Reps that Really Matter

I walk a lot. Walking is a cheat code for me. It helps clear the noise.

Lately, I’ve been leaving the podcasts behind. No audiobook. Just me and my thoughts. And maybe it’s because I'll be 40 in less than two months, but those thoughts have been hitting a little deeper lately.

On one of those recent walks, I had an epiphany I’d like to share:

I believe so much of life is reps.

But in order to maximize the reps, our posture has to be right.

Let me explain.

Anyone who’s spent time under a barbell knows that form matters.

If your posture is off, even slightly, you might still move the weight, but you’re setting yourself up for injury down the road. Same rep. Very different outcome.

I believe that “life reps” work the same way.

You can show up. Clock in. Go through the motions. Grind. Hustle. Do all the reps.

But if your heart posture is off, if you're doing the reps with bitterness, ego, distraction, or entitlement, it’s not building the strength you think it is.

It might even be hurting you.

I’ve had seasons where I was putting in all the reps:

→ Late nights at the office.

→ Early mornings with the kids.

→ Hustling hard to get the next deal.

→ Trying to prove I was enough by staying busy enough.

But deep down, I knew something was off. My posture was crooked. I was showing up externally, but not always with the right internal alignment.

Those reps built burnout. Resentment. Fatigue dressed up like ambition.

But I've seen it play out very differently in other seasons, too.

Hard seasons in which the weight felt heavier than usual.

When the weight feels heavy, it's easier to let your posture slip.

But in those seasons good posture is even more important.

When Bre and I were in our 20s, we lived in a 700-square-foot house with two kids. In those early days we barely had enough in our bank account to finish a Walmart run. I vividly remember walking through Walmart, Bre with a calculator in hand, and having to put things back on the shelf because we couldn't afford them. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't fun.

But our heart posture was always rooted in hope. In trust.

We didn’t do it perfectly. Far from it.

But we both knew deep down that the season we were in wasn’t forever. We weren’t just surviving it, we were learning from it. Choosing not to be defined by the lack, but shaped by the lessons.

I'm gonna say that part one more time: Choosing not to be defined by the lack, but shaped by the lessons.

And man, I wouldn’t trade those reps for anything.

Here's what I've discovered to be true:

Reps build results.

But posture builds character.

You can log the hours and still miss the transformation if you’re not paying attention. If you’re not asking the right questions. If you’re not showing up with humility, clarity, and a willingness to grow.

And maybe that’s the quiet invitation of seasons that stretch us:

Not just to survive them.

Not just to hustle through them.

But to hold the posture that actually changes us.

So if you're in a season of repetition (whether it’s parenting toddlers, rebuilding a marriage, growing a business, or just showing up to your job each day) don't underestimate the power of posture.

You might not see results yet.

But the roots are growing deeper.

The form is getting sharper.

The strength is being built.

And one day, you’ll look back at this season and realize it wasn’t wasted time. It was foundational. It was necessary.

So check your posture.

Then keep doing the reps.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

--

PS — This is one of my favorite photos of me and my kids. A quick life update: Jude is taller than me now and better than me at just about everything. Lila is the basketball player I once dreamed of becoming. Gwyn’s creativity leaves me in awe. And Ruby… well, Ruby still doesn’t like me very much (but she’s smiling here, so I’m counting that as a win).

Life isn’t perfect—but it’s full. And it’s good. I’m grateful for all of it.

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1st Phorm HQ

Hey guys, it’s me again. The guy who somehow keeps ending up in conversations with people I don’t feel qualified to be in the same room with.

I recently had the chance to meet Andy Frisella.

If you know the name, you probably already have an opinion. He’s not exactly vanilla. Andy is a full-throttle, say-it-with-your-chest kind of guy. Polarizing? For sure. But fake? No chance.

We’re actually wired pretty similarly. Driven. Disciplined. Direct. The difference? I’ve got four kids and use the f-word a little less

But what stood out most wasn’t the delivery—it was the depth of alignment beneath it.

God. Country. Purpose. Ownership. Discipline. Legacy.

Those weren’t just words he said—they’re baked into everything he does. You can feel it the second you walk into 1st Phorm HQ. The place is immaculate. Everything has weight. And I don’t just mean the dumbbells (though I’ll get to those in a second).

Every detail is dialed in.

The branding. The energy. The culture. The mission. The way the team carries themselves. It’s more than impressive—it’s intentional.

The 1st Phorm gym is a perfect example. Every single weight on every single rack has the logo turned perfectly upright. Not as a one-time setup, but as an expectation. If you lift there, you know: that’s how it’s done.

It might sound like a small thing. But it’s not.

Because excellence isn’t just about big moments. It’s about what you do when no one’s watching. It’s about the things you could let slide—but don’t.

There’s a phrase I keep coming back to:

How you do anything is how you do everything.

And that phrase has never felt more true than it did walking through that building.

To some, it might seem militaristic. Extreme. Over the top. But to me, it felt like conviction. A decision to live on purpose, not default. A refusal to let apathy have the final say.

