Author: Greg Schaffer

Sometimes We Have to Get Dirty

/ Greg Schaffer

It was my first mountain bike organized event.

Author, covered in mud, riding bike across finish line.I had prepared well for the Hammer Drop 18-mile race at Henry Horton State Park. This was the trail where I had learned to mountain bike, a fun, flowing course with just enough technical sections to teach me a few painful lessons. Early on, those lessons came in the form of bumps and bruises as I discovered that a little speed is often your friend and that SPD pedals probably aren’t for beginners.

Wait, you might ask, aren’t you an old guy? Why take up mountain biking at this stage of life? I’m 59; I should be focused on something less risky, like checkers, right?

A couple of reasons. I enjoy being in the woods, and I like having different ways to stay active. To be clear, I’m a “two tires on the ground at all times” rider. No jumps. No screaming descents. I still wear plenty of protective gear, though. A bruised rib from a series of falls last December is still fresh enough in my memory to keep me humble.

Race day began with perfect weather, until it didn’t.

About forty-five minutes before the start, summer showers rolled in. Just as it looked like they were ending, another round arrived, then another. By race time, the course was muddy enough that the organizers shortened the event from three six-mile laps to two. The combination of slick trails and wet rocks would likely slow everyone considerably.

I’d only ridden in heavy rain once before, ironically less than a week earlier while on a business trip in Kentucky. I was caught in a downpour during the final two miles of that ride. It wasn’t ideal, but it gave me a little confidence that I could handle whatever the trail offered that day.

I wasn’t about to quit before the race even began simply because conditions weren’t perfect.

Sometime later, while looking at the photo of me crossing the finish line, a friend commented that I looked determined all the way to the end.

He was right.

I had decided before the race started that I was going to finish, regardless of the mud.

That reminded me of two simple truths I needed to hear again: don’t give up because things don’t go your way, and keep moving forward when you don’t feel like it.

I’ve been blessed with a long and steady career. I’ve never been fired, never been laid off, and I’ve never left a position without another one waiting. That doesn’t mean the journey has been easy. There were plenty of seasons when things seemed to be going exactly the wrong way.

In fact, I was talking with a friend over breakfast this morning about one particularly difficult job. I admitted that I had wanted to quit.

He responded with something to the effect of, “If you had quit then, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”

He was right.

Sometimes life isn’t as clean as we’d like.

Sometimes we have to get a little dirty.

Sometimes we end up completely covered in mud.

We don’t control the weather. We don’t control the trail. We don’t control many of the circumstances life puts in front of us.

But we do control whether we stop pedaling.

The trail eventually dries. The mud washes off. The finish line is still there for those who keep moving.

Photo by David Cloud

A Roadway in the Wilderness

/ Greg Schaffer

“Do not call to mind the former things,
Or ponder things of the past.
Behold, I am going to do something new,
Now it will spring up;
Will you not be aware of it?
I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
Rivers in the desert.” Isaiah 43:18–19 (NASB)

In 2008, going through a dark period in my life, where change was happening to me and not by me, I felt powerless, alone, and afraid. I believed I had done everything right, and I felt like a complete failure. Kneeling beside a maple tree I had planted on my mini farm, above my beloved cat Newton’s grave, I was broken, and cried out to God. I was instantly comforted; He said I would be all right.

Not long thereafter, I met a wonderful woman who would become my  wife. God was right, of course. Together we found what it’s like to have a relationship with Jesus. Together we got to (and continue to) know Him, not just know of Him.

About nine years later, I had another God-nudge. I was doing well with my talents, but I could do better. The “better” wasn’t about earning more or advancing my career. It was about stepping out on faith to become an independent consultant serving small and midsized businesses. I was afraid of leaving the workforce, as I had been constantly employed since my teenage years (including part-time jobs in school), but I followed.

Not only did the business thrive, it became a platform for me to be open about my faith in the workforce. In a world where expressions of faith in the workplace can sometimes feel unwelcome, I chose to be open about mine in public forums such as LinkedIn and speaking at events.

God was right again, of course.

Now, about nine years later, I have another God-nudge. Recently, I have been asking and praying, “Lord, send me,” as written of in Isaiah:

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?’ Then I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!'” Isaiah 6:8 (NASB)

Once again, there is the familiar uneasiness that accompanies change. Faith isn’t the absence of uncertainty; it’s choosing to trust God in the midst of it. Change is inevitable, but God remains constant. In response, He has placed in front of me a path that is only beginning to unfold. Proverbs 20:24 (NASB) says, “A person’s steps are directed by the LORD. How then can anyone understand his way?”

I don’t know exactly where this roadway in the wilderness leads. But I know the One who promised it, and that is enough.

God is right, of course.

Image: ChatGPT

I Was My Father, and He Was Me

/ Greg Schaffer / 1 Comment

My father died Monday, June 29, 2026. I am beginning to write this exactly 23 hours later. I want my thoughts to be fresh but not too fresh. It’s not as if I hadn’t thought of what I would write for months now. While the suddenness of this was a surprise, the eventuality was not. His destiny and likely timeline became clearer some time ago.

Perhaps it was that awareness that made our last few visits that much more special. The second to last time I saw him, the look he gave me as I was leaving their house, while he sat at the dining room table, still in the same spot where I had taken him for a few dollars in euchre, was new. That’s tough to say; it’s rare for anything to be new in a 58-year relationship. But this was. As I tried to describe to my wife, it was a combination of pride and satisfaction to know that he, nor I, had left anything back. We were an open book to each other. We knew we had to be; time was not indefinite.

Wolfgang Paul Carl Schaffer was his given name, but to me he was always “Dad.” But that always was not always consistent. Life, being as life is, was hills and valleys. And in the course of travelling those highs and lows, I learned that he was more than “Dad.” He was a kind, intelligent, loving man; one who loved simplicity and a good card game, a gentle soul with faults that he did not shy away from or make excuses for.

