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

 

 

###

 

Why I Wrote “The Book of Fire”... and Why it Matters Now

It started, simply, as a story. A myth about a god named Kael. A fire. A tribe. A reckoning.

But The Book of Fire was never just a novel. It’s a transmission. A memory. A code buried in ash.

Because what I’ve been trying to build, this Tribe, it was never going to live inside a handbook or a manifesto. The frameworks are useful. The tactics matter. But what we’re building here? It needed blood. It needed rhythm. It needed something alive.

So I wrote a myth.

Not to entertain. To remember.

Why Myth?

Because we remember stories. We relate to stories. Stories let us speak in flame and shadow, not bullet points.

The Book of Fire is built on the oldest scaffolding we have, cross-cultural archetypes, universal human longing, and the raw ache of becoming. It’s mythic because that’s how we feel truth. That’s how we carry it.

Also? I just love it. The ancient world. The subtle magic. The symbols you don’t fully understand until they show up in your own life.

What Makes This Book Different?

Most of what I’ve written before was straight to the point, nonfiction, tactical, built to teach or train. But this? 

This is different. This is fiction with a purpose. A ritual disguised as story. A myth written to feel like memory, because for us, it is.

The Book of Fire isn’t just part of the Tribe.
It is the Tribe.

It’s the backbone. The origin. The campfire we circle around to remember who we are and why we came.

I’m not Shakespeare. I’m not Austen. I’m not Tolkien. This book wasn’t written to impress some future literature teacher in a sophomore classroom in Three Way, Tennessee.

It was written for the ones who’ve been walking with a map they couldn’t read… until now.

It was written for the ones who’ve felt the fire, but never had a name for it.

This book doesn’t just tell a story. It transmits a system. It encodes the virtues, the vision, the tension, and the transformation at the core of this Tribe.

This isn’t fiction for fun.
It’s myth with muscle.
It’s sacred architecture, hidden in ash, waiting to be claimed.

Who I Wrote It For

I wrote this for my people. Even if I don’t know their names yet.

I wrote it for the ones who look around this world and think, “There has to be more.”

Not more money.
Not more content.
Not more manufactured outrage.

More real.
More meaning.
More connection.
More soul.

I wrote it for the ones who have that ache beneath the surface.
The ones who feel like ghosts in the machine.
The ones who are done pretending comfort is the same thing as purpose.

These are the people I want in my circle. The ones who already know there’s something sacred inside them, but haven’t had the words or the mirror to name it yet.

This book is a mirror.

Why It Matters Now

We live in a world of noise. Lots and lots of noise. But beneath all the scrolls and swipes and shouted opinions, something deeper is dying.

Connection.
Purpose.
Place.

Too many of us are living lives that feel… off. Like we were meant to burn for something, but no one ever showed us how to light the damn match.

This book isn’t for everyone.
It’s for the ones climbing the same invisible mountain I’ve been climbing for twenty years.
It’s a flare fired into the sky.

Not to get attention.
To find the others.

Why It Matters for the Tribe

The Tribe of the Fire isn’t built on rules. It’s built on remembrance.

The Book of Fire gives us something ancient to carry forward. It speaks in archetype, not algorithm. It names the parts of us we forgot, and the path back to what matters.

Every character is an echo.
Every trial is a template.
Every fire lit in the book is a fire waiting to be lit in someone’s real life.

This isn’t just a novel. It’s the spine of a movement. It gives us a shared myth, a common language, and a way to frame our wounds without flattening them.

It’s a story to enter.
To play with.
To live inside.

If you’re reading this and something in you just sat up straighter… good!

That’s the signal.

Not everyone hears it.
But if you do? Step closer.

The fire remembers.

~Jason

###

Why You Need a Tribe, Part Two: Build the Fire

 

This isn’t a pitch. This isn’t about joining my fire. This is about remembering what you were built for. If this rhythm doesn’t move something in you, don’t force yourself to dance to it.

Go find the fire that makes you burn. Not flicker politely. Not warm your hands and leave unchanged. Burn.

But while you search… beware the false fires.They’re everywhere. You’ll know them by how they feel.

Echo Chambers

Everyone agrees. No one grows. Everything is validated, nothing is challenged. It feels good… until it doesn’t. You’re not seen. You’re absorbed. No grit. No tension. No fire.

Codependency Clubs

Everyone plays therapist. Everyone’s "working on each other." No one tells the truth.

Love without sovereignty. Healing without accountability. A place where you’re needed, but never actually known.

Soul Drift Circles

It’s fine. Everyone’s nice. But you leave… empty. Polite conversations. Shared hobbies.
 But your soul? Quiet. You were tuned to a different frequency.

