I was maybe three weeks sober, standing in my room at my sober living, staring at my unmade bed like it was a crime scene. The sheets are twisted into a sort of modern art installation. One pillow’s on the floor. The comforter’s half off, revealing a mattress that’s seen better days (and worse ones, judging by the stains I’m trying not to think about).
Everyone else in the house seems to have their shit together. They’re going to job interviews, calling their sponsors, doing step work. Meanwhile, I’m having a staring contest with bedding.
Here’s the thing: I genuinely couldn’t remember the last time I made a bed. Not in a “oh, I’m so quirky and messy” way. In a “I’ve been high for so long that basic human maintenance feels like calculus” kind of way.
But my sponsor had suggested that I start small, and something about this particular morning; maybe it was the way the sunlight hit the mess, maybe it was the embarrassment of my messy ass bed adjacent to my roommate’s crisp, military-style, made-it-an-hour-ago bed, or maybe it was just needing to feel like I could do one goddamn thing right… whatever it was, I decided to make it.
It took me fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to do something that now takes me thirty seconds. I kept forgetting which way the fitted sheet went. The flat sheet ended up backwards. The pillows looked like I’d arranged them while drunk (which, to be fair, would have been an improvement over my usual state).
But when I stepped back and looked at that bed, it was like my brain exhaled.
The next morning, I did it again. And then again. And again.
Today, as I’m writing this, it’s been 2,285 days in a row. Hotels, camping, crashing on couches, doesn’t matter. I make the bed. It’s not about the bed anymore. It never really was.
They expected to find that the biggest motivator was money, or recognition, or free pizza Fridays. But no. It was progress. Just… progress. Moving forward on something that mattered, even a tiny bit. Even checking one stupid box on a to-do list lit people up like Christmas trees.
Here’s the part that made me sit up and pay attention: the size of the progress didn’t matter. Whether someone solved world hunger or finally figured out how to unjam the printer, their brains responded the same way. Win = dopamine. Dopamine = “let’s do that again.”
Which explains why making that bed felt so disproportionately good. My brain, starved for any evidence that I wasn’t a complete disaster, grabbed onto that made bed like it was a life raft. “Look!” it said. “We can do things! We’re not totally fucked!”
Let me paint you a picture from my greatest hits collection:
Cue: Feel anxious.
Behavior: Take a Xanax. Or three
Reward: Sweet, numbing nothing.
Do that loop enough times and your brain stops asking permission. Anxiety shows up and your hand’s reaching for the bottle before you’ve even identified what you’re feeling. It’s efficient, really. Terrifyingly efficient.
But here’s the plot twist some researchers at Northwestern uncovered in 2022: dopamine isn’t just about the reward anymore once a habit sticks. It shifts to the routine itself. Your brain starts getting high just on the act of doing the thing, not just the outcome. (https://www.cell.com/cell-reports/fulltext/S2211-1247(22)00863-9)
This is why I now get a little sense of accomplishment just from pulling the comforter up, before I’ve even stepped back to admire my work. It’s why people who’ve been running for years feel weird if they don’t run. Your brain rewards the showing up, not just the finish line.
In recovery, we use this all the time without realizing it. “Just go to the meeting,” they say. “You don’t have to share. You don’t have to like it. Just put your ass in the seat.” Why? Because eventually your brain starts craving the routine of showing up. The coffee, the same crusty chairs, the guy who always shares too long, it all becomes a dopamine delivery system.
Forty-eight hours later, I’d accomplished exactly three things:
When you aim too big without building momentum first, your brain doesn’t see progress. It sees the gap between where you are and where you want to be, and that gap might as well be the Grand Canyon. No dopamine for you. Just cortisol, the stress hormone that makes you want to quit before you’ve started.
Meanwhile, the guy making his bed every day is getting daily wins, building evidence that effort matters, and slowly rewiring his brain to expect success instead of failure. Guess which one of us is happier?
Here’s why: You’re not actually building the habit yet. You’re training your brain to believe you’re someone who follows through. You’re essentially catfishing your own neural pathways into thinking you’re reliable.
BJ Fogg, the Stanford professor who’s basically the Mr. Rogers of behavior change, calls it “anchoring.” You attach your tiny new habit to something you already do. After I brush my teeth, I do five pushups. After I pour coffee, I write one thing I’m grateful for in my journal. After I check Instagram, I text one person back.
My personal favorite from early recovery: After I wanted to use, I’d count to ten. That’s it. Just count to ten. Half the time I still wanted to use after. But I’d proven I could put something between the craving and the action. That ten seconds saved who knows how many relapses.
