I didn’t go to law school to become an entrepreneur. In fact, for most of my time there, I was laser-focused on the next obvious step: clerkships, law firms, maybe eventually a path into public service. But life has a funny way of unfolding—not by sticking to a carefully laid plan, but by veering into the unexpected. For me, it was a negotiation workshop during my second year that planted the seed. One of my professors shared an offhand anecdote that struck a chord, though I couldn’t have told you why at the time. Several years later, I found myself at lunch with some of my parents’ friends while on vacation, and that anecdote bubbled back up. That conversation, entirely unplanned, became the foundation of my first company, VacationFutures. From there, one thing led to the next—not through a tidy strategic plan, but through a series of meandering, curiosity-fueled steps. VacationFutures led to Rented Capital. Learnings from that led to Rented.com. None of it was straight. None of it was predicted. But each step, fueled by genuine interest, created the momentum for something new. That’s the thing about greatness: it doesn’t arrive by request. It emerges when you’re following what feels worth chasing—even if the destination isn’t clear. The Trap of the Plan This might sound counterintuitive. After all, we live in a world that worships plans. We set goals, chart paths, optimize for outcomes. But as Joel Lehman and Kenneth Stanley argue in Why Greatness Cannot Be Planned , that mindset can actually limit us. When we focus too much on achieving a specific objective, we often restrict ourselves to what feels like the next logical, incremental step. But true greatness? It’s rarely logical—and almost never incremental. Take computers, for example. They didn’t evolve from some straight line starting at Charles Babbage. The vacuum tube, an essential part of early computing, wasn’t invented to help build computers. It came from a completely different field. You could never have charted a course from Babbage to the laptop you’re reading this on, not without walking through dozens of other disciplines and accidental discoveries. It’s the same with flight. The Wright brothers relied on internal combustion engines—another unrelated invention—to bring their vision to life. Innovation is often less like climbing a ladder and more like crossing a river by jumping from stone to stone. The path isn’t visible until you look back. Even Evolution Isn’t Straightforward Stephen Jay Gould, one of my former professors, had a term for this in evolutionary biology: punctuated equilibrium . Rather than slow, continuous change, species often evolve in bursts—long periods of stasis followed by dramatic, sudden leaps. It’s messy. It’s unpredictable. And it’s how nature works. So why would we think that human creativity, innovation, or personal growth would be any different? When Metrics Mislead Sometimes, what we believe is progress actually moves us further from our goals. Ben Azadi, in his new book Metabolic Freedom , tells the story of a client who wanted to lose weight. Every morning, this person dragged themselves out of bed at 5am to hit the gym, determined to burn off the pounds. But they were also deeply sleep-deprived. The scale wouldn’t budge. The fix? Sleep more. Work out less. As counterintuitive as it sounds, shifting that focus led to real weight loss. The problem wasn’t discipline—it was direction. The client wasn’t lazy. They were just following the wrong metric. And this isn’t just a health issue. It’s a human issue. We chase what’s measurable—money, hours worked, followers, output—because it’s easier to track. But not everything that counts can be counted. A Holistic View of Health—and Greatness At Alively , we believe health isn’t a single number or habit. It’s built across five interconnected pillars. You can’t neglect sleep to chase fitness. You can’t grind through stress and expect resilience to magically hold. The system works best when you care for all of it. Greatness is the same way. You don’t achieve it by hammering one narrow objective. You achieve it by cultivating an ecosystem of ideas, experiences, and interests—and then following the paths that genuinely light you up. Follow the Interesting In Why Greatness Cannot Be Planned , the authors emphasize the importance of pursuing the interesting. Not the strategic. Not the efficient. The interesting. That’s how I built my companies—not through carefully calculated business school frameworks, but by paying attention to what sparked my curiosity. That unplanned class anecdote. That conversation over lunch. A pattern I noticed in an existing business that begged to be explored. I didn’t know what I was building until I built it. I just knew it was worth exploring. Curiosity isn’t frivolous. It’s foundational. The Risk of Easy Metrics The danger is when we let ourselves get hypnotized by easy metrics. Revenue. Growth charts. Round numbers. These are tempting because they’re tangible. But they can pull us off course. The truth is, not everything meaningful can be captured in a KPI. Sometimes progress looks like slowing down. Sometimes innovation looks like stepping sideways. And sometimes, the best decision you’ll make will seem, in the moment, completely irrational. That’s how greatness works. It doesn’t follow your plan—it rewards your attention. Leave Room for the Unexpected If there’s one takeaway I’ve learned, it’s this: make space for what you didn’t expect. Don’t let your calendar or your metrics crowd out your curiosity. If something feels interesting—even if it makes no sense right now—give it room. Because you never know. That conversation at dinner? That class you almost skipped? That itch you can’t quite name? It might just be the start of something great.

