Relentless and Aimed

Fuck Everything Else.

I don’t take shirtless pictures. I never have.

I don’t go swimming. I don’t lay out in the sun. I don’t tan. I don’t casually take my shirt off at the lake or the pool like some relaxed, carefree asshole. I’ve always kept a shirt on. Always. Not because I hated my body… but because I never felt proud of it either.

So the fact that I did a full-on fucking dudeoir shoot in my own living room tonight should tell you something. Not because I think I’m ripped, I'm definitely not. Not because I think I’m done, I'm not even close. But because I finally respect the work and can see and feel the results.

A year after I broke my leg, I weighed in at 260 pounds.

I’d see myself in wedding footage. In behind-the-scenes clips. In photos someone else took when I wasn’t paying attention. And I didn’t like what I saw. I wasn’t grotesquely fat. I carried it well at 5’14”. But I looked very heavy. I felt very heavy. Two-hundred-sixty pounds is fucking NFL defensive line type weight. The kind of weight that crushes people… and not the kind that leads to a long life.

I was 48 years old and quietly inching toward an inevitable heart attack.

No discipline. None. I’d annihilate a family-size bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos like it was a fucking snack pack. Candy was a daily thing because it's really good and my main vice (still is). I stacked sugar into my body like a rabid squirrel preparing for an apocalyptic winter that never fucking came. Carbs on carbs on carbs. No plan. No structure. No respect for my future self or my shitty body.

Then I luckily stumbled into the carnivore diet.

It sounded insane, but it also sounded interesting. And most importantly… it sounded doable. I fucking love steak. I don’t get bored eating the same thing. If it’s meat, I’m good to go. My doctor isn’t a huge fan of course and that’s fine. Doctors don’t have to live in my body. SO I cut out everything and only eat meat and eggs. No carbs, no pizza, no sugar, no veggies, no fast food, no soda, and no Doritos.

Only meat and eggs and alcohol. 

In starting the diet, what I noticed first wasn’t the scale.

It was how I felt.

No bloating after eating. More energy. Clearer head. Weight started dropping. And here’s the funny part… all my labs that were once borderline red or close to it, went into the green in a few months. Cholesterol was balanced. Bloodwork looked great in all categories. All of the shit everyone swears will skyrocket if you only eat meat like an adult wolf. Didn’t. It improved.

When I started, I set a goal.

Two years. Not to “get fit”… but to change who the fuck I was.

To move from zero discipline to real discipline. To kill the sugar addiction. To stop rewarding myself with the very thing that was killing me. To build something sustainable and something that could become a lifestyle.

Exercise was messy at first. Two or three days on. A week or two off. Eat clean for a week… then celebrate with a huge pile of candy like a fucking moron. Progress happened anyway, but it slowed. I stalled between 230 and 240 pounds which was good, but not where I wanted to be when I hit 50.

My real target was 190 to 210. Big enough to still scare my son into knowing I could take him out if I had to. Lean enough to not feel like I was carrying a second human around inside my fucking body. My BMI says I should be 185 or less but I feel like that is an outdated system kind of like the food pyramid. That’s too skinny for me. I’m not trying to disappear behind stop signs and actually look like the nerd I am.

Fast forward to now.

I’m 214 days away from turning 50. Just 8 months from the deadline I set for myself.

And today, I weigh 206 pounds and feel fucking great. I still have work to do, but I'm nearly there. 

I work out every day. Not like a gym bro routine. No mirrors. No influencers. Just an at-home bodyweight grind with 30-pound dumbbells.

When I started, it wasn’t this. Not even close. And that matters. I was doing maybe 20 pushups. Maybe 20 sit-ups. Some days less. That was it. And honestly, it was enough at the time, it kicked my ass. As the days stacked, something shifted. I could feel myself getting stronger. Not overnight. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Reps that used to feel heavy started to feel normal.

