Grab your chisel and start carving

You fought for new clay, now it's time to chip away at what's inside.

There’s a famous quote from Michelangelo about sculpting marble. He said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”

He wasn’t “creating” something new. The angel was already in there.
The work was simply about removing everything that didn’t belong.

I’ve been thinking about that idea a lot lately as I settle into this new phase of life — and this new space.

It’s tempting to think of a major life change, like a separation, as a time to “rebuild” yourself.
But I’m not sure that’s true.

Rebuilding implies you’re starting from scratch, like you’re a pile of rubble that needs to be stacked back together brick by brick.
But you’re not rubble.

You’re clay.

All your past experiences, choices, habits, and beliefs — that’s your clay. And it’s already here. It’s already formed.

The only question is, what are you going to carve out of it?

This isn’t about stacking bricks to build something new.
It’s about chipping away the excess.

The face is already in there.
The future version of you — the one who is clear, strong, and certain — is already in the clay.
Your only job is to remove what doesn’t belong.

The First Cut: Clearing Space

The first “cut” comes when you physically leave.

It’s easy to think the hard part is over after you sign the lease and drop your bags in the new space. But that’s just where the real work begins.

When I walked into my rental, it wasn’t quiet. It was loud.
Not from noise — from the absence of it.

Every footstep echoed. Every room reminded me of what wasn’t there.
No kids. No dog. No familiar sounds from the kitchen.

Just me.

I’ve never been one to run from silence. But this silence was different.
This silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t a "head of household" with a role to fill.
I wasn’t a husband, or a co-parent, or a man on-call for someone else’s needs.
I was just… me.

And when you’re just "you," there’s no one else to blame for how your space feels.

When it’s empty, that’s on you.
When it’s cluttered, that’s on you.
When it’s ugly or plain or just meh, that’s on you, too.

This is where a lot of men get stuck.
Because we don’t know what to do with that kind of space.

We’d rather it be “full” — even if that fullness is cluttered, messy, and noisy.
Anything to avoid being left alone with ourselves.

So, what do we do?
We fill the space.

We order furniture, scroll Zillow, swipe right, or buy a new set of golf clubs we barely have time to use.
We pile in the "new" before we’ve even considered what should be there.

This is why most men don’t carve out a new self-image when they separate.
They don’t sculpt.
They just fill.

They fill the space with what’s familiar, even if that familiarity is part of what made them miserable.

Carving What’s Inside

The alternative?
Don’t fill it.

Sit with it.

When you sit with it, you’ll see what’s hiding in the clay.

For me, that meant reconsidering everything I used to call “normal.”

The routines I followed.
The priorities I set.
The version of "success" I chased.

I realized how much of it had been shaped around the role of being “head of the household.”
But with that role gone, I could ask a different question:

Who do I want to be now?

That’s where the chisel comes in.
This isn’t demolition.
This is patience.

It’s the removal of one little chunk at a time.
With each one, the face underneath gets a little clearer.

One chunk I had to remove was old routines that no longer fit my future self.
For 20+ years, my mornings were shaped by other people’s needs — kids to feed, schedules to follow, work to do.

Now I wake up and ask, what do I want today to be?

Not in a vague, "oh, I’ll figure it out later" way.
In an intentional, “what am I carving today?” kind of way.

This is where I started carving routines that serve me.
I’m studying the Roman Empire.
I’m going on long walks.
I’m setting aside time to write, not because it’s “productive,” but because it brings me clarity.

All of these choices are like chisel marks.
They seem small.
But every little chip reveals more of the man inside the clay.

The Physical Space Mirrors the Internal Space

This process isn’t just mental. It’s physical, too.

When I moved into my rental, it was already furnished.
Not with my furniture — with their furniture.
A space designed to be "good enough for everyone" but not quite right for anyone.

At first, I thought, Well, this is just how it is. It's temporary.
But that thought didn’t sit right with me.

This was my space now.
It didn’t have to feel like a “temporary holding cell” while I waited for life to get back on track.
It didn’t have to feel like a “corporate rental” or some personality-free, staged Airbnb.

It could feel like home — if I was willing to put in the effort to shape it.

So, I started making small moves.
Hanging posters from concerts I’d attended — the ones I could never hang in the family house because “they didn’t match the decor.”

Now? They’re up.

I swapped out the harsh overhead lights with warm-toned bulbs.
Added a few lamps to create softer lighting.
Even brought in a small, cheap desk lamp for the reading chair that wasn’t being used for anything else.

I rearranged furniture.
The desk is part of the living room now.
A plastic tree replaced with guitar and amp.

Small changes.
But they matter.

Because this space — this rented, pre-furnished space — now feels like mine.

No, it’s not perfect.
No, I didn’t pick the couch or the color of the walls.
But I can control the light.
I can control the art.
I can control the way I move through the space.

And that’s the point.

Control what you can.

So often, we believe that until we “own” something, we’re just borrowing it.
Borrowing space. Borrowing time. Borrowing routines.

But even in a borrowed space, you can claim it.
Even in a pre-furnished room, you can carve out what feels right for you.

I don’t have my record player right now. It’s still at the old house.
I left my dog behind, too — at my wife’s request.
Those are sacrifices I’ve had to make.

But I’m not shaping this space around what I don’t have.
I’m shaping it around what I do have.

And I think that’s part of the deeper work here.

We tend to think, “Once I have [X], then I’ll finally feel [Y].”
Once I have the right furniture, the right setup, the right "vibe," then I’ll feel like I’m home.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Because if you’re waiting for the perfect pieces to fall into place, you’ll be waiting forever.
The art of sculpting your space (and yourself) isn’t about waiting for “just the right conditions.”

It’s about asking, What can I shape with what’s already here?

This room?
It’s a rental.

This life?
It’s not.

So I’m going to shape it, one small move at a time.

Shaping the Body

There’s one more space we all have to carve: the body.

For years, I ate what the family ate.
I snuck into the pantry for "just a few" chips.
I poured the extra drink because, “why not, it’s the weekend.”

Now?
I have full agency.

I decide what’s in the fridge.
I decide what’s on the plate.

No kids to feed. No pantry calling my name.
Just the open space of a kitchen filled with potential.

Every bite I eat is my choice.

And that realization hit me like a hammer on clay.
The simplest things, like food and exercise, are now in my hands.
No one to blame.
No one to satisfy but me.

And I have to ask, what version of myself am I sculpting?

Is he disciplined?
Is he strong?
Is he energized?

Or is he sluggish, lazy, and full of excuses?

I can’t tell you I’ve made perfect choices.
But I can tell you this: I’m far more aware of them.

I stopped drinking alcohol nightly.
I started getting my protein (1 g for every pound of body weight).
I went back on TRT, which I had quit because others assumed it was “making me different.”

Um, yeah. Kinda the fuckin point!

The Work Never Ends

Here’s what I’ve learned:
The face in the clay is never “finished.”

A sculptor might say the piece is “done” when it’s time to show it to the world.
But it’s never really done.

We chip away at ourselves, not for a big reveal, but because the carving is the point.

Every day, you wake up with a new chance to shape the clay.
To clear space.
To take away a little more of what doesn’t belong.

Some days you’ll remove big chunks — maybe you’ll cut away an old habit that’s been holding you back.
Other days, you’ll barely notice the change, but that one little chip will still count.

The question to ask yourself is this:
What are you carving?

Are you chipping away at something that’s been calling you for years?
Or are you slapping on more clay just to feel busy?

Michelangelo said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”

He didn’t make the angel.
He revealed it.

You don’t have to make a "new you."
He’s already in there.

Just keep carving.

Kevin

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