It starts innocently enough. You’re scrolling. Maybe LinkedIn, maybe Instagram. You see someone you know—maybe even like—posting their latest win: a funding round, a feature in a magazine, a new job, a bestselling book. You’re happy for them. Kind of. But also, if you're honest, something shifts in you. A subtle tightening. A quick glance at your own progress. A question you didn’t mean to ask yourself: Am I doing enough? That’s the quiet tax of comparison. It doesn’t scream. It hums. And over time, if you’re not careful, it starts to drive the ship. The Comparison Economy We live in a world built to rank us—by followers, titles, income, likes, and status symbols. We’re praised for being seen. And even when we tell ourselves we’re not measuring, we often are. That external scoreboard? It rewards the visible. But rarely the meaningful. And if we let it, it quietly shifts our motivation from intrinsic to extrinsic—from being driven by what we love to being driven by how we’ll be perceived. Intrinsic vs. Extrinsic: The Science of Motivation Let’s get clear for a second. Extrinsic motivation is when you do something for a reward or recognition—money, status, a gold star. Intrinsic motivation is when you do it because it’s meaningful, enjoyable, or aligned with your values. Research consistently shows intrinsic motivation leads to greater creativity, learning, and resilience. According to Deci & Ryan’s Self-Determination Theory, people thrive when they’re driven by autonomy, mastery, and purpose—not pressure or performance reviews. Daniel Pink put it plainly in Drive: carrot-and-stick motivation might work for rote tasks, but when it comes to meaningful work, intrinsic wins—every time. When the List Doesn’t Change You I’ve experienced this truth firsthand. When Get Out of My Head hit #5 on the Wall Street Journal Best Seller list, it was surreal. A milestone, no doubt. The kind of thing you maybe dream about. The kind of thing you think might do something—for your life, your mood, your sense of self. And then the next day came. And you know what? I felt the same as the day before. My life didn’t change. The air didn’t smell different. My coffee didn’t taste better. What had changed me was the process. The conversations I had with the amazing people profiled in the book. The months of research and reflection that stretched my thinking. The discipline it took to sit down, day after day, and wrestle with the blank page. That was the gift. Not the list. Not the accolade. The work itself. The Real Cost of Comparison Comparison doesn’t just dull our joy—it clouds our decision-making. When we chase extrinsic rewards, we often: Make short-term moves that look good on paper but don’t align with our long-term values. Stifle creativity , because we’re scared of looking foolish. Stop listening , because our ego already has the answer. Lose our voice , trying to sound like someone who’s already “winning.” And here’s the punchline: chasing external validation often undermines the very performance and fulfillment we’re after. Returning to What’s Real The best moments in my work—whether as a writer, founder, or just a human being—have come when I forgot there was an audience. When I wrote because something inside me needed to be said. When I built something because it mattered, not because it impressed. When I had a conversation with no agenda, just curiosity. These moments don’t get shared on social media. They don’t show up on leaderboards. But they’re the ones I remember. They’re the ones that shape me. How to Reclaim Intrinsic Motivation (and Your Joy) Want to step off the comparison treadmill? Here are a few practices that help me stay rooted: Ask yourself often: “Why am I doing this?” Be ruthlessly honest. If the answer is applause, dig deeper. Set identity-based goals. Not “I want to be a bestselling author,” but “I want to write with consistency and clarity.” Curate your inputs. If certain platforms or people trigger comparison, limit your exposure. Your peace is more valuable than their updates. Celebrate effort, not outcome. Keep a journal of what you’re proud of—especially when no one else sees it. Mentally subtract. Imagine losing the external reward. Would you still want to do the thing? If yes, that’s your compass. Talk to yourself like someone you respect. Would you judge a friend for not hitting a vanity metric? Didn’t think so. Final Thought: Let the Work Be the Reward There’s nothing wrong with goals. There’s nothing wrong with ambition. But when we let comparison or external validation steer the ship, we lose the very thing that makes the work meaningful in the first place. Let the work be the reward. Let the process be your teacher. Let your motivation come from the inside out. Because no list—no matter how high you climb—will ever give you what you can already give yourself: the joy of being fully, unapologetically engaged in your path.