It was the faults that defined the earliest memories of Dad. My father and mother divorced when I was four years old. I don’t care how you spin it and who did what; divorce always sucks for all involved. No one goes into a marriage expecting failure. I know that well; I’ve said “I do” three times (and no more).

My mother raised me and my brothers, and we saw our father and his wife every two weeks. I still have the postcards memorized, an obvious requirement by some judge somewhere. It’d arrive the week before the weekend: “Sherry and I will arrive at 10 AM Saturday (fill in date) to pick up the boys and return them by 5 PM the following day. Paul.” Those weekends were filled with fun stuff like camping, bowling, and movies.

Yet in the early days I did not want to go. Divorce is the most difficult for children, I think. I needed time to process when I didn’t have the skills to do so. It was new to me. Everything was new to me. I had separation anxiety and needed my mother, and that was all. I would learn later that she needed me and my brothers just as much to survive.

Eventually I processed enough to enjoy those weekends with my father, his wife Sherry, and my brothers. It grew to be normal for me. And such continued until two major events; the recession of the early 80s and the dawn of my teen years. The recession ended up being the catalyst for an early retirement and refocus for Dad and Sherry, which involved them moving to cheaper North Carolina (from northern New Jersey), and my mother and I (both brothers were college men now) from the New York City suburbs to Binghamton, NY. Those years also marked my expulsions from three different high schools, but the last one let me back in to finish my academic work and graduate.

I did a lot of growing up between high school and college, an intentional year off between them to do just that. It was during that period that I came to two conclusions. First, the highs and lows in my past would inform but not define my future. Second, I saw the humanity in my father because I let myself see, and I gave up blaming him for my lows. I mourned not having a father at home, then I buried it, then I moved on.

I did a lot of growing up in college as well, even while enjoying the lifestyle. I met and married my college sweetheart. I joined the Air Force Reserve. I received orders to deploy overseas for war. Dad and Sherry were on an extended driving vacation, and I didn’t think they’d return until after deployment date, so I let his brother (who lived near him in North Carolina) know what was going on. They returned from their trip and immediately set back out on the road after learning of this, driving straight from North Carolina to Buffalo overnight to see me before I deployed, if even for an hour or two, to offer support, encouragement, and love.

That’s the type of person my father was.

Later, I, newly divorced because “life” (remember, highs and lows), moved to Knoxville Tennessee to begin a new life after college. This put me in close proximity to Dad and Sherry, two hours away across the hills (the Smoky Mountains). My father may not have been a full-time father in my childhood, but I had come to know him as a friend. Later I would know him as a man.

I don’t know when it started, but for decades my father and I played euchre whenever we saw each other. The stakes never changed, despite inflation; a quarter a point. If I were to be honest, he easily won much more than I did, including our last game a month ago. He had a knack for luck, and enjoyed parlaying that luck at casinos, including the one local to him in Cherokee, NC. He never played to make a living; to him I truly believe the thrill was just coming out ahead at the end of the day.

In 2017 when I launched my business, they gave me a congratulations card and gift, wishing me luck and success. That card has remained displayed in my office ever since. I think my father saw some of his influence in my business actions, and in a way lived vicariously through them. When I was twelve or so, he had explained supply and demand to me at a sophisticated enough level that he bragged to his coworkers the next day how I understood it. Over the years he would ask me how the business was going, including the last time I saw him. Often those conversations would lead to questions and advice, or just sessions bouncing ideas. With the exception of my wife, he invested the most time and interest in that endeavor. I owe its success partially to him.

We had many conversations over the years, hours long discussions at the dining room table on just about any topic. Once I recall, later in his life, was conversation about what happens when we die. We would return to that topic sparingly, but it was enough to know that I believe I will see my father in my Father’s house.

One conversation focused on the past. I had long ago forgiven my father for any transgressions I may have perceived against me. That was actually one of three substantial moments of forgiveness in my life; the other two involving a priest and my ex-wife. In all cases I saw and lived the value of not wanting to know details of the past or the desire to get even to make up for being hurt. In all instances, I let go, and let God. Those three served as significant milestones in my faith journey and helped build me into the man I am today.

It was because of that I said he didn’t owe me any explanation when he offered to tell me about events of when I was four. Yet he insisted. Out of respect for him as my father and my friend, I listened. I understood. I empathized. When he was done, I realized I knew him as a man. No, it was more than that. I was my father, and he was me.

In our decades long relationship, one that I could have put aside because of how it was in the early years, I had the privilege of getting to know an extraordinary man, a gentle soul, a mensch to use a word he once used to describe me. I believe he saw me not only as a son and a friend, but as a man also. There was a comradery that went beyond the blood relationship.

Seeing him get ill was difficult for me. As a youth I saw him as the macho Marlboro Man. Ironically, it would be cigarettes that would accelerate his decline in health. Each of the last times I saw him, I mentally prepared myself to understand this may in fact be the LAST time. That brought me to be more present than usual. It also brought us to where we didn’t part with anything left unsaid. For that I am grateful.

When the call came from Sherry today (as I write), I knew before she said it. My first question to her was how she was doing. She was everything to my father, his angel. He wanted to do more, but while the spirit was willing, the body failed him. I have always tried to honor my parents as best as I could. Honoring him now means helping her where he no longer can.

I love him and I will miss him greatly. I have yet to shed a tear, as I am in the beginning stages of processing, but I know it will come. I joked to Sherry two days ago that she needed to tell Dad that he’s not going to get out of a euchre rematch that easily. I guess I’ll just have to wait a bit longer for that. Keep the cards ready, Dad. Until then, I miss you.

Photo from 2021 during one of our casino adventures.

On Obedience: Three Years Alcohol Free

/ Greg Schaffer

On Obedience 

Three years ago, I quit alcohol. 

More precisely, three years ago I finally put aside a significant part of my rebellious nature and turned to obedience to God. 