The wrong tribe will numb you. The right tribe will set you ablaze.

Here’s the test:

•     Do you feel more you after spending time with them?
•     Do you leave lit up or leveled out?
•     Do they challenge your truth, or politely ignore it?

You don’t need more followers. You don’t need another mastermind or message thread. You need a circle that can see your fire, and hold it.

And if this Tribe of the Fire isn’t that for you? Go find the one that is. But whatever you do…

Don’t stay cold because you think your warmth is a problem. If You Can’t Find It, Build It

You’ve searched.  You’ve whispered your truth in rooms that smiled and nodded but never really heard you. You’ve tried to blend in. Tried to settle. Tried to dial it down just enough to belong.

But maybe… you’re not here to be chosen. Maybe you’re here to be the match that starts your own fire. Not the influencer. Not the guru. Not the one with the logo and the launch team.

Just the one who builds what you needed most. You were never too intense. You were just meant to be a firestarter.

I know the fear. I’ve launched things that collapsed. I’ve watched silence meet my invitations. I’ve carried more vision than manpower, and still kept walking.

Because it’s not about popularity. It’s about resonance.

The fire isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s a promise. But it’s never found by waiting. When you strike your match with clarity and truth,  the ones who’ve been cold for too long will find you. You don’t have to go viral. You have to go real.

Five Ways to Begin Building Your Own Tribe

This isn’t about building a movement like mine. It’s about starting your fire, your way. Some of us were born to build the thing we needed to find. Here’s how:

1. Write the Code

What does your soul refuse to compromise on? Honor? Humor? Depth? Devotion? Play? Stillness?

List 3–5 values.These are your laws of the tribe. They don’t have to be flashy. They just have to be true.

2. Gather

Text a few people. Not the ones who say “let’s catch up” and never do. The ones who feel like possibility.Ask them something real:

“What are you afraid of outgrowing?”

“What do you wish people asked you more often?”

That’s it. That’s the spark.

3. Design the Feeling

Don’t worry about structure yet. Worry about resonance.How should it feel to be part of this circle?

•     Sacred?
•     Wild?
•     Grounded?
•     Safe but not soft?

Let the emotion be your blueprint. Build for how it should feel.

4. Create the Rituals

Ritual = rhythm.
Rhythm = safety.
Safety = expression.

Start simple:

•     A weekly voice memo
•     A monthly walk
•     A dinner with one rule: no small talk

Ritual isn’t about religion. It’s about remembrance.

5. Stay True When It’s Small

Most tribes begin as whispers. A Sunday coffee. A silent witness to your breakdown. A shared laugh that feels like home. Don’t wait for polished. Wait for honest.

Tribes don’t recruit. They remember.

Mine became a book. A system. A living thing with rites and codes and trials. But it started with one question:

“What if I stopped waiting for the right circle, and started building the one I could die proud of?”

If you’re still reading this, I know something about you. You were never meant to be lukewarm.

Whether your tribe is two people and a firepit or two hundred and a fortress, build it with your whole being. The world needs it more than you think.

The Best Time Is Right Now

You don’t need permission. You don’t need the right group. You don’t need another course or guru.

You need to start.

Because someone out there is cold. They don’t even know what they’re looking for. But when they see your flame? They’ll remember.

Don’t wait for the right people. Become the right signal.

You don’t need a million followers. You need twelve people who would bleed with you under moonlight.

If this Fire feels familiar, step closer. If it doesn’t, go build the one that does. But don’t wait in the cold. Light something.

You don’t have to be a leader. Just be a match.

 

~Jason

 

###

Why You Need a Tribe, Part One: The Signal

 

You’ve felt it.

That quiet, gnawing ache beneath the surface. Not loneliness exactly. More like... misrecognition. Like walking through life with the wrong name pinned to your chest.

You show up. You try. You play nice. But no matter where you go, the same static fills the room:

“Too much.”
 “Too serious.”
 “Too intense.”
 “Too damn honest.”

Maybe you believed them for a while. Maybe you bent your fire into their comfort zones.
But your nervous system knew the truth.

You weren’t in the wrong.You were just in the wrong place, with the wrong people, at the wrong time. You’re not too much. You’re just not where your fire belongs.

This is how it starts. Not with a grand vision. Not with a manifesto. But with that quiet moment in the dark when you realize: There’s no one coming. I have to find what I’ve been searching for. You weren’t meant to fit in. You were meant to burn with those who remember.

The Roots

You weren’t designed to do this alone. Not your grief. Not your joy. You were shaped by firelight, not fluorescent bulbs.Generations ago, your tribe was your survival.