“You McConnells just think you should be happy.” An ex once said that to me, and she didn’t mean it as a compliment. She said it with a bit of an eye roll, like the notion itself was naive—maybe even arrogant. And yet, I remember hearing it and thinking: Exactly . Yes. We do. We should be happy. She meant it as a criticism. I took it as confirmation that I’d inherited something truly valuable. I think back to a Christmas vacation years ago, sitting with my dad. He was a physician—brilliant, compassionate, steady. That day, he told me something with his usual clarity: “I won’t have a business to pass down to you. You’ll have to make your own way.” There was no trust fund waiting. No ready-made company to take over. No inheritance in the traditional sense. But that conversation wasn’t about lack—it was about abundance of a different kind. Because while I may not have had a financial inheritance to rely on, I got something better: a framework for living. A mindset. A calling. My dad loved his work. As a pediatric cardiologist, he saved lives and brought calm to chaos. But more than that, he loved what he did. And he made sure I knew it. “If you love what you’re doing, you’ll never work a day in your life,” he told me—repeatedly. And he meant it. My mom offered a different but equally powerful refrain: “This is no dress rehearsal.” In other words, this life? It's the only one we get. There’s no dry run, no do-over. So live it. Fully. Deliberately. With joy. This was the inheritance I received. And it has shaped every major decision I’ve made. When I finished law school and felt the gravitational pull of a legal career I didn’t want, I remembered: This is no dress rehearsal. And I pivoted, choosing McKinsey instead. When I left the safety of a corporate job to start my first company, I was told I was taking a risk. But it didn’t feel risky—it felt aligned. It felt right. And when I carved out time, in the midst of building that company, to write a book that was waiting inside me, it was because I couldn’t not do it. That’s what happens when your inheritance is a belief that you should be doing work that fills you up, not grinds you down. People talk about “the grind” like it’s a badge of honor. I’ve never understood that. Life isn’t meant to be an endurance test. It’s meant to be experienced. Fully. Joyfully. Honestly. And this doesn’t just apply to work. People sometimes comment on my fitness routine as if it’s some kind of hardship. “You must be so disciplined,” they’ll say, as if what I’m doing is punishment. But the truth is, I love it. I love being in the gym. I love swimming. I love being in the ocean, feeling part of something vast and alive. Case in point: a recent trip to French Polynesia. If you looked at my WHOOP strain scores from that week, you’d think I was training for an Ironman. But I wasn’t. I was in heaven—swimming with sea turtles, gliding alongside manta rays and stingrays, watching an octopus change colors right before my eyes. It wasn’t “exercise.” It was joy. It was wonder. It was play. That’s the thing—when people say they hate exercise, I want to ask: What do you mean by that? Do you hate running? Weightlifting? Fine—don’t do those! But that doesn’t mean you hate movement. Maybe you’d love yoga, or paddle boarding, or dancing in your kitchen. Saying you don’t like fitness is like saying you don’t like food because you hate licorice. There are so many flavors. So many ways to move, to feel alive in your body. Why settle for drudgery? The same goes for how we spend our days. Whether it's work, relationships, hobbies, or how we show up for ourselves—what if we believed we should actually enjoy these things? What if we believed happiness wasn’t some frivolous byproduct, but an actual goal worth pursuing? That’s the inheritance I received. And my ex wasn’t wrong. I do believe I should be happy. I believe you should too. And maybe even more importantly, I believe we get to define what “success” and “legacy” mean for ourselves. My parents gave me no business to run, no stock portfolio to manage. But they gave me something far more enduring. They gave me permission to pursue what lights me up. They modeled how to be present in your life, how to take joy in your work, and how to treat each day as a precious, non-renewable resource. That’s the right kind of inheritance. And now, as I think about what I hope to leave behind—not just for my family, but for anyone I impact—it’s this: a belief that your life is yours to shape. That you don’t have to grind your way through. That joy is not optional. It’s essential. So maybe ask yourself: What did you inherit? What beliefs about work, life, worthiness, and happiness did you absorb? And more importantly: What do you want to pass on? Because the most powerful legacy you can offer isn’t found in a will or a bank account. It’s in how you live, and what you model every single day. Choose joy. Choose meaning. Choose presence. That’s the inheritance that lasts.

I tend to think of my life in two distinct periods: the first, when I didn’t know anything. And the second, when I realized I didn’t know anything. That shift—from unknowing to knowing I didn’t know—changed everything for me. Not overnight, but over time. It transformed how I approach learning, how I run a business, how I have conversations, and how I show up in the world. In that first period, I was full of confidence in my beliefs. Whether it was politics, philosophy, spirituality, or whatever big idea was on the table—I had an opinion, and I held it tightly. If you disagreed, well, then it was time to debate. And I didn’t enter debates to exchange ideas. I entered them to win. That need to be right? It didn’t come from malice. It came from a place I thought was noble: conviction. Passion. Purpose. But the older I got, the more I started to realize that certainty, especially in excess, is a form of blindness. When the Cracks Started to Show Somewhere in my late twenties, things started to shift. I couldn’t help but notice how often I was wrong. How frequently new information came in that challenged the views I’d held tightly. I’d read something, hear a new perspective, or live through a situation that forced me to re-evaluate what I thought I knew. And each time I changed my mind, I didn’t shrink. I grew. The more I embraced that, the more liberating it became. I stopped needing to win arguments. I stopped needing to plant a flag on every topic. And I started getting curious. Not curious in a performative way, but deeply, sincerely curious about what I didn’t yet understand. That was the beginning of the second period of my life: the one where I realized just how much I don’t know—and how powerful that realization really is. A Lesson from the Startup Trenches That mindset got put to the test when I built my first company. If there’s ever a crash course in letting go of ego, it’s entrepreneurship. You go into a startup with ideas—strong ones. Beliefs about what customers want, how the product should look, what pricing should be, how to market. But the market doesn’t care how right you think you are. It only cares about what actually works. That’s when I discovered a powerful mental framework: strong convictions, loosely held . It means believing passionately, but not rigidly. Testing boldly, but adapting quickly. Holding your ideas like clay, not concrete. This mindset saved me—more than once. It helped me pivot when a product wasn’t working, listen more closely to customers, and evolve faster than I ever could have if I’d stayed locked into “being right.” The Joy of Not Knowing Something else happened, too. As I became more curious and less certain, I started having better conversations. Instead