God had been nudging me in many ways to turn to Him instead of anywhere else when I needed to process difficulty in my life. It was the Apple Watch notification of a possible A-Fib event that was the divine smack across the face that I needed. 

But I’ve discussed this before in this blog. On this third anniversary, I want to focus on obedience. 

A Rebel, A Non-Conformist 

As I navigated my teenage years, I was not one to obey rules, at least those that I didn’t like. This manifested itself most often in my scant high school attendance. I didn’t see the need to go to class, and so I just pulled an “Office Space” more than a decade before that movie came out: I cut whenever I didn’t feel like going. Somehow, I still managed to graduate in four years. 

Eventually I got my act together during the year I took off between high school and college. During that time, I learned the need to obey if I wanted to make something out of my life or at least prove to those who thought I wouldn’t amount to anything that they were wrong. 

But little of this has to do with my obeying God. 

I started to walk down that path earlier in my high school experience by acting on what I would later recognize as a God-request, that I seek Him. The only way I knew how to do that was to contact a Catholic church, since Catholicism was what I had been exposed to, somewhat. 

Catholicism requires obedience. Miss one of the rules and you had to rectify with the Sacrament of Confession. Perhaps it is a way to put structure around the need to obey God, but over time I viewed it more about obeying the Catholic Church, and not necessarily God. 

The Early Adult Years 

By the time I started college my rebelliousness, at least to secular rules, had diminished. I conformed as necessary to move towards success in whatever secular endeavor I was involved with to include classes, part-time jobs, pledging a fraternity (lots of rules there), and Air Force basic training (even more rules there). 

One example was a call for auditions for a play produced by a budding director student in the drama department. I had not completed my homework for a particular class. The audition was during class time and therefore provided the needed alibi. Perhaps I did not obey the assignment, but I obeyed the process to produce a favored outcome. 

Later came a defining moment in my growth. I was a reservist in the US Air Force while still in college. Our unit was activated for what was then called Operation Desert Shield. As a college student, I had the option to defer. Several in a similar situation on my unit did. For me, though, I had made a promise. Asking for a deferment was never an option for me. It was about character and honor. 

I had learned obedience, at least in the secular world. 

Physically Mature, Spiritually Lacking 

While I was a man in the legal and biological senses, spiritually I was an infant. My relationship with God was limited to Sunday Mass and Days of Obligation, with occasional visits to the confessional thrown in. I was what I would consider a good Catholic, I followed the rules, and yet somehow never feeling, nor desiring, a connection with God. 

In fact, I had a defiant attitude towards Him that showed itself vividly one evening during a dark period of my life. I skidded on ice and slammed my Toyota Corolla into a curb, causing some damage, but the car was still drivable. I called out to God, not for help but in open defiance, challenging Him to give me more, as I could handle it. I was quite angry at God. A seemingly good Samaritan appeared offering to help me out, but that was a deception. The help was to leave the rough neighborhood unharmed if I handed over my money. 

Why should I have expected anything else? Not only was I not seeking God, but I also openly defied Him. 

In retrospect, some of the darker moments of my life occurred because of blatant disobedience, caught in the temptations and expectations of this world. I am not making excuses, just relating to the deceptions that I could not see then from the inside, but which are clear when viewed now from the outside. 

I eventually continued my quest for Him, but still through the Catholic Church. I obeyed and did what I was supposed to do. When my first marriage ended, I sought and was granted an Annulment from the Church for us. I continued to attend Mass on Sundays when it was convenient for me, and went to confession to make my soul clean again for when I didn’t. 

But I did not have a true relationship with God, until I hit another dark, low point many years later. 

Surrender at the Tree 

I think we go through waves of high and low times in life; certainly, looking back over mine, that seems to be the case. Sometimes those lows are deep, where everything that anchored you to reality, to yourself, seemed to lose the rock steadiness you depended on. I hit such a point in 2008. 

I felt like my life was a failure, and I didn’t understand why. I knelt beside a maple tree I had planted on my mini farm and cried out to God. I unloaded, not in anger but in despair. I had done everything right, I had thought. I was a good person. I had lost my relationship, slowly, with the Catholic Church due to disillusionment and emptiness, but I still prayed. 

I was completely drained, spiritually. 

I surrendered. 

At that moment I heard the voice of God. 

“One way or the other, everything will be all right.” 

To be clear, I have had many God-nudges when I knew He was speaking to me. Starting my business was one of those instances that I often talk about. But this was different. While I didn’t physically hear the words, the clarity of the message was unmistakable. 

For the first time in my life, I had truly reached out to God. I finally obeyed Scripture (see Jeremiah 33:3, Matthew 7:7), though I didn’t realize it at the time, as I had not sought to truly learn and understand the character of God before that. 

A Fifteen-Year Journey 

In hindsight, that was a pivotal moment in my faith-walk and the beginning of a fifteen-year journey that culminated with the removal of alcohol from my life. I learned to seek God. I began attending an interdenominational church that preached about a personal relationship with Jesus. With each sermon, I found myself slowly starting to learn more. 

But I kept a segment to myself and away from God. In retrospect, I think it was because spiritual maturation and refinement are processes that need time. God provides grace for gradual restoration, but ultimately, we must decide to act. 

As I have mentioned before in this blog, I have used alcohol to dull the pain of events in life, present and past. It was my “decompress” crutch, and it worked very well, until it didn’t. Keeping problems from God is contrary to seeking God. Eventually God led me to where I had to make the decision, in dramatic fashion. I have mentioned the A-Fib trigger (alert on Apple Watch, the only one I ever received before or since), but there was a dream before that. 

The dream was simple, yet terrifying. I was submerged up to my waist in a vat of bright red stuff, a goo of sorts. I knew that if I let the vat consume me, that I would die and be forever separated from God. I struggled mightily in that dream to free myself from the red goo. I believe if I hadn’t, I would have died that night and would be forever separated from God because of my disobedience. 

