Lesson Four: The Mountain Is You

“The worst thing that’s ever happened to you is still the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

I don’t know who originally said that, but I’ve heard Joe Rogan repeat it at least 100 times—and it’s always stuck with me.

Pain Doesn’t Scale

What shattered me might not even faze someone else. But the mistake I used to make was believing that someone else’s suffering somehow invalidated mine.

Naval Ravikant said, “The enemy of peace of mind is expectations.”

And man, I’ve carried so many expectations of who I should be by now, how strong I should be. But I never gave myself credit for not yet having the chance to become that person.

When life hit hard, I didn’t just endure the pain—I started arguing with it.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I should be past this.

I’m stronger than this.

That voice wasn’t always wrong. But it was never the whole story.

Struggle Is Formative

Not inspirational. Not poetic. Just… necessary.

It carved away parts of me that weren’t built to last. Not because life is meant to be suffering, but because suffering showed me what I could survive.

I was listening to a podcast recently, and Alex Hormozi stated, “You are perfectly designed to get the results you are currently getting.”

That one hit hard, because when I was stuck, I realized I had built the system that kept me there.

My habits. My thoughts. My environment.

They were all doing their job perfectly. Just not the job I wanted them to do.

I didn’t need motivation. I needed a new framework.

I needed to nut the fuck up.

Responsibility Changed Everything

Here’s the truth that finally stuck:

I am where I am because of me.

My decisions. My actions. My inaction.

It wasn’t about blame—it was about agency.

Because if I built this life, even unintentionally… then I could rebuild and reshape it, deliberately.

That realization didn’t make it easier. It made it heavier, because the change felt harder than the pain I’d gotten used to carrying.

But I wasn’t powerless.

I was responsible.

And that responsibility? It wasn’t a burden—it was a gift.

A Message From My Future Self

Sometimes I picture him—my future self.

Watching me.

Sometimes he’s patient.

Sometimes he’s frustrated.

But always, he’s hoping I’ll stop negotiating with my potential and start honoring it.

Looking back, I’ve never regretted giving something my full effort—even if I didn’t get the outcome I hoped for.

I have regretted holding back because I was afraid my best wouldn’t be enough.

That’s when I coasted. Numbed out. Just survived.

But what if I didn’t?

I don’t have to wait until my deathbed to have the proverbial moments of regret.

You and I can reflect now and realize that some moments in life have passed and are gone forever.

What If the Pressure Is the Point?

What if instead of shrinking, I let the pressure mold me into someone worthy of the struggle?

Perspective doesn’t mean pretending everything’s okay.

I

t means realizing that pain isn’t a detour—it’s the way forward.

That today’s frustration might just be tomorrow’s fuel.

When I can see things like that, even the worst things I’ve been through start to feel like stepping stones.

Final Thoughts

I don’t need perfect clarity.

I just need to move.

I don’t need to feel strong.

I just need to act like someone who is.

The rest will come.

So if I’m in it right now… I stay.

I hold the line.

Because there’s hope, not in the absence of struggle, but in how I respond to it.

The mountain I’m climbing isn’t in front of me.

It’s inside me.

Lesson Three: Words Matter

I never used to think much about the things I said in passing.

A quick joke. A frustrated comment. A promise tossed out, knowing I wouldn't follow through.

It was just part of moving through the day, managing everything, getting from one obligation to the next.

But somewhere along the way, I realized something uncomfortable:

The moments I barely remember are the ones they might never forget.

When you're a parent, husband, or mentor, your words hit differently.

With your kids, you're not just talking to another adult who can brush things off or rationalize why you're short-tempered.

You're shaping memories.

You're shaping who they become.

And if I'm not careful, the soundtrack of their childhood won't be the laughter, the adventures, or the encouragement — it'll be the moments when I was careless with my voice.

I think about my kids asking to fish.

Something so small.

A simple request to slow down and share time.

I tell them, "Yeah, we'll go soon."

But sometimes, soon doesn't come.

Work piles up, the weather turns, and life gets in the way.

I act selfishly. I choose me over them.

Then I realize.

They're not just asking to fish.

They're asking if they matter enough for me to carve out time.

