It was time for bed. Or at least time to start getting ready. We set a five-minute timer. And the moment it started, my son lit up. He wasn’t easing into anything. And he was not winding down. No “let’s just chill for a second.” He went straight to work. He started pulling games off the shelf that had no business being opened with five minutes left. I said no to games so he started setting up an obstacle course that would’ve taken twenty minutes just to create. A flurry of ideas and motion—like he was trying to squeeze the last drops out of a lemon that didn’t owe him anything. He was frantic. And I was frustrated. I wanted him calm. I wanted cooperation. I wanted the slow march toward pajamas and teeth brushing. I wanted him to let the clock run out. But he wouldn’t. He was determined to use every second he’d been given. Later that night, after we eventually made it through the whole routine and he was sleeping soundly, it hit me. What I saw as resistance… was more like an eagerness. He wasn’t rebelling against bedtime. He was honoring the small amount of time he still had. As adults, it seems like we often lose that. We tend to conserve instead of contend. We coast instead of press forward. We sit back and try to “manage” energy instead of spending it well. We let the clock run out. Not because we’re lazy— but because we’re tired. Because we’re “burned out”. Because we’ve learned the art of self-protection. But eagerness isn’t recklessness. And effort isn’t exhaustion. There’s a difference between burning out and burning bright while there’s still daylight. This shows up everywhere if you look for it. A husband who gives his best energy to the day but offers leftovers to his wife. A father who scrolls when he could sprint for five more minutes with his kids. A business owner who knows how to start strong but eases off before the finish line. We start managing decline instead of chasing fullness. My son didn’t do that. He saw five minutes and thought, “What can I still build?”

Physical fitness and mental fitness are often talked about like they’re the same thing. They’re not. They’re related—but they are not interchangeable. You can have a strong body and a weak mind. You can also have a sharp mind trapped in a neglected body. Both are fragile. Both eventually fail under pressure. Physical fitness is capacity. Mental fitness is command. Your body determines what you can do. Your mind determines what you will do when it’s hard. A strong body without mental discipline becomes reckless. A strong mind without physical resilience becomes theoretical—full of ideas, short on execution. Physical training teaches you limits. Mental training teaches you response. When you lift, run, work, or endure discomfort, your body learns stress. When you choose consistency, restraint, patience, and focus, your mind learns leadership. One without the other creates imbalance. Men who only train the body often confuse strength with control. Men who only train the mind often confuse insight with action. Real strength requires both. Physical fitness grounds you in reality. It humbles you. It reminds you that effort has cost and time has consequences. Mental fitness anchors you when circumstances shift. It steadies you when emotion spikes. It allows you to act deliberately instead of react impulsively. Here’s the part most overlook: Mental fitness determines whether physical fitness lasts. You don’t quit workouts because your body fails. You quit because your mind negotiates. You don’t abandon discipline because you’re incapable. You abandon it because your thinking gets sloppy. Likewise, physical fitness reinforces mental resilience. A tired body reveals the truth of your mindset. Fatigue exposes excuses. Discomfort strips away pretense. That’s why neglecting either side creates cracks. A man who ignores his body eventually loses confidence, energy, and presence. A man who ignores his mind eventually loses clarity, patience, and direction. Both are costly.

I want to build a community. Not an audience. Not a following. A band of men—like-minded, or at least like-hearted. As a young man who’s been through his share of trials, I’ve come to believe I’ve been given a platform. Not to posture. Not to preach. But to share my walk with others who feel that same pull on their lives. A similar vision. A similar calling. That quiet sense that there’s more required of us than just getting by and calling it a win. Somewhere along the way, we lost the apprenticeship. Young men are hungry for guidance. Older men—those who’ve walked the road, taken the hits, learned the lessons the hard way—have been told to keep their distance. We can thank a cocktail of cultural fear, public scandal, and institutional failure for that. The result? A generation of men expected to figure life out alone, armed with podcasts, algorithms, and a whole lot of noise—but very little wisdom. So let me ask it straight. How is a sixteen-year-old—or a twenty-six-year-old—supposed to inherit wisdom if men aren’t allowed to be honest with one another? The original apprenticeship wasn’t just about vocation. It was about living. About wisdom passed hand to hand. About learning when to press forward and when to ease off. Testosterone and tenderness. Lust, greed, love, generosity. About carrying ambition with a steady hand—so it sharpens you instead of rotting you from the inside. That’s what mentoring was. Not control. Not power. Responsibility. Those of us who’ve been around the track a few times owe something to the men coming up behind us. Not a lecture. A lantern. The truth about what worked, what failed, and what nearly took us out. Guidance from the road, not from the clouds. That’s what this place is. It’s a long walk down the road of life. No quick fixes. No hacks. No “do this and make your next million.” This is discipline. It’s not sexy. It’s real. It’s the work you put in—and the patience and endurance to wait long enough to see what that work becomes.