Not long later, I found myself reaching out to God on the banks of the Ohio River one morning during a business trip. I had completed my client obligations the day before and enjoyed a few beers with dinner (and after). I did not feel well, but I wouldn’t describe it as a hangover. Instead, I was disgusted with myself. I wanted to change. I wanted to turn fully to Him during all times. I wanted to live the life He planned for me, completely. I asked for help. The A-Fib alert that followed shortly after was that help I needed to make the final push. 

Christianity Light 

I read somewhere that of those who profess themselves to be Christian, only 15% or so are saved, because they haven’t truly given their life to Christ. That saddens me because it is reflective of the spiritual battle and resulting deceptions that seem to be increasingly common today. 

Before I wholly gave of myself and removed alcohol, I don’t know if I could say convincingly that I was in the 15%. At the time I’m sure I would have; I believed I was saved and I had professed my faith publicly through adult baptism in 2014. Salvation gained cannot be lost, only refused, but was I refusing salvation by not fully always giving of myself to God? Deception would have informed me to relax; all is well. 

But was that an outcome of spiritual warfare? That I had done just enough to secure salvation, and nothing else mattered? The past seven or so years have seen a dramatic increase in this warfare worldwide, in my opinion. Self-professed Christians are turning away from Scripture where convenient, reshaping God in the image they prefer. If you don’t see this, may I submit that you’re not paying attention.  

In my opinion, this is rooted in a lack of obedience, which itself stems from the disturbing trend towards what I describe as “Christianity Light,” which takes the comfortable parts of the faith, the loving, caring God, and tosses aside parts of what God commands for convenience. Obedience is not a means to salvation, but is what is expected of those who truly know, trust, follow, and love God (see John 14:15, 1 John 5:2-3). 

In other words, if we truly know and love God, we 1) stay opened and in tune for opportunities to obey Him and 2) will act when commanded. This is perfectly described in Isaiah 6:8 (NASB 1995): 

Then I heard the voice of the Lord, saying ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?’ Then I said, ‘Hear am I. Send me!’ 

Send Me 

I never again want to be unprepared to respond, “Send me.” Therefore, I will not knowingly participate in activities that take me away from Him.  

As a Christ follower, I am called to be ready to be sent, and to seek out opportunities to be sent. If I truly love God, I don’t want anything getting in the way of that, ever. I want Him to use me to further His kingdom. In other words, obedience is not out of obligation but rather love. 

The problem is that deceptions abound constantly. It is easy to become distracted without knowledge. Alcohol was one such distraction for me. We need to encourage our fellow brothers and sisters in Christ to actively and continuously be on the alert for such. The spiritual warfare is real and will not relent.  

We should always be aware of opportunities to be sent. 

Send me, Lord. I am here, I am prepared, and I am ready. 

 

The Power of Consistency

/ Greg Schaffer

Some time ago, I was asked about what makes a good podcast. There are many elements that I could choose from, but one immediately stands out – consistency.

Afterwards, I pondered my response, realizing that there was more truth behind the simple answer that I needed to unpack. I’ve hosted and produced the Virtual CISO Moment podcast for many years now, with the last three and a half devoted to weekly discussions with information security pros. There have been weeks that I didn’t feel like recording, or when a guest didn’t show, and I could have just let it slide.

But I never did, because I believe in the power of consistency.

To me, it seems that hose who are successful got that way by patiently doing what they need to do. They realize gratification isn’t immediate, that time and patience and grinding is what is needed to build anything – a podcast, a business, a new habit. Over the course of my podcast’s lifetime, I’ve seen other security podcasts come and go. It’s not that they weren’t of value. Rather, I think the producers of each that ended didn’t see at the beginning the need for consistency and constant dedication.

It’s easy to make a commitment, but it’s difficult to follow through.

In July 2025 I completed a 2200 push up challenge to raise awareness (and perhaps a few dollars) of the needs of veterans. The primary reason for doing it was obvious; I believe in supporting my fellow veterans. But there was another reason: I wanted to demonstrate, and be held accountable for, making a commitment and sticking with it. Every. Single. Day. To that end, I recorded a “first 22” (first 22 push ups of the day) video every day, usually early in the morning. It was more for me than anyone else, because I publicly held myself accountable.

It was not about the number of pushups. It was about showing up and doing the push ups every single day. I could have kicked the 2200 out in a day (or a few) and be done with it, but the opportunity for a lesson on consistency and follow through would have been lost.

It’s not as if there weren’t obstacles. Some days I didn’t feel like doing it. Several times I had to get out of bed to push out the last dozen or two because I forgot to finish during the day. This morning while getting in an early mountain bike ride at Montgomery Bell State Park I came across the obstacle pictured above. There seemed to be no way around it. However, instead of reversing (which would man giving up on the trail), I found a way to push through.

Consistency is not the key to winning and success, but it is one component. Show up every day, especially when you don’t want to. Do the grind, and pay the dues. You will find a reward . That’s the real lesson of the power of consistency.

2200 Pushups for Veteran Suicide Awareness

/ Greg Schaffer

On average, 17.6 veterans commit suicide daily, according to the 2024 National Veteran Suicide Prevention Annual Report. Veterans often return from service with issues that few understand. Many feel they have to suffer alone. While there have been some positive trends, such as suicide rates for Veterans age 18-34 decreased by 3.8%, the problem persists.

Mission 22 is a veteran-focused nonprofit with a mission to combat veteran suicide through awareness, treatment programs, and community support. The campaign began in 2013 from advertising agency CP+B and the nonprofit veteran organization Elder Heart, designed to open the eyes of the American public to the issue of what was then an average of 22 veteran suicides a day, according to Time Magazine.

Mission 22 has laid out a 2200 push up challenge for July. I’ve signed up for this because this cause is close to my heart. My primary goal is to raise awareness. Doing a bunch of push ups may seem on the surface to not do much, but for me it will help focus my awareness to help the mission of Mission 22. Maybe it’ll help your awareness, too. At the very least I ask for your support, well wishes, and prayers for strength and consistency. This is about 70 pushups a day, which is about 70 more than I usually do.