The older I get, the more I respect that.

We live in a world that loves convenience. We settle for “good enough.” We glorify comfort and call it self-care. But comfort rarely builds anything worth having. Growth isn’t easy. Discipline isn’t fun. Excellence costs something.

But it’s worth it.

And here’s the thing—I didn’t leave that meeting wanting to be Andy Frisella.

I left wanting to be better.

More intentional. More focused. More committed to the small stuff that no one else sees but makes all the difference.

And maybe that’s the takeaway here.

You don’t have to be loud to be disciplined.

You don’t have to be intense to be excellent.

You don’t have to shout to be strong.

But you do have to decide.

→ Decide to take pride in the details.

→ Decide to show up like it matters.

→ Decide to raise your standards, even when no one else will.

That’s what I saw at 1st Phorm.

That’s what I saw in Andy.

That’s what I want more of in my own life.

And if you’re wired anything like me—maybe you do too.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

—

PS — Yes, I was flexing my right bicep as hard as humanly possible.

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Confessions of a Cybertruck Driver

I drive a Cybertruck.

To be very clear—I don’t think I’m better than anyone because of that. It’s just a fact. One that’s relevant to the rest of this post.

Hang with me.

I got one of the first trucks off the line, so I’ve been driving it for about a year now.

Why did I buy a Cybertruck? Simple.

Because I wanted to systematically villainize myself by offending diesel truck drivers, rattling traditionalists, and triggering anyone on the far left who assumes driving one makes me both the world’s biggest Trump supporter and a Nazi sympathizer.

Kidding.

I bought it long before all that noise.

I got a Cybertruck because I thought it was cool.
Because my kids thought it was cool.
And sometimes I just like to have fun.

I’m not sorry I bought it.

Without a doubt it's the most incredible vehicle I've ever driven.

It’s a tank.
It’s fast.
It’s safe.
It drives itself.
It’s bulletproof and can cruise through three feet of water.

All highly essential for a 39-year-old dad running errands in suburban Missouri.

But there's one thing I didn’t expect.
The number of people who flip me off.

Not kidding—middle fingers everywhere. Unprovoked. Just for existing in traffic.

At first, I was confused.

Then I started paying attention.
And then I started tracking.

Over the past year, I’ve documented nearly one hundred of the middle-finger salutes I’ve received—using a few simple data points: vehicle make, gender, and even license plate numbers (don’t worry, I won’t share those).

Of the 96 interactions I’ve documented to date, here’s a breakdown of the data:

Vehicle Make:

Subaru — 33%
Volkswagen — 20%
Mercedes — 18%
Ford — 15%
Nissan — 8%
Honda — 6%

Gender:

Male — 39%
Female — 61%

Also worth noting: a statistically significant number of these vehicles had three or more bumper stickers. Which, in my experience, is usually a red flag.

And because I’m both deeply curious and slightly stubborn, I’ve turned around more than a few times to ask a calm, simple question:

“Hey, did I do something to offend you?”

The answers have ranged from honest to hostile:

• “I wasn’t flipping you off—I was flipping the truck off.”

• “I don’t like people like you.”

• “F*** you, Trump supporter.”

• “Elon Musk is a giant a**hole.”

• “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” (That one ended with a heartfelt handshake.)

Now, before you paint me into a political corner—this isn’t a post about politics.
It’s a post about projection.

Because what I’ve learned is this:

People aren’t actually mad at me.
They’re mad at what they think I represent.

Some see the Cybertruck and assume:

• Tech bro.

• Trump supporter.

• Elon fanboy.

• Poser.

Others see me behind the wheel and assume:

• Wealthy.

• Arrogant.

• Privileged.

• “One of them.”

From my perspective, the truck has become a rolling Rorschach test. A moving mirror that reflects more about others than it does about me.

And that’s where it gets interesting.

Because I believe we do this all the time.

Maybe not with Cybertrucks, but with everything else:

• What someone wears.

• Where they live.

• How they talk.

• What we think they believe.

We assume.
We judge.
We react.

And sometimes, we flip people off—literally or metaphorically—without ever asking a single question.

I’ll be the first to admit: I’m still growing here.

My wife tells me I should stop confronting people on the road.

And she’s probably right.

To be fair, there’s certainly a part of me that wants to make them feel a little uncomfortable—because I think their reaction is ridiculous. That’s a flaw. I’m working on it.

But the bigger part of me just genuinely wants to understand.

The irony is rich. A truck that’s silent, battery-powered, and engineered for sustainability has triggered both the far right and the far left—for completely different reasons.

At some point, we’ve got to step back and ask:

Are we really angry at the person in front of us?
Or are we just looking for somewhere to aim our outrage?

Because if we keep judging each other by brands, politics, or whatever echo chamber we’re sitting in, we all lose. It's a zero-sum status game. And it's a race to the bottom.

I don't know if this post will do any good. But I am pretty sure that no one ever changed their mind because someone flipped them off.

To those who flip me off because of the vehicle I drive, here’s my suggestion (said with all the love I can muster):

Take a deep breath.
Relax.
It’s just a truck.

