The List

Daily Inspirations

There was a list taped to the wall in the garage. I wrote it in marker on old brown paper that once wrapped a package from somewhere far. The ink bled in spots, the paper curled at the edges. But the words stayed.

It wasn’t much. Just a list of things I said I’d do before I died. I never called it a bucket list because that sounded soft, like a fantasy scribbled on hotel stationery. This was a man’s list. Honest. Unfinished.

Some days I stared at it while tying my boots. Other days I didn’t look at all.

The kids laughed at it once, when they were young and thought I was bulletproof. “Skydiving, Dad? Seriously?” Matteo said. Vittoria made a face. Lucas just asked if I could take him with me when I swam in the ocean at night.

I told them maybe. Told them all maybe.

The truth was, I didn’t make the list to impress them. I made it because there came a time when everything felt stuck. A house full of boxes and echoes. A silence that crept in after the divorce and never left. I needed something to aim at.

The first thing on the list wasn’t skydiving or surfing or learning French. It was simpler than that.

Rewire your mind to think positive.

That’s how it started. One line. Like a command. Like a man in a hole trying to remember what the sky looks like.

I didn’t always follow it. Some days I cursed the world and the people who left. But other days, I found a way to be grateful. I’d write down three things: the way Remi curled up beside my bed at night, the smell of coffee in the morning, the silence after the kids had called and said they were okay.

That was enough.

Then came the next step: Keep a daily journal.

I didn’t write anything fancy. Just scrawled thoughts and crude sketches on loose sheets stuffed into a folder. I didn’t write for art. I wrote to hear myself think. It was like shouting into a canyon and hoping the echo sounded less broken than the voice going in.

Sometimes I’d draw the ocean. Sometimes just a line down the center of the page. Some days I only wrote a word: “try.” That was enough.

Be clear about your goals. That was another.

Not just “be happy” or “do better.” But real ones. Like calling Lucas more. Fixing the shed. Writing a letter to Vittoria she might read one day when she’s ready. Goals that cost more than money. That asked for time, or pride, or pain.

I said some of them out loud. Made them public. Posted about them. Got a few likes. Then silence.

But the next part was harder.

Make a commitment.

That meant no more waiting. No more “someday.” I told myself to take one step a day. Small ones. A cleaned drawer. A phone call. Ten pushups. Just enough to move the needle, even if no one else saw it.

Some nights I laid in bed and thought of quitting. Thought about how far away everything still felt. But I didn’t quit.

Because the list didn’t let me.

Get support, it said.

I didn’t ask for it much, but when it came, I let it in. From strangers online. From readers who said my stories meant something. From Shadow Pursuit, whose poems reminded me that facing pain head-on was the bravest thing a person could do. I told her once that her writing was a mirror and medicine. She said that mine was a compass.

Maybe we both were right.

I started noticing the little wins.

Celebrate any victories.

The day I finished organizing the basement. The night I didn’t answer a text that would’ve dragged me back into old wounds. The morning I jogged without stopping. I celebrated by sitting on the porch with a cold drink and watching the light shift across the yard.

Then the list said Be persistent.

Which sounds noble in books, but in life just means not giving up when it all feels stupid.

I found inspiration in unlikely places. In the way rain tapped the window. In how Remi never needed a reason to love. In the story Matteo once wrote in fifth grade about a fisherman who never caught anything, but still went out every morning.

I shared my progress online sometimes. Not to boast. Just to stay honest.

Then I learned to break goals into daily tasks.

Instead of “be a better father,” I’d text one kid a day. Ask how they were. Share a memory. Just a few lines. Sometimes they answered. Sometimes they didn’t.

Still, I kept dreaming.

That one day we’d all sit around a fire. That I’d watch Lucas become the man I never had the chance to be at his age. That Vittoria would read my words and see the parts of me that couldn’t come out in person. That Matteo would stop running.

I had to be proactive. Had to do things before waiting to feel ready. Motivation didn’t always show up first. Action did. Then came the rest.

But I also gave myself breaks.

When I didn’t write for a week. When I got angry at myself for eating garbage. When I missed a call. I didn’t spiral. I rested. Then I came back.

Sometimes I had to set consequences. Like not buying a new fishing rod until I finished writing ten letters to myself. Like no Netflix unless I cleaned the whole kitchen. Small stakes. Just enough to matter.

I learned to approach things in new ways.

Instead of forcing myself to write at night when I was tired, I started writing before coffee. It wasn’t good writing. But it was mine.

I tried to be kind to myself.

Didn’t call myself names when I failed. Didn’t punish myself for not being twenty-five anymore. I reminded myself that even wounded wolves still run.

And I changed the scenery.

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Change your environment, the list said.

So I did. Rearranged the living room. Cleaned the car. Drove out to the coast and sat on the beach just to hear what the world sounded like without walls.

I exercised. Not for abs. For air. For blood. For that steady hum inside your chest that reminds you you're still alive.

I slept more. Drank more water. Stopped chasing people who didn’t want to be found.

I got organized. Started writing my to-do lists in pen instead of pencil. Gave myself deadlines like I used to give my sales team. Deadlines that meant something.

I practiced optimism. Even when I didn’t feel it.

I made the work fun. Played music. lit candles. Wore socks with ridiculous patterns.

I turned the steps into habits. Didn’t think anymore. Just did.

I started recognizing roadblocks. Called them what they were: fear, laziness, grief. Named them. Then stepped around them.

I started small.

And I limited distractions. Unfollowed people. Turned off alerts. Sat with myself in the quiet.

I tracked my progress. Not with apps. With memory. With the way my son said “I love you” back after years of silence. With the way I didn’t cry, but almost did.

And last, the list said this:

Understand your reason.

Why do it at all?

Because I’m a father. That’s it. That’s the reason.

I didn’t want to die with the best of me unwritten, unspoken, or undone. I didn’t want my children to think I quit. I wanted them to know I kept going. Not perfectly. But honestly.

That list is still there, curled at the edges, ink faded in the sun.

But it’s not about the list anymore.

It’s about who I became chasing it.

A man who kept going. One quiet step at a time.

— Rinaldo

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Inspiration for This Story.

This story was inspired by a quiet moment in the garage, staring at a wrinkled piece of paper with a list written in marker—a bucket list, yes, but more than that. It was a father’s attempt to keep going after life cracked open. Each line on that list, from journaling to dreaming, became a small lifeline—a way to show up, not just for himself, but for his children. Through setbacks, silence, and growth, the list turned into a compass. This story honors the everyday fight to keep moving, to stay true, and to leave something honest behind.

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