I am not found on maps, but I determine where you’re headed. I am built, not bought. And without me, you’re just busy. What am I?

I’ve got $1.1 million tucked away in my retirement account, a mortgage-free house with white shutters in the suburbs outside Columbus, and three grown kids with college diplomas hanging on their walls — all paid for by years of sweat and overtime. By every measure this country keeps, I’m a success. I played the game, and I won. So why did I feel like the loneliest man in Ohio last Sunday? My name’s Tom Bennett, sixty-eight years old, retired electrician with the IBEW. I spent forty-two years crawling through attics, wiring basements, and freezing my fingers off on job sites. My hands are scarred, my knees crack like old floorboards, and my back’s been complaining since Reagan was in office. But I always held my head high — because I worked for what I had. Everything. My wife, Linda, has been gone for seven years now. Cancer took her slow and cruel, like a thief who keeps coming back until there’s nothing left to steal. She used to sit across from me at the kitchen table, humming some old Fleetwood Mac tune, telling me not to “hover” while she set out dinner. She always overcooked the rolls, and I never had the heart to tell her. Her chair is still there. Same spot, same cushion. I can’t move it. I tried once and had to stop halfway. It felt like dragging her ghost. Last Sunday, for the first time in ages, all three of my kids came home for dinner. The first time since Linda’s funeral, if I’m honest. I spent all Saturday getting ready — polished the silverware, wiped down the table, made her pot roast from the recipe she scribbled in faded ink years ago. I even baked her cornbread — the one that always crumbled when you cut it but still tasted like heaven. I thought maybe, just for one night, I could bring back that old feeling. That noise. That warmth. They showed up right around five. The house filled with voices, and for a moment, I felt young again. First in the door was Michael, my oldest — forty-one, suit-and-tie, finance world kind of guy. He gave me a quick hug while opening his laptop on the counter. “Markets don’t sleep, Dad,” he said, half-smiling, eyes glued to the glowing screen.

My Win 🌿 Before my quick trip to Minnesota over the weekend, I sent out a few samples to people who wanted to try what I have and give me feedback. The first version looked nice but felt cold—like I was pushing information instead of sharing a gift. On my flight home, I felt God open my mind to a better way. The next package I created felt warm, personal, and filled with heart—just the way it should be. I’ve realized I don’t need to chase or convince anyone. Just like the Savior, I can invite—not force. My job is to share, let people feel cared for, and leave a lasting impression of kindness. Six months from now, when someone’s ready for a change, I hope they’ll remember that feeling. 💚 Thank you to this group for inspiring me to do things differently—and for supporting my growth. Every sample shared not only helps someone but also helps me nourish a child around the world. 🌎

I have two journals I’d like to publish. 1. My transformation journal 2. A three year homesteader/prepper journal to see how the writer is progressing through the years I don’t know the first thing about how to proceed. I have the journals basically written and somewhat formatted, but that’s the end of what I know to do. I’d love help and direction to move them along.

I encourage you to roll out the welcome mat for these new Rapid Transformers. Share your stories of growth and what this group has done for you. @James Colistra @Roland Salas @Ce Faulk @Dave Razo @Alex Colhoun @Alexander Kant @Jason Wright @Alisia Essig @Jane Alvaro Tell us what you do and where you are from. 😃