of listening just to find an opening for my rebuttal, I started listening to understand. Instead of needing to prove a point, I asked more questions. And guess what? I learned more. Not just facts, but about people. About where they come from. What they’ve lived through. Why they believe what they believe. And I think—I hope—I became more enjoyable to be around. Because let’s be honest: nobody likes talking to someone who always needs to be right. It’s exhausting. But talking to someone who’s open, who’s learning in real-time, who’s curious? That’s energizing. Curiosity makes you lighter. Certainty is heavy. Why This Mindset Matters (Now More Than Ever) We live in an age where certainty has become a kind of performance art. Social media rewards the boldest take, the strongest stance, the snappiest takedown. Nuance? Not so much. But here’s what I’ve found: choosing curiosity over certainty has made me not only happier, but more effective. In business. In relationships. In life. Here’s why: You learn faster. When you’re not defending old ideas, you’re open to better ones. You connect more deeply. People feel safe with someone who’s listening, not judging. You become more creative. Certainty narrows options. Curiosity expands them. You find more peace. There’s no internal tension when you don’t need to be right all the time. As the Stoics would say, we suffer more in imagination than in reality. And much of that suffering comes from our belief that we’re supposed to know everything. That’s a trap. And it's one you can step out of at any time. Practicing Curiosity Daily So how do you start? Here are a few things that help me: Adopt the mantra: “I could be wrong.” Say it often. It softens your grip on certainty. Ask more questions than you make statements. Especially when someone disagrees with you. Listen to understand, not to reply. Don’t tie your identity to your ideas. You’re allowed to evolve. Consume content that challenges you. Not to argue with it, but to learn from it. Celebrate mind-changing moments. They’re signs of growth, not weakness. The Freedom in Uncertainty At this point in my life, I don’t want to be the guy with all the answers. I want to be the guy who asks good questions. Who learns out loud. Who changes his mind in public and is better for it. Because the truth is: I don’t know. And neither do you. Not fully. Not forever. That’s what makes life interesting. So if you’re stuck in a mindset of always needing to be right, try loosening your grip. You might just find, like I did, that there’s a whole world waiting on the other side of certainty—full of wonder, wisdom, and the quiet joy of not knowing. 

When I started my first company, I thought freedom would follow. No boss, no office hours, no one telling me what to do. Just me, my laptop, and the wide-open promise of autonomy. Instead, I found myself working more than ever. The irony of our age is that we’ve made breathtaking progress—technological, medical, and otherwise—under the banner of freedom and ease. Yet many of us feel more trapped, more anxious, and more overwhelmed than ever before. The things designed to liberate us—the smartphone, the cloud, the work-from-anywhere ethos—have also shackled us to a perpetual mental treadmill. We can work from anywhere, which now means… we work everywhere. The Great Prediction That Got It Wrong Nearly a century ago, John Maynard Keynes predicted we’d all be working 15 hours a week by now. Automation, he said, would eliminate the need for toil. Machines would handle the dirty work, leaving us to explore leisure, art, and family. What happened? Well, we did make the machines. But instead of slowing down, we sped up. We started multitasking and “optimizing.” And instead of choosing peace, we chose productivity—over and over again. Because beneath the convenience and speed of modern progress lies something far older and deeper: craving. The Craving That Never Quits Buddhism and Taoism understood something that our data-driven culture still hasn’t fully grasped: craving is insatiable. The moment we hit one milestone—title, income, square footage—we see another gleaming just out of reach. So we push forward. And the more we achieve, the more convinced we become that just one more thing will bring peace. Spoiler alert: it won’t. This is the hedonic treadmill. You climb one peak of accomplishment only to see a higher one waiting. So you climb again. And again. Until you realize you’re not chasing success—you’re being chased by it. As the Tao Te Ching reminds us: “He who knows he has enough is rich.” And yet, how few of us ever pause to truly ask, “Do I already have enough?” Imagining Loss to Remember What We Have There’s a Stoic practice called premeditatio malorum —imagining the loss of the things you hold dear. It sounds morbid at first, I know. But bear with me. Imagine losing your eyesight. Or your partner. Or your health. Not as an exercise in anxiety, but in appreciation. When you truly see how fragile everything is, you also begin to see how precious it is. How enough it already is. We rarely do this in our progress-obsessed culture. We focus on what's next. But peace doesn’t live in what’s next. It lives in the gratitude for what is. Yes, Progress Is Amazing—But It’s Not the Point Don’t get me wrong. I love progress. I’m fascinated by what AI can do, by what science is curing, by what we’re building together as a species. Progress is a gift. But it’s a terrible master. If you tie your happiness to outcomes, you’ll always be at their mercy. Win the deal? Joy. Lose it? Misery. Get the promotion? Elation. Miss it? Defeat. This rollercoaster is exhausting. It’s also unnecessary. In Get Out of My Head , I talk about this exact trap. We give away our peace—not to bad things, but to good things. Success, ambition, growth. These aren’t enemies. They just make lousy landlords when we let them rent out our minds. Work for the Process, Not the Prize The ancient Stoics, Buddhists, and Taoists weren’t against progress. They were just clear-eyed about where happiness comes from. Not in the external world, but in how we relate to it. As I learned firsthand building my company, the moment I stopped obsessing over the outcome—and focused on how I was showing up each day—everything shifted. I found more clarity. More presence. Ironically, more success too. The key wasn’t more hustle. It was more equanimity. Progress should be pursued for the love of the process, not the thrill of the prize. And when the prize does come? Great. Celebrate it. Then let it go. Don’t let it define you. Because nothing outside of you can. What to Do With This So how do we escape the trap? Here are a few things that help me: Set boundaries. Just because you can work from bed doesn’t mean you should. Your mind needs places and times to rest. Practice negative visualization. Picture losing what you have—not to scare yourself, but to spark gratitude. Check your craving. Ask: “Am I chasing this because it brings me joy, or because I think it will finally make me enough?” Return to now. The only place you ever really own is this moment. The future is a dream. The past, a ghost. Owning Your Journey Progress will continue. It should. But let’s not confuse having more with being more. Let’s not mistake motion for meaning. You are not your job title. You are not your calendar. You are not your inbox. You are the thinker behind the thoughts. The being behind the doing. And when you can root yourself in that identity—not in your outcomes—you become unshakeable. So climb that next mountain. Build that next company. Write that next chapter. But do it because it brings you alive—not because you think it will finally make you whole.  You already are.

