I woke up early this morning with one goal: Get a Victory Royale in Fortnite Blitz.

I got it. And I screamed.

Not a small, quiet celebration. A full-body, throw-your-hands-up-in-the-air scream. The kind of scream that comes from months of practice finally paying off. The kind of scream that says, "I did it. I actually did it."

And then I sat with that feeling for a moment. And I realized: This is what Day 2 of my fast feels like.

I'm not nervous yet about the fast. I predicted I would be more anxious as the 21 days pass by. But right now, on Day 2, I'm surprisingly calm.

And I think I know why.

Years ago, I did a 40-day texting fast with my prom date's sister. It was for Ash Wednesday. We made a vow together, and I kept it.

But while we were fasting, everyone—including my prom date—went to church camp for spring break. I couldn't go because I was still in school. A different school. Which meant I was always playing catch-up with my friends. Always learning inside jokes after the fact. Always on the outside looking in.

And while I was fasting from texting, my prom date started talking to another girl.

It sucked.

I carried that for a long time. The idea that if I sacrificed, if I did the hard thing, I would lose people. That my commitment to something bigger than myself would cost me relationships.

So I stopped fasting. Stopped sacrificing. Started being the person who always reached out, always showed up, always made sure I wouldn't be left behind.

I'm older now. And I'd like to think I'm mature enough to be okay if I lose a friend or more.

But more than that, I'm doing this differently.

Back then, I fasted with friends. We were all in it together. And when they moved on, I felt abandoned.

Now, I'm fasting with God. I have a Bible study. A church. Accountability partners. Good people on my side.

The foundation is different. The support system is different. The reason is different.

And that changes everything.

This morning, when I got my Victory Royale, I realized something: I didn't need every gun in the game to win. I didn't need every tool. I didn't need to be perfect.

I needed discipline. I needed strategy. I needed to know which tools mattered and which ones were distractions.

And I needed to practice. Over and over. Failing. Learning. Trying again.

That's exactly what this fast is about.

I don't need to call everyone in my contact list. I don't need to be everything to everyone. I don't need to be perfect at maintaining relationships.

I need discipline. I need a strategy. I need to know which people matter and which ones are distractions.

And I need to practice. Over and over. Failing. Learning. Trying again.

The Victory Royale taught me that. And now I'm applying it to my life.

I just finished Chapter 1 of Stoner by John Williams. And I can't stop thinking about it.

Stoner was an only child who accomplished a lot. He worked hard to go to college. He built a life. But he wasn't recognized for it. He wasn't celebrated. He just... lived.

And I keep asking myself: If I were to die tomorrow, would I be remembered well?

Not in a famous way. Not in a "everyone knows my name" way. But in a real way. In a "I made a difference in people's lives" way.

And I think the answer is yes. Because I'm being my most strategic self. I'm sharing my testimony. I'm celebrating my wins and my losses. I'm building good routines and better habits.

I'm not trying to be famous. I'm trying to be real.

I've failed a lot. That's what's gotten me to where I am today.

I failed at maintaining friendships the way I was doing it. I failed at sacrificing my own needs for other people's comfort. I failed at being the person who always reached out.

And those failures? They led me here. To my studio. To my 21-day fast. To my Victory Royale. To reading Stoner and asking myself the real questions.

San Diego has been the place where I've learned that failure is just data. That loss is just information. That the people who are meant to be in my life will stay, and the people who aren't will leave.

And I'm okay with that now.

I'm not nervous about this fast. Not yet. But I'm also not afraid of what might happen if I do lose people.

Because I've already lost people. And I survived. And I'm better for it.

I have God. I have my church. I have accountability partners. I have good people.

And I have myself. Which, it turns out, is enough.