Let’s get one thing straight up front: I’m not here to sell you anything, manifest your destiny, or convince you that drinking celery juice will fix your life. I’ve lived too long, seen too much, and eaten too many gas station burritos to pretend I have it all figured out. What I do have is some hard-earned wisdom, a decent sense of humor, and the kind of perspective that only comes from surviving a few existential cage matches with reality.

My name’s John Harris. I’m a Boomer, a Navy vet, a cancer survivor, a wellness coach who doesn’t say “wellness” with jazz hands, and a writer who prefers blood on the page over fluff in the margins. If you’re looking for a spiritual guide who floats when they meditate, keep scrolling. I sit like a busted lawn chair and fall asleep to the sound of my own joints cracking. But if you want someone who knows the difference between “inspiration” and just showing the hell up anyway, then yeah, pull up a chair.

I grew up in Florida, back when it was still weird in a good way. Before the influencers and the invasive pythons. My childhood was spent dodging creditors, navigating family dysfunction like a one-man SWAT team, and finding escape through music, football, and the occasional late-night existential spiral. We didn’t have therapy. We had TV dinners, ashtrays in every room, and the vague hope that things might get better once you got your driver’s license.

I learned early on that adults don’t always know what they’re doing, and sometimes they don’t care who they hurt. That lesson stuck with me. My stepdad was a drunk, and not the charming kind you see in movies. More the kind who teaches you the meaning of the word “survival” by example. I made it through, but not without scars … and if I’m honest, some of those scars still itch when the weather changes.

The Navy saved me, in the way that only a brutal, regimented escape plan can. It gave me structure, purpose, and a front-row seat to the absurdity of government logic. I traveled the world, saw things most people only read about, and realized that even in foreign countries, people will still try to sell you something you don’t need. Like enlightenment. Or durian.

Eventually, I came home, tried on a few different lives: husband, dad, triathlete, corporate drone, fat guy, fit guy, guy who got injured trying to prove he was still “fit guy.” Somewhere in there, I found my voice. Not the one I used in meetings or to negotiate car loans. The real one. The one that tells the truth even when it’s not cute. The one that writes late at night when everything’s quiet except the hum of guilt and the ghosts of unresolved childhood crap.

I became a coach not because I thought I had all the answers, but because I knew what it felt like to be drowning and alone, and I figured if I could throw someone a rope, hell, even just point toward the shore, it was worth doing. I don’t do the perky influencer thing. You won’t find me filming shirtless sunrise yoga or telling you to “just believe in yourself” while I sell you protein powder. I coach like I live: real, honest, and full of well-timed sarcasm.

Writing came next. Or maybe it came first … I’ve been doing it in some form my whole life. But now I write like I mean it. Fiction that makes you sweat, essays that punch you in the gut before they offer a hug, and horror stories that feel a little too real because they’re rooted in the parts of us we try to ignore. I write about wellness, too, but not the kind you get from a Goop starter pack. The kind that comes from crawling out of your own dark places and learning to walk in daylight without flinching.

I write about aging without pretending it’s sexy. I write about trauma without romanticizing it. I write about America because I’ve seen it up close, and let me tell you, it’s a beautiful mess that we’re all still trying to figure out. I write about bullshit, wellness bullshit, political bullshit, social media bullshit, because someone has to call it out, and I don’t mind being the guy who says, “This emperor ain’t just naked, he’s also a jerk.”

At this point in my life, I’ve stopped chasing the things I thought would save me: money, fame, shredded abs, the approval of people who never really saw me anyway. What I chase now is truth. Connection. A good story. A strong cup of coffee. A walk with my wife that doesn’t turn into a rant about the state of the world (but probably still will).

I’ve got a dog named Max who reminds me daily what unconditional love looks like and how fast a Labradoodle can destroy a couch. I’ve got a wife named Kim who knows all my stories and still laughs at the good ones. And I’ve got a life that, while messy, finally feels like mine.

If you’re reading this looking for a neat bow at the end, sorry. Life isn’t a TED Talk. There’s no PowerPoint that explains why some of us survive and others break, why some people are born into love and others have to dig for it like buried treasure. But here’s what I do know: you’re never too old to change your story, and the truth is always more interesting than the highlight reel.

So yeah, that’s me. John Harris. Proud Boomer. Coach. Writer. Sarcastic bastard with a heart. If you stick around, I’ll tell you some stories. Some will make you laugh. Some might make you cry. And some will just help you remember that being alive, for all its pain and confusion and late-night gas station snacks, is still a damn good thing.

Welcome to my world.