Philosophy

Some people remember 13 as the age when life got awkward. For me, it was the year everything began to make sense.   I didn’t realize it then, of course. At the time, I was just a Midwest farm kid with a decent appetite, a hand-me-down helmet, and a nervous energy about stepping onto a football field for the first time. But looking back now—from where I stand in my “third chapter” of life—it’s crystal clear: age 13 was my ignition point. Coach Jay, Weight Rooms, and the Foundation of Discipline   My coach that year, Jay, wasn’t just blowing a whistle. He also happened to be my health teacher, and like all great mentors, he taught more than just plays and drills.   After that first football season, coach Jay introduced me to weight training—not just for football performance, but as a cornerstone of lifelong health. He talked about strength as more than muscle. He taught us about durability, metabolism, confidence.   It wasn’t just about getting stronger. It was about taking control of your body, your habits, your mindset.   I didn’t know it yet, but those early lessons would become the core of how I live now: intentional, active, fueled by movement and strength—not just for aesthetics, but for longevity.   As I’d related, unfortunately Jay passed away June 5th, 2025. I lived his inspiration every single day as he instilled the importance of health and wellness in me all those years ago.   Thank you, Jay. I will remember you the rest of my days. Coach Strickland: Visualization & Inner Strength   Later in high school, I met John Strickland, my English teacher and strength coach. He looked like a powerlifter (and was), but he also played bass guitar and painted—living proof that masculine strength and creativity can coexist.   Coach Strickland introduced me to powerlifting, but more importantly, he introduced me to the mental game. He taught me to visualize: close your eyes, see the set completed, then go do it.   That single idea—rehearse success in your mind first—has shaped how I prepare for everything from workouts to work presentations.   Coach Strickland died in December, 2022. Thank you, coach, for all that you taught me. Uncle Mike and the Nutritional Side of Recovery   Around the same time, my Uncle Mike was working in pharmaceutical/nutraceutical sales. His company developed high-calorie, low-volume food solutions for cancer patients—products designed to nourish the body when everything else felt impossible. He focused all his efforts on developing high quality nutritional products to improve the health of cancer, renal, and dysphagia patients that needed nutritional supplements   That stuck with me. While my friends were focused on snacks and sports, I was watching my uncle help people fight for their lives with science-backed nutrition.   He was selling with a purpose—and it opened my eyes.   I saw that sales wasn’t just about products. It was about solving real problems, making life better for someone else. Between the football field and Uncle Mike’s world, something clicked. I knew I wanted to go into sales—not just to “close deals,” but to connect meaningfully through solutions that matter.   He eventually started his own company and found wild success, primarily because he served and helped others. His product development lab was his kitchen. He was a true example of the ‘American Dream’; not just to own a home but to have the freedom to pursue life, liberty and happiness. He embodied all of those.   My uncle died during the awful COVID years, when no one was allowed to visit loved ones as they left this earth. An atrocity that we will reflect on as a very dark period in history. From the Locker Room to the Lab   That clarity eventually led me to college, where I majored in marketing and zeroed in on sales as my vehicle of choice.   My first professional job brought me to Maryland—and shortly thereafter, I teamed up with a friend from church. What started as a mobile phlebotomy business quickly evolved. We began offering drug and alcohol screening for employers, and as time passed, we expanded into corporate and clinical wellness services.   We built it from the ground up. No backing. No shortcuts. Just hustle, grit and 80-hour weeks. We didn’t care; we were in our 20’s and full of energy and optimism! What we did worked.   Eventually, we faced a crossroads: most phlebotomy operations were being absorbed by national service providers who wanted to swallow up independents like us. So, what did we do?   I taught myself software development—custom-building our own system so we could stay independent, agile, and patient-focused. That tech-forward mindset helped us survive—and thrive—in an industry most people never think twice (or even know) about.   