Ever have a crab boil? Here, it tends to be crawfish, but I once heard someone describe a Deep South summer as being a steamed crab in a bag. I laughed when I heard it, of course. Then I went outside in July and thought, yeah — that's about right.

If you've never run through a Memphis summer, it's hard to explain what you're really up against.

You step out the door, and the air hits you like a wall: thick, wet, and heavy. Oppressive. And there's no relief waiting for you out there. Not in the shade. Not from a breeze. The humidity will get to you no matter where you are. You're soaked before you've covered a block, whether you’re moving like a Usain Bolt or a snail.

I attended a speaking event a while back. You know the kind—good energy, electric with possibilities, surrounded by people you’d love to connect with. During a break, I was maneuvering between tables when something familiar caught my eye.

Me.

There my headshot was on someone’s phone. They were scrolling through my LinkedIn profile, no idea I was right behind them. I kept going, of course. No idea how much they invested in researching me in the moment. Maybe my bio, a few posts, or a look at my credentials. Or maybe they’d end up here (if so, hi). 

We did eventually meet, and they came in prepared. They already had questions, referenced things I said online, and a pre-loaded version of me set. In some ways, that’s pretty convenient—in other ways, it makes the real-life “first impression” a lot different than it used to be.

My friends are often surprised to learn that I haven’t worn a GPS watch on a training run in years. No heart rate monitor or pace alerts—just my favorite running shoes, the road, and whatever my body is telling me.

Some people might hear that and assume I’m doing this casually. Because, you know, it doesn’t really count if it isn’t logged. So says our metric-obsessed culture, after all!

I found that stripping data out of my runs has made me more consistent, more intuitive, and (honestly) more fun to be around after a workout. It might do the same for you.

One early morning a few years back was not going my way. It started with bickering kids, a disappointing run, and what felt like a million different tasks to do. I got to the office—barely had time to put my stuff down, let alone grab a cup of coffee—when it happened.

A well-intentioned colleague dropped criticism on me I was not prepared to handle.

You know that fight-or-flight feeling? When heat creeps up your neck and face, your pulse quickens, and you feel the instinct to bristle up and get defensive. Or worse, lash out at the perceived attacker.

Confession time: I’m not naturally good at rest.

That probably doesn't surprise you if you know me, and it probably doesn't surprise you because you’re in the same boat. High achievers tend to share a particular blind spot: great at doing hard things and terrible at doing nothing.

For a long time, my mindset was “busy is productive,” and “no pain, no gain.”

But at some point, that narrative fell out of sync with the results I was getting, and I had to sit with an uncomfortable question: was I actually performing, or was I just performing busyness?

For the most part, it was the latter. I was treating recovery as an optional afterthought rather than an important part of making progress.

Most high performers I know carry a badge of honor for being the person with all the answers. They’re always available, always ready to weigh in. Always on. It’s an easy identity to build when you’re good at what you do, and people keep coming to you for direction.

It feels great, until it doesn’t. That identity comes with a cost.

What I’ve found—through my career, raising five kids, running nonprofits, and logging miles—is that trying to be that person burns through your best cognitive resources. It burns through them so fast. And usually, I might add, on the wrong things. 

By the time a truly important decision lands on your desk, your brain is fried.

I don't run with a watch.

No GPS. No Strava. No Garmin. Not even a FitBit.

When I head out the door, the only thing I'm tracking is how my legs feel under me.

People find this strange, especially other runners. We live in an age where every split gets logged, every mile gets posted, and your worth as an athlete is apparently measured in monthly mileage totals. I've had runners look at me like I admitted to training in blue jeans.

Most high-performing business owners I know are meticulous about optimizing their operations. Systems, staffing, capital allocation—they sweat every detail. And then they skip lunch and sit for nine hours straight, running out of juice when they need it most.

There’s a disconnect.

I'm not immune to this. I've done it myself!

But once I started to understand what's happening inside our brains when we move our bodies and fuel it well, I stopped thinking of fitness as purely a matter of personal discipline. It became an operational decision instead.

I’ve set a lot of goals in my life: run a hundred miles, help build a trusted company with my dad, and raise five incredible kids who actually like each other. Just to name a few. They’re the big picture, ambitious goals that you’d see someone put on a vision board.

And look, those goals are great. I’m not knocking big goals or aiming high. But you know, a goal without the right process to support it is about as effective as wishing on a star. Realizing that is when I started falling in love with process goals, not just outcome goals.

For a long time, I thought success looked like ease. I wanted to remove every obstacle, optimize every system, and protect myself from uncomfortable jams. In a way, it made sense. I still understand the impulse. But I also realized that looking for ease couldn’t possibly prepare me to be resilient when the rock met the hard place.

Since I had that wake-up call, I've been deliberately choosing hard things: things I'm not sure I can finish, situations where the outcome isn't guaranteed, physical challenges with my ego on the line. 

