If I Don't Build It...

There’s a certain kind of ache that doesn’t go away.

You distract yourself. You chase other fires. You bury it under jobs, and moves, and the holy grind of keeping your shit together.

But it lingers.

For me, it started a few years ago. I built something that looked like a tribe. A community woven into the jiu jitsu gym Shelly and I ran. It had potential. It even had momentum. But the foundation was flawed.

The gym was a sinking ship, because of COVID and because I'm not really cut out for gym ownership. And I tied the Tribe to it. Foolishly.

Worse, I cast the net too wide. I didn’t define who it was for, because I didn’t trust exclusivity. Didn’t trust myself to lead something real.

So when the gym went under, the Tribe dissolved with it.

At the time, there was too much chaos to grieve. But when the dust settled, the doubt crept in. About my leadership. About the idea itself. About whether anyone would really want what I was building.

The Question That Haunted Me

Was the idea flawed? Or was I just not ready?

Turns out, it was both.

I hadn’t lived enough. I hadn’t broken enough. I hadn’t asked the right questions yet.

Back then, my vision was mostly about masculinity. It had teeth, sure. But it was one-sided. It didn’t account for the full spectrum of what it means to be whole.

It wasn’t until I stumbled into a collision of ideas: Scott Barry Kaufman’s science of growth, Jordan Peterson’s call to archetype, Jack Donovan’s fire and brotherhood, Chip Conley’s midlife alchemy... that the design began to shift.

I realized:
This isn’t about men.
It’s about humans.
Whole ones.
Wounded ones.
Ones trying to remember something we were never taught.

And what we’re remembering… is each other.

The Ache That Drives It

I’ve had glimpses of it before. The tribes I miss had a pulse.

Fight Club, our jiu jitsu crew in San Diego. The Hobby Joggas, our ultrarunning band of misfits from Michigan. Both were different. But both let us be real. No masks. No posturing. Just raw, relentless presence.

Fight Club was chaos with discipline. We trained like animals. We joked like degenerates. And somehow, we held each other up through the worst of it.

The Hobby Joggas? We ran ourselves to the edge of madness for fun. But in that suffering, something sacred formed. On trails, in trucks, around campfires... that was our cathedral.

Neither group asked us to play small. They didn’t just tolerate who Shelly and I were. They amplified it. They made space for our weirdness. Our dark humor. Our refusal to take life too seriously, even when we were dead serious about the work.

They gave us a place to bleed and laugh and fuck around and still matter. And then… they were gone.

We moved. Life moved. And the ache returned.

Right now, I get scraps of it. Moments. Glimmers. But no tribe. And I’m realizing: Without that social container? My soul slowly dies.

Why I Didn’t Give Up

I’ve failed before. Tribe attempts. Gym closures. A blog about manhood and fire that never lit.

But here’s what I know now:

Failure is never the end.
Failure is the whisper that says:
“Try again. Try better. Try truer.”

I didn’t abandon the dream. I sharpened it.

I kept asking questions. What’s missing from my life? Why doesn’t any of this modern shit feel real? How do we live lives of meaning, purpose, and connection in a culture that rewards performance over presence?

And then one day, the answer hit me:

The Tribe isn’t just an idea. It’s a Rube Goldberg machine designed to solve a simple, impossible problem:

How do we become whole again?

The Evolution That Changed Everything

What’s different this time?

Everything.

I finally have a frame that holds it all. Kaufman gave me the roadmap for self-actualization: for individuals and for groups. Peterson gave me myth and structure. Donovan gave me fire and edge. Conley gave me perspective and depth.

I stopped pretending modernity wasn’t breaking us. I stopped pretending polarity didn’t matter. I stopped trying to build a community that everyone could join. I started designing a system for those of us who ache for more. And I let it evolve. This time, I accounted for all of it:

• Masculine and feminine.
• Growth and shadow.
• Myth and memory and movement.
• ... and so on.
  

Not a support group. Not a social club. Not a lifestyle brand.

A Tribe.

Who Is It For?

The disillusioned. The edgewalkers. The gifted-but-adrift. The ones who left.

If you’ve tasted Tribe and lost it,
If your soul’s gone quiet trying to survive “normal” life,
If you’re powerful but untrusted, even by yourself,
If you crave connection but can’t stand disingenuous performance,

Then this is for you.

We’re not healing to be palatable. We’re becoming dangerous and devoted.

Why It Matters Now

Because if I don’t build it… who will?

Not for me. But for us.

It doesn’t matter that I’m the one building it. It matters that it gets built. That this exists in the world. That someone like you reads this and thinks: Yes. That’s it. That’s what I’ve been trying to name."

