People have been asking me the same three questions my whole life. Do you play basketball? How tall are your parents? What's your shoe size? For the record: no, my dad's 6'3", my mom's 5'9", size 17s, yes it's really hard to find clothes, and no I don't have a custom made bed.
I'm 212 centimeters tall, 6'11" for the non-metric speakers. The height is the first thing everybody notices, and usually the first thing they ask about.
My favorite version of this happened in a grocery store in Iowa City. A woman asked me where I played ball. I told her I didn't. She looked me dead in the eye and said, "What a waste!" She didn't know one single thing about me, not what I'd built, not who I loved, not the kind of friend I am. She'd already decided I'd screwed up the one job my body handed me. I laughed. Still makes me laugh. But here's the part nobody clocks: nobody walks up to a stranger and asks how much they weigh. A tall guy, though? Totally fair game. And I don't really mind. That one question has kicked off more good conversations, and more friendships, than I can count.
Anyway. I promise I'm more interesting than putting a ball through a hoop, so here's the real story.
The stuff didn't work
I grew up blue collar and started a chiropractic practice right before I turned 25. I worked my ass off and it took off. All of a sudden I'm the modest-family kid with some money, so I did what you're supposed to do. Bought the boat, bought the house, took the big trips, rode a bicycle clear across the country. Did all the stuff. And honestly? Underneath all of it I felt pretty empty. I'd built a whole business and never once stopped to look at why I was chasing success.
So I started digging. Turns out that's a lifelong project, figuring out the software that got installed when you were a kid.
Here's mine. My dad never said "I love you," and his hugs were a little awkward. Not because he didn't love me, he just spoke a different language. He worked hard, he provided, he made sure his kids had more than he did. That was the whole vocabulary. And where I grew up, a man showing emotion was "gay," so I learned to stuff it all down. Somewhere in there I picked up the belief that ran most of my life: love is something you earn. Be useful enough, work hard enough, give enough, and maybe you'll deserve it.
So I became a world-class giver who couldn't receive a damn thing. Compliments bounced off. Love bounced off. It took me way too long to figure out that the walls keeping me safe were the same walls keeping me alone.
My dad and I are good now. I tell him I love him. The hugs are still a little awkward. I love him exactly as he is.
From bodies to the rest of it
I've spent my whole career as a chiropractor working with people's bodies, helping them move and feel and function better. And it turns out the same itch that made me good at that, this need to understand how a person actually works and heals, is what eventually turned me inward on myself. Bodies first. Then everything else.
So in my late 30s I started doing the real work. Tony Robbins. The Wright Leadership Institute. Therapy. Yearn. Hard, honest conversations. Sitting with that empty feeling instead of out-running it. Some of that exploration included psychedelics. They helped me feel things I'd kept locked down for years and were an accelerant to letting go of some unneeded code in my software.
But the tools were never the point. The way I think about it: day-to-day life only shows you the interstates. The work, whatever form it takes, shows you the backroads, the routes you never knew were there. None of it is a magic pill. It can show you the road. You still have to drive it to get to where you want to go.
The bike taught me the same thing
You can't get anywhere fast on a bike, and that's the point. You stop in little towns you'd never stop in. You meet people you'd never meet. You find out most folks are kind and helpful, regardless of their religions or politics. And since you can only carry the basics, you learn real quick that you'll be just fine without all the crap you've been piling up. Same lesson the empty boat taught me, coming from the other direction. The good stuff was never stuff.
So I built a place
I started Weekend of Man back in 2007. I'll be honest, it was mostly an excuse to get my buddies together to create some pretty ridiculous stories. It got more obnoxious every year until 2012, when it turned into a complete shit show and I pulled the plug.
In 2021 I bought The Great River Ranch and brought WOM back, this time on purpose. Because what I'd actually been chasing the whole time, under the competitions and the jokes and the late nights, was connection. Real friendship, the kind that gets rare as men get older. Most guys aren't starving for another networking event. They're starving for people who actually know them.
So that's what we built. And something happened. Midwest guys started hugging. Men started telling the truth and having the conversations they'd been dodging for years. My buddy Digger cracked wide open, started really looking at his own life, and made me a video to say thank you. Best compliment I've ever gotten, and not just because of what he said. Because for the first time in my life I could actually let it land.
The ones who bring me home
Katie and I met young and grew up together, in every sense. The version of me she signed up for and the version writing this are pretty different people, and a lot of that is the work we've put in side by side. She's the one who pulls me back to center.
Somewhere along the way we both got serious about it. We dug into who we really are and what we actually want from each other. These days we talk about co-creation and shared values, and we can sit in the hard, honest conversations instead of bolting from them. We still get coaching every month, and there are still bumps. I've decided that's just true of any real relationship. The work isn't dodging the bumps, it's learning to take them in a healthy way.
Then Maya came along, and something flipped in me at a genetic level the day she showed up. A deep responsibility to take care of my family, and to become the best man I'm capable of being. My dad loved me through hard work and awkward hugs. Maya gets that too, but she also gets the words, and the real hugs, from a dad who did the work to be able to give them.
Why this exists
Maybe some of this sounds familiar. Maybe you've built a successful life and still feel like something's missing. Maybe you've spent years achieving while quietly avoiding yourself. Maybe nobody ever told you a man's allowed to feel things, or receive love, or ask for help. I've walked that exact road.
Here's what I believe now: the better life isn't built out of more stuff or more money. It's built out of connection, vulnerability, adventure, and friends worth fighting for. And my superpower has never been talking about that, it's doing it. So that's the only thing I'll ask of you. Quit talking about the life you want and go make one decision today that's different.
I'm 6'11". This is the view from up here. Glad you climbed up to take a look.