But there’s an important caveat to this brain-bulking story: When they retired, their brains started shrinking back to their previous size. Use it or lose it, apparently, applies to brain matter too.
Which is why I still make my bed after 2,285 days. Because every morning, I’m voting for the version of me who keeps promises to himself. Even the stupid small ones. Especially the stupid small ones.
So here’s what worked for me:
Pick one thing. One tiny thing. Something so small that NOT doing it would be about as much work as doing it. For me, it was the bed. For you, it might be:
Then do it the next day. Then the next. Track it.
Your brain will think this is stupid. That’s fine. Brains think lots of things are stupid until they get their dopamine hit. Then suddenly they’re all in, like that friend who hated sushi until they tried it and now won’t shut up about omakase.
But that one small act started something. It whispered to the parts of me that had given up: “Hey. We’re still here. We can still do things.”
Six years later, I run successful businesses. I’m happily married. I speak at conferences where people actually listen. I play pickleball at a level that would generously be called “intermediate.” None of that happened because I made my bed.
But it all started with learning to trust myself. And that happened, in part, because I made my bed.
You don’t need motivation. You don’t need a grand plan. You don’t need to feel ready.
You need one tiny win that proves to your brain you’re worth betting on.
The rest is just momentum.
Everyone else in the house seems to have their shit together. They’re going to job interviews, calling their sponsors, doing step work. Meanwhile, I’m having a staring contest with bedding.
Here’s the thing: I genuinely couldn’t remember the last time I made a bed. Not in a “oh, I’m so quirky and messy” way. In a “I’ve been high for so long that basic human maintenance feels like calculus” kind of way.
But my sponsor had suggested that I start small, and something about this particular morning; maybe it was the way the sunlight hit the mess, maybe it was the embarrassment of my messy ass bed adjacent to my roommate’s crisp, military-style, made-it-an-hour-ago bed, or maybe it was just needing to feel like I could do one goddamn thing right… whatever it was, I decided to make it.
It took me fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to do something that now takes me thirty seconds. I kept forgetting which way the fitted sheet went. The flat sheet ended up backwards. The pillows looked like I’d arranged them while drunk (which, to be fair, would have been an improvement over my usual state).
But when I stepped back and looked at that bed, it was like my brain exhaled.
The next morning, I did it again. And then again. And again.
Today, as I’m writing this, it’s been 2,285 days in a row. Hotels, camping, crashing on couches, doesn’t matter. I make the bed. It’s not about the bed anymore. It never really was.
The Part Where Science Explains Why I’m Not Crazy
A couple of researchers, Teresa Amabile and Steven Kramer, spent years essentially being professional diary readers. I’m not kidding. They collected over 12,000 daily journal entries from people at work. (https://hbr.org/2011/05/the-power-of-small-wins) What they wanted to know was simple: what makes people give a shit? Like, actually care about what they’re doing?They expected to find that the biggest motivator was money, or recognition, or free pizza Fridays. But no. It was progress. Just… progress. Moving forward on something that mattered, even a tiny bit. Even checking one stupid box on a to-do list lit people up like Christmas trees.
Here’s the part that made me sit up and pay attention: the size of the progress didn’t matter. Whether someone solved world hunger or finally figured out how to unjam the printer, their brains responded the same way. Win = dopamine. Dopamine = “let’s do that again.”
Which explains why making that bed felt so disproportionately good. My brain, starved for any evidence that I wasn’t a complete disaster, grabbed onto that made bed like it was a life raft. “Look!” it said. “We can do things! We’re not totally fucked!”
Your Brain on Habits
Every habit you have, good, bad, or “I’m not ready to talk about that one,” follows the same loop. Cue, behavior, reward. It’s like your brain’s favorite recipe, and it’ll cook it over and over until you’re sick of the meal but can’t stop ordering it.Let me paint you a picture from my greatest hits collection:
Cue: Feel anxious.
Behavior: Take a Xanax. Or three
Reward: Sweet, numbing nothing.
Do that loop enough times and your brain stops asking permission. Anxiety shows up and your hand’s reaching for the bottle before you’ve even identified what you’re feeling. It’s efficient, really. Terrifyingly efficient.
But here’s the plot twist some researchers at Northwestern uncovered in 2022: dopamine isn’t just about the reward anymore once a habit sticks. It shifts to the routine itself. Your brain starts getting high just on the act of doing the thing, not just the outcome. (https://www.cell.com/cell-reports/fulltext/S2211-1247(22)00863-9)
This is why I now get a little sense of accomplishment just from pulling the comforter up, before I’ve even stepped back to admire my work. It’s why people who’ve been running for years feel weird if they don’t run. Your brain rewards the showing up, not just the finish line.