Your nervous system still waits for a signal that no longer comes:

• The crackling of a nearby flame
• The voice of an elder telling a story you already knew by heart
• The circle
• The rhythm
• The memory carried in others' eyes

We are not just social animals. We are tribal animals. It's biology. We evolved this way. And that drive still lives in your bones.

Psychologist Michael Morris named three core instincts that form the tribal code written into our DNA.

The Peer Instinct
Your nervous system calibrates to those around you. Acceptance = safety. Mirroring = identity. Without it, you begin to lose form.
No firelight means no reflection. No reflection means no self.

The Hero Instinct
You want to do something hard and be seen doing it. Not praised. Witnessed. That’s the instinct that built warriors, midwives, scouts, and shamans.
It’s not ego. It’s legacy coding.

The Ancestor Instinct
You carry stories that may never have been told. And yet, somehow… you know them. This might show up as:

• A pull toward certain traditions
• A responsibility to future generations
• A strange reverence for ancient symbols, rites, or patterns of beauty
• A longing to build something that will outlast you

This instinct whispers:
“Protect the sacred.
 Remember the way.
 Build something that matters.”

And here’s the problem: Modern life starves all three.

Crowds don’t activate tribal circuitry. Notifications don’t satisfy the ancestral pulse. “Likes” aren’t the same as being lit by another human’s presence.

We live surrounded by people… but our bodies register it as exile. We are not wired for a crowd. We are wired for a circle.

That’s why you ache. That’s why no amount of “self-work” has made it go away. Because this was never just about self. It was about:
 

Place. 

People.

Pattern.

Pulse.

And if no one around you moves in rhythm with your soul? Don’t shrink. Build the drum.

What Real Belonging Feels Like

You’ve been seen. At work. In school. Even in the relationships that almost fit.

People clock you. They know what you do. Some even get what you want. But being seen is not the same as being recognized. Real belonging doesn’t nod. It reflects.

It says:
“I saw the moment you almost gave up. And I saw the fire you held onto anyway. I see you, still burning.”

Belonging isn’t softness. It’s resonance. It’s walking into a circle and feeling your entire nervous system unclench. Not because you’re performing, But because you’ve finally stopped.

Stopped hiding. 

Stopped pretending.

Stopped shaping yourself into someone else’s comfort.

Because in this circle? They want your edges.They need your wild. They’ve been waiting for you to remember who you are.

Belonging isn’t about being accepted. It’s about being recognized.

In a real tribe:

• You speak half a truth, someone finishes the sentence you didn’t know you were trying to say.
• You fail, and they step closer.
• You burn, and they bring wood, not water.

You’re not a project. You’re a mirror. And real tribe? They polish the reflection until you remember the shape of your own flame.

If THIS Fire, my Fire, doesn’t speak your language, find the one that does. And if you can’t? Maybe you’re meant to build it.

We'll talk about that in part two.

 

~Jason

 

###

Maybe We Don’t Fear Failure. Maybe We Fear Success That Traps Us

 

In the last post, I revealed a major shift in my perspective. In this post, I dig into the psychology of that shift.

There’s a strange contradiction I’ve lived with most of my adult life:
I am both deeply capable of commitment, and secretly terrified of it.

I’ve run 100-mile ultramarathons. I’ve trained in jiu jitsu for over a decade. I’ve stayed married for 21 years. I’ve written books, fought in a cage, and rebuilt myself more times than I can count.

But when it comes to launching something like The Tribe, something communal, mythic, and deeply personal, I hesitate.

Not because I doubt the vision.
Not because I fear failure.

But because I fear abandoning it once I succeed.

I’ve noticed a pattern in myself:
I immerse fully into a new world, whether it be barefoot running, fighting, magic, writing, even entire careers. I go deep, fast. I master it quickly. And then, eventually, I see through it. I start to notice the flaws, the cracks in the foundation, the political underbelly, the limits. And once I see those things, it becomes easy to walk away.

I rationalize the exit.

I tell myself, “I outgrew it.” Or, “Staying in this world is bad for me.”
And sometimes that’s true.
But sometimes, I think I just didn’t build a structure that could grow with me.

Recently, I came face-to-face with the deeper truth:

I didn’t walk away because I changed. I walked away because the thing couldn’t.

And that’s what I’ve feared about launching The Tribe.
Not that it would fail.
But that I would one day outgrow it, feel trapped inside it, and leave people behind in the fallout.

Because that would be a betrayal, not just of the others, but of myself.

But here’s the revelation:
What if I could build The Tribe to evolve with me?

What if commitment didn’t mean freezing myself in time, but designing something alive enough to shed skins with me?

