Today, March 17th, is my 44th birthday. A fellow public speaker asked me, “What’s the greatest life lesson you have learned?”

I only gave him three but I decided to share fourty-four things I’ve learned so far.

Please don’t look at them as rules or even advice.

They’re just things I’ve seen, felt, gotten wrong, and learned—sometimes slowly, sometimes the hard way.

And honestly, some I’m still in the middle of learning most of these. But each and lesson cost me something.

1. I deserve to receive as much as I give.

Giving and taking care of others without also receiving isn’t noble—it’s self-abandonment. Reciprocity matters. I’m learning to open my hands and accept what’s offered without immediately calculating how to earn it or pay it back.

2. My capacity and depth are not a flaw.

The ocean doesn’t apologize to lakes or rivers for its depth—and neither will I. I don’t need to shrink to be loved. The right people will either meet me there or feel at peace swimming in my depths.

3. I trust what people do more than what they say.

Words are easy. Behavior—especially under pressure—reveals the truth. I’m learning to observe, invest more slowly, and let time reveal who someone actually is.

4. I don’t have to go looking for reasons to love someone.

If someone wants to be loved by me, they’ll show it loudly, clearly, and consistently in their behavior. I’m no longer piecing together potential or filling in gaps. I pay attention to what’s actually there.

5. I’m not grieving who left. I’m grieving who I was with them.

The loss that truly lingers isn’t just the friendship or relationship. It’s the version of myself that felt open, connected, and safe within it.

6. My relationship with myself matters most.

Everything else flows from that. When I abandon myself, I feel it everywhere—my decisions, my relationships, my peace. When I stay aligned with myself, things may not always be easy, but they’re clear.

7. Being useful and needed is not the same as being loved.

I learned early on to be the one who gives, supports, and holds things together. It made me valuable—but it also made me depleted. I’m learning that love isn’t something I can earn. It’s something I’m allowed to receive.

8. I don’t need to fix or save anyone to be worthy.

There was a part of me that felt most valuable when I was helping someone through their pain. But that often came at the cost of ignoring my own needs. We can lean on each other but there’s no rescuing involved.

9. People lie. Patterns don’t.

For a long time, I questioned whether I was overthinking or being too critical. But I’ve had enough repeated experiences to know what certain behaviors lead to. I trust what I recognize now.

10. Rereading the same chapter doesn’t change the outcome.

I shake my head sometimes at how much time I’ve wasted ruminating, dwelling, and imagining a different outcome or how things “should” have been. Hope is good. It’s necessary. But there comes a point where it becomes toxic.

11. Love doesn’t require self-betrayal.

And this where hope becomes toxic. I thought it was “unconditional love” but in reality, I was overriding my instincts, minimizing my needs, and staying quiet to keep the connection. That’s not love. That’s imprisonment.

12. Chemistry is not the same as alignment.

I’ve felt strong attraction, chemistry, and connection with people who weren’t actually right for me. It’s easy to confuse intensity with compatibility. I’m learning to slow down and look at how things actually are and not just how they feel.

13. Being worthy doesn’t require being chosen.

There were moments where I made someone else’s decision mean something about me. If they chose me, I felt validated. If they didn’t, I questioned myself. I see now how unstable that is.

14. You cannot be everything to others and nothing for yourself.

I’ve taken pride in being reliable, supportive, and someone people could count on. But when that comes at the cost of my own needs, it creates resentment. I’m learning that showing up for others can’t come at the expense of showing up for myself.

15. Just because I can carry it doesn’t mean I have to.

I’ve developed the capacity to handle a lot—emotionally, mentally, even in relationships. But capacity doesn’t equal responsibility. I’m getting better at asking, “Is this actually mine to carry?”

16. What I want matters.

There were times I deprioritized what I wanted to keep things smooth, avoid conflict, or maintain connection. But over time, that just created distance from myself. I’m learning to take my own desires seriously.

