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The Sober Sessions, Boston, MA (2026)

01/05/2026

Sometimes God keeps letting them hurt you for a reason.

And that’s a hard pill to swallow.

Because we assume pain means we chose wrong, or God missed something, or we just need to try harder to make it work. But a lot of the time, the pain isn’t a mistake — it’s a message.

Not everyone who has access to you is meant to stay.

God doesn’t always remove people immediately. Sometimes He lets the pattern repeat until you see it clearly. Until you stop excusing it. Until you stop explaining it away. Until you finally accept what your spirit has known for a long time.

Pain has a way of revealing truth.

It shows you who lacks empathy.
Who disrespects your boundaries.
Who only shows up when it benefits them.

And here’s the part nobody likes to hear: if someone keeps hurting you, it’s often because they were never meant to walk with you into your next season.

God isn’t trying to punish you.
He’s trying to protect you.

Sometimes separation doesn’t come through a dramatic ending. It comes through repeated disappointment. Through discomfort that pushes you to choose yourself. Through clarity that finally outweighs attachment.

And once you step back, you realize the pain wasn’t meant to destroy you — it was meant to detach you.

So if someone keeps wounding you, stop asking why it hurts so much and start asking what it’s trying to show you.

Not everyone who starts the journey with you is meant to finish it.

And letting go isn’t failure.

It’s obedience.

— j. anthony |

01/05/2026

Here’s something that sounds simple, but will completely change your life if you actually practice it:

Most of your stress isn’t coming from what’s happening to you.
It’s coming from how you’re responding to it.

Life is going to throw punches. That’s guaranteed. Problems don’t ask for permission. People disappoint you. Plans fall apart. Chaos shows up uninvited. That part is unavoidable.

What is optional… is how much power you give it.

Two people can go through the exact same situation and walk away completely different. One gets crushed. The other gets sharper. The difference isn’t luck—it’s perspective.

Stress explodes when you react instead of respond. When you personalize everything. When you assume the worst. When you replay the same moment a thousand times in your head, looking for control where there is none.

Adjust your attitude, and you change the entire experience.

That doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine. It means choosing not to drown in it. It means asking, What’s this trying to teach me? instead of Why is this happening to me?

When you start looking for the lesson, you stop being a victim of the moment. When you look for the good—even in uncomfortable situations—you find leverage. You find growth. You find the next move.

Every hard moment carries information.
Every setback carries direction.
Every challenge carries an opportunity to level up.

But you won’t see any of it if you’re stuck in overthinking, worrying, and spiraling about things you can’t control.

Let that s**t go.

Not because it doesn’t matter—but because you matter more.

Take the lesson. Keep the wisdom. Drop the unnecessary stress.

Life doesn’t get easier when the problems stop.

Life gets better when you get stronger.

— j. anthony |

01/05/2026

Alright, listen to me for a minute. Really listen.

To whoever is reading this tonight—we’re probably strangers. We’ve never met. We’ve never shaken hands, never shared a room, never had a conversation face to face. And that’s okay. And if we have met, understand this wasn’t an accident either. This is still for you.

I don’t know what you’re carrying right now. I don’t know what’s keeping you up. I don’t know what thought keeps looping in your head when the room gets quiet. I don’t know the pressure, the grief, the regret, the fear, or the exhaustion that’s sitting on your chest tonight making you wonder how much longer you can keep going.

But I do know this feeling.

That moment when you’re tired in a way sleep won’t fix. When you’re not looking for attention—you just want relief. When “checking out” starts sounding less like quitting and more like rest.

And I need you to hear this part clearly.

God already knew it would come to this moment.

He’s not surprised by your breaking point. He’s not shocked by your doubt. He’s not disappointed that you’re tired. This didn’t catch Him off guard. You didn’t wander too far. You didn’t mess it up beyond repair.

It’s okay that you’re here right now.

There is a plan working in places you can’t see yet. And I know that’s hard to believe when everything feels heavy and unclear. But faith isn’t trusting when it makes sense—it’s trusting when it doesn’t.

So don’t quit tonight.