And the irony?   That company—which started with some basic medical supplies, a cooler, and a church friendship—became the foundation for a career that’s spanned decades, from wellness screening to lab testing, software integration to health advocacy. Full Circle: Still Living What I Learned   Today, I look back on age 13 with a different lens.   It was the year my interest in physical strength, resilience, and the human body met my curiosity about how to make a difference in people’s lives.   The combination of Coach Jay’s commitment to health, Coach Strickland’s lessons in the weight room  and Uncle Mike’s passion for purposeful selling created a path that’s still unfolding.   Now I write, consult, and share what I’ve learned on this blog—not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I believe our early storylines still have something to teach us, especially in this later chapter.   We don’t outgrow our calling—we grow into it. Your Takeaway? Revisit Your “13”   Ask yourself:   What were you drawn to at 13?   Or was there a particular year that stands out for you? What moments gave you a glimpse of who you could become? Who

I’m sitting here thinking about life’s phases—what I call the “3rd chapter.”   As I’m sharing my journey here, I started out pretty narrow-focused, growing up on an Indiana farm where my brother and I battled it out in the front yard over football and basketball.   Back then, it was all about me—my goals, my wins, my survival in the ‘sibling rivalry’ family dynamic. But as I’ve aged, I’ve realized that life’s richest moments come not from taking, but from giving.   That’s what the 3rd chapter should be about.   We all start as selfish beings—it’s natural. As kids, we’re wired to focus on our own needs, like I was when I chased football dreams after my first season of organized football at the age of 13. Even into my 20s and 30s, I was driven by personal achievements—building a career in sales, starting a business, pursuing passions like snow skiing and golf.   But science tells us our brains don’t fully mature until our mid-20s, so it’s no surprise that unselfishness takes time to grow. My own empathy developed slowly, shaped by experiences like watching my uncle Bill struggle after Vietnam and seeing my mother left with little after my parents’ divorce despite her contributions to our family.   The 3rd chapter—our later years—should be about acceptance that life isn’t forever. As with everyone, I’m growing older (but still alive!) and I’ve learned we gain more by giving our time, money, energy, and focus to others. Raising my kids, volunteering with 4-H, coaching football, even deciding to donate my brain to the Concussion Legacy Foundation—it’s these acts that bring me deeper fulfillment than any material possession ever did.   Yet, it’s disheartening to see how, in the U.S. and globally, we’ve become less willing to help our fellow man. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I saw how isolation made us more self-focused, and that trend seems to have stuck. It’s a challenge we need to face head-on.   Embracing benevolence in this chapter aligns with my core values of acceptance and balance. It’s about living with purpose, as Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi writes in Flow – finding joy in the moment, whether that’s mentoring someone, sharing a skill, or simply listening. I’ve found that giving doesn’t drain me; it energizes me.   It’s a mindset shift: instead of asking “what can I get,” we ask “what can I give?” That’s how we live our best life in the 3rd chapter.   I’d love to hear your thoughts—how are you giving back, or planning to, in your own 3rd chapter?   Share your ideas in the comments below. Let’s inspire each other to make this phase about unselfishness and connection, building a tribe that values lifting each other up.   Here’s to a chapter of giving! Brian

They say you become who you admire. And for me, it started with a movie, a name, and a football.   It was the summer before 8th grade when I first saw the movie Brian’s Song. I was just 13, a skinny farm kid in Indiana who hadn’t played a down of organized football yet. But that film—that story of friendship, resilience, and the unbreakable bond between teammates—ignited something inside me.   Maybe it was because his name was Brian.   Maybe it was because the movie tugged at something deeper: the idea that in the crucible of sport, differences disappear.   Black. White. Rich. Poor. City kid. Farm boy.   In the locker room, we all wore the same sweaty, used gear. On the field though, we fought for each other.   