2d • General discussion
Behind the Bar
I loved being the guy
whose name got yelled across the room
the second the door swung open—
not because I was important,
but because I belonged.
Behind that bar
I wasn’t hiding from the world,
I was holding it still for a minute.
Whatever storm people walked in with
got set down next to their coat.
Bills, breakups, bad bosses—
none of it mattered
once the glass hit the wood.
I lived in the now like it was a religion.
“It’s only money,” I’d laugh,
“I’ll make more tomorrow.”
No mortgage.
No benefits packet.
No quiet panic about
whether I was doing life right.
I wasn’t worried about the future
because the present was loud and laughing
and asking for another round.
Yeah—
I probably shaved years off my life
one shift drink at a time.
But I don’t regret it.
Not for a second.
I was free.
Truly free.
Not the kind that builds something lasting,
but the kind that teaches you
who you are without the weight.
I learned how to stand my ground
with my back against a bar rail.
Learned my hands were steadier
and my spine stronger
than I ever gave myself credit for.
I watched friends lose themselves—
some slowly,
some all at once—
to substances that promised escape
and collected souls instead.
I learned that my pain
was real
but not the worst in the room.
That people carry histories
heavier than mine
and still find a way to laugh at midnight.
And in the Virgin Islands,
for the first time,
I learned what it feels like
to be the minority
to be seen differently
before I ever opened my mouth.
That lesson stayed with me.
It still does.
The service industry didn’t just pay my rent—
it rewired my perspective.
Showed me that life isn’t made special
by what you stack up
or lock away.
It’s made special
by who knows your name,
who notices when you’re gone,
who raises a glass with you
when nothing else makes sense.
I left that life eventually.
Had to.
Freedom without roots can’t last forever.
But for a while—
man,
I lived wide open.
And I carry those nights with me,
not as regrets,
but as proof
that I once lived exactly where my feet were
and felt rich without owning a damn thing.
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Behind the Bar
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Poetry on fatherhood, grief, faith, and the times we’re living in. Come read, reflect, and feel less alone.
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