From Rain-Soaked Texas Evenings to Moonlit Memories
An adventurous journalist on trading the hustle for a desk—and the wild truths that still rattle in his head
It’s a rainy evening here in Texas. We’ve had hit-or-miss showers every day since last week, mainly in the afternoons and into the evenings. I’m parked at my window, looking out at the world and watching it fall. There’s nothing overly spectacular about it—it’s just rain.
Sometimes it feels like we don’t have enough to go around; other times it all comes down in one furious burst. I’ve watched cycles like this my entire life. Last year we hardly got any rain, but right now I’m sipping an early-evening cup of coffee after dinner, watching this little shower blow through. I bet it’ll be gone in ten or fifteen minutes.
Life’s just like that. We beg for rain, then—forgetting the drought—we gripe that we got too much. As humans, we are rarely satisfied. Not just satisfied, but truly satisfied. We find a reason to complain about every blessing that arrives with its own set of thorns. We pray for rain and curse the flood. I’m no different.
I’ve lived a fortunate life. I’ve visited more places than most folks even dream of, and for a long stretch I got paid to tell the story of it. That was before YouTube was a thing, before Substack or Medium. Hell, it was before a lot of things. Sure, those tools existed, but they hadn’t swallowed the world yet. Back then I had to hustle, and—here’s the strange part—the hustle paid off. Not so much anymore. More opportunity, more hustle, far less money. That’s the reality.
So I found myself a real job, maybe the first one I’ve ever had. It’s a good gig with a steady salary and clear growth. I can’t complain—but I will. I’m only human.
There’s nothing spectacular about it. For the most part it chains me to my little corner of the home office, staring at screens and thinking. I observe people when I can, write up those observations, and feed them into the global sausage grinder. It keeps my mind limber, sure, but it’s still a long way from who I am. It’s the kind of thing you do to pay the bills and feel mildly reassured when the check lands each month. Beyond that? What can I say?
But my mind drifts back to a time when I could stretch my legs. I got to live in the big, messy world—and then report back. I held a front-row seat to modern history as a journalist, adventurer, wanderer. I’ve watched sunrises over Yosemite and sunsets in Sedona. Some days were brutal, weeks blurred, years vanished. Every adventure runs hot and cold. There were stretches when I hated the life and wished for exactly what I have now. Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad I have it—really glad.
Still, the adventure was something to clutch tight. It hauled me into the hearts of gleaming cities and the dust of remote villages, into turmoil and crisis, cardboard shanties and banquet halls. It gave me an education no classroom in Floresville, Texas, could match. I slept in airports, rest areas, and open fields. I splurged on room-service in five-star hotels. And, naturally, I complained about all of it.
The fun, the trauma, the power brokers and beautiful women, the champagne and the cheap beer, caviar and empty stomachs—life was contrast on a bender. Weird and wonderful until one day something essential felt… missing.
Ronnie Van Zant once sang, “This life that I live has took me everywhere, but there just ain’t no place like home.” That hit me square. I always dreamed of a job, a wife, a normal life in small-town suburbia. That wish came true, and I don’t regret it for a second. I’m grateful every day. But part of me still aches for the life I left hitchhiking in my rearview.
Things come and go. Some of us cram multiple lives into a single skin—so wild that regular folks doubt any of it was possible. Yet here we are, scars and all, lugging the dreams of sunsets we may never see again.
I once sat down with one of my heroes, Alan Bean—the fourth man to walk on the moon, a fellow Texan who swapped NASA for a quiet studio in Houston. I asked why he spent his retirement painting lunar landscapes. He laughed: “I’m the only painter who knows if it’s right or not!” Then he grew solemn.
“Matt,” he said, “I paint because I’ve walked on the surface of the moon. After that, not much else can top it.”
Tonight, hunched over a keyboard while rain tattoos the roof, I finally get it. The roar of the road is gone, but the lessons remain. It’s my turn to pass them on—to spark some half-crazed kid to be bold, be curious, and dive headlong into the fire.
On Being Unapologetic
So let the thunder rattle the gutters and the coffee turn cold. I’ll keep punching these keys until the pixels bleed, because that’s the only honest work left for a washed-up road dog with ink in his veins. The desk may have lassoed my body, but my mind still barreling down a dusty highway at 90—headlights off, radio howling, chasing the next impossible sunrise.
And if the paycheck prints late or the algorithm buries the story, to hell with it. I’ve drunk champagne with kings and swilled warm beer with lunatics; I’ve tasted the moon through another man’s words. The world can keep its safe little cubicle. I’ll ride the storm in here, scribbling like a mad priest, waiting for the lightning to crack the sky wide enough for one last break.
Because a true wanderer never clocks out—he just reloads the typewriter and aims at tomorrow.