Of course, this is also a fundraiser, and I would love your help. Whether you donate $5 or $500, every bit counts. I’ve set an ambitious goal because I know that with support from people like you, I can get there. You can access my fundraiser on Facebook, and any amount is greatly appreciated.

Our service men and women keep our nation secure. We all enjoy the freedoms of this great nation because of their sacrifice. I hope you will consider helping them, whether through this fundraiser or other ways. They deserve it.

Reflecting on Two Years without Alcohol

/ Greg Schaffer

June 24, 2025, marks two years of sobriety for me. Funny, I didn’t use the “sober” word initially; it was just “I quit alcohol.” However, since then I’ve come to appreciate the sober lifestyle, and therefore the word. I feel it conveys a positive attitude, but more so it is representative of coming to reality with the truth that gripped me for many years. 

One aspect of this journey has been the number of former drinkers I have encountered who say enthusiastically, without reservation, that it was one of the best decisions they have ever made. In fact, I have yet to meet a former drinker who regrets quitting. The change in clarity in life, the enhanced perception of purpose, the shift in focus of priorities and use of discretionary time and money all are unparalleled.

These positive directional shifts don’t come without some darkness. I am more observant and aware of how alcohol slowly kills people. I’m not referring to physical death though inevitably alcohol leads down that path. One acquaintance from the early 2000s, a heavy drinker and functional alcoholic and by all measures successful in his career, said to his wife while in the ICU “how did I get here?” followed quickly by “I know how.” He was the second dead human body of someone I knew well that I had seen; his skin so yellow, as if someone had run a giant highlighter over all his skin. He died eyes shut, mouth open.  

No, here I refer to the gradual death of the true self, the person sacrificed to the altar of alcohol. Like a lobster slowly boiled to death, those so enslaved don’t recognize the gradual change to their core self. To them, all is fine, but to others, the change becomes noticeable, then impossible to dispute. The person dies to others without realizing they are ill.

I first encountered this phenomenon as a boy with my grandmother. To me, she had been the stereotypical kind grandmother type. I was shocked, confused, and scared the first time I saw a completely opposite person. Parents and others often hide stress of adult living from children, nor can the young brain process adult problems. As I came to understand later, she turned to alcohol under times of stress.

For years my mother warned me of the alcoholic gene, a biological predisposition for alcohol abuse (and self-medication is abuse), that she believes runs in her family. In my grandmother’s case, her physician had suggested a glass of wine in the evening to deal with the pain of losing her husband. If my mother was correct, that simple statement led to years of self-medication because of a vulnerability we carry.

I could see it was a possible risk for me, but I wasn’t bothered. I just saw it as part of who I was. I’m pretty much 100% German (or from that general area), and I love beer. That would seem to fit together. Besides, I believed alcohol consumption was a rite of passage of my early adult years in the 1980s. Pop culture at the time (for example, Animal House) certainly supported that narrative. I wanted to be a “cool kid” in college, likely to subconsciously compensate for social awkwardness in high school. 

It worked, but it was, in hindsight, an illusion. I wasn’t being myself. I hid who I truly was, the insecure but authentic Greg, in favor of the party Greg. The latter version of me proved to be much more popular. I think that’s how alcohol slowly kills the true nature of a person. Often the image created is more liked by others and therefore more secure to the drinker. The problem is obvious; that persona is fake, and ultimately both unsustainable and unfulfilling.

For me, it was initially the pain stemming from insecurity, then other pain, failure, betrayal, divorce, stress…I could go on. I didn’t realize that I had inherited the alcohol gene. More alcohol dulled the pain, and the cycle repeated. What else could that path lead to besides a web of false relationships? Hiding our true selves prevents us from building authentic connections. I see this much clearer in hindsight. Eventually the true self, suppressed by the personal alcohol or other drugs can provide, is in danger of ceasing to exist spiritually, mentally, and eventually physically. 

Unlike my functional alcoholic acquaintance of 20 plus years ago, that doesn’t have to be the end game though. Sometimes a health condition caused or worsened by alcohol consumption shakes one back to reality; that’s what happened to me. As I wrote about last year, an A-Fib warning from my Apple Watch early in the morning of June 24, 2023, was enough of a shaking from God for me to finally put it down for good. I decided that people may like or dislike the non-drinking me, but it would be the real me.

Today I am the authentic Greg. What you see is what you get. I have, only by the saving grace of God, been delivered from the shackles of alcohol misuse. I believe occasional alcohol use is fine (though likely no longer for me ever). However, when used for self-mediation, a line is crossed. The problem is most don’t see that they crossed a line, or even that such a line exists. I know I didn’t, not until I started to be brutally honest with myself. 

If you’ve seen yourself somewhere in this essay, I hope you have come to realize that enslavement doesn’t equate to losing the game. Everyone can find the way back to their authentic self, but you have to want to get well. You can drop the barriers and will likely be amazed how many people will support you. As I said; I have yet to meet someone who regrets quitting alcohol, or any other addiction that has shackled them.

A final word of consideration, though: be prepared to lose relationships. At least that is what it will appear as, but remember relationships based on masks, never seeing the identity kept hidden, are false. When you cast off what they knew you as, they may or may not like what they see. That’s okay. Often changing your circle of influencers is necessary when having the courage to reveal and live as your true self. Choosing authenticity is freedom. Choosing freedom is life.

Reflecting on a Year Without Alcohol, Part Three

/ Greg Schaffer

Today (June 24, 2024) marks one year since I had my last alcoholic drink. I have discussed two reasons, body and mind, in separate posts.

In this post, I focus on the spirit, the most important category both for reason and for results. However, unlike the first two posts where I listed sub-elements, here I must tell a story. Sit down, and take it in.