In recovery, we use this all the time without realizing it. “Just go to the meeting,” they say. “You don’t have to share. You don’t have to like it. Just put your ass in the seat.” Why? Because eventually your brain starts craving the routine of showing up. The coffee, the same crusty chairs, the guy who always shares too long, it all becomes a dopamine delivery system.
Why “Go Big or Go Home” Is Terrible Advice
About six months into running Faebl, I decided I was going to revolutionize the entire addiction treatment industry. In one weekend. I’m not exaggerating. I called it “The Summit,” rented a conference room, bought those giant Post-it notes that consultants use, and prepared to blow everyone’s minds with my vision.Forty-eight hours later, I’d accomplished exactly three things:
- Confused everyone on my team
- Spent $400 on markers and sticky notes
- Developed a resentment against whiteboards that persists to this day
When you aim too big without building momentum first, your brain doesn’t see progress. It sees the gap between where you are and where you want to be, and that gap might as well be the Grand Canyon. No dopamine for you. Just cortisol, the stress hormone that makes you want to quit before you’ve started.
Meanwhile, the guy making his bed every day is getting daily wins, building evidence that effort matters, and slowly rewiring his brain to expect success instead of failure. Guess which one of us is happier?
The Stupidly Simple Art of Habit Design
Start small. No, smaller than that. I’m talking two-minutes-small. I’m talking so-small-you’re-embarrassed-to-tell-people small. Like, shorter than the time it takes to watch a video on TikTok about starting small.Here’s why: You’re not actually building the habit yet. You’re training your brain to believe you’re someone who follows through. You’re essentially catfishing your own neural pathways into thinking you’re reliable.
BJ Fogg, the Stanford professor who’s basically the Mr. Rogers of behavior change, calls it “anchoring.” You attach your tiny new habit to something you already do. After I brush my teeth, I do five pushups. After I pour coffee, I write one thing I’m grateful for in my journal. After I check Instagram, I text one person back.
My personal favorite from early recovery: After I wanted to use, I’d count to ten. That’s it. Just count to ten. Half the time I still wanted to use after. But I’d proven I could put something between the craving and the action. That ten seconds saved who knows how many relapses.
What Your Brain Looks Like on Consistency
I’ve mentioned in a few articles the study of London taxi drivers that I’m obsessed with, and here it is again. (As a refresher, these are the ones whose brains literally grew bigger from memorizing streets.) Here’s the part that still makes me go “what the actual fuck”: the changes were visible on brain scans. You could see their hippocampi getting swole like little neural bodybuilders.But there’s an important caveat to this brain-bulking story: When they retired, their brains started shrinking back to their previous size. Use it or lose it, apparently, applies to brain matter too.
Which is why I still make my bed after 2,285 days. Because every morning, I’m voting for the version of me who keeps promises to himself. Even the stupid small ones. Especially the stupid small ones.
The Part Where I Tell You What to Actually Do
Look, I could give you the whole “start with why” speech or tell you to visualize your best self or whatever. But you and I both know that when you’re stuck, philosophy feels about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.So here’s what worked for me:
Pick one thing. One tiny thing. Something so small that NOT doing it would be about as much work as doing it. For me, it was the bed. For you, it might be:
- Drinking one glass of water when you wake up
- Writing one sentence in a journal
- Doing one jumping jack (yes, one)
- Flossing one tooth (I’m serious)
- Taking one deep breath before checking your phone
Then do it the next day. Then the next. Track it.
Your brain will think this is stupid. That’s fine. Brains think lots of things are stupid until they get their dopamine hit. Then suddenly they’re all in, like that friend who hated sushi until they tried it and now won’t shut up about omakase.
Here’s What I Know Now That I Wish I’d Known Then
When I made my bed that first morning in sober living, I wasn’t trying to hack my brain chemistry. I wasn’t building a success system. I wasn’t doing anything except trying to make a shitty mattress look less shitty.But that one small act started something. It whispered to the parts of me that had given up: “Hey. We’re still here. We can still do things.”
Six years later, I run successful businesses. I’m happily married. I speak at conferences where people actually listen. I play pickleball at a level that would generously be called “intermediate.” None of that happened because I made my bed.
But it all started with learning to trust myself. And that happened, in part, because I made my bed.
You don’t need motivation. You don’t need a grand plan. You don’t need to feel ready.
You need one tiny win that proves to your brain you’re worth betting on.
The rest is just momentum.