It’s absolutely one of the best business decisions I've made.

What’s the first image in your head when you think “leader”? I know a lot of people will instantly think of big stages, flashy hype moments, and the electric energy of a great conference speech. And don’t get me wrong, those moments and those people can be effective and inspiring. 

But it’s really just a small sliver of what solid, lasting leadership is. In fact, I’d argue it rarely looks like that at all.

Some of the most trusted leaders I know aren't the loudest people in the room. They're not the ones commanding attention at every meeting or leaving people energized after every conversation.

Skipping meals seems like it could be a net win. Fewer calories in, same energy out — simple math, right? The logic made sense until I started paying attention to how my body and brain reacted to it. 

(Not well, if you were wondering.)

If you've ever tried to power through a long run after skipping breakfast, you know what’s coming: your legs feel heavy, your head goes foggy, and that creeping irritability that has nothing to do with the hill you're climbing and everything to do with the fact that your tank is on empty.

Skipping meals doesn't make you leaner or more disciplined. It just makes you less effective as an athlete and as a professional.

Winners never quit—right?

Oh, but also, know when to cut your losses.

We’ve all heard it repeated like gospel, and both can’t always be right. Is it better to stick it out and see, or make your exit when things start heading south? 

I’ve done both in my career and in my personal life, and not always the right way. Quitting things I should’ve stuck with and realizing too late that I should’ve walked away sooner. Most of us will get it wrong throughout our lives (I know I have), so it’s important that we high-achievers learn how to tell the difference.

I've been an athlete most of my life. Playing soccer through college, coaching for 25 years, running ultramarathons, logging four or five miles most days. With all that going on, I thought I understood my body pretty well.

Then I turned 40.

My body started telling me in no uncertain terms that I did not, in fact, have it all figured out.

Not all at once—that's not how it works. The signs were gradual at first: recovery took a little longer, my energy wasn't as automatic as it used to be. I'd eat the same way I always had and feel... off.

January in Memphis means gray skies, cold rain, and that nagging voice telling you to wait until March to get serious about training. I hear it every year, and every year, I ignore it. 

Most runners I know treat winter like a grace period—a few easy months before the "real" training starts in spring. And look, I don’t blame them. As I’m writing this, Memphis is under a rare “Winter Storm Warning,” which means snow and ice. Not exactly our forte down here.

Now, am I going to go run in that? Unlikely. I’m not suggesting we forgo safety in extreme weather conditions. That’s just asking for an unwelcome injury. But uncomfortable conditions are a different story.

It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about ultramarathons or business ventures: the people who wait for perfect conditions rarely achieve what they're capable of.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes it seems like we perceive time at vastly different paces. December goes by in a flash of holiday cheer, while January is a cold, miserable slog. I swear this month should’ve been over a week ago, but here we are.

Still in January.

That snail’s pace can make everything feel a lot harder than it should. If you're leading a team right now, you might be seeing the signs: slower response times, shorter fuses, that glazed look in Monday morning meetings.

We're barely three weeks into the year, and some of your people are already running on fumes.

I used to treat January like some kind of corporate New Year's resolution—load up the calendar, commit to everything, convince myself this would be the year I finally got it all done.

Then I'd hit a wall mid-February, wondering why I felt like I'd already run a marathon when the year had barely started.

Sound familiar?

I finally figured out what I was doing wrong after the humbling experience of dropping out of the Keys 100 at mile 60. Turns out, the same mistakes that made me bail on that race were the exact ones I was making in business every January.

Most high achievers I know struggle with the same thing: we're terrible at quitting.

We're wired to finish what we start. We've been conditioned our entire lives to see quitting as failure, to push through pain, to never give up. That mindset serves us well most of the time, but it can also trap us into pursuing things long past the point where they make sense.

I've withdrawn from races. I've exited business partnerships. I've discontinued services that no longer align with our direction.

Some of my best decisions have been knowing when to stop—but it took me years to develop a framework for making those calls without ego getting in the way.

January rolls around, and everyone's talking about clean eating, detoxes, and dramatic diet overhauls.

I get it—after weeks of holiday meals, family gatherings, and being way too full of cheese, the temptation to go all-in on a restrictive plan is real. But let’s be real: the nutrition resets that actually stick aren't about punishment or perfection. They're about getting back to the fundamentals that make you feel sharp, energized, and ready to perform.

This means reclaiming the mental clarity and physical energy that got buried under the charcuterie board.

Every December, I block out time on my calendar for the most important meeting of the year. No clients, no team members, no agenda items that someone else set. Just me, a notebook, and a few hours to think clearly about where I've been and where I'm going.

I didn't always do this. For years, I'd roll from one year into the next without really pausing. Sure, I'd set some vague goals, maybe jot down a few intentions…and then get swept back into the current of daily demands. By February, I couldn't remember what I'd even wanted to accomplish.

And I eventually realized that approach doesn't work when you’re serious about building something that matters.