A Warrior Lifestyle

Designed with Intention

For years, I believed that if I let life unfold naturally, things would eventually fall into place. I assumed that understanding would blossom independently and that the pieces would fall into place without my interference. But after many seasons of uncertainty, inconsistency, and frustration, I realized that clarity doesn't come from chance—it comes from conscious design.

Then, I turned inward and saw that my life needed a structure—one not built on rigidity or control, but on a thoughtful rhythm. I began by identifying the three core aspects that make up my humanity: my spirit, my mind, and my body. Each demanded its kind of care and discipline. I decided to honor them all equally, building my daily life around them, not as separate tasks but as one seamless flow.

Some might say discipline and freedom are opposites, but I've discovered the opposite is true. Discipline is the frame that gives freedom its shape. It creates space for spontaneity, presence, and flexibility, allowing for adaptation without falling apart. With a structure in place, I’m free to move, make, and live fully in each moment, without losing sight of who I am and what matters most.

My days begin long before the sun rises. I naturally wake between 3 and 4 a.m., a rhythm that surprises most people but suits me perfectly in terms of energy. There's a stillness in those early hours that nurtures clarity and creativity. Sometimes I wake up mid-dream, aware and conscious, and answers come in this liminal state. Questions I've been carrying—about relationships, projects, even spiritual dilemmas—begin to unravel gently, as if my spirit is whispering guidance into my waking thoughts. It's like having a quiet meeting with my soul before the noise of the world begins.

While still lying in bed, I begin a physical practice that has become both a ritual and a form of restoration. I move slowly through breathing and stretching exercises, focusing on the thirteen power points of the body: the neck, wrists, elbows, shoulders, hips, knees, and ankles. Each is given careful attention through controlled rotation movements—a practice I've come to call isolate and control. It's not just about flexibility or strength. It's about intention. Precision. Energy. I do 50 repetitions for each leg and 100 for each arm, all while practicing a form of breathing I've developed: forceful exhalations as the limbs extend, deep inhalations as they prepare to strike.

By the end of this 75-minute routine, my entire body is alive. My blood feels charged, my mind clear, my breath complete. It's as if I've tuned my instrument, preparing it to play the day's melody.

Before rising, I sit in meditation for fifteen minutes. I repeat affirmations silently or aloud, depending on my mood. These are not idle words—they are recalibrations of my mind. Sometimes I focus on health. At other times, it's about financial goals or healing relationships. Often, I use this time to focus my energy on a person or situation that needs love, clarity, or release. It's a way of setting my internal compass before leaving bed.

Once I rise, I step outside barefoot to greet the day. The air is still cool, and the light is soft. I walk among my garden, touching leaves, smelling herbs, admiring the strength of vegetables growing in silence. There is a power in being grounded, literally, in the earth. I let the energy of the sun and soil seep into me, reminding me that life moves slowly, steadily, and with purpose.

I clean up next—but not in the usual way. Although I can access clean, modern showers, I prefer to bathe in the rainwater I collect in ten 50-gallon containers. It's a conscious act of conservation, a ritual of connection. I collect the runoff from my bath to water the plants and clean the walkways. It's a cycle of giving and receiving—of honoring the resources I've been entrusted with.

After getting dressed, I take my morning health tonic. It's a fiery blend of honey, garlic, ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, and black pepper—a mixture that wakes the body, warms the belly, and heals from within. I take it on an empty stomach, knowing it's the first nourishment I give myself daily.

Then comes breakfast—simple, honest food: a bowl of oatmeal, a delicate crepe with cinnamon and honey, fresh juice, and a small bowl of fruit: pineapple, mango, banana, dragon fruit, and 15 papaya seeds, which I chew slowly, honoring their bitterness as much as their benefits.

After breakfast, I give myself time to explore my curiosity. I watch videos on topics that interest or challenge me—sometimes psychology, sometimes philosophy, sometimes something random and wonderful. This mental stimulation feels like a gentle warm-up for my next excellent task: writing. I then retreat into my work, writing for several hours. These books I've been working on for years are more than just stories—they are reflections of my life, lessons, and evolution.

Throughout the day, I stay connected with the people I love. I make brief calls to friends and family across the globe—3 to 5 minutes of presence that say: I’m here. I care. You matter to me. I check messages, respond to notes on social media, and tend to conversations with friends in the U.S., Australia, the U.K., Germany, and Hawaii. These connections feed my spirit and remind me that I am never alone.

The rest of my day is shaped by whatever feels most aligned with my spiritual, mental, and physical needs. Sometimes, that means rest, movement, or silence. But no matter what I do, I try to stay aware of what each part of me needs in the moment. I don’t aim for perfection, only presence.

Designing my life this way has been one of the most extraordinary acts of self-love I've ever given myself. It is not strict or fixed. It is a rhythm, a practice, a way of being—one that holds me together when I falter, guides me when I'm unsure, and brings me back to who I am,