An Interview with Aaron Nolan

Aaron Nolan is a single father, entrepreneur, and writer focused on one overlooked subject: single dad burnout.

He didn’t study burnout in a classroom. He lived it. Years of constant responsibility, financial pressure, and emotional isolation pushed him into survival mode, the kind where you’re still functioning, still providing, but slowly losing access to patience, presence, and yourself.

What Aaron discovered is that most burned-out single dads aren’t depressed or broken. They’re neurologically overloaded. Burnout, in his experience, is not a failure of character but a survival response to prolonged pressure without recovery.

Through his writing and work at ProvideOrDie.com, Aaron challenges the mental health narratives that tell men to ‘just rest’ or ‘talk it out’ without addressing systems, agency, and control. His approach blends lived experience, biology-backed insights, and practical recovery strategies that respect the realities of fatherhood, work, and responsibility.

Aaron is currently writing The Single Dad’s Little Black Book of Burnout, a practical companion for fathers under pressure. Part education, part field guide, the book is designed to be carried, referenced, and used, not just read.

When he’s not writing, Aaron helps single dads build simple service-based income systems that reduce pressure and restore time, believing that recovery doesn’t come from escape, but from stability.

His work speaks to fathers who are still standing, still showing up, and quietly wondering how much longer they can keep doing it this way.

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What inspired you to start writing this book?

I didn’t start writing this book because I wanted to be an author. I started because I couldn’t find anything that accurately described what I was experiencing as a single father.

Everything I read framed burnout as depression, weakness, or something that required stepping away from responsibility. None of that matched reality. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t unmotivated. I was exhausted from constant pressure, nonstop decision-making, and carrying responsibility without margin.

I was still functioning. Still providing. Still showing up for my kids. But my patience was thinner, my emotional range was shrinking, and I felt like I was living in a permanent state of alertness. Survival mode.

What finally clicked was realizing that burnout wasn’t the problem. It was the body’s response to prolonged pressure without recovery. Once I understood that, the question stopped being “What’s wrong with me?” and became “What system am I running that makes this inevitable?”

I began writing as a way to document what actually helped: restoring control, reducing decision load, and rebuilding stability instead of chasing motivation or escape. The book grew out of that process.

The Single Dad’s Little Black Book of Burnout exists because too many fathers are quietly carrying more than they’re meant to carry, and the advice they’re being given doesn’t respect the reality of their lives. I wanted to create something honest, practical, and usable. A companion for men who are still in the fight and need something that works in real time.

Tell us the story of your book’s current title. Was it easy to find, or did it take forever?

The title came faster than I expected, but only because the idea behind it had been forming for a long time.

I kept coming back to the image of a little black book, not as something polished or performative, but as something personal and practical. The kind of book you keep close because it contains what actually matters. Notes you trust. Reminders you need when things get heavy.

Burnout doesn’t show up when life is calm. It shows up in the middle of pressure, when you don’t have time to sift through theories or inspirational language. You need something direct. Something you can open, reference, and use.

Calling it The Single Dad’s Little Black Book of Burnout felt honest. It signals that this isn’t a motivational book or a memoir. It’s a companion. Part explanation, part field guide. Something meant to be worn in, not displayed.

I considered other titles, but they all felt like they were explaining burnout from the outside. This one felt like it came from inside the experience. Once that clicked, the title stopped changing. It didn’t feel clever. It felt accurate.

In that sense, it didn’t take forever to find, but it took a long time to earn.

Describe your dream book cover.

I’ve always imagined the book as intentionally minimal. Almost understated.

The cover itself would be solid black, matte, with no imagery competing for attention. Just clean, confident typography. The kind of book that doesn’t try to explain itself from across the room but draws you in once you notice it.

What makes it stand out isn’t the front cover, but how it’s built to be used. I picture color-coded thumb tabs along the edge, each one corresponding to a section of the book. Education, recovery, systems, field guide. Something that lets a reader find what they need quickly, especially in moments when focus is limited.

I also imagine a few ribbon bookmarks built in – not decorative, but functional. One for the educational sections, one for the field guide, and one to mark a page that matters to the reader personally. The idea is that this isn’t a book you read once and shelve. It’s something you return to.

Even the shape matters to me. A small black square instead of the traditional rectangle. Compact. Solid. Easy to carry. It should feel more like a tool than a book.

Overall, I want it to feel calm, grounded, and intentional. A quiet object that communicates, without words, that it was designed for someone under pressure.

If your book had a soundtrack, what are some songs that would be on it?

The soundtrack wouldn’t be loud or motivational. It would be steady.

Most of the songs would carry a sense of pressure, movement, and resolve rather than triumph. Music you can think to, drive to, or sit with at night after the house goes quiet.

Artists like Johnny Cash, especially his later work, would be there. Not for nostalgia, but for the weight and honesty in his voice. Songs that sound like someone who’s carried responsibility for a long time.

There’d be some Nine Inch Nails, not the aggressive tracks, but the restrained, methodical ones. Music that mirrors the internal grind of burnout and the slow process of regaining control.

I’d include Chris Stapleton for the rawness. Songs that acknowledge struggle without asking for sympathy.

There would also be instrumental pieces. Minimal piano, ambient tracks, or slow-building scores. The kind of music that doesn’t demand attention but creates space. Burnout recovery isn’t about hype. It’s about lowering the noise enough to hear yourself think again.

Overall, the soundtrack would feel like endurance. Quiet resolve. Forward motion without drama. Music that understands pressure and doesn’t flinch from it.

