Why I Write

I get asked about my writing almost every day now.
Why do I do it?
What am I hoping to find?
What’s the goal?

For a long time, I gave the simple answer.
It started as a promise to myself—a personal mission I took on after I stepped off the treadmill of nonstop work and achievement. I had retired from a long, full career, and like so many who reach that point, I found myself staring down a blank space. No meetings. No deals. No adrenaline hits. Just space. And in that space, I made a commitment: Write a book to your kids. Leave them something lasting.

That was the beginning.
I sat down in the fall and started writing True North.
One letter turned into many.
Each one was a small gift—to them, and to me.

But something else happened too. I developed a muscle I didn’t know I needed. Writing became a daily habit. And like any good habit, it started changing me. It gave me something I hadn’t expected: clarity. Not just about the past, but about who I was becoming next.

Eventually, I needed a break from the book—not because I lost interest, but because I needed to zoom out and see if I even liked what I was saying. I needed perspective. But I didn’t want to lose the writing habit. So I started publishing on Substack.

At first, I wrote mostly about politics. Service, civic duty, leadership—these are things I care deeply about. I’ve always had a love for this country, a desire to remind people that we’re not as different as the headlines make us feel. That unity is still possible. That this nation is worth fighting for—not with fists, but with truth, effort, and courage.

But my writing began to evolve.
I wrote about being a dad.
About being an entrepreneur.
About lessons learned the hard way.
I began sharing letters to my kids every week, even as I continued writing about the world we live in.

And through it all, something happened I never saw coming.

Writing became therapy.
Not the kind with couches and notepads.
The kind that gets deep into your bones.
The kind that makes you feel lighter.

The process of giving away my thoughts, my experiences, my perspectives—it opened me up. And it started giving something back. I began to hear from readers. Strangers. Old friends. People I’d never met. Messages that said: “This helped me.”
“This changed how I think.”
“Thank you for saying this out loud.”

And that matters to me. Deeply.
It’s a gift to help someone see more clearly. But that’s not the full answer to why I write.

The real answer came to me in conversation this week. It’s something I’ve always believed in, but never quite tied to this particular season of life. The truth is this:

I write to give away everything I know—so I can clear my mind for reinvention.

That’s it. That’s the heart of it.

It’s something I’ve always practiced, even when I didn’t articulate it. If you’re holding on to your knowledge, guarding your playbook, protecting your secrets—you’re not just hoarding insight. You’re slowing yourself down. You’re cluttering the space where your next chapter could live.

I’ve always believed: if I give you everything I know—if I hand you my strategy, my mindset, my tools, even my best ideas—and you get better… then I have to get better too, if I want to stay sharp.
And that’s the kind of pressure I like.

Not because I’m competitive, but because I’m willing to build a life where laziness cannot survive. I want to wake up every day with my back against the wall. I want to create the conditions where growth is the only option. Where learning is the only path. Where evolution isn’t a nice-to-have—it’s survival.

This is the win-win I wrote about earlier this week.
I can help you and help myself at the same time.
I can give everything away and still come out ahead.
Because the well is deep. And I’m not close to empty.

So if you’re wondering how long I’ll keep writing, here’s the answer:

Until the well runs dry and my mind is clear.
But don’t bet on that happening any time soon.

Because every time I give something away,
I make space for something new.

And reinvention lives in that space.

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If this episode gave you something to think about, I hope you’ll share it. Every time you pass along a piece of insight, you help build the kind of community I believe in—one built on clarity, generosity, and shared momentum.

I’ll be back tomorrow with another short episode.
Until then—stay curious, stay honest, and keep making space for what’s next.

And remember: reinvention lives in the space you clear.