The Last Flame

This is the myth I’ll leave behind. The culture I never found, but finally decided to create. It’s not about influence. Or validation. Or relevance. It’s about the Fire that won’t go out. It’s about the version of me who knows his time is limited, And wants to build something that outlives him.

Something that can breathe. That can evolve. That can hold all of us, monster and mythmaker alike. So no one else has to ache alone in a world that forgot how to build Fire. I’m not done.

I’m just getting started.

You?

~Jason

 

 

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Midlife Crisis

 

For years, I've enjoyed writing about the stuff I'm experiencing. Blogging, for me, has essentially been my diary. Publicly shared, of course, because I've found great value in expressing vulnerability. It keeps me humble because, as Shelly often reminds me, I'm prone to grandiosity-fueled over-confidence. 

But a weird thing has happened over the last five years or so. I've experienced a strange form of writer's block. I've started countless blog posts on a wide variety of topics, but could never seem to finish them. Or if I did, I couldn't quite bring myself to hit the "publish" button. 

I couldn't explain this hesitancy. I'm not one to hold back my thoughts or opinions. This writer's block, though, seemed to be fueled by a vague-but-deep sense of... incompleteness. Every thought, idea, and opinion I had felt worthy of being expressed, but there was an unseen force that created a wall. It was a mystery I couldn't solve. 

Until I did.

It turns out the culprit was my midlife crisis.

Weird, right?

The stereotype of a midlife crisis involves ditching your family, buying a gaudy sports car, dating 20-year-olds, and wearing skinny jeans. Mine was suddenly becoming an indecisive writer. 

Anyway, I digress.

Enter Tim Ferriss

Many years ago, I had a stereotypically-normal life. I had a good career as a high school psychology teacher, a wife, three small children, a dog, pretty good cars, and a fledgling hobby as a barefoot ultrarunner. Totally normal stuff. American dram-type stuff.

Then I read Timothy Ferriss' "The 4-Hour Work Week." The book was a revelation because it framed all the emotional and psychological turmoil and angst percolating beneath the surface of my "normal" life. The book caused me to realize my life was deeply unfulfilling, and I had trapped myself in a life of silent desperation that would lead to a slow march toward death. 

That revelation led to a radical embracing of adventure. If you know me, you know the story well. Shelly and I quit our teaching jobs and went on a decade-long adventure. And man, it was soooo worth it. The stuff we experienced was nothing short of amazing. 

Eventually, though, we craved some stability and moved to Colorado. We more or less fell into new careers in law enforcement and went about raising our kids. We've managed to create a pretty great, stable life with enough adventure and excitement to scratch a lot of the itches we escaped from back in our teaching days. In the process of experiencing our adventures and return to stability, I discovered a lot of ideas that turned out to be pretty damn important, which are reflected in the post immediately before this one. 

But there was this nagging writer's block weighing on my soul.

Enter Tim Ferriss 2.0

As a patrol officer in law enforcement, we do shift work, including the night shift. At 3:30 am, things in our small town are typically quiet (yeah, I said the "Q" word, fellow cops). During those boring AF times, I indulge in dorkiness and drive around and listen to podcasts. One of my favorites is Scott Barry Kaufman's "The Psychology Podcast." One episode really stood out. Scott was having a conversation with Chip Conley, the author of the book "Learning to Love Midlife." It was compelling enough to lead me to buy the book. Here's the episode:

I just finished it this morning. 

Holy shit.

The impact was analogous to the impact Ferriss' book had on me years ago. This book framed all the emotional and psychological turmoil and angst percolating beneath the surface of my "normal" life... but in a much different way than "The 4-Hour Work Week." 

Conley basically ditches the "one-and-done" notion of adulthood by saying we’ve got a “first adulthood” that’s all about collecting achievements, like careers, status, family, mortgages, and so on. Then we transition into a “second adulthood,” when we shift from accumulating stuff to distilling wisdom, nurturing deeper connections, and finding meaning beyond the external accolades we once chased. 

Instead of hitting midlife and thinking, “Well, guess I’m over the hill,” Conley frames it as a legit second chapter of grown-up life. You’ve done your time building a foundation, and now you get to pivot toward a more introspective, enriching experience. It’s not a crisis, he says, but a bridge to a richer, more purposeful life where we stop trying to impress the world and start connecting the dots of our own story, discovering that the real magic happens when we realize adulthood actually comes in two acts.

It's absolutely brilliant. 