17. I’m allowed to raise my standards without explaining them.

As I’ve grown, what I’m available for has changed. I don’t need to justify that. I just need to honor it.

18. I’ve fallen in love with potential more than reality.

I’ve seen who someone could be and built connection around that version instead of who they actually were. It’s a subtle form of denial—hoping they’ll grow into what I already see. I’m learning to stay grounded in what’s real, not what’s possible.

19. People show me who they are—I just haven’t always listened.

I love my depth but always looking deep into a person has caused me to look past the inconsistency, the avoidance, the misalignment. I’ve just explained it away, gave it time, or tried to understand it instead of accepting it.

20. Not everything that looks or feels good is good for me.

Chemistry, attention, and emotional connection can feel right in the moment. But I’ve felt those things in situations that weren’t sustainable or aligned. I’m learning to separate what looks and feels good from what actually is good.

21. Clarity doesn’t require chasing.

When someone is aligned, it shows up in how they communicate, how they show up, and how they choose. I’ve spent time trying to get clarity from people who weren’t offering it. Sometimes the confusion is the answer.

22. Their inconsistency is not a challenge to overcome.

Inconsistency is a choice. I’m not talking about perfection. I’m talking about a pattern of uncertainty, stress, or bad timing—and patterns reflect priorities.

23. I’ve tried to understand behavior that I should have just accepted.

I’ve asked why, looked for context, and tried to see things from their perspective. But understanding someone doesn’t change how they show up. Explanations and excuses don’t equal alignment.

24. I don’t need closure to move forward.

I used to feel like I needed answers, explanations, or some kind of final conversation to move on. But not everyone is capable of giving that. I’m learning that closure is something I create, not something I wait for.

25. Being considered is not the same as being chosen.

Attention that comes and goes isn’t commitment. I’ve mistaken moments of connection for something more stable than they actually were. I’m learning to recognize the difference between being considered and being chosen—and to stop settling for the former.

26. I’ve confused being wanted with being valued.

Desire, attention, and attraction can feel validating. But they don’t always come with respect, consistency, or intention. There’s a difference between someone who fucks with me and someone who just wants to fuck me.

27. Repair matters more than the rupture.

Things will break—miscommunication, tension, distance. What I’m paying more attention to is what happens after. Who takes accountability, who leans in, and who avoids it altogether.

28. I can’t build connection with someone who avoids discomfort.

Depth requires difficult conversations, honesty, and the ability to stay present when things aren’t easy. I’ve tried to make it work with people who shut down or deflect despite doing everything I can to create safety for them.

29. I’ve over-functioned in relationships to keep them going.

I’ve carried conversations, initiated repair, and held emotional space—often more than was being reciprocated. It can feel like effort, but over time it turns into imbalance.

30. Just because I understand someone doesn’t mean I should stay.

I can see where someone is coming from, what they’ve been through, and why they are the way they are. But my empathy doesn’t make something sustainable. I’m learning not to confuse compassion with compatibility.

31. Access to me should be earned, not assumed.

I’ve given people access to my time, energy, and inner world too quickly because I know what it feels like to be abandoned and alone. Not everyone knows how to hold that well. I’m becoming more intentional about who I let into my weird little world.

32. I deserve to be someone’s first choice.

I’ve been in situations where I was wanted—but not fully chosen. Where it felt like “maybe, if things were different.” Because whatever—or whoever—is in the way will always set the ceiling on what we can be.

33. Money isn’t the most important thing—but it touches everything that is.

I’ve seen how money impacts freedom, stress, health, relationships—everything. It’s not the purpose of my life, but pretending it doesn’t matter is naïve. I’m learning to respect it, steward it, and build it—so it supports the life I actually want to live.

34. Being a provider is about more than money.

Provision isn’t just financial—it’s emotional, spiritual, and environmental. It’s the energy I bring. The safety I create. The standards I hold. The way people feel in my presence. I’m learning that what I provide isn’t just what I earn. It’s who I am.