What books are you reading (for research or comfort) as you continue the writing process?

Reading used to be one of my favorite things. I’d read for enjoyment, curiosity, escape. Burnout took that from me.

Now, I don’t really read for pleasure. My nervous system won’t allow it. If something doesn’t feel directly useful, my mind labels it as wasted time. That’s one of the quieter symptoms of burnout people don’t talk about. Joy gets replaced by efficiency.

So the books I’m reading now are mostly for study and survival.

I’m revisiting material on stress physiology and nervous system regulation, not casually, but with intent. Books that explain how prolonged pressure affects cognition, emotional range, and decision-making. I’m drawn to work that treats burnout as a biological response rather than a personal failure.

I also read books on systems, simplicity, and control. Not productivity in the hustle sense, but frameworks that reduce decision load and restore agency. Anything that helps explain why less chaos equals more capacity.

Occasionally, I’ll return to books that feel grounded rather than inspiring. Authors who write plainly about responsibility, endurance, and meaning without optimism as a selling point. Those books don’t feel like an escape. They feel like reinforcement.

Right now, reading isn’t a pastime. It’s a tool. I’m okay with that.

Part of writing this book is accepting where I am in the recovery process, not pretending I’m somewhere else. If joy returns to reading later, I’ll welcome it. For now, focus is what keeps me steady, and this work feels important enough to deserve it.

What other professions have you worked in? What’s something about you that your readers wouldn’t know?

I’ve worked in a range of hands-on, responsibility-heavy roles, the kind where if you don’t show up or don’t think clearly, things break or people are affected. Those environments taught me how pressure accumulates quietly and how systems either support you or slowly grind you down.

A lot of my professional life has revolved around building, fixing, and maintaining things. Service work, problem-solving, and making sure something functions the way it’s supposed to. That mindset carries into my writing. I don’t think in terms of inspiration. I think in terms of what actually works.

Something readers probably wouldn’t know is that I’m not naturally drawn to talking about myself. Writing this book isn’t an act of self-expression for me. It’s more like documentation. I’m writing down what I wish I’d had access to when I was deep in burnout and couldn’t afford to experiment or guess my way out.

I’m also far more comfortable with structure than spontaneity. I relax when systems are clear and responsibilities are defined. Chaos costs me energy. That self-awareness didn’t come naturally. It came from hitting limits and paying attention to what happened when I ignored them.

Those experiences shape how I approach burnout. Not as something to feel your way through, but something to understand, respect, and recover from intentionally.

Who/what made you want to write? Was there a particular person, or particular writers/works/art forms that influenced you?

I’ve always known I was a writer, but I feel pushed more toward helping than entertaining. It’s not enough for me to tell a story – I want it to make a difference. Finding your purpose is a remarkable thing, but most of us discover it in ways we wish we didn’t have to.

For me, that discovery came through burnout. I lived it, learned from it, and realized that the insights that saved me weren’t just for me – they could help others. When a person is cured from something, I believe they should share the cure. That’s what drives me.

Love is why I write, and writing is how I live that love. It’s how I show up for single dads who are under pressure, carrying too much alone. Writing allows me to turn my experience into something practical, something usable, something that restores hope and control.

Where is your favorite place to write?

This is almost funny, because as a single dad, you can’t really go anywhere without your kids. Writing uninterrupted is rare. But here’s the thing: my favorite place to write isn’t about the location – it’s about the time.

I wake up at 3 a.m., when the kids are sleeping, and I dedicate three hours entirely to my purpose and passion. That could be in the bathroom, on the back porch, or sprawled on the couch.

Sure, in a perfect world, I’d write in a small personal office hidden in the middle of an enchanted forest. But honestly, I prefer to write anywhere that lets me keep an eye – or an ear – on my sleeping children. Because when my writing time is over, my dad duties begin.

Writing has to coexist with life, and for me, that makes it sharper, more urgent, and more meaningful.

What advice would you give your past self at the start of your writing journey?

I’d tell myself to start with purpose, not perfection. I spent too much time questioning whether anyone would care, whether I had the right words, or whether I was ‘qualified’ to write about burnout. The truth is, you only become qualified by living it – and then showing up anyway.

I’d also tell myself to trust the small blocks of time. I couldn’t escape life as a single dad, and I couldn’t wait for perfect conditions. But even thirty minutes, or a few hours at 3 a.m., compounds. Consistency matters more than grand gestures.

Finally, I’d remind myself to share what actually works, not what sounds impressive. People don’t need advice they’ve already heard – they need insight that makes life manageable. That’s what writing is for: turning experience into usable, honest guidance.

Most of all, I’d tell myself to stop waiting for approval. The people who need this book are already out there. They don’t care about polish – they care about truth, clarity, and survival.

What’s one thing you hope sticks with readers after they finish your book?

I hope readers finish the book knowing this: burnout isn’t a personal failure – it’s a survival system that can be understood, respected, and recovered from.

I want them to realize that the exhaustion, irritability, and emotional numbness they feel doesn’t mean they’re weak or broken. It means they’ve been operating under constant pressure without the tools to manage it. That awareness alone changes everything – it shifts the conversation from guilt to action.

More than theory, I want them to take away practical systems they can implement immediately. Small actions that reduce pressure, restore control, and make fatherhood feel possible again.

And finally, I want them to leave with the quiet confidence that they’re not alone, and recovery isn’t abstract – it’s achievable. That’s the message that sticks with me as a writer, and it’s what I hope sticks with every dad who opens this book.

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Are you a writer, too? Submit your manuscript to Atmosphere Press.