For years, I believed in the grind. Push harder. Train more. Rest is for the weak—or at least, for people with less discipline. And to be fair, that mindset served me well for a while. I was a competitive swimmer, often training five or more hours a day, rarely taking a full day off. My body handled it. My mind thrived on the structure. But here's the thing: just because something worked once doesn’t mean it still works. And just because you can doesn’t always mean you should. There’s been an ongoing debate in fitness circles about “overtraining.” Some argue it’s largely a myth, that the average person isn’t putting in nearly enough volume or intensity to reach a true state of overtraining. They’ll point to athletes like LeBron James or Cristiano Ronaldo who train daily, intensely, and seemingly without burnout. But here’s what often gets left out of that comparison: those athletes recover like it’s their full-time job. Because it is. They’re not squeezing in workouts before a full workday or sneaking in a gym session between dinner and bedtime stories. They’re napping mid-afternoon, getting massages and cryotherapy, dialing in every calorie they consume, and sleeping like royalty. They push hard, yes—but they recover even harder. Their volume is high, but so is their recovery ratio. That’s the part that most of us miss. It’s not always that you’re overtraining—it’s that you’re under-recovered. Your body can probably handle more than you think. The human body is remarkably adaptable. But recovery isn’t just something that happens in the background. It takes time, attention, intention. And for many of us, those are in short supply. Take me. After retiring from competitive swimming, I didn’t stop training. In fact, for about nine years, I didn’t take a single day off. Not one. I was still chasing that familiar feeling of discipline, of motion, of “doing the work.” But I wasn’t 20 anymore. I wasn’t living in a dorm with someone else handling my food. I had a company to build, a daughter to raise, boards to serve, people counting on me in ways I couldn’t have imagined when swimming was the center of my life. And yet, I kept training like it was. Until it finally hit me: I wasn’t overdoing the workouts—I was under-doing the recovery. The way I had allocated time made sense back then. It didn’t anymore. So I made a shift. Not by stopping my training, but by rebalancing the equation. I realized that for this season of life, some of the time and energy I’d been pouring into fitness needed to be rerouted toward recovery. That meant listening to my body when it asked for a break. That meant recognizing that mental and emotional fatigue mattered, too. That meant getting real about how much of myself I was spending outside the gym—so I could be smarter about what I asked of myself inside it. This isn’t just about me. It’s a lesson I think more people need to hear. We’re told to push. To grind. To get one more rep, one more mile, one more class. But we’re rarely told to check in with what season of life we’re in. Or to adjust our expectations accordingly. Maybe you’re a new parent who’s barely sleeping. Maybe you’re managing a business, or caring for aging parents, or just juggling life at full tilt. In those moments, it’s not about giving up on fitness—it’s about redefining what health looks like. Because let’s be honest: if you’re running yourself into the ground with workouts and then crashing through the rest of your day, that’s not fitness. That’s just another form of burnout. Instead, start thinking about your recovery ratio. How much effort are you putting into repairing what you’re tearing down? Are you sleeping enough? Eating to support your energy? Taking rest days seriously, or just using them to catch up on all the other things? Are you ever still? If the answer is no, then it doesn’t really matter how “reasonable” your workout volume seems on paper. Your body doesn’t operate on spreadsheets. It operates on rhythm—on stress followed by rest. If you’re constantly adding stress without ever refilling the tank, even the lightest load eventually becomes too much. So what do we do? Start by reframing recovery as part of your training—not the absence of it. Build your week with intentionality. That might mean a full rest day. Or it might mean active recovery: walking, stretching, easy movement that restores instead of depletes. Treat sleep like a training session. Protect it. Prioritize it. And give yourself permission to adjust your intensity based on what the rest of your life looks like. Track your recovery the same way you track your lifts or your runs. Note your mood, your energy, your motivation. These things are data, too. And sometimes the best metric of progress isn’t how much more you can do—but how much better you feel doing it. For me, finding that healthier rhythm didn’t mean training less—it meant training smarter. It meant remembering that fitness is supposed to support my life, not compete with it. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way, but one I hope others can adopt with a little more grace. At the end of the day, more isn’t always better. Better is better. So yes, your body can probably handle more. But can your life? That’s the real question. And if the answer is no, maybe it’s time to do the radical thing. Maybe it’s time to rest.

