Reset & Reignite

A story about finding purpose, transforming body and mind, and why sometimes you need to stop to start living.

Eight weeks. That's how long I've been quiet in my digital corner, where I've been writing for three years.

The irony isn't lost on me—after 150 consecutive weeks of showing up and never missing more than two publishing dates, I simply... stopped, not with a grand announcement or a carefully crafted farewell, but with a silence that spoke volumes.

My unintentional week of silence turned into a deliberate exploration of purpose, and I found myself facing a question that had been lurking beneath the surface of every article I'd written: Why am I doing this?

It's funny how we can spend years building something, nurturing it week after week while slowly drifting away from its purpose.

Like a relationship that's lost its spark but maintains its routine, my writing had become more about meeting a schedule than meeting myself—or you—on these pages.

And it happened; I stopped long enough to hear my thoughts.

Unintentional breaks can become what you didn't know you needed. Like finding a $20 bill in an old jacket pocket, my pause from 'Beyond Two Cents' turned into an unexpected gift of clarity.

One week of silence stretched into two, then three, and somewhere between the guilt of not posting and the relief of letting go, I found something invaluable: space to question.

I'd been writing about self-improvement, consciousness, and personal development for years. Sometimes, the voice helping others find their 'why' must shut up long enough to rediscover its own.

I was tired. Not the kind of tired a good night's sleep fixes, but the bone-deep exhaustion from running on autopilot for too long.

Writing had become like that treadmill at the gym you hop on because it's part of your routine, not because it's taking you somewhere. The words were there, but the fire behind them had dimmed.

How many of you keep doing things simply because you've always done them?

Blogs, relationships, habits, and hobbies past their expiration dates because... well, isn't that what consistency is about?

But here's what I learned in these eight weeks of silence: proper consistency isn't about never stopping. It's about being true to your purpose, even if that means taking a break to remember it.

So, I made a decision that scared me more.

I decided not to write another word until I could answer the 'why' with something more meaningful than 'because it's Monday, and that's when I post.

Let's talk about fire. Not the metaphorical kind – though we'll get to that – but the real, burning sensation in your muscles when you push past what you thought possible.

At 49, I committed to reaching my 50th birthday in the best shape of my life. (And yes, someone did tell me that 50 is the new 30, but my muscles didn't get that memo during those first few training sessions.)

I hired a personal trainer and overhauled my diet, and I started seeing parallels everywhere. Between sets of the torture my trainer devised, I began noticing how this physical transformation was mirroring something deeper. Each protein shake and early morning workout was rebuilding more than muscle; I reconstructed my sense of what was possible.

I'm fitter now than when I ran a marathon in 2008. I barely believe it myself. But this isn't just about counting reps and calories. It's about that spark, that long-dormant ember that roared to life. You know the one – that fire in your belly that made you fearless in your twenties, before responsibility and routine domesticated your dreams.

And speaking of dreams, I'm starting a new company. Not just any venture, but something that makes me feel like a kid with a new toy on Christmas morning. The team? Brilliant. The potential? Enormous. The fear? Massive, but no longer in charge.

Also, Burning Man might be on the horizon. Yes, that Burning Man, the one that seems to either terrify or mystify anyone over 40.

But isn't that the point? To step into spaces that make you question your assumptions about what someone approaching 50 'should' be doing?

Transformation isn’t linear. Some days, you crush your goals and feel invincible; others, you're sore and tired and wonder if you've lost your mind. But those moments of doubt are just as valuable as the victories. They're the resistance that builds strength—in the gym and in life.

Life has a peculiar way of rearranging your social constellation when you're not looking. Like a cosmic game of musical chairs this year, friendships shifted, faded, and flourished unexpectedly. It's strange to witness how some connections strengthen while others, despite physical presence, quietly dissolve.

Do you know those friends who feel like time machines? The ones who can pick up a conversation that paused three years ago as if it were just yesterday? This year brought several of those back into my orbit. These rekindled connections are comforting—like finding an old favorite book and discovering new meanings between familiar lines. They came with an unexpected bonus: the realization that while we'd all changed, our fundamental wavelength remained in sync.

Other friendships are like seasons: beautiful and purposeful but not meant to last forever. This year, I learned to appreciate them for what they were rather than mourn what they were not.

And then there's family—my constant north star through all these changes. My children continue to amaze me with their evolution into unique selves—my parents, whose wisdom I appreciate more each year. My sister remains my unwavering supporter. They're the audience who never needed a weekly blog to stay connected yet somehow understood why I needed to write one.

It's funny—as I have built this community of readers over the years, sharing thoughts about personal development and consciousness, I never expected to develop such connections with people I've never met. Your comments and shared experiences have become threads in the tapestry of my story. Some of you have been here since the first post, others joined along the way, and each of you has contributed to this ongoing conversation in ways you might not even realize.

Every writer faces a moment of truth when returning from a long silence. It's that cursor blinking on a blank page, asking the most fundamental question: do you still have something to say? But a better question is: are you ready to say it differently?

Returning to “Beyond Two Cents” feels like returning to a familiar room that has been completely rearranged. The space is the same, but my perspective has shifted.

For years, I've been writing with the careful precision of a cartographer mapping unknown territories. But I want to sit down together instead of drawing maps to discuss getting lost. What if I wrote to be vulnerable instead of writing to be read?

I want to share the messy parts of life, the uncomfortable questions that keep me up at night, the victories that seem too personal to broadcast, and yes, even the failures that taught me more than any success.

I like to think of it as upgrading from a curated Instagram feed to a late-night conversation with a close friend. Sure, I'll still discuss philosophy, personal development, and consciousness, but now you'll understand why these topics keep me up at night and why they should keep you up.

I don't lose sight of the irony that it took me to stop writing to figure out how I wanted to continue to write. But isn't that often the case? Sometimes, you must step back from the canvas to see the picture.

Sometimes, the best way forward is to reimagine the path completely.

As we approach 2025, I can feel familiar electricity in the air—not just the champagne-and-fireworks kind, but something more fundamental.

The voltage of possibility is the current of change that runs through every ending and beginning. But this time, it feels different. This time, I'm not just watching the horizon but racing toward it.

Do you want to know something strange about finding your fire again at 49?

It burns differently than it did at 29. It's not the wild, unfocused flame of youth that consumes everything in its path. No, this is focused heat, a deliberate burn that knows what it wants to transform. It's the kind of fire that doesn't just light up a room—it changes the people in it.

Here's what I know for sure: gratitude isn't just an attitude; it's a foundation.

I'm grateful for every reader who noticed my silence, every setback that taught me resilience, and every relationship that shaped this year's story. I'm thankful for my family, who watched me reinvent myself without ever doubting who I am at my core. I'm grateful for the uncertainty that forced me to find clarity, even the silence that led to a breakthrough.

As we enter the new year, I'm not making resolutions—I'm making declarations. The company I'm starting will challenge everything I know about business. May my words flow from a place of truth rather than obligation. I will cherish the possibility of dancing in the desert at Burning Man (because why the hell not?).

But most importantly, I'm declaring this: it's never too late to rewrite your story.

It's never too late to find your fire.

And it's certainly never too late to share that fire with others.

So here's to 2025—to the stories we'll share, the boundaries we'll push, and the conversations we'll have. To be both the author and the protagonist of our transformation, to the beautiful uncertainty of what comes next.

And to you, dear reader, who's stayed with me through silence and sound. The best chapters are yet to come.

Now, tell me – what fire are you ready to ignite?