35. How I show up matters more than what I say.

I’ve realized that presence carries more weight than words. People feel whether I’m grounded, clear, and aligned or scattered, reactive, and uncertain. I’m learning to take responsibility for the energy I bring into every room, every conversation, every relationship.

36. Discipline is a form of self-respect.

There are days I don’t feel like doing what I said I would do. But every time I follow through anyway, I reinforce trust with myself. I’m learning that discipline isn’t punishment. It’s how I build a life I can rely on.

37. Stillness is where I hear myself clearly.

When everything gets loud—opinions, expectations, noise—I lose track of what’s actually mine. I’m learning to slow down, get quiet, and listen to myself before I move.

38. I don’t need to prove who I am.

There was a time I wanted people to see me, understand me, recognize me. Now I’m more focused on alignment. The right people don’t need convincing.

39. I can be strong and tender at the same time.

For a long time, I thought I had to choose: be guarded or be open. I’m learning that I can be grounded, direct, and strong while still being present, emotional, and open.

40. I’m responsible for the standard I tolerate.

What I allow, I reinforce. I’ve seen how easy it is to let things slide in the moment and then deal with the consequences later. I’m learning to address things earlier and more honestly.

41. Grief befriends us all.

Grief is love with nowhere to go, love persevering, the price we pay for love, etc. And sometimes…it’s a dirty fighter. It hits when it wants, how it wants, and doesn’t care what I have planned. There are days it feels distant, and days it feels like it just happened. It doesn’t follow logic or timelines. I’m learning that I don’t control it—I just ride the waves.

42. Loss isn’t something to get over. It’s something to grow around.

There’s a version of me that existed before certain losses, and I’m not him anymore. Something shifted permanently. There’s a quiet sadness that stays with me alongside everything else. No matter how incredible and amazing and joyously full my life continues to get, there will always be a space frozen in melancholy.

43. Grief isn’t linear. Neither is healing.

There was a time I felt completely unmoored—grieving my parents, losing love, losing a a friend group I thought would last. It felt like everything had been ripped away from me. I spent many nights by the ocean asking God, The Universe, anything for answers. It felt like I was drowning. Some nights, I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

And then slowly…new things found me.

New people. New communities. A new way to express myself through dance. New energy, new connection, new mission, new life.

I’m learning that healing isn’t just about what I lose—it’s also about what I make space for. Grief can trap me in what’s gone, but healing reminds me there’s still more ahead.

44. I can’t control what happens but I can decide what I build from it.

I don’t know what the next year—or the next decade—will ask of me.

So far, it’s asked a lot. More than what’s felt fair.

Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter.

I know this: I’m not the same man I was, and I’m not trying to be.

I’ve lost things I thought would last forever. I’ve found things I didn’t know I needed. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I’ve started to understand what it means to stay with myself.

If there’s anything these 44 years have shown me, it’s this: I can’t control what happens but I do have a say in who I get to be at any moment.

One last thing….

Incubus has been my favorite band since I was 15. Their music has been there through more seasons of my life than I can count.

If there’s one song that captures these 44 years, it’s Drive.

“What do you mean when you say you’re a man who leads?”

Fair question. The language has been hijacked by fragile men who think “leadership” means control, dominance, or needing you to be small so they can feel big.

So let me be clear about what I mean—and what I don’t.

What I Don’t Mean

I'm not talking about someone who makes all the decisions because he doesn't trust your judgment or a man who leads with his ego, his insecurity, or his need to be right.

A man who does all that is about as strong as cotton candy in a hurricane.

What I Do Mean

A man who leads is a man who has a vision for where he’s going. He’s not stuck, he’s not waiting for permission, and he’s not looking for someone to fix him or figure his life out for him. He is a man of clarity, integrity, conviction, and responsibility—building a life worth joining.

And I’m speaking strictly for myself here. Another man could have a completely different answer. This is mine.

In fact, let me personalize it and speak in the first person.