Everyone talks about balance like it’s the ultimate life goal. Work-life balance. Balanced diets. A balanced mindset. It’s everywhere. But lately, I’ve started to question whether “balance” is actually the answer—or just a comforting illusion we tell ourselves when we’re overwhelmed by how messy life can be. Because here’s the thing: trying to keep everything in perfect balance all the time can feel like walking a tightrope in a windstorm. It's exhausting. What if, instead of aiming for moderation in all things, we actually embraced the power of extremes? What if that was more sustainable, not less? Let me explain. We live in a world of chronic, low-grade stress. Emails that never stop. Notifications that buzz at all hours. A constant drizzle of minor demands. It doesn’t seem like much in the moment, but it adds up. We’re always “on,” and rarely truly off. That kind of background noise is draining in a way that a short, intense sprint of effort never is. Think about it. An hour of focused, hard work followed by real rest feels a lot better than six hours of half-working, half-scrolling, half-existing. We’re not built for constant “meh.” We’re built for peaks and valleys. This is why the concept of oscillation—cycling between extremes of intensity and recovery—makes so much sense. It’s not about chaos. It’s about rhythm. And our bodies and brains love rhythm. Take HIIT workouts, for example. You go hard for 30 seconds, rest, repeat. That contrast is what makes the exercise effective. The same goes for fasting. Constant grazing keeps insulin high and the body sluggish. But extended breaks between meals can give your metabolism time to reset and repair. Then there’s heat and cold exposure. It’s not just wellness hype—subjecting your body to temperature extremes can be surprisingly good for you. Most of us live at a constant 72 degrees, in climate-controlled comfort. But that comfort can come at a cost. Our nervous systems get soft. Our stress response systems grow dull. And our bodies lose some of the adaptability that kept our ancestors resilient and ready. Extreme cold and extreme heat challenge the body in powerful ways. Cold exposure, like ice baths or cold showers, activates brown fat (which helps regulate temperature and burn energy), improves circulation, and floods the brain with norepinephrine—a neurochemical that boosts focus, mood, and mental clarity. It’s also been shown to reduce inflammation and improve tolerance to psychological stress. You come out of the cold not just awake, but alert, calm, and grounded. On the flip side, heat—like time in a sauna or even hot yoga—induces its own cascade of benefits. Prolonged heat exposure mimics cardiovascular exercise, increasing heart rate and improving blood flow. It stimulates the production of heat shock proteins, which help repair damaged cells and support cellular longevity. Regular sauna use has been linked to reduced risk of cardiovascular disease, lower inflammation markers, and even improved cognitive function over time. Mentally, heat exposure can create a kind of meditative discomfort—it forces you to stay present and breathe through the intensity, much like cold. Together, hot and cold exposure create a dynamic stress cycle. The extremes force adaptation. You’re teaching your body and brain that it’s safe to feel uncomfortable, and that discomfort can be followed by recovery. That’s powerful. It builds both physical resilience and mental grit—something that’s hard to cultivate when we’re always nestled in the comfort zone, literally and figuratively. Moderation might be safe, but extremes are where growth lives. And this goes beyond the physical. Look at relationships. We're encouraged to maintain a “healthy social circle,” which often translates into spreading ourselves thin across dozens of surface-level connections. But what we really crave—what actually sustains us—is depth. The kind of conversations that last for hours. The kind of trust that’s built through shared hardship and joy. You don’t get that from balance. You get it from choosing intensity with a few, not moderation with many. Even emotionally, the most meaningful moments aren’t balanced. They’re deeply felt. Falling in love isn’t balanced. Grieving someone you lost isn’t balanced. Creating something you care about isn’t balanced. It’s all-consuming. And while it can be messy and overwhelming, it’s also what makes life feel real. There’s a Stoic undercurrent to this idea too. In Get Out of My Head, I talk about the dangers of living in a chronic state of mental tenancy—constantly reacting to others, living in moderation to avoid conflict or discomfort, and never really claiming ownership over our own minds. The Stoics weren’t about staying comfortable. They practiced hardship intentionally. Cold baths. Physical labor. Voluntary discomfort. They knew that growth required intensity, followed by calm reflection. The same applies to modern life. When you’re constantly trying to keep everything in balance, you end up dulling your experience. You don’t give yourself permission to go all-in on anything, so you never really recover either. You just hover in this lukewarm zone of “pretty good,” which over time starts to feel more like “kind of numb.” The irony is, when we embrace extremes—when we work hard and then truly rest, when we open ourselves to deep joy and deep grief—we often feel more stable overall. Because we’re not denying the reality of how we function. We’re working with it. Sustainability doesn’t mean flatlining your emotions, your energy, or your experiences. It means fueling your life in waves. Going hard, then recovering hard. Showing up fully, then stepping back to recharge. That’s not reckless. That’s intentional. Our ancestors lived this way out of necessity. They didn’t eat six small meals a day. They feasted when food was abundant and fasted when it wasn’t. They weren’t glued to a screen under fluorescent lights. They worked intensely when needed and rested deeply when they could. Their lives weren’t balanced, but they were aligned with the natural rhythms of survival. And maybe that’s the real takeaway here. Balance sounds nice in theory. But in practice, what we need is rhythm. Tension and release. Intensity and rest. Depth and stillness. So next time you feel off, instead of trying to even things out, maybe try leaning in. Sprint, then stop. Dive deep, then float. Push your limits, then give yourself space to recover. And trust that the extreme is not the enemy. It's the catalyst.  Not everything needs to be balanced. Some things are better lived in full. And when we stop chasing the middle and start owning our edges, life has a way of becoming more vivid—and maybe, just maybe, more sustainable.