It doesn’t mean what you think it means.
And I’m probably not who you think I am.

My genuine hope is that maybe one potential offender will read this, slightly shift their approach, and I won’t have to explain to my three-year-old why some knuckleheads choose to wave at us with just one finger. But hey—who knows?

What I do believe is this:

Empathy means making space for someone else’s story—even when it stretches your own.

You don’t have to like my truck.

But maybe—just maybe—we can still like each other.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

-----

PS — Also worth noting, not all of the reactions have been hostile.

Many have been incredibly kind—and honestly, hilarious.

I regularly have kids ask for rides, parents ask for tours, and strangers stop me in parking lots just to talk. I’m always happy to oblige.

But my favorite moment?

A gentleman once walked up and said, “Hey, my 92-year-old grandma is too nervous to ask, but she really wants to see your truck.”

I said, “Absolutely!”

She got out—with her walker—and slowly circled the vehicle.

Then she looked me dead in the eyes and said:
“You wouldn’t give an old lady a ride, would ya?”

We took a few laps around the Sam’s Club parking lot together.

There’s still a lot of good in the world.
We just have to make space for it.

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High Agency

Hey guys, it’s me again. The guy with too many opinions and not enough margin.

I’ve got a little advice I’d like to share. It’s unsolicited. But it’s also 100% free.

I literally won’t charge you anything if you keep reading. Could be the deal of a lifetime. Could also be a complete waste of time. Let’s find out together.

I recently came across a concept that gave language to something I’ve quietly tried to live by for as long as I can remember:

High Agency.

At its core, High Agency is the belief that you are responsible for your outcomes.

Not your boss. Not your upbringing. Not the algorithm. Not the economy. Not your personality type, your parents, or your current limitations.

You.

It’s not about pretending you control everything. It’s about refusing to be passive. It’s about choosing action over blame. Ownership over excuses. Progress over perfection.

It’s the mindset that says: “This might not be my fault, but it is my responsibility.”

I believe this mindset changes everything.

High Agency isn’t about being bold for the sake of being bold. It’s not about pretending life is easy or ignoring struggle. It’s about moving forward—even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because here’s what I’ve seen: the people who grow, lead, and build aren’t always the smartest, most talented, or best resourced.

They’re the ones who keep showing up. The ones who take responsibility—even when they have every reason not to. The ones who choose to act instead of wait.

Now—I know this kind of thinking can sound overly simplified.

You might be thinking, “That’s easy for you to say, Josh—you’ve had some wins.”

Maybe. But I’ve also had a front-row seat to every failure, false start, and detour along the way. High Agency wasn’t born from success—it was born from a healthy combination of making mistakes and maintaining a bias toward action.

I’ll elaborate.

My high school GPA had way more to do with charm than discipline. My primary reason for going to college was to play basketball where I ultimately tore my meniscus during the last game of my freshmen season. After transferring and going to another college for four years (FIVE YEARS TOTAL), I ultimately dropped out. No degree. I then spent way too much time chasing a music dream that never quite found its legs. I paid for my wife’s engagement ring with student loan money. My professional career started with designing graphics for a burrito company and running funerals at a church.

If there’s a scenic route to success, I’ve taken it—complete with wrong turns, dead ends, and several roadside breakdowns along the way. Most of what I’ve learned came slower than I’d like and cost more than I expected.

What I do have is a stubborn refusal to stay stuck. That’s it.

I don’t wait for perfect plans. I just move.

Even if it’s clumsy. Even if it’s slow. Even if I fail.

High Agency doesn’t mean you never fall. It means you don’t stay down.

You recalibrate. You re-engage. You take the next small step.

And if you’re raising kids like I am, this mindset matters even more.

High Agency is caught, not taught.

Our kids don’t need lectures about grit or resilience. They need to see it.

They need to watch us wrestle with hard things—and refuse to quit.

They need to hear us say, “That’s on me,” and then watch us do something about it.

Because one day, they’ll face adversity.

And when they do, I want them to believe—deep in their bones—that they’re not helpless.

Now let me add this:

I’ve spent a lot of time around people who consistently choose low agency. The ones who shut down, give up, blame others, get loud, complain, gossip, and spiral when life doesn’t go their way.

And listen—I’ve had compassion. I’ve extended patience. I’ve offered help (I’ve even been made out to be the bad guy while doing so). But I’ve ultimately learned that I don’t have the space to build, create, or grow alongside people who think life is just happening to them. I’ve also seen, firsthand, how life exponentially improves when the wrong people no longer have a seat at the table.

At some point, we all face a choice: Keep circling the same frustrations—or step into something better. It doesn’t happen all at once. But it can start right now.

So here’s the invitation—for you and for me:

• If something’s broken, fix it.

• If you’re tired of how things are, make a change.

• If you’ve been waiting for the right time—this is it.

• If you’re stuck, take the next right step. Even a small one counts.

No one is coming to rescue you.

But the good news?
You already have what it takes to get unstuck.

That’s High Agency.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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