It’s been one year.
One year since I stepped away from the pace I kept for most of my life.
One year since I made the decision to close a long and defining chapter of work, responsibility, and relentless motion.
One year of transformation.
Like a lot of people, I started working before I could legally drive. I had jobs in middle school, kept them through high school, and then joined the Marine Corps at eighteen. After my service, I became a UPS driver while moonlighting as a self-taught web designer. I went to night school for years but never finished. I turned that moonlighting gig into a career and eventually built something that reached rare air. I worked hard. Really hard. For 35 years.
Hard work wasn’t just a value—it was my identity. It was how I measured myself. It was my safety net and my edge.
And then, one day, I stepped away from all of it.
It was quiet. No ceremony. No big send-off. Just a moment.
And then another.
And then a blank page.
I thought I was ready. I wasn’t.
At first, I drifted. I probably slipped into a bit of depression, though I didn’t call it that at the time. It was like losing a version of myself without knowing exactly who was going to take his place.
But slowly—quietly—I started to rebuild.
I gave more of my time to others. Shared what I’d learned. Let my experience become useful again.
I started writing a book for my kids—a collection of letters on how to live with purpose and strength. Writing became my daily ritual. What once felt like a weakness became a well I now draw from every day.
I focused on healing my body—beaten up from years of impact and neglect. I focused on healing my spirit—bent from years of stress and performance. I invested in recovery and routine instead of chaos and caffeine.
I also made time for something I’d always wanted to do: car racing. Not for the speed. For the process. The discipline. The focus it demands. For the way it returns me to presence. I said I would do it, and I did.
What I’ve learned this past year is that stillness isn’t the absence of ambition.
It’s the space in which new ambitions are born.
It’s where clarity lives.
It’s where the next version of you gets to emerge—not rushed, not forced—just ready.
And here’s the truth:
I like who I am right now.
I like who I’m becoming.
I’m more grounded, more generous, more curious, and more alive than I’ve been in years.
Through it all, one belief has guided me—one that’s shaped the way I live and what I aim toward:
I’ve always needed to believe that the greatest thing I’ve ever accomplished is still out there.
That belief keeps me searching. It keeps me curious. It keeps me hungry.
And I still believe it.
Not as some motivational line—but as a core truth that helps me wake up every day ready to move forward.
Because if you believe the most meaningful parts of your life are still ahead of you, you live differently.
You say yes to more.
You bet on yourself again.
You stop narrating decline and start imagining ascent.
So no, I’m not done.
I’m not retiring from purpose.
I’m not stepping away from impact.
I’m just getting started on whatever comes next—with clearer eyes and a fuller heart.
I don’t know exactly what the next year will look like.
But I know this: I’m going to build again. I’m going to serve again. I’m going to live with intention.
And I’m going to live with the belief that no matter how good it’s been—the best is yet to come.
If this episode hit home—if you’ve been questioning what comes next or wondering who you’re becoming—I hope this gave you a little clarity, or maybe just a little hope.
Transformation doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it takes a year. But when you finally feel the ground beneath your feet again—when you realize you like the person you’re becoming—that’s when you know you’re on the right path.
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Until next time—stay present, stay honest, and keep reminding yourself: the best is yet to come.
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