you have the remote, you can switch the channel
Last night, I wrapped up a solid day with my brother. We’d been working together all day, caught up in a rhythm so good it kept my mind off something that had been eating at me—a situation that stirred up too much heartache and discomfort. I didn’t want the night to end, didn’t want to part ways and have all those thoughts creep back in, tearing at me the minute I was alone. So I suggested we hit this chill spot just down the street.
He hesitated at first, but I convinced him, and soon enough, we stumbled into something unexpected—a live jazz performance. And it was nothing short of magic. The musicians on stage weren’t just playing; they were fully alive in each note. You could see it on their faces, in the way their bodies moved, like they were completely at the mercy of their instruments. Watching them, I felt this pull to let go of everything weighing me down, to surrender to the music and let myself get lost in the moment.
The scene was surreal. The dim, red-tinted lights inside cast a soft glow around each musician, and from outside, the streetlight framed them in a kind of halo. I closed my eyes, and I could feel the entire room around me—the trumpet on the left, the bass in the center, the drummer holding down the right, all blending in a rhythm that made the space feel alive, like it was breathing with us.
Amid this, I noticed a man who seemed just as lost in the music as I was. He didn’t have that glazed, passive look you sometimes see. Instead, there was a light in his eyes, a joy that went all the way down to his soul. I guessed he was maybe in his late 40s, early 50s tops. But when the music wrapped up, the musicians and everyone else in the bar started talking, and I learned this guy was turning 71.
It genuinely blew my mind. Usually, when someone asks, “How old do you think I am?” there’s that automatic response—you shave off a few years to make them feel good. But this wasn’t that. The man looked young. His only wrinkles were from years of smiling.
Someone asked him, “What’s your secret?” And he just grinned and said, “Be present. Be joyful. There’s nothing in this world worth stressing over.” Then he leaned in, eyes sparkling with a truth so simple it hit like a revelation.
“You have the remote. You can switch the channel.”
I couldn’t shake those words. You have the remote. You can switch the channel. It’s as easy as a button. Feeling overwhelmed, feeling stuck? You have a choice. You don’t have to be where you are; you can choose something better. It was almost comical the way he said it, like of course it’s that simple. And maybe it is.
To anyone going through something dark, drowning in sorrow that feels too big to understand—there is hope. But it’s not something we have to wait for or stumble upon. It’s as close as that remote in our hand.
It hit me that we really do hold the controls. You can sit with the pain, let it weigh you down, or you can choose joy, presence, and growth. You can look around and see beauty—in the people who love you, in the future that’s still yours to shape, in the intricate, boundless dance between you and this universe. You can choose to stay tuned to the frequency of pain, or you can get up, make a conscious decision, and say, “I’m switching the channel. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
It’s a choice we make, moment to moment. And the happiest man alive reminded me of that.
The power is always ours.
