Carp-e Diem
I used to be a walking self-help cliché. You name it, I tried it.
I’ve walked barefoot across hot stones while chanting my childhood nickname.
I’ve sat in pitch-black sweat lodges. I once did a blind trust walk with a stranger named Chad, who led me into a thorn bush.
And still, my life was a mess. My career floundering, my relationships strained, my sense of self hanging on by a fishing line.
Until a friend swore by a course with the most ridiculous name I’d ever heard: Angling Your Way to Being a Big Fish.
I thought it was a joke. It wasn’t. It was the strangest, wisest thing I’ve ever done.
The workshop was run by a former fisherman named Rocky Germain. He wore hip waders and spoke simple truths.
Here’s what I learned.
Lesson One: Fish Don’t Get in Trouble If They Keep Their Mouth Shut.
Dixon looked me dead in the eye and said,
“The only time a fish gets yanked from the water and gutted is when it opens its damn mouth. Now, I’m not saying you should stay silent in a board meeting or let your partner win every argument. But I am saying: You don’t need to explain yourself constantly. You don’t need to spill your heart on first dates or tell your boss what you really think.
I started asking myself: Am I about to say something wise, or am I just wiggling on a hook?
Silence became my new sonar. It didn’t make me invisible. It made me strategic.
Lesson Two: Don’t Swim Upstream Like a Salmon. You’ll Only Meet Your Death.
This one hurt. I was proud of swimming upstream. Proving myself.
But Dixon smirked and said, “What’s at the end of the salmon’s journey? An exhausted corpse and bear cubs with a mouthful of scales. We glamorize struggle in our culture. But sometimes what we call perseverance is just us flinging ourselves against rocks for no damn reason.”
I stopped chasing promotions that drained me. Stopped dating people who made me feel like I had to audition for affection.
Started asking: “Is this flow, or am I fighting gravity?”
Spoiler alert: The river goes both ways. There’s wisdom in the drift.
Lesson Three: Don’t Bite at a Tasty Worm on a Hook.
“I don’t care how good it looks. If it feels too easy, or it dangles in front of your face right when you’re hungry? It’s bait.”
I learned to say no to flattering job offers from toxic companies.
No to emotionally unavailable charmers with dimples and empty promises.
No to partnerships that wanted my talent, but not my truth.
If you’ve ever bitten into something that looked nourishing but ended up gutting you?
Welcome to the school of smart fish.
Lesson Four: Swim in Schools with Lunkers.
“A lunker is a giant, old, wise fish. The kind who’s been dodging hooks since the Reagan administration.” Dixon added, “If you’re always the biggest fish in your pond, it’s time to find deeper water.”
I stopped trying to be the smartest guy in the room. I started hanging with people who challenged me, showed me where I was still treading shallow.
Mentorship matters. Even if it’s a grizzled angler with a trout tattoo on his left bicep.
Lesson Five: Seek Warmer Waters.
Sometimes life gets cold. Bitterly cold. The water freezes. The food disappears.
Fish don’t martyr themselves. They migrate.
I gave myself permission to move. To quit. To reset.
I left toxic jobs. I walked away from drama. I relocated my mental habitat from “barely surviving” to “sometimes thriving.”
Warmth is not weakness. It’s instinct.
Lesson Six: Study Fish with Spikes and Sharp Teeth.
These aren’t the fish you befriend. These are the ones you respect.
Pufferfish. Lionfish. Pike. They’ve learned to say: “Mess with me at your own risk.” That’s boundaries, baby.
These fish aren’t aggressive. They’re clear.
I learned to say, “I don’t like how that feels. I need space.”
Turns out, my spine could be a weapon too.
Lesson Seven: Stay Away from Sharks.
Dixon didn’t sugarcoat this one. “If you swim with sharks, don’t be surprised when you get eaten.”
There are people who smell vulnerability like blood in the water. Bosses who take credit. Partners who gaslight. Friends who drain you dry.
You’re not weak for retreating. You’re smart for surviving.
Conclusion: You’re Not a Minnow. You’re Just in the Wrong Pond.
After six weeks with Dixon, I left the course with clarity.
Fish don’t have imposter syndrome. They don’t strive to be “the best version of themselves.” They eat, swim, rest, hide, learn, and keep moving. That’s the life I wanted.
The first test came at work when my boss dumped an “urgent” project on me Friday at 4:55 p.m. Old me would’ve flailed like some trout in a net, working all weekend just to prove my worth. New me? I swam sideways. “Let’s discuss Monday morning,” I said, then went home and grilled salmon.
A week later, a friend tried to bait me into a heated political debate at a party. I recognized the shiny hook for what it was and stayed quiet, sipping my drink, letting someone else get reeled in.
And then there was the day my car broke down. Normally, I’d spiral into panic, imagining every catastrophic outcome. Instead, I pulled a Dixon move, floated in the moment, called a tow, and watched clouds drift like lazy schools of herring overhead.
Often I gaze at the placard that Dixon gave us in lieu of a certificate.
The fish that swim alone learn silence. The fish that swim in a school learn direction.
The brightest lure hides the sharpest hook.
A fish that forgets the net will end up in someone’s dinner story.
Still water hides the biggest fish and the deepest truths.
The ocean is vast. Not every predator is worth your panic.
I’m at peace now going with the flow!
I am a psychologist with over forty years of experience working in trauma recovery and anxiety disorders, and I often draw upon my professional background to create stories that balance depth with wit. My previous publications include both psychology books (Shattered Innocence and The Curio Shop) and works of fiction (Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining). In addition, I write a monthly advice column, AskDr.Neil, for a Portland newspaper, where I explore resilience and personal growth through story-driven guidance.
Carp-e Diem continues my exploration of humor as a vehicle for insight. It is part satire, part allegory, and entirely playful in tone, offering your readers a fresh, lighthearted piece with a subtext of deeper meaning.