We’re living in a golden age of human optimization. Every day, there’s a new tool, protocol, or supplement promising to help us live longer, feel younger, and push the limits of aging. And don’t get me wrong—I’m here for all of it. I’m fascinated by the science, I love the discipline, and I’ve built Alively.com and the Home of Healthspan podcast on the idea that we can extend not just our years, but our vitality. But here’s the uncomfortable question that keeps nudging at me: What’s the point of living longer… if we don’t know why we’re here? It’s a question I return to often. Because while healthspan is about adding more high-quality years to our lives, we still have to ask: What do we want those years to mean? Adding time to the calendar is only part of the equation. The other part—the more important one, honestly—is how we fill that time. The Empty Extension We’ve become really good at prolonging life. But not so good at filling it with purpose. Think about it: we can now talk seriously about people living into their 90s and 100s with more energy and better cognition than ever before. And yet, I’ve seen—and I’m sure you have too—people who technically “live long” but spend those years disengaged, disconnected, and unsure what they’re actually doing here. That’s not what I want for myself. And I’m guessing it’s not what you want either. Healthspan Needs a North Star Here’s something I’ve learned over time: the body is the vehicle. But it still needs a destination. And that’s what purpose is. At one point, I was doing all the right things for my health—working out, eating clean, checking all the boxes. But something still felt… off. I was chasing energy, but not asking where that energy was supposed to go. It wasn’t until I started asking deeper questions—about fulfillment, alignment, and values—that things started to shift. Extending life only really matters if we know what we’re extending it for. What Is Purpose, Really? Let’s break it down. Purpose doesn’t have to be some big dramatic mission. It’s not always a career, or a legacy project, or a singular “calling.” Sometimes, it’s just a sense of direction—a reason to get up in the morning. A feeling that what we’re doing has meaning. As Viktor Frankl put it, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” Purpose can show up in a million ways: in the people we love, the work we do, the causes we support, the curiosity we follow. The common thread? It gives our life shape. Texture. Anchoring. Start with Values So how do you find your purpose? You start by uncovering your values. Your values are the principles that drive your decisions, shape your relationships, and define what success looks like to you—not what someone else told you it should be. And until you’re clear on them, it’s hard to feel truly fulfilled, no matter how many years you add to your life. There are a few tools I’ve found really helpful in this space: Tony Robbins’ values exercise in Awaken the Giant Within is a great place to start. It helps you rank your current values, identify which ones you’re actually living by, and spot any misalignment. Bart Foster’s book BusinessOutside also includes a strong, accessible framework for identifying your values and using them to guide not just your career, but your life. These aren’t just feel-good activities. They’re the groundwork for a life of clarity and direction. Because once you know what matters most to you, everything else gets a little simpler. Values and Relationships: The Alignment That Matters Here’s another layer that’s easy to overlook: your values don’t just shape your purpose. They also influence the way you connect with others—and who you choose to walk through life with. If your number one value is growth , and your partner’s is stability , that’s going to create tension. You’ll want to evolve, try new things, take risks. They’ll want to ground, secure, and preserve. Both are valid. But if you’re not aware of the difference, it’s easy to feel like you’re speaking entirely different languages. You’ll feel like you’re constantly changing and learning, and they may see that as you “drifting” or becoming someone they don’t recognize. This doesn’t just show up in romantic relationships—it applies to business partners, friendships, even your team. When values align, things flow. When they don’t, even small decisions can feel like battles. That’s why doing the work to understand your own values—and being curious about the values of those closest to you—is one of the most underrated long-term wellness tools we have. Purpose Fuels Longevity (Literally) This isn’t just about philosophy—it’s biology. Study after study has shown that people with a strong sense of purpose live longer, recover faster from illness, and maintain better brain function into old age. Purpose reduces stress. It boosts immune function. It even shows up in your cardiovascular health. So yes, I care deeply about physical protocols. I love a good blood marker. But if you’re not working on why you want to live longer, then what exactly are you optimizing for? Purpose Evolves—and That’s Okay One thing I want to say, especially to those of us in midlife or later: your purpose is allowed to change. Maybe what gave you fulfillment at 30 doesn’t light you up at 50. That’s normal. That’s growth. The beautiful thing about increasing healthspan is that it gives us space to redefine what matters, again and again. Your purpose isn’t fixed—it’s alive. Let it evolve with you. Fulfillment, Not Just Time At the end of the day, longevity without purpose is just survival. Healthspan without meaning is just maintenance. But when you know what matters to you—when you’re living in alignment with your values, surrounded by people who honor those values too—everything gets richer. The years feel fuller. The energy has somewhere to go. And that’s what makes it all worth it. One Question to Sit With If you had 30 more years of great health—what would you want those years to mean? You don’t have to answer it today. Just start asking. The clarity lives in the question. Call to Action Try a values exercise this week—either the one in Awaken the Giant Within or Bart Foster’s BusinessOutside. Ask someone close to you what their top three values are, and share yours. You might be surprised what comes up. Longevity is the gift. Purpose is what we do with it.  Let’s make it count.