Ferriss's book gave me permission to live my first adulthood on my own terms. Conley's book gave me the permission to stop clinging to my beloved first adulthood and embrace the second. I'll likely write a lot more about this in the near future, but the relevant point for this blog post is the epiphany that my writer's block caused by my failure to really understand myself. I was in that transitional phase between my first and second adulthood.

Clinging to Youth Sucks

We've all heard aging people piss and moan about how much aging sucks. I call bullshit. Aging is pretty damn awesome. It's clinging to youth that sucks. So many of the things we could do with ease, and usually take for granted, get exponentially more difficult as we age. We fight it, but it's a fight we're always going to lose.

The older we get, the more time and energy it takes to cling to the trappings of youth. For example, based on my data, it takes me about three times the caloric expenditure and at least double the time to stay fit as it did 15 years ago. That's time and energy we could be spending doing something better. This doesn't mean I need to give up staying healthy, but it does mean I need to readjust my expectations. Conley's book perfectly explains this dilemma. And it explains my writer's block. 

I write about my own experiences. The influence of the arrow of time was the variable that I failed to consider, which is the reason I have so many unpublished blog posts. I've had a vague sense of my own experiences with the futility of clinging to youth and my growth to a new, different stage of life, but I couldn't articulate what I was thinking or feeling. Everything I wrote about was written from the perspective of the young version of me... and it lacked the authenticity of my earlier writings when I was actually young. 

So What?

My soul craves excitement and adventure. That's not changing with age. However, Conley's book caused a pretty radical reframing. For the last few years, I've experienced some pretty strong negative thoughts and feelings about my diminishing capacity to engage in the kinds of exciting and adventurous things I was able to do over the last two decades. 

All of that negativity, though, disappeared immediately when I had the epiphany that all I needed to do was change my perspective. Instead of desperately clinging to the excitement and adventure of my first adulthood, all I needed to do was shift my focus to the excitement and adventure of my second adulthood. 

Poof!

Suddenly, I'm no longer mourning the fact that I can't read without glasses, or I can't dominate the skilled, athletic kids on the jiu jitsu mats anymore. Instead, I'm excitedly looking forward to being on the brink of having a lot more free time (yay, empty nest!) and being able to enjoy life without caring about external validation from people who don't matter. 

So What is this Midlife Crisis?

I've realized my midlife crisis was nothing more than what Conley called "middlescence", which is a play on adolescence. Adolescent is the life phase where we transition from childhood to adulthood. Middlesence is the life phase where we transition from first adulthood to second adulthood. Basically, we're learning to navigate a new phase of life that's radically different from the previous phase. 

Of course, I'm almost certain I'm at the end of middescence, which is why I feel like I'm fully prepared to ditch the clinging to my youth and embrace the excitement and adventure of my second adulthood. In reality, I've been silently battling though middlesence for years. 

I really wish this book would have been published five years ago, even though it probably would have robbed me of the opportunity to struggle with this transition. I feel like I could have helped some folks by writing about my struggles. 

Which brings me to the real point of this post. I know a lot of my readers are in my cohort... in part because you're still reading a freakin' blog, which you saw on Facebook. For y'all who are about 35-60, I'm motivated to start writing about this shit. Or, more specifically, writing about the shit I've always written about, but framed from the perspective of the life stage when we can really have fun. 

Don't get me wrong; being young can be hella fun. But youth comes with a lot of baggage. There a whole lotta insecurities and anxieties, usually tied to a sense that we need to "keep up", that make youth kinda shitty. We chase status and approval, we never feel like we have enough, or we're somehow missing out. No matter how hard we try to live in the present and just enjoy life, we continually get sucked into living our lives on other people's terms. Aging makes that increasingly difficult to the point where it becomes impossible. 

Middle age, though, brings the opportunity to free ourselves of that shit. We're more self-aware, more emotionally-intelligent, and we have a deeper sense of purpose. We're more confident, authentic, and we start to develop real wisdom. We accept who we truly are, which allows us to develop real connection with others. There's an undeniable beauty that comes with middle age, which I want to fully explore.

If this post has piqued some interest, stick around. I'm going to be exploring this topic in a lot more detail in the near future, and I really want to connect (or re-connect) with readers who are also excited about the adventures of this next stage of life. 

Normally, I'd tell my readers to share the post if they liked it, but quite honestly, I don't want the attention. I don't care how many people read this. I care that the right people read this. I want to curate a tribe of folks who get this post. If you really want to share this with someone you know personally, share it with them and only them. 

If this does resonate with you, leave a comment! I'm interested to hear your story. 

~Jason

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