My Life Shattered

In late 1992 I experienced the worst hurt of my life. In an instant I saw my marriage end. I had married my college sweetheart, my best friend, my soulmate. I was totally in love with her, as happy as one can be. I absolutely adored her.

Saying I was devastated would be a severe understatement. I lost my identity, my purpose, my life. The angst was so powerful I couldn’t face the days.

I wanted to kill myself.

I wrote myself a note to convince myself not to commit suicide, knowing that it would get worse before it got better. That letter indeed did save my life not long after.

I went on a 30-something day drinking binge. The first couple of nights I stayed at a close friend’s place. The first night he stayed up with me all night, even though he had to work the next day, listening to me in my drunken sadness. Would I be here today without him? I’m not sure.

I lost a lot of weight. All I ate was salad, all I drank was beer and coffee. It was an effective weight loss diet, but I don’t recommend it. I think I dropped below 140 pounds.

I had been a regular partier for several years, but this was the point where I began regularly medicating myself with alcohol, using it as a crutch to deal with the pain. Even when I emerged from my initial shock and found days of sobriety again, whenever something would bother me, I would turn to my poison of choice, beer.

Forgiving, Not Forgetting

I did not realize that I had formed a habit of self-medicating though. I just thought, as I’m sure many others do, that I was just taking the edge off the pain.

But every time I thought of her, and it was (and continues to be, more on that in a bit) often, it stung. All those feelings that I suppressed with alcohol in that 30-plus day binge would surface. A few beers would dull the sharp, stabbing pain of the memories of what happened. A few more would kill it.

In the early 2000s we had a chance meeting that can only be accurately described as a divine intervention. She asked for forgiveness, and I replied, truthfully, that I had forgiven years earlier.

But forgetting is another story. I never forgot any aspect of our short time together. It was a foundational part of my life and helped build me into the person I am today. I believe there are very powerful reasons why our lives touched that I won’t go into detail here, but finding forgiveness on both sides was one of them.

I didn’t want to forget, yet remembering continued to bring stabs of pain. But post-June 24, 2023 (my last drink), I faced each memory when it hit with strength and will power. I won over the pain. I pushed it away. I did it all myself. Spock was my mentor.

Not a sustainable path.

A Test, and a Decision

Fast forward to September 2024. I returned to my college town (Buffalo, New York) to reunite with several fraternity brothers, most of whom I hadn’t seen or, for some, conversed with in over 30 years. If ever there was a test for my newfound (three month) sobriety, this was it.

It turned out to be a non-test. I enjoyed spending time with all of them at several bars and tailgating for a college football game, and I was the only non-drinker. It was like old times, except clearer, and with a cold glass of cranberry juice instead of beer in my hand.

But God knew my path was not sustainable, and that my arrogance was not justified. He tested me, and it was gut-wrenching.

The afternoon before heading out to meet up with friends, I decided to take a walk around the campus (my hotel was next door). As I walked the halls of the interconnected buildings, though, the memories came flooding back of things she and I used to do together. Meeting in Lockwood Library. Bagels and cream cheese in the breezeway. Greek life in Talbert. Notes left on windshields in parking lots.

I was walking the campus of the University of Buffalo in the same daze with the same, intense angst. It was literally as if 31 years had not passed. The pain felt as intense as it did that day when I wandered aimlessly in 1992 with no purpose and no hope.

I wanted a beer. No, I NEEDED a beer.

But I couldn’t do that. I knew God had been nudging me to quit drinking for some time. I saw the A-Fib warning as just one in an increasing escalation of messages that I had to stop turning to alcohol instead of Him.

And that is exactly what I did. I gave the pain of those memories to God in that moment, and I received His peace.

I can’t express how I felt, just to say that was another experience that showed me the truth of God’s love. I had been able to deflect the pain of thoughts of her during the first three months of sobriety by relying on my inner strength. But here God put me in a situation where I HAD to face it directly, and I HAD to make a choice. I chose Him.

As to the pain of when thoughts of her emerge, that also has subsided. Thoughts still occur, and I’m not sure why. Maybe back then I had programmed myself to think of her often, all those days and, even worse, the lonely nights when all I wanted was her back. Maybe you never stop thinking about your first love. Regardless of the reason, I am glad that we both found love and happy lives again, that we are brother and sister in Christ, and that I am free from the chains of alcohol to deal with the pain, because I have given the pain to God.

That is the most powerful reason why I continue my sobriety trek, not just because of the physical or mental benefits, but because I was given the choice to repent, and I did. Repent is the correct word, as it is a sin for a believer to turn from God, which is what I was doing with my alcohol habit. We as Christ-followers are not called to be so part time; we are to live our life for Christ. Jesus is not just our Savior; Jesus is Lord of our lives.

Turning the pain over to God strengthened an already solid marriage. Vicki, my wife of 15 years, helped me in my faith journey. Without her, I may not had arrived at the point where I could give make that choice. Therefore, without her, I might have taken that drink to dull the pain in Buffalo. I believe there are very powerful reasons why our lives touched as well, and this is one of them.

Finally

If you’re struggling with alcohol, perhaps you realize you’re using it to medicate as I did or maybe it’s stronger, a physical addiction, and you want to seek help but don’t know how, the most important step is the first one, making a move. It can be any move: reaching out to a friend, a pastor, your spouse, and so on. You are not alone. Even in the darkest of lows, God walks with us. All we have to do is turn to Him.

Reflecting on a Year Without Alcohol, Part Two

/ Greg Schaffer / 1 Comment

Today (June 4) is my 57th birthday. I’m starting this year off much healthier all around than when I began my 57th orbit, as I took my last drink of alcohol June 24, 2023.

There were reasons, of course, for giving up the habit, in three categories: body, mind, and spirit. In this three-part series, I discuss my reasons for and associated effects of quitting alcohol for each of these buckets. 

In part one, I discussed how alcohol affected my body and the resulting physical benefits. I also dived a bit deeper into my relationship history with alcohol. In this post, I focus on the mind.  