That movie planted the seed. My mentors—Coach Jay, Coach Hunsucker, and later Coach Strickland—watered it with discipline, belief, and iron in the form of barbells and morning two-a-days.   But it was my heroes who gave it fire. The Birth of a Bears Fan (And a Football Life)   Growing up in the cornfields of Indiana, you’d think I’d have rooted for the Colts. They had relocated in the middle of the night in 1984; I didn’t care for the way it happened and I wasn’t in Indiana long enough after college to commit myself to becoming a fan.   The team that owned my heart was the Chicago Bears—and it all started with Brian Piccolo. His quiet courage. His friendship with Gale Sayers. That gut-wrenching goodbye. I was hooked. It was why I chose #41 as my jersey number.   And for a bit of irony, the bantam football team my brother played on was the Bears.   And then came Walter Payton.   “Sweetness” wasn’t just a nickname—it was poetry in motion. He ran like he owed someone money and lifted like he was trying to bend time. I admired everything about him: the legs, the lungs, the mindset. He trained like a man who knew the end would come too soon. His ‘Hill’ workout was legendary in the football training circles.   That hit home for me.   Coach Jay’s comment in those first days of my football experience that I had “tenacity” – I latched onto that.   I wasn’t the biggest or the fastest, but I could hit.   I could grind.   I wasn’t afraid.   I learned that effort, attitude, and preparation could beat raw talent if you showed up enough times.   I was also a fan of the Alabama Crimson Tide and Paul ‘Bear’ Bryant; I had dreams of playing for him because of his ability to outwit his opponents and his innovative approach to the game. I was facing headwinds getting the attention of smaller schools in Indiana, which led me to the conclusion that perhaps I wasn’t a candidate for the Crimson Tide. But the ‘Bear’ was always a hero to me. The Raiders Taught Me Swagger   By the time I had arrived to high school, I was reading every magazine watching every VHS highlight tape I could find of the Oakland Raiders (I was in the era before the internet existed). This wasn’t just a team. It was a lifestyle. The Raiders were attitude.   I modeled my mindset after them. I wanted to be feared on the field—not because I was dirty, but because I was relentless.   And if you know me now, you can probably still hear the echoes of that swagger when I talk about training, business, or grilling the perfect lamb chop. Meeting a Raider and Becoming One—In Spirit   In the early 1990s, I met Burgess Owens in person – one of the Raiders I idolized. By then, I was in the thick of my wellness career, starting my own company, learning how to fight for independence just like I did on the field.   Burgess wasn’t just a great football player. He was a man of principle, sharp intellect, and purpose. Meeting him reminded me that heroes grow, too. They evolve. And if we’re lucky, we get to become the kind of person someone else might admire. From Bears to Giants: Loyalty Born of Grit   After college, living in a Maryland suburb of D.C. (where my dad rooted for the Redskins), I went searching for something different.   As a Ball State alum, I scoured pre-internet magazines looking for MAC grads in the pros.   I found Rob Carpenter, a fullback with the New York Giants.   That was enough for me.   Then came Lawrence Taylor—a force of nature—and Bill Parcells, the master tactician. The roster was deep with great players. The Giants played like I wanted to live: with fire, control, and unrelenting resolve.   They became my team (until the Browns relocated to Baltimore as the Ravens. Not quite the same as the Colts leaving Baltimore for Indy but I acknowledge the irony and potential hypocrisy). Heroes Aren’t Perfect. They’re Human.   That’s the thing no one tells you when you’re young (or if they do, we don’t hear the message).   Your heroes may not always stay on the pedestal. Some stumble. Some fade. Some grow into something else entirely. Which is why we’re told not to meet our heroes because we’ll be disappointed by their humanity.   But the ones who last are the ones who made you better.   The ones who: Why It Still Matters   I’ve grown older; I’m reflecting. I’ve built companies, raised kids, lost and gained a lot of things in life.   But that spark? That grit? That love of football, brotherhood, and heroes who lead by example?   Still there.   I think about those days often—not with nostalgia, but with gratitude. Because football gave me more than just bruises and stories.   It gave me my compass. The Power of Heroes   So, here’s:   To Brian Piccolo and Walter Payton. To