Intent doesn't excuse absence.

Good intentions don't leave good memories. Action does.

That realization hits harder than almost anything else right now.

Because when I look back at my own life, the things that hurt the most weren't huge betrayals or loud failures.

It was the small things.

The broken promises.

The moments when someone important to me couldn't — or wouldn't — show up.

The things said in anger.

And I never want to be the reason my kids carry that same hurt.

I heard Bert Kreischer tell a story on 2 Bears 1 Cave about a father who won money in a raffle and was crying. Bert asked what was going on, and the man said that now that he has the money, he can throw a birthday party for his kid and be the dad that his kids think he is.

Not the flawed, stressed-out version.

Not the man weighed down by deadlines, bills, and self-doubt.

But the man they see when they look at him with pure belief.

Their hero.

That story gutted me.

Because that's what I want.

I want to earn how they look at me right now — before life teaches them to expect disappointment.

I want them to remember being chosen, even when the world was pulling me in a hundred different directions.

I want them to remember laughter more than lectures, promises kept more than apologies made, and patience more than temper.

I don't want a bad memory or traumatic event to cloud their picture of me and who I was when, one day, all they have of me are memories.

But that doesn't just happen by wanting it.

It happens by living it.

By catching myself when I'm about to snap.

By saying "yes" and meaning it.

By slowing down when every part of me wants to speed up.

By fishing, even if a dozen "more important" things are waiting.

Words matter.

Because years from now, they won't remember the emails I sent, the deadlines I met, or the nights I stayed late to fix something that seemed urgent.

They'll remember if I made them feel seen.

They'll remember if I kept my promises.

They'll remember if my words were a bridge — not a wall.

And maybe, just maybe, if I keep working at it, I'll get to be the man they already believe I am.

Maybe I won't close my eyes one night 30 years from now, desperate to do anything to go back in time and not break those promises, not say those words, and not fall short of expectations.

Lesson Two: Find your base

Without the right people, you will eventually lose yourself.

I’ve spent a lot of time chasing goals—career, fitness, business, money, becoming “more.” But sometimes in that pursuit, I forget to ask:

Who’s standing beside me while I build this life?

Not behind me.

Not dragging me.

Beside me.

In some sense, I think that’s a natural tension we all wrestle with. Being selfish probably has evolutionary roots tied to survival.

That doesn’t make it right.

Your Environment Is Your Potential

Success isn’t just what you do. It’s who you do it around.

It took me a while to realize this: I could have the best plans, the sharpest skills, and all the ambition in the world—but if I was surrounded by the wrong energy, I stalled out. My progress would get cloudy. My mind would start spinning in doubt.

It wasn’t the goals that were broken.

It was the base.

The right people make you dangerous in the best way.

The wrong people?

They dull your edge—slowly, quietly—until you forget what you’re even fighting for. Until you lose yourself.

Your Base Doesn’t Have to Be Big—It Has to Be Real

Find the people who hold you steady when you’re spinning.

Find the people who will tell you when you’re fucking up.

Find the people who celebrate your wins without secretly resenting them.

We romanticize huge support systems—entourages, mentors, masterminds—but most people who actually win are propped up by just a few. Not always loud. Not always visible. But loyal. Honest. Unshakable.

Sometimes, it’s one person.

For me, that person is my wife.

The One Who Sees You Before You See Yourself

Those words perfectly describe Mandy.

We’ve been together nearly 19 years. She is my person. My base. My forever.

I tried to quit her, but I couldn’t.

When I pissed away my time in high school and left myself with no options, I joined the Marine Corps. With that journey approaching—and no real clue what was coming—I broke up with her.

I told myself I was doing the right thing. That I didn’t want her to have to leave her life. That I was doing her a favor.

But the truth?

I was being selfish.

I didn’t want another failure on my part to be her downfall.

I doubted the decision before I made it. Every second after, I regretted it. Eventually, I called my grandma—someone who had the kind of marriage most people only dream about.

She asked me one simple question I still carry with me:

“Can you live your life without her?”

In the short term, you can convince yourself of anything. I could tell myself I’d be fine. But when I looked forward—five, ten, twenty years—I couldn’t picture a version of my life that didn’t have Mandy in it.