I used to be the kind of person who took a certain pride in sticking to the plan—no matter what. If my calendar said squats on Tuesday, then squats were happening, even if my body was whispering (or screaming) otherwise. One time, that voice wasn’t whispering at all—it was practically yelling. I had just done a brutal workout with my trainer: 210 reps of deadlifts. Yes, two hundred and ten. By the end, my legs were toast. I could barely walk up stairs. But the next day, I woke up, looked at my self-imposed training schedule, and saw “squats.” So that’s what I did. The result? I injured my back. The kind of injury that doesn’t just sting for a day or two—it lingered for weeks. What started as dedication turned into something closer to stubbornness. Looking back, it wasn’t about progress. It was about proving something to myself—following the script, even when the story had clearly changed. That moment ended up being a wake-up call. Not just physically, but mentally too. The Illusion of the “Perfect” Routine There’s something comforting about a perfectly laid-out routine. It gives us structure, predictability, even a sense of control. But what I’ve learned—through trial, error, and a whole lot of humble pie—is that sometimes, control isn’t the same as wisdom. Rigid routines can feel productive, but they can also become cages. We stop listening to our bodies and start obeying the calendar. And when we do that, we’re no longer partnering with our health—we’re managing it like a to-do list. This realization didn’t come to me overnight. It started to unfold through conversations on Home of Healthspan—the podcast that’s honestly become one of my greatest teachers. “Work It Until It’s Sore, Rest It Until It’s Not” One thing I kept hearing from guests—many of whom are at the top of their game when it comes to longevity, strength, and overall wellness—was this idea of listening to the body. Not in a vague, airy way, but in a real, grounded, practical way. One guest in particular shared something that stuck with me. She said she’d “work something until it was sore, and then rest it until it wasn’t anymore.” Simple, right? But for someone like me—someone who used to follow programs to the letter—it felt radical. She wasn't chasing soreness for its own sake. And she certainly wasn't stacking hard days on top of hard days just to feel like she was making progress. Instead, she was paying attention. Letting the body lead, and letting the ego take a step back. That idea—of responding, rather than pushing through—challenged so much of what I used to believe about consistency. Flexibility Is a Strength, Not a Compromise There’s a myth in the health and wellness world that discipline looks like doing the same thing, the same way, every single day. But the more I talk to people with truly extended healthspans—people who are not just fit, but thriving—the more I realize that adaptability is the real superpower. They have frameworks, sure. But they don’t treat them like contracts carved in stone. They adjust based on sleep, stress, inflammation, intuition. They know that skipping a workout isn’t weakness if it’s done in service of longevity. That a “missed” day might actually be a win. They’re not just consistent with effort. They’re consistent with attention. That’s the shift I’ve been making, slowly but surely. What Listening Looks Like Now Nowadays, I move with more permission. I’ve started asking myself questions like: Am I sore or am I injured? Am I pushing through resistance or ignoring a warning? Is this workout serving me, or am I serving the workout? Some days, I still lift heavy or get after it. But if I wake up and feel off—like, deep fatigue or the kind of soreness that feels more destructive than productive—I’ll pivot. Maybe I’ll stretch. Walk. Meditate. Or just rest, fully. The best part? I’ve noticed fewer injuries. More consistency (ironically). More joy in movement. And a better relationship with myself—one built on trust, not punishment. Rethinking Progress It turns out, progress doesn’t always look like sweat and soreness. Sometimes, it looks like sleeping in. Sometimes, it looks like swapping squats for a walk. Sometimes, it looks like silence—learning to hear the quiet voice in your body before it starts shouting through injury. And honestly? That kind of progress feels deeper. It’s not just about getting stronger. It’s about getting wiser. Let’s Drop the Myth So here’s what I’ve come to believe: there’s no such thing as a perfect routine. There’s only the one that serves you today. And it might not look like yesterday’s. That’s not failure—that’s intelligence. Rigidity can be seductive, but it’s often short-sighted. Flexibility, on the other hand, requires trust. It asks us to check in, stay honest, and adjust without shame. And when we do that? We give ourselves the gift of longevity—not just in our health, but in our relationship to it. What’s Your Body Saying Today? If you’ve been sticking to a routine just because it’s “what you’re supposed to do,” maybe today’s the day to check in. Not with the calendar—but with your body. What’s it asking for? And more importantly—are you willing to listen?