Wellness Monday: a message reaches one tired man

self-care effort – A wellness promotion lands in an already overloaded stream of emails and alerts, prompting one man to slow down, call friends, meet his therapist, and take a rare trip to the YMCA—proof, he says, that wellness doesn’t just arrive. It takes effort.

Consider the information you ignore.

The pages swiped away in a blink. The emails—hundreds a day—real and fake, urgent and irrelevant, scams tucked among the rest. The texts that come in like bulletins, alerts, pings you don’t have time to fully read. It’s enough to make you wonder how anything even gets through at all.

For most of the morning, this one didn’t. It wasn’t the poetry of the subject line—“Wellness Wednesday: Mental Health and Self-Care Week 7”—that snagged my attention. Maybe it was just timing. I’d just gotten an MRI for my torn-up left shoulder. and a little wellness seemed like it might hit the spot.

The message was short, and it came with a definition. Chicago Public Media human resources manager Stephanie Sferra Bassill wrote: “Self-care is the practice of taking care of your physical. mental. emotional. and spiritual health.” She added that “while many people view self-care as a form of selfish indulgence. prioritizing yourself is an essential component of overall well-being.”.

I read it twice. My employer was urging me to set aside the “work nonsense,” the bothersome interviews, the endless tapping on a keyboard—then actually try living a fuller, healthier, happier life.

So I did.

I started where I always tend to start: by skipping what felt easiest to skip. I went straight to mental and emotional care, dialing the number of a friend I’d been meaning to call. The voicemail picked up. I tried another friend. Voicemail again. A third. Then another. The pattern felt familiar in a way that was hard to shake—people connected on screens. but not picked up on the phone.

The fourth call landed back on voicemail.

Then I tried a fifth friend, a college buddy who finally answered. We talked for 20 minutes—laughing, trading updates, and swapping practical information. When I mentioned my bad shoulder. he told me his wife had a similar problem and that it cleared up with acupuncture. He didn’t frame it like a miracle; it was just what helped her. Still, I pictured acupuncture as something usually bundled with crystals and whale song.

I said I would consider it. At that point, though, I also would have considered a trip to Lourdes.

At 11 a.m., my shrink called.

For the past 21 years, since I got sober, I have been talking to the same therapist. I call him my “alcohol guy.” I haven’t mentioned him in the paper before. but once I started writing about wellness in a new role. he felt like the right place to land—with a caveat for readers who scoff at anything that sounds like therapy. I’m not here to argue. I’m here to keep moving.

The reason I keep going back isn’t that I believe I’m one conversation away from going into the basement and drinking all the beer in the auxiliary fridge. I don’t think that’s the fear.

But there’s always something—some family situation, some private anxiety—something I’d rather not carry alone. Offloading those “stickier woes” onto a person who’s paid to listen helps. It’s less pressure on my wife and friends. Think of it. I told myself. like exercise: something done regularly. not because you’re falling apart. but because it keeps you in fighting trim.

And it matters even more on days like that one, when my report is an enthusiastic gust of upbeat news. Hearing it described out loud—useful, grounding—lets gratitude do its work.

At lunch, I’d briefly considered grabbing leftover Romanian garlic hot dogs we’d grilled for Father’s Day. Then I remembered the message I’d just read. “Wellness uber alles!” I ate a salad studded with fresh mozzarella balls. I was so pleased with the “nutritious regimen” that I finished it with Graeter’s Strawberry ice cream.

One must live.

By then, I wanted the physical side, too, not just the mental rearranging. I went to the YMCA for the first time in weeks—stretching. hitting the heavy bag. and weightlifting. scaled back in consideration of the bum shoulder. Then I stayed for 20 minutes in the sauna, something I usually skip to save time. But wellness, I reminded myself, demands you slow down.

Back home, around 5 p.m., I walked the dog, lighting up a cigar gotten on Father’s Day. It wasn’t wellness in the traditional sense. Still, I’d argue a well-managed vice can be part of the complete wellness package.

When we got back, there was cigar left. I sat on the porch, deliberately keeping my phone in my pocket. Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” filled the air while I watched the early summer day—blue sky. green trees—and felt. for once. like the noise had stopped long enough to notice what was actually there.

Kitty, my dog, settled down beside me, seemingly content.

Wellness is contagious.

wellness self-care mental health therapy sobriety YMCA acupuncture isolation Father’s Day