What Burns Me Out

When I look back at the times I’ve walked away, I see three common threads:

• Obligation without renewal: When I’m doing it because I have to, not because it’s still making me.
• Lack of creative agency: When I feel like a manager instead of a creator.
• Misalignment: When the thing no longer reflects who I am, and there’s no way to change it without blowing it up.

It’s not that I can’t stay.
It’s that I can’t stay in something that won’t evolve.

So What Does Sustainable Commitment Look Like?

It doesn’t look like forever.
It doesn’t look like obligation.
It doesn’t look like being trapped by my own creation.

It looks like ritualized renewal.

Here’s what I’m building into The Tribe:

Seasonal Presence: I lead in seasons. Intensity followed by retreat. Like a warrior returning to the mountain.

Creative Sovereignty: I have the power to reshape the structure. The Tribe isn’t special because it never changes. It’s special because it knows how to change.

The Council: A circle of trusted co-leaders who can carry the mission when I step back. Not as replacements, but as reflections.

Mythic Evolution: The Tribe will have its own life cycle. Every few years, it will enter a new age. We will mark it. Shed skins. Tell new stories.

The Drift Signal: A way for me (and others) to name misalignment before it becomes resentment. To say, "I feel something shifting," without shame.

I no longer want to be afraid of commitment.
I want to live inside a commitment designed for someone like me (and maybe you): someone who evolves, questions, shifts, pauses, returns.

The man who used to build beautiful things and walk away?
He wasn’t broken.
He was scouting for a place worthy of staying.

I think I’ve finally built it.
Not a system. Not a brand. Not a platform.
Something living.

One that sheds skins.
One that welcomes the man I’ll become.
One that creates a real community for others to do the same.

This is how I stay.
Not forever.
But for as long as it remains true.

And this time, I’m designing it so it always can be.

 

~Jason 

###

When the Fire Grows Too Big to Walk Away

 

 

Have you ever poured your heart into something, only to feel the inevitable pull to walk away?

There’s a story I’ve told myself for a long time. One that kept me from launching the most important thing I’ve ever built.

The story goes like this: I’m the kind of man who burns hot, immerses fully, then walks away.

There’s truth in it. I’ve done it countless times: diving headfirst into barefoot running, ultramarathons, careers, hobbies, each with fervent intensity, only to eventually step away when the initial spark faded.

It became a pattern: Dive in. Learn. Master. Spot the flaws. Leave.

I told myself it was just how I’m wired. That it’s an ENTP trait. Serial hobbyist. That I needed the freedom to evolve, to roam. And while there’s some truth in that, I’ve recently realized something deeper, something I need to remember and say aloud:

I didn’t walk away because I changed. I walked away because the thing couldn’t.

And that changes everything.

Because I’m not afraid of failure. Not really. I’ve failed before. A LOT. I flunked out of a college. I’ve bled on the mats. I’ve quit races. I’ve the reviews Amazon reviews for my crap. I once turned down an mma fight in the locker room. I can't sing OR dance.

What I’ve been afraid of isn’t failure. It’s betrayal. Self-betrayal. This fear of outgrowing my creation extended to the people who would invest their trust and belief in it.

I’m afraid that if I build something meaningful, and then grow beyond it, or worse, begin to resent it, I’ll betray the very people who believed in it. I’ll become the ghost at the center of a temple I can’t live in anymore.

That fear has kept me from launching this idea. "The Tribe", I call it.

Because The Tribe isn’t just a project. It’s not a brand. It’s not a community. It’s a myth made real. An ancient architecture for something I know could change lives, including my own.

And that’s why I’ve hesitated. Not out of laziness. Not out of doubt. But because I’ve been waiting for the thing to feel as alive and evolving as I am.

This week, something clicked. A voice... call it truth, call it memory... whatever. It rose up inside me:

“You kept waiting for something big enough to hold your evolution. But maybe what you needed was something built to evolve.”

And that’s the shift.

The Tribe won’t be something I outgrow. It will be something that sheds skin with me.

It will have ritual renewal points. Seasonal pulses. A core that burns but doesn’t calcify. It won’t demand I stay the same; it will ask me to stay present, to keep showing up in truth.

I don’t have to fear becoming trapped.

I just have to keep the fire moving.

And so, this is my offering, not as a marketing post or a launch tease, but as a mirror.

If you’re someone who’s started and left, who’s built and burned out, who’s hesitated to go all in because you’re afraid of what happens after the passion fades, I see you.

Maybe you weren’t wrong to walk away.

Maybe the thing just couldn’t breathe as you changed.

But maybe, now, you can build something that does.

I know I am.

And that’s why I’m finally ready to launch The Tribe.

Not as a finished product.

But as a living fire.

And I’m not walking away.

Not this time.

In the next post, I'll explain why it's safe to walk away. 

~Jason

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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