That might sound crazy. I was only 19. And most people didn’t think we’d make it.

But when I asked Mandy to get back together—and eventually to marry me—she said something I’ll never forget:

“My life is whatever it is, as long as it’s with you.”

Read that again.

Someone choosing to live their one life in whatever way it unfolds, as long as it’s alongside you.

I’m not deserving.

But I’m trying to be.

The Base Is the Man

What I’ve come to learn is that being “the man” doesn’t mean standing alone.

It means choosing wisely who you let into your foundation—and honoring them every chance you get.

Mandy is my mirror.

My fire extinguisher.

My hype team.

My sanity.

And because of her, I don’t just chase my goals—I hold them.

Be Careful Who You Let Build With You

Some people hand you bricks. Others chip at your foundation.

Your base matters more than your blueprint.

You can have every tactic in the world, but if the people around you don’t feed your purpose, you will burn out. Or worse, you’ll build a life that looks good on the outside but feels hollow as hell.

If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, find your base.

Before you chase the next goal, pause and look around.

Who’s with you?

Who’s really with you?

Find them.

Thank them.

Build with them.

Because the older I get, the more I realize:

Winning is great.

But winning with someone in your corner? That’s everything.

Lesson One: Saying it out Loud

If you’re reading this, thank you.

For some time, I’ve wanted a place to share my thoughts. If you know me, you might be surprised by that. I’m no stranger to opinionated social posts that get a reaction—sometimes a laugh, sometimes an eye roll. But this? This isn’t that.

Project 35 is something different.

It’s a personal audit. A choice to pull back the curtain and talk about the version of myself I don’t usually share.

And here’s the truth: I struggle with depression.

It doesn’t look like what people expect it to. I’m successful by most metrics—good money, a great family, a comfortable life. I’ve “made it” in ways many people dream about. But that’s the trap: it’s even harder to explain the emptiness inside when your life looks full on the outside. You start to feel guilty for not being happier. And that guilt becomes shame.

But I’ve learned that having everything doesn’t mean you feel everything.

The human condition doesn’t care about your income bracket or zip code. Depression doesn’t ask if you drive a nice car or post pictures of a smiling family. It sits quietly, waiting to convince you you’re alone in it, that you shouldn’t feel this way, that something is wrong with you.

That’s why I’m writing this.

Not because I’ve figured it out.

Not because I want pity.

But because I know that so many people feel the same, and are terrified to say it out loud.

We’re scared to be seen as weak, broken, ungrateful, or “too much.” At least I am. But I’m choosing to believe vulnerability—real, raw, unfiltered truth—is how we connect, and connection is how we heal.

“I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless, and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.”

—Robin Williams

That quote hit me the first time I read it. Still does.

So this is my attempt to talk about the hard stuff. Not for likes. Not for attention.

But to finally admit that I don’t have it all together—and maybe give someone else the space to do the same.

Here’s the truth:

Being vulnerable isn’t weakness. It’s courage in its rawest form.

In a world where we’re constantly curating highlight reels and hiding behind sarcasm or hustle, being honest— and I mean really honest—feels radical. But vulnerability is what unlocks connection. It’s how we break the illusion that we’re supposed to be perfect or the only ones struggling. It’s how we unite by saying, “I struggle with that as well,” and knowing that we are not alone.

Brené Brown said it best:

“Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity.”

And it’s not just a quote that looks good on Instagram.

Studies from the University of Houston show that when people are vulnerable and open up emotionally, they feel more connected, build trust, and deepen relationships.

Vulnerability rewires the brain for empathy, resilience, and connection.

The irony?

Most of us are just waiting for someone else to go first.

So I’ll go first.

I’m not perfect.

I get overwhelmed.

I have days where I feel like I’m not enough.

I consume endless amounts of books and podcasts surrounding self-help, and still often feel helpless.

But I also believe in building something better—starting with honesty.

If any of this hits home, I hope it permits you to stop pretending everything’s fine.

To drop the armor.

To speak the truth, whatever that looks like.

Because you’re not alone.

And you were never meant to do it alone, either.

So say it out loud. You may help yourself and someone else in the process.