Attic Retreats and Aerosol Fumes

There were mornings when I’d wake up in the attic, freezing under my clothing rack on a blow-up mattress that was doing its best to deflate overnight. My VIP suite, as I liked to call it, was the only private room in the house. Of course, “private” came with loose nails, dim lighting, and insulation so nonexistent it felt like sleeping in an icebox during winter and a sauna in the summer. No one else wanted the attic, which is probably why I got it. Lucky me.

I’d drag myself downstairs at 5:30 a.m., where 14 guys were already sitting there, trying to pretend they didn’t hate meditation. My job was to lead them, which mostly meant convincing them to stop fidgeting and close their eyes while I tried to remember how to breathe myself. After that, the chaos would start.

There were immediate crises to deal with, like someone not doing their chores, or ongoing crises that involved follow-ups, emotional triage, or trying to prevent another argument about who borrowed whose food without asking. By the time I handled all that, it was time to jump in the car and head to Pius to teach.

At Pius, I threw myself into my classes. I couldn’t let myself slack off. The last thing I needed was for a bunch of high schoolers to roast me for being unprepared. There’s nothing more humbling than a teenager pointing out that you don’t know what you’re talking about. Being self-conscious sometimes works in your favor. It makes you work harder just to avoid looking dumb.

After school, I’d head back home, where the crises would pick up right where they left off. Chores weren’t done. Someone was relapsing. There were days when it felt like the weight of everything just kept piling up, and I couldn’t keep up. And on the hardest days, when someone didn’t make it, there was no manual on how to process that.

When I could, I’d retreat to the attic. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I felt a little guilty about having my own space, but let’s be real, no one was fighting me for it. The attic became the one place where I could breathe. It didn’t fix anything, but it gave me a second to step back and let the noise settle.

That’s the thing about stepping back. It isn’t about avoiding the work. It is about making enough space to see things differently. In the attic, I could regroup, gather myself, and remind myself that I didn’t have to solve everything at once.

I see the same thing when I paint. Sometimes, I get so close to the wall that all I can see are the flaws. The lines aren’t perfect, the fades don’t blend, and I’m convinced it is all garbage. But when I step back, I start to see it as a whole. The flaws don’t disappear, but they make sense in the bigger picture.

Life is like that. The mess doesn’t go away, but stepping back gives you a new perspective. You start to see that even the rough edges have their place, and the imperfections don’t ruin the story. They are part of it.

Maybe that’s enough. Actually, I think it’s more than enough.