The Effects of Alcohol: The Mind 

For most of my decades-long dance with alcohol, particularly the latter part, my mind ill effects were confined to perceived increased productivity, perceived enhanced professional interaction, flirting with driving while intoxicated, and the wonderful experience of decompressing. The latter spans two buckets, mind and spirit, and was perhaps my biggest reason for the crutch of using alcohol. 

Productivity: I don’t know when I began the habit of working while at a bar. Perhaps it is rooted in my undergraduate days. In grad school (circa 2009) I would regularly work on my assignments while downing a few Sam Adams at an O’Charley’s on the route. More recently, later day typing on my laptop’s keyboard while downing a few pints at one of the local establishments near my office or at my desk taking advantage of Yuengling on tap in the workspace cafe for the taking. 

Why was this predominant? I had convinced myself that I could enhance productivity in the latter half of the day by “lubricating my brain”, tired from the stress of the day. At least, that’s what I told myself. I believe now that any increase in productivity was minimal and fueled by the desire to give myself an excuse to drink. After all, if I was working, then it would be acceptable, right? 

However, in the grand scheme of things, overall productivity suffered. 

Professional Interaction: For my entire career, one constant has been the prevalence of alcohol at conferences and other vendor-funded events. It makes sense after a long day of sessions, discussions with vendors, and walking, unwinding with colleagues with vendor-sponsored (i.e., free) drinks can be a welcome event. 

I think many see me as an extrovert, but I consider myself an introvert. I find (or used to find, as I’ll touch on later) initiating discussions with peers intimidating. I think introverts given extrovert appearances is common. Alcohol is a natural inhibitor of that negative feeling, and I found that after a drink or two (usually beer, sometimes red wine, never hard alcohol), I was more willing to have an open discussion, and people seemed more willing to talk to me. 

Yet I can recall many times when I regretted saying something, caught in the buzz, or heard myself slurring a but, or feeling the glazed eye look, either from me or at me. None of this felt too professional. Well before I stopped drinking, I began to pull away from these events. I’d leave conferences before the booth crawl, decline vendor after-hours events, and not accept vendor-sponsored executive networking dinners, where for the price of two or three hours (plus travel time) I could interact with many of my CISO peers while learning about the sponsors product. All that while enjoying a great dinner, with drinks, of course. 

I need to stress, though, that I don’t see anything wrong with these events. I just preferred to distance myself from them, because I didn’t care for the drinking (or the late hours). I learned to adopt a whole different approach to these events, though. More on that shortly. 

Decompress: I’m going to touch more on this subject as part of part three of this series, spirit considerations. However, decompressing more immediately involved shutting down stress in my mind. 

In the middle of my career, I took a chance and accepted a position that proved to be in a toxic situation. I knew it was a mistake by the third month. While my previous position had yet to be filled, pride prevented me from asking for my job back. I was stuck in a terrible environment, and my morale (and health) suffered. 

Often, probably at least three of the five days of the work week, I would stop at some bar on the way home for at least a couple of pints. I had a few favorite watering holes, often dependent on distance from home and the need to destress. I don’t believe I was ever physically addicted to alcohol but those days my mind needed the drinks. They served as a firewall separating the ugliness of the day from the home’s sanctuary. 

Driving: I had learned to manage my drinking if I was going to drive later. Generally, for men, blood alcohol content (BAC) increases 0.2% for each 12-ounce regular beer (around 4% alcohol). The body metabolizes 0.2% per hour beginning after the first hour. Therefore, I could have four pints in 3 hours and legally be fine: 4 pints at 16 ounces each equates to 5.333 regular-sized (12 ounce) beers, which produces a calculated BAC of 0.67% (5.333 times 0.2%), then subtract the alcohol metabolized, 0.4% at 0.2% per hour, first hour excluded). This was below the legal limit of 0.8% with a decent margin. 

My decompress stops, therefore, involved time and drink calculations. At least mathematically, I would be below the legal limit. Some would call this rationalization. 

All of this is only playing with numbers while discounting the cumulative effect of alcohol. Impairment doesn’t suddenly go from nothing to significant at 0.8% BAC. Many times, I felt while driving my reaction time was reduced, but I rationalized the habit anyway, so long as I was legal. Thank God I didn’t get into an accident, or worse. 

Mind Changes 

My productivity vastly increased gradually the first month I was sober. I attributed this to better rest and more positive body chemistry overall. I found myself getting up earlier, until today I routinely wake up at 4:30 AM and am at the office at 6 AM (as I write this sentence, it’s 4:47 AM). I joke that I get more done by 9 AM than most complete in a day of work. That’s how productive I feel. 

The time before dawn is wonderful, filled with peaceful serenity that many do not regularly experience. I use it to clear my mind for the day’s tasks ahead. I’m blessed that each morning I get to look forward to a day of doing what I love to do, and I want to experience it as fully as possible. These days won’t last forever. 

Professionally, I enjoy the clarity of mind when interacting with colleagues and others. I was put to the test early on when I was invited to a reception welcoming the new dean of the Jones College of Business at Middle Tennessee State University last summer. I found myself next to the free drinks bar, a cold, droplet-covered bottle of Sam Adams on top of the portable mini-bar seemingly staring me down, but I did not flinch. That day, cranberry juice became my go-to at events where alcohol is prevalent. Of course, that eliminated any driving concerns as well. My only worry now is if an event is later, as I tend to start winding down by 8 PM since I wake so early. 

Most importantly, I am much less anxious nowadays. A significant part of this is the abstaining from alcohol, but improvements in diet and maintaining regular exercise play major roles. I find the need to decompress much less prevalent because of these changes. 

In part three, I’ll discuss the most important leg of this triad, the spiritual detriments from drinking and the changes abstinence have brought. While body and mind considerations were important and changes in those areas have been significant, it is my spiritual well-being that benefitted the most from this change. 

