Without Condition.

I may not have much. Most days I’m holding it together with no sleep, self-doubt, and beta blockers. But whatever I’ve got—it’s yours. Not out of obligation. Not for a thank you. Just because that’s what service is. Service goes beyond the restaurants and bars we work in. That’s what love really looks like when you strip away the nonsense and the childhood bullshit. It’s how I want to connect. It’s how I try to communicate. It’s my love language—quiet, consistent, and often misunderstood.

I used to think hospitality was about timing a steak just right, folding napkins sharp, and smiling through the storm. Now I know it’s bigger than that. Deeper. It’s not just something you do during a shift. It’s how you move through the world. It’s checking in. It’s listening without fixing. It’s picking up the slack without needing to be seen doing it. It’s letting someone fall apart in front of you without flinching.

Hospitality isn’t reserved for tables and tips. It shows up in how you treat your friends when they’ve got nothing left. It’s driving across town at midnight because someone didn’t have anyone else to call. It’s noticing the small things—how someone takes their coffee, when they stop texting back, when the silence is louder than usual. It’s giving without needing a return.

Sobriety taught me that. Not in a flash of light or some dramatic come-to-Jesus moment. But slowly. Through the hard, sober mornings and long, quiet nights. Through learning to sit with myself when I didn’t want to be around me. Through therapy. Through pain. Through silence. Under all the noise—addiction, anger, burnout—was this basic truth: I only feel whole when I’m being useful to someone else.

Not in some savior bullshit way. Just... useful. Needed. Grounded. Being the one who shows up. The one who listens. The one who gives a shit even when no one else does. Even if they don’t know they need it. Especially then.

Lately, I’ve been working on myself—really working. And it’s ugly. My inner critic is loud, mean, and persuasive. So I’ve been trying to shut that fucker up long enough to practice some kind of self-love. I'm trying not to doubt others. Not to doubt myself. Because if you want to grow, if you want to feel like you’re present, you’ve got to practice service. To others. To yourself. It’s not optional—it’s vital to surviving this world with your soul intact.

And it’s how I want to continue showing love. As a father to my son. As a potential partner or husband. As a son to my parents, to my coworkers, my friends, and to myself. Being useful—is something I just wasn’t for most of my life. I was a selfish drunk. I was only looking out for me. And the universe said, “Ok, bet.” It humbled the shit out of me. Took everything and left me with the truth. Now? I think differently. I move differently. Or at least I try to. I'm learning to be a man who contributes something good to the people around him. Not just chaos and apologies. But something useful.

But man, some days you give so much of yourself to others that you forget there’s anything left. And you sit there, depleted, thinking, “I’m giving everything and I’m not getting shit back.” And yeah—it hurts. But I’m learning that part of the work is accepting that. Letting it fuel you instead of flatten you. That’s the part I fucking struggle with. Work in progress.

But here's what I keep telling myself—if you can be useful to others, you can also be useful to yourself. Take your own advice, for fuck’s sake. (As I literally yell this at myself in the mirror.) Accept the love you give. The patience. The effort. That shit you hand out like its nothing—save a little for yourself. Maybe, just maybe, if you give it without condition, the universe will give it back. Not right away. Not in the form you expected. But it does come back. I believe that. I have to believe that.

But here’s the thing I’m learning, slow and ugly and real: service isn’t supposed to give you anything back. That’s the beauty of it. The point of service is that it doesn’t need to be returned. It just is. Like a breath.

It’s not about the recognition or the Instagram shoutout. Real service is silent. It’s showing up even when you’re barely holding it together yourself—because you know what it feels like to be alone in it.

Unconditional love and unconditional service—maybe they’re not the same, but they walk side by side. They’re cut from the same cloth: raw, inconvenient, sometimes thankless. But they offer something else—something more real than anything else I’ve ever known: peace. Clarity. That flicker of warmth in your chest that says, “You’re still human. You still matter. You’re still here.”

So if I’ve got anything worth giving, I’ll give it. No strings. No scoreboard. No expectations. Just—take it. Use it. Heal with it. Burn it down if you need to. Whatever helps you make it through your next shift, next day, next disaster.

What’s mine is yours.

Keep walkin’.

—Tony