Don’t make a permanent decision in a temporary storm.

Breathe. Sit with it. Let tomorrow come. Let God carry what you can’t hold anymore.

You don’t have to understand the plan to trust the One who made it.

I Love You. 💜 & I See You.

Stay.

— j. anthony |

01/05/2026

Every morning I wake up, I’m blessed.

And I don’t say that because life is easy. I say it because I’ve learned what it means to still be here.

Some mornings I wake up sore.
Some mornings I wake up heavy.
Some mornings the pain — physical, mental, emotional — is already waiting for me before my feet hit the floor.

But I open my eyes.

And that alone matters.

Because waking up is not guaranteed. Breath isn’t owed. Another day isn’t promised. And once you really understand that — once you’ve brushed up against losing it — your perspective changes.

Pain doesn’t cancel blessing.
Struggle doesn’t mean absence.

Some of the most protected people I know are still fighting battles every day.

I’ve learned that God watching over you doesn’t mean you won’t hurt. It means you won’t be alone in it. It means there’s a covering even when the road is rough. A presence even when answers are quiet.

Faith isn’t pretending everything’s okay.
Faith is getting up anyway.

It’s saying, I don’t feel great — but I’m grateful.
I’m hurting — but I’m still held.
I’m tired — but I’m not abandoned.

Every morning I wake up, I don’t ask for perfection. I ask for strength. Clarity. Enough peace to get through the day in front of me.

And that’s more than enough.

Because if God woke you up today, there’s still purpose on your life. Still reason to move forward. Still something worth showing up for.

So yeah — no matter how much pain I’m in…

I’m blessed.

And I don’t take that lightly.

— j. anthony |

01/05/2026

Don’t talk to me about loyalty unless you’ve actually lived it.

Because loyalty isn’t something you post about. It’s not a word you throw around when it’s convenient. Loyalty is what you do when you’d be justified in doing the opposite.

I’m still here holding secrets for people who are actively throwing dirt on my name.

Think about that.

I could expose things. I could clear my name instantly. I could tell the full story and let the truth burn everything down. And people would understand. They’d probably cheer. They’d say I was finally standing up for myself.

But loyalty isn’t about applause.

It’s about character.

It’s about deciding who you are, even when someone else decides not to be who they said they were. It’s about refusing to become ugly just because someone else did.

And that’s a lonely place to stand.

Because silence looks like weakness to people who don’t understand restraint. Holding your tongue looks foolish to people who only know revenge. But there’s power in not needing to prove anything.

See, I don’t protect people because they deserve it.
I protect my integrity because I deserve it.

If you can sleep at night knowing you kept your word—even to people who broke theirs—that’s real strength. That’s discipline. That’s knowing who you are when no one’s watching.

So don’t lecture me about loyalty.

I’m living it.

And I’ll keep living it—not because it’s easy, but because I refuse to let someone else’s betrayal turn me into someone I’m not.

— j. anthony |

01/04/2026

You really don’t know pain until you’ve sat alone and begged God to ease it.

I’m not talking about bad days.
Not frustration.
Not stress.

I’m talking about that kind of pain where there’s no audience. No phone calls. No distractions left. Where the room is quiet and the weight is loud. Where you’ve run out of explanations, run out of strength, run out of options.

That kind of pain strips you.

There’s no performance there. No ego. No pretending you’ve got it handled. It’s just you, the truth, and a prayer that isn’t polished or rehearsed — it’s desperate. It’s raw. It’s something closer to a cry than a sentence.

That’s a place most people never talk about.

Because that’s where you realize how small you are…
and how real God is.

When you’re on your knees not asking for success, not asking for answers — just asking for the pain to let up enough so you can breathe again. When all you want is relief. Or peace. Or the strength to make it through the next minute.

That moment changes you.

It humbles you in a way nothing else can. It teaches you empathy. It teaches you patience. It teaches you how fragile people really are — including yourself.

And here’s the part that matters:

If you’ve been there, you didn’t break.
You survived something that reshaped you.

That pain didn’t come to destroy you. It came to introduce you to a depth of faith, strength, and compassion you didn’t know you had access to.