Normal started to feel easy. Easy made me curious how fucking far I could push myself. Now it’s 100 pushups broken into two clean sets of 50. One hundred sit-ups too, except now I hold a 30-pound dumbbell, lock into a crunch, and throw it across my body side to side until my core is on fire. Strength shows up when you listen to it and push your own limits.

That’s the part people miss. Your body tells you when it’s ready to do more. It tells you when the food is right. It tells you when you’re fueling instead of poisoning yourself. You just have to shut the fuck up long enough to hear it. The rest of the work fills itself in once you stop negotiating with yourself.

The structure is simple on purpose. Nothing fancy. Nothing optimized for Instagram. I start with core and push movements because that’s where I was weakest and where I carry stress.

Come summer, I’ll add a five‑mile walk into the daily mix to keep my body moving and give me time to clear my mind each morning. And when I buy my next house after the divorce, one of the rooms won’t be a guest room or some unused storage space… it’ll be a dedicated workout room with a treadmill and a full‑body weight machine, built to support the long game and finish what I fucking started. 

No excuses. No days off. Get it done. Not because you want to and not because you enjoy it... Because I for sure don't enjoy working out... Do it because you have discipline and goals in mind. DO it because without it you will not live your life to its fullest capacity and potential. 

My life is lonely as fuck on most nights… so sometimes I’ll repeat the whole damn thing again at night before bed... Because why the fuck not. No one’s coming to clap. No one’s watching. That’s the fucking point right.

This is earned discipline. Discipline when no one cares. Control when no one is enforcing it. Progress without applause. This is how you change who the fuck you are and become something better for you and no one else.

The body follows the mind. Always has.

A fit, capable body also tells the world something without you ever opening your mouth. It says you give a shit about yourself. It changes how you carry yourself. Clothes fit better. You stand straighter. You don’t hide in oversized hoodies or slouch through rooms. Your body becomes the best fashion accessory you can fucking own, because it can’t be bought, rented, or faked. It’s earned. And people notice that shit long before they bother to hear your story.

But here’s the part people tend to skip.

The body isn’t just a vessel. It’s the engine. A weak body produces a noisy, anxious, distracted mind. A moving body creates clarity. Movement generates creativity. Every time I lift, push, sweat, or grind through another set, my mind sharpens. Ideas flow. Problems untangle. Perspective returns.

Some of my best thinking doesn’t happen at a desk. It happens mid-rep. Mid-breath. When my body is under load, I'm breathing heavily, and my mind has no room for fucking bullshit.

If your mind feels heavy, start with your body. Don’t intellectualize it. Don’t journal it to death. Don’t overthink it. Walk. Lift something. Do pushups in your living room. Move every single day, even if it’s ugly and imperfect. Especially then. When you start to feel yourself getting stronger... Do more.

Don't let anything get in the way of your health. Not work. Not stress. Not love. Not heartbreak. Not age. Not comfort. Not excuses wrapped in fucking logic or laziness. You only get one body and it carries everything else you care about.

And yeah… I’ll say the shallow part out loud so you can hear it in the back. I prefer to date attractive younger women. That reality doesn’t give a shit about personality alone. Looking better obviously helps. Feeling better and full of energy helps more. Confidence isn’t something you can fake… it’s something you earn through action and discipline.

But this isn’t about dating.

It’s about momentum.

It’s about refusing to quit just because the finish line isn’t visible yet or feels far away. It’s about maximizing the day. Every day. Doing something instead of nothing. Choosing forward motion even when motivation is gone. Turning off Netflix and moving your fucking body. 

I’m not done working on myself yet. Not even close.

That dudeoir shoot wasn’t a victory lap. It was a timestamp. A marker in the fucking ground. Proof of my effort. Something to compare against when I do hit 50 and look back at whether I honored the promise I made to myself or not.

This is what it looks like to not give up. To keep moving forward even when no one is watching and you have no one to impress.

Not loud. Not sexy. Not perfect.

Just relentless and aimed.

And that… that shit compounds.