I set the tone.

I’m building something. My life has momentum. You don’t have to wonder if I’m serious or if I’m just talking. You’ll be able feel it.

I make decisions—and I own them.

I don’t need endless validation or reassurance to move. I listen, I think, I decide. And if I’m wrong? I own it and adjust. You’re not carrying the mental load of every decision or wondering if I can handle pressure.

I protect the container.

Physically, emotionally, financially, spiritually—I steward our environment. That doesn’t mean I do everything alone but it does mean I take responsibility for the foundation, the vision, and keeping the chaos outside.

I call you higher, not smaller.

Real leadership doesn’t need people to shrink in order to feel powerful. I’m not interested in you dimming your light to make me feel secure. I want to see you step fully into who you’re capable of being. A true leader doesn’t need followers—he calls out greatness in others.

I don’t need you to mother me.

I’m not looking for someone to manage my emotions, organize my life, or validate my worth. I’m already whole. I’m looking for you to be my partner—not my therapist, not my nanny.

I honor your feminine energy without fearing it.

I cook, clean, and sew better than a lot of women. I’m handy with tools. I’m also more emotionally intelligent and mature than a lot of women. I don't need you to complete me or to give me purpose. But I do desire your intuition, your softness, your emotion, your creativity. Those are not weakness or complications. I see them as essential. I create space for you to move in your power, and I don’t need you to operate like a man to feel safe around you.

What I Know Now

I didn’t always understand this.

There was a season where I confused being chosen with being worthy. Where I tied my value to whether someone said yes. Where I stayed too long, gave too much, and abandoned myself in the name of love.

And in those seasons, I learned what half-hearted partnership looks like:

• She'll take your attention but not your leadership.

• She'll take your provision but resist your direction.

• She'll want the benefits of your strength without trusting you to wield it.

I learned the hard way that a woman who can’t meet you in your wholeness will settle for pieces of you instead.

Instead of partnership, it’s a never-ending callback to audition for a role she’ll never cast you in.

Real partnership doesn’t require you to prove yourself endlessly. It doesn’t demand that you lead perfectly before she trusts you to lead at all. It sure as hell doesn’t punish you for being decisive or resent you for having vision.

Real partnership happens when two whole people choose alignment over anxiety, trust over testing, and co-creation over control.

My Standard

I’ve lost all desire to convince any woman that I’m a man worth walking beside. You either have the desire/courage or you don’t.

My life will show you. I honor my commitments. I protect what I value. I build, steward, and lead.

And if you’re the kind of woman who moves with grace, thinks deeply, takes pride in her presence and energy—if you’re disciplined, self-aware, and not afraid of a man who knows where he’s going—we’ll get along great.

A Final Word

I wrote this because I’ve no desire to repeat myself. Not with the mission and vision I've been given. Not when there's so much to build, experience, and create.

I'm not wasting time having another Godawful conversation about modern dating (I've written about that here) or debates about going 50/50 (covered that too).

I want to talk about vision. About legacy. About what we’re both building and how we might build it together.

I want to share my dreams and hear yours—not as a test of compatibility, but as an act of curiosity and respect. I want to know what lights you up, what scares you, what you’re protecting, what you’re reaching for.

But I can’t get there if I’m stuck playing this performative chicken dance. If I have to prove I’m “worthy” before I’m allowed to be seen. If every conversation is an audition instead of a revelation.

Real partnership doesn’t start with interrogations, questionnaires, and checklists. It starts with two people who already know who they are, standing in that clarity, and asking: “Does this alignment serve us both?”

I’m not perfect. God knows I fall short every day. But I know who I am. I know what I’m building. And I know the kind of partnership I’m creating space for.

If that resonates, you already know.

If it doesn’t, that’s okay too.

But the question of “what do you mean by a man who leads” doesn’t need to be asked anymore.

My answer is here—and in the links above.

Now let’s talk about what we see for our lives and go from there.