And if you’re there right now — sitting alone, asking God to ease it — hear this clearly:

You’re not weak.
You’re not abandoned.
You’re not unheard.

You’re being held together in a moment most people never see.

And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the night you begged God to ease the pain was the night you were being rebuilt.

— j. anthony |

01/04/2026

Let me tell you something that took me a long time to actually live, not just say:

Never let the bulls**t stress you.

And by bulls**t, I mean all of it—the noise, the drama, the opinions, the nonsense that doesn’t move your life forward one inch but somehow takes up all your mental space.

Most stress isn’t coming from real danger. It’s coming from things that don’t deserve your energy. Other people’s behavior. Other people’s expectations. Other people’s projections. Stuff you can’t control and shouldn’t even be trying to.

Here’s the reality—life is hard enough without you volunteering to carry extra weight.

You don’t need to attend every argument you’re invited to.
You don’t need to explain yourself to people committed to misunderstanding you.
You don’t need to react to every comment, every look, every rumor, every piece of chaos.

Stress shows up when you forget what actually matters.

When you zoom out, most of the bulls**t is temporary. It feels loud, but it’s small. It feels urgent, but it’s not important. And once you stop feeding it with your attention, it loses its power.

Calm is a skill.

It’s choosing peace over proving a point.
It’s choosing clarity over chaos.
It’s choosing to protect your energy like it’s something valuable—because it is.

So let people talk.
Let situations unfold.
Let time do what time always does.

You keep moving. You stay grounded. You handle what’s real and release what’s noise.

Never let the bulls**t stress you.

Because peace is too expensive to waste on nonsense.

— j. anthony |

01/04/2026

I want people from my past to understand something — they don’t know me anymore.

And that’s not arrogance.
That’s evolution.

Who you knew back then was a version of me shaped by pain, survival, insecurity, and circumstances I hadn’t outgrown yet. That version made choices from a place of confusion. He reacted. He coped. He did what he could with what he had at the time.

But that version isn’t running the show anymore.

People love to freeze you in the moment they understood you best — or the moment you were easiest to label. It’s comfortable for them. It keeps the story simple. It lets them feel like they still have you figured out.

But growth ruins that narrative.

The work I’ve done happened quietly.
The changes weren’t announced.
The discipline wasn’t documented.

So of course they don’t recognize me.

They weren’t in the room when the hard decisions were made. They weren’t there for the nights of honesty, the uncomfortable boundaries, the self-confrontation, the rebuilding. They don’t know the version of me that learned restraint, clarity, and peace the hard way.

And that’s okay.

I don’t need to be understood by people who only know who I used to be. I don’t owe explanations to chapters I’ve already closed. The past doesn’t get voting rights on who I am now.

Growth is allowed to confuse people.

Let them remember the old version if they need to.
I’m busy living as the new one.

— j. anthony |

01/04/2026

Every once in a while, you need to stop looking at what’s in front of you and look back at what’s already behind you.

Not to live there—but to remember something important.

You’ve been here before.

There were moments in your life when you were convinced you weren’t going to make it through. Moments when the pain felt permanent. When the weight felt unbearable. When you were sure, this is it—I’m done.

And yet… you’re still here.

You didn’t magically get rescued. You didn’t suddenly become fearless. You just kept going when quitting would’ve made sense. You showed up on days you had nothing left. You endured things that changed you.

That matters.

Your past isn’t just a collection of memories—it’s proof. Proof that you’re capable of more than your fear wants you to believe. Proof that you’ve already survived versions of yourself that thought the story was over.

And here’s the thing—strength isn’t always loud. It’s not always confidence or bravado. Sometimes strength looks like getting out of bed. Sometimes it looks like asking for help. Sometimes it looks like choosing not to give up, even when you don’t feel strong at all.

So when doubt creeps in—when your mind starts telling you that you can’t handle what’s coming—remind yourself of what you’ve already handled.

You didn’t get this far by accident.

You’re more resilient than you think.
More capable than you give yourself credit for.
More powerful than the moment you’re standing in right now.

And if you’ve done it before…

You can do it again.

