the meth wasn’t easy. After spending every day on it for so long, staying awake felt impossible. For two weeks I slept almost nonstop, only getting up to eat. At least by then Jessica and I were staying in a big 12-bedroom house owned by her friends. They were kind people and let us stay in a basement room — cold in the winter, but better than a tent.
One of our roommates, Andreas, worked a lot. When I could finally stay awake without feeling like I’d collapse, I asked him if he could help me get a job.
“Really, Stackman? You sure you want to do what I do, six days a week?” he asked.
“I’ll do anything,” I said. “Jessica’s pregnant. I have to step up.”
He thought about it, called his boss, spoke in Spanish, hung up, and said, “Alright. You start tomorrow. Meet me outside at 3:00 AM.”
My first field job was in a vineyard in the middle of nowhere in southern California. The nearest town was some tiny place called Salinas. We’d stop at a little store on payday to cash checks and buy a Modelo for the drive home. After ten hours working in the heat, that beer tasted like fine wine.
It was early July, and in the fields it felt twenty degrees hotter than the actual temperature. My job was to pick the bottom leaves so the grapes were exposed. I never fully understood why because of the language barrier — something about the pesticides hitting the grapes correctly. My foreman, the mayordomo, didn’t speak English, so Andreas had to translate for me constantly.
For such a simple job, I sure made a lot of mistakes. Nothing was more frustrating than being told to walk back twenty feet to pick leaves I missed, especially when I was moving as fast as I could to keep up. I wanted to prove I could handle it.
The first day was the longest ten hours of my life. My back was on fire three hours in. I even thought about the slaves from 150 years ago doing similar work, except they were beaten if they weren’t fast enough. That thought made me feel grateful — I could quit anytime. They couldn’t. Your mind goes to strange places when you’re in a seemingly endless row of grapes with only your headphones and your thoughts.
Some workers quit halfway through the day. Since they all carpooled in a big van, they had to wait on a bench until everyone else finished. I thought about quitting too, but then I pictured my baby girl on the way, and how we needed the money to get our own place — somewhere better than a basement in a party house. So I kept working.
The sulfur burned my eyes so badly they’d tear up the whole drive home. The safety glasses didn’t help much, and they made my clothes stink for weeks. The worst mistake I made was washing my work clothes with my regular clothes. Everything smelled like sulfur for a month. Jessica hated it. I learned quickly: wash work clothes separately.
I worked six days a week, ten hours a day, until the vineyard job ended after two months. That scared me — I didn’t know the job would just end. But my boss liked my work and took me to the next job: picking weeds in a carrot field. They called the job pizca. It didn’t sound bad, but once I started, I missed the grapes. At least the vines gave shade.
Picking weeds bent over for miles was brutal. And the worst part? No overtime. There’s a loophole in migrant work: you don’t get overtime unless you go over 60 hours. So we worked exactly 60 hours every week. Never more, unless it rained or hit 110 degrees — which happened often.
I wasn’t rich, but I finally saved enough to get us into a little two-bedroom carriage house. A huge step up. I continued working different farms for about five years — apples, peaches, tangerines. Tangerines were the hardest because we got paid by the crate — $50 split between two people. It took hours to fill one. Some of the experienced workers filled eight to ten crates. They were insanely fast.
People asked why I kept doing it so long. Simple: I needed steady hours. I was surviving, not thinking ahead. I was happier than before. I was clean. But I was still drinking too much. One 3-pack of 24 oz Budweiser’s turned into a daily 12-pack. Being drunk every day never works in a relationship. I was self-medicating. Escaping. And deep down, I knew it.
While I was working the fields, Jessica got a job helping low-income people get free cell phones. She loved it — flexible schedule, no boss hovering. She tried getting me into it for a while before I finally gave it a shot. I only tried because my next field job wouldn’t start for four weeks, and I couldn’t afford to wait.
We set up a canopy, a table, and some chairs. Once people started coming, they kept coming. I actually loved the job. Helping people felt good. No back pain, no sulfur, no endless rows. I eventually quit field work completely.
Now we have a baby boy too. I’m able to be in my kids’ lives much more, and that feels amazing. I’ve been reading again, enjoying hobbies I never had time for. This past year, I started writing again — something I loved since I was young. I stopped in my early twenties, probably because I was too busy partying and working. But while reading The Halfling’s Gem one day, something clicked. I thought, I’ve got some great ideas — why not write them down? So I did. Two months ago, I even started blogging. This is blog number three.
Today I’m still doing the phone thing. I don’t drink like I used to. Maybe a few beers on occasion, but never more than six. This year I’ve dedicated more time to writing and growing. Maybe I’ll even finish a book. I know I’m too old for procrastinating — but you’re never too old to dream.
This isn’t my whole life story. Just a reflection on the things that brought me here. I feel confident the coming year will bring even more joy — as long as I put in the work. No more saying “I’ll do it later” or “It can wait one more week.” Time doesn’t wait for anyone. The best thing you can do is use it wisely — before you waste it doing something you hate.
dougwrites.com 
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