Picture a list of people singularly unqualified to write about a subject: Men on women’s rights. White people about black people’s lived experience with racism. Non-parents writing parenting guides. Tim Noakes on nutrition. Me, writing about moderation.

It’s easier for me to show you what moderation isn’t. I’d just point at my life and say “That.” and you’d know.

Close on 45 years of the pendulum swinging between the excesses and the deprivations of life. That’s what my history reads like.

The more I indulge in those excesses or punish myself with the misguided privations of discipline, the more frequently life throws this term moderation at me.

In therapy. In conversation with friends, my financial advisor and – wait, no. Not my family. I think they’re as tired of punting moderation as I am hearing about it.

There is a constant drive to experience life by half-measures and I want kick that to the ground and yell “I’m not here on a day pass, you bugger!” but before I even finish typing that line I hear the alarm bells ringing, alerting me to the default defensiveness that rises up when I am challenged.

My therapist has a really good way of unpacking moderation in a way that I really understand. She’s brought it up a number of times. The more I hear it, though, the more I swing to the outer limits; my inner child rails at what he perceives to be a grey, dull, pedestrian middle-of-the-road existence fading into nothing.

For now, his voice is loudest, and so it’s his cue I take.

©️ Dave Luis 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Image ©️ Brianna Santellan at unsplash

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