Ever since the eighth grade, I can honestly say I cut out

In the days of our ancestors, wisdom was often hidden in simple acts — a stone cast upon still waters, a breath withheld before the storm. So too does the saying of Eric Reid, “Ever since the eighth grade, I can honestly say I cut out carbonated drinks from my diet and started focusing on hydrating my body well. It's a message that needs to get out, especially in the south,” reveal more than mere discipline; it speaks of awakening — the turning of one’s spirit toward balance, self-mastery, and respect for the temple of the body.

In this utterance lies the seed of renunciation, a lesson old as the sands of Egypt and the scrolls of Greece. For in rejecting the sweet poison of carbonated drinks, Eric Reid does not merely abandon a beverage — he defies a culture of indulgence. In youth, where pleasure calls with the voice of convenience, his choice stands as an act of rebellion against decay. The ancients would say: “He who rules his thirst rules his destiny.” To discipline one’s appetite is to seize dominion over the flesh, and thus open the path toward inner sovereignty.

The South, of which Reid speaks, is a land of warmth — not only of climate, but of heart and heritage. Yet its air is heavy with tradition, and its tables overflow with sugar and indulgence. His words, then, are not only personal; they are prophetic. They call out to his people — that they awaken from the sleep of custom and see that strength is not in the sweetness that soothes, but in the water that renews. As the prophets of old spoke against idols of gold, so does he speak against the idols of consumption that enslave the modern soul.

Consider, for a moment, the tale of Diogenes of Sinope, who lived in a barrel and scorned excess. When Alexander the Great stood before him and asked what he desired, Diogenes replied: “Stand out of my sunlight.” For what he sought was not more — but less. So too does Reid, in his own age, turn from the shimmering cans of modern pleasure and choose the simplicity of clear water. In that clarity lies freedom — the freedom to act, to think, to live unclouded by the intoxication of habit.

The heroism of such a choice is quiet but profound. It is not shouted in battlefields, but whispered each day in the kitchen, the store, the schoolyard. To choose hydration over temptation is to make war on apathy — to declare that one’s health, one’s life, and one’s purpose are sacred. The ancients knew that every drop of water carries the essence of life; to drink it mindfully is to commune with creation itself. The body, nourished rightly, becomes a vessel of endurance; the mind, cleansed of excess, becomes a mirror of truth.

Yet the lesson extends beyond drink or diet. It is about discipline in all things — of choosing light over shadow, purity over pollution, the eternal over the fleeting. Each of us has our “carbonated drink,” that small indulgence which dulls the edge of the soul. To renounce it, as Reid did, is to declare that we will not be ruled by what we crave, but by what we are becoming. It is an act of quiet revolution — the kind that transforms generations.

Therefore, let this teaching be carried like a flame: purify what enters your body, your mind, and your heart. Replace noise with silence, excess with essence, and neglect with nourishment. Drink water not only for the body, but for the soul — that you may become clear, calm, and unyielding as a mountain spring. In doing so, you follow not merely Eric Reid, but the wisdom of the ages: that mastery of self is the first victory, and from it all others flow.