— j. anthony |

01/04/2026

Am I talking bad about you… or am I talking about something bad that happened?

That distinction matters.

Because a lot of people don’t hate dishonesty — they hate exposure. They’re fine with the behavior staying in the dark, but the moment someone speaks it out loud, suddenly it’s “drama,” “negativity,” or “an attack.”

Let’s slow this down.

Is what I’m saying actually wrong?
Or is it uncomfortable because it’s accurate?

There’s a huge difference between slander and truth. Between tearing someone down and holding a mirror up. When the facts come out, people who benefit from silence get real defensive.

Facts don’t have emotion.
They don’t take sides.
They just exist.

But accountability feels like hostility to people who’ve never taken responsibility.

We live in a culture where calling out behavior is treated like violence, but the behavior itself gets a free pass. That’s backwards. Silence protects dysfunction. Truth disrupts it.

If the truth hurts, that doesn’t automatically make it cruel. Sometimes it’s just precise.

And here’s the real tell — people who move with integrity don’t panic when the facts are spoken. They address it. They own it. They adjust.

Only people hiding something confuse truth with attack.

So no — facts aren’t attacks.

They’re just facts.

And what you do with them tells everyone who you really are.

— j. anthony |

01/04/2026

I’ve seen something in the recovery world that most people don’t fully understand unless they’ve been close to it.

People in recovery show up for strangers like they’re family.

No hesitation. No background check. No “who are you to me?” Someone says they’re struggling, and within minutes — minutes — twenty people are there. Commenting. Calling. Messaging. Saying, “I’ve been there. Stay. Breathe. You’re not alone.”

That kind of support doesn’t wait for permission.
It doesn’t ask if it’s convenient.
It doesn’t care about ego or image.

It just shows up.

And that’s powerful, because it’s not performative. It’s not about looking good or being praised. It’s about survival. People who’ve been to the edge recognize the sound of someone slipping. They know what it costs to stay silent. They know how close one moment can be to a life-changing decision.

So they respond.

Recovery strips people down to what actually matters. It teaches you that connection isn’t optional — it’s oxygen. When you’ve been saved by someone picking up the phone at the right time, you don’t ignore that call when it comes from someone else.

That’s why the recovery community moves the way it does.

No gatekeeping.
No hierarchy.
No “figure it out on your own.”

Just humans helping humans stay alive.

And here’s the thing — that kind of community isn’t weak. It’s disciplined. It’s forged in pain. It’s built by people who know what it feels like to be invisible and refuse to let someone else feel that way.

In a world where most people scroll past suffering, recovery shows us what it looks like to lean in.

To say, “I don’t know you, but I know this feeling.”

And sometimes, that’s the difference between someone making it through the night or not.

That’s not just support.

That’s love in action.

— j. anthony |

01/04/2026

God, bring me closer to what’s meant for me.

Not what looks good.
Not what’s loud.
Not what feeds my ego for a moment and costs me peace later.

What’s meant for me.

Because there’s a difference between what you want and what you’re ready for. There’s a difference between comfort and calling. And most of us learn that the hard way — by chasing things that feel right in the moment but leave us empty in the long run.

So yeah… bring me closer to what’s aligned.

Closer to the people who sharpen me instead of drain me.
Closer to the work that builds me instead of numbs me.
Closer to the life that fits who I’m becoming, not who I used to be.

And just as important — keep me away from what’s not.

Even when I’m tempted.
Even when it feels familiar.
Even when it’s hard to let go.

Because sometimes the most loving answer isn’t addition — it’s removal. Sometimes protection looks like disappointment. Sometimes distance is the blessing.

I don’t need everything to make sense right now.
I don’t need every door to open.

I just need alignment.

Guide my steps when my judgment is off.
Close doors I’m too stubborn to close myself.
And give me the wisdom to trust You when the path narrows instead of widens.

Because I’ve learned this much:

What’s meant for me won’t require me to betray myself.
And what’s not meant for me will eventually cost me more than I can afford.

So bring me closer to what’s mine.

And keep me far from what isn’t.

— j. anthony |

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