Reflecting on a Year Without Alcohol, Part One

/ Greg Schaffer / 2 Comments

I took my last drink of alcohol June 24, 2023.

I had been a regular drinker for pretty much my adult life. I don’t remember consuming my first beer, but my one and only one experience with Mad Dog 2020, the first time I recall getting vomit-inducing drunk, was when I was 17, and therefore my relationship with alcohol lasted about 40 years. I never kept count of how much I drank beyond ensuring I wouldn’t pass the legal limit for driving. My guess is I averaged four pints, five times a week, though I’m sure I often exceeded that. 

While I had given up alcohol in the past for stretches (I believe the longest was six months), this time I knew it was likely permanent, at least to the extent of how I related to alcohol. I divorced the routine; the relationship had died. There were reasons, of course, for giving up the habit (and it was a habit; I may not have been physically addicted, but I certainly was using alcohol as a crutch). Those reasons, and their effects, fall in three buckets: body, mind, and spirit. In this three-part series, I will discuss my reasons for and associated effects of quitting alcohol for each of these buckets. 

This post focuses on the body. 

The Effects of Alcohol: The Body 

For most of my decades-long dance with alcohol, my ill effects were confined to hangovers and battling weight gain. It would be later when another, potentially more serious physical effect entered the equation, one that would serve as the ultimate trigger for giving alcohol up completely. 

Weight: Weight management has been a struggle for me my entire life. Early on, I took to running as a solution, and accelerated the activity when I began drinking regularly. I also took up smoking as a teenager, therefore running became a way to try to stay neutral. I would work out with weights and run a few miles just so that I could drink and smoke guilt-free. One would balance the other. It worked for years, but ultimately was not a sustainable strategy. I don’t recommend it. 

However, no amount of working out could effectively counter the extra calories from alcohol and, sometimes, the associated “death dogs” (those things posing as meat spinning on chrome rollers at 7-Eleven) and other late-night meals. As a college student though it was easy to cut out calories in other areas, as dining funds were limited. I learned to limit real food to make room for beer calories and carbs. 

Weight management gets more difficult as we age, though. My metabolism seemed to drop significantly at age 30, resulting in slow weight gain over the years. If I hadn’t been a regular runner, I believe I would have had a serious obesity problem. 

In the latter years of my drinking, I had whittled alcohol down to mainly Michelob Ultra as a strategy to maintain weight, with an occasional flirtation with Samuel Adams or Yuengling, the latter because it was freely available on tap in our office suite. 

Hangovers: I could have the worst hangovers, manifested as a horrible headache right behind my eyes. Some of these became migraines, for which I was prescribed a drug that would, within a half-hour, almost completely eliminate the migraine. While the drug left me quite loopy, it did provide a license to continue to test the boundaries with drinking. 

Eventually I learned (by listening to my body) that the root cause of these hangover headaches was dehydration, with a mix of low electrolytes. This, I began to alternate water with my Michelob Ultras (which some beer drinkers consider only a small step above water anyway). 

PAC: I could live with the weight management challenges and occasional hangovers, both which I learned to manage. But it was the PACs (Pre-Atrial Contractions) that led me to stop cold turkey. A PAC is an extra, early heartbeat that originates outside the upper heart chambers, which then resets the sinus rhythm. PACs in themselves are benign, so long as the burden (percentage of beats) is low. However, they can lead to Atrial Fibrillation (A-Fib), a condition where the heart beats irregularly and can lead to a stroke, or worse. 

My first encounter with PACs was the night after my stepfather’s funeral in 2022. My heart would beat two or three times, then skip a beat (or so I thought), then repeat. Much internet research led to the PAC self-diagnosis, further confirmed by two doctors and a cardiologist. The latter reassured me it wasn’t anything to be concerned about, but I knew my body. Something had changed. 

I began experimenting with diet and supplement changes, a long process. The silver bullet, which literally was very effective overnight, was to add taurine and l-arginine supplements to my daily routine. I also increased sodium supplements (LMNT is great), and removed alcohol from my diet. While I’ve made other adjustments to supplements and diet, these were the most impactful. Adding the supplements helped make me less susceptible to PACs and removing the triggers (namely, alcohol) reduced the conditions that resulted in PACs. 

I had reached a point where I could control my condition. For several months, I knew that drinking could (and usually did) trigger PACs (yet not nearly as intense as before the taurine, l-arginine, and sodium strategy), but I was able to continue enjoying beer, so long as the PACs didn’t get worse or trigger A-Fib. 

I received my first, and only, A-Fib warning from my Apple Watch (a great piece of technology), on June 24, 2023. That was a line I would not cross, and that day any beer, including non-alcoholic, that I had at the house, I dumped down the drain. I have not had an A-Fib warning since, and I am very thankful that I had been given a chance to turn around. 

Physical Changes 

After over eleven months without alcohol, I can say the most significant, and most welcome, benefit is the quality of my sleep. I routinely have the best nights of sleep. I cannot overemphasize how important and impactful this has been for my overall well-being. This alone is a powerful motivator to not return to drinking. I don’t want to give up my awesome sleep. 

I’ve developed a sweet tooth and enjoy ice cream (keto usually) on a regular basis. I also changed from drinking black coffee to adding creamer and sweetener (usually stevia). Because of that, I didn’t experience much fluctuation in my weight either way. I replaced carbs with carbs. 

I saw no significant change in blood pressure or running (my slowdown is age and mileage related). 

My daily PAC burden was probably around 15-20% at its worst. While it’s been a while since I’ve tested (I bought a Holter monitor as part of my strategy to learn what changes work), I’d guess my burden is less than 1%. 

Finally, among the most noticeable changes, I no longer have hangovers, and headaches are infrequent.

All of these changes have greatly benefitted my quality of life. However, as I mentioned in the beginning of the post, the physical aspect was but one of three that factored into my decision to retire alcohol. In part two, I’ll discuss the mental reasons and benefits.