When the dinner rush hits, time doesn’t really exist anymore. The tickets start coming in, the kitchen gets loud, and the outside world disappears. For a few hours, it’s just me, the crew, and the rhythm of service.
There’s no time to overthink. No time to worry. No time for my brain to run through every random thought it can possibly come up with.
I just cook. I just fucking go.
For someone like me, whose mind is constantly moving, that feeling is hard to explain. The kitchen gives me something I’ve always struggled to find: peace.
This is where I feel the most focused. During service, I’m completely locked in. I’m not thinking about yesterday, worrying about tomorrow, or getting stuck inside my own head. I’m just there, doing the job in front of me.
People call this “flow.” It’s that feeling where you’re so focused on something that you lose track of time and everything else disappears. For me, the dinner rush has always been where I find that.
After getting sober, I started trying to understand my ADHD better. For years, alcohol was how I dealt with my brain. It was how I turned down the noise and gave myself a break from my own thoughts.
But when I quit drinking, I had to find something else.
Something healthier. Something real.
The kitchen gave me that.
The dinner rush does something for me that nothing else really does. It takes all the energy, the ideas, and the constant movement in my head and gives it somewhere productive to go.
I was diagnosed with ADHD in high school, which probably doesn’t surprise anyone who knows me.
Back then, the answer was medication. I was prescribed things like 150 mg of Concerta, and while it slowed me down, it also felt like it took away parts of who I was.
I remember sitting in class and literally drooling because I was so zoned out.
I wasn’t as funny. I wasn’t as creative. I wasn’t the loud kid with a million ideas anymore. I felt like I was watching myself from the outside, and I hated it.
So I stopped taking them.
Now that I’m a father, I think about those years a lot.
My son is still young, but I already see pieces of myself in him. The energy, the curiosity, the way his brain works. Sometimes it scares me because I know what it feels like to be told you’re too much.
I don’t want him to grow up thinking there is something wrong with him because he thinks differently.
I want him to embrace the things that make him unique. I want to guide him without making him feel like he needs to become someone else.
When he’s being imaginative, goofy, or full of energy, I try to remember what I needed when I was his age.
Someone to understand me.
That’s a big reason why Dinner Rush means so much to me.
It’s my outlet.
It’s where I can take all these ideas bouncing around in my head and actually turn them into something real. The clothing, the community, the writing, the conversations. It gives all that energy somewhere to go.
The dinner rush has always been where I find clarity. The noise, the pressure, and the chaos somehow make sense. I get the same feeling when I’m creating, designing, or building something.
It’s the same feeling I used to chase with alcohol, but without the regret afterward.
It feels earned.
I think a lot of people spend years thinking the things that make them different are the things holding them back. The weird ideas, the restless energy, the things that don’t fit neatly into a box.
Maybe those are the things that make us who we are.
Find your outlet.
Maybe it’s cooking. Maybe it’s writing, music, art, sports, or something else entirely. Whatever it is, don’t let people convince you that the things you care about don’t matter.
Use what makes you different.
Make mistakes. Learn from them. Keep creating.
In the kitchen, in creating, and in making mistakes, I’ve found my peace. I’ve found my purpose.
And I hope you find yours too.
Peace.
