Sedulous beats sudden

It took me almost four years, but I finally did it.

I didn’t think it was possible. But after moving to San Diego, I started the climb. And I don’t mean “the climb” in the motivational-poster sense, where everything is heroic and vaguely uphill. I mean there was work to be done and I did what was required. If I was awake, I was working on it. Not always enthusiastically. Not always gracefully. But consistently.

It didn’t feel hard at the time. That’s the strange part. I mostly enjoyed it. The work had momentum. Purpose. It felt like forward motion, which is intoxicating in its own quiet way. When you’re building something that matters, whether it’s a business, a family, or a life, you don’t always notice the cost until much later.

And then, sometime last year, I reached the summit.

I did it. I became the fattest I’ve ever been.

By a significant margin.

There was no single dramatic moment. No scale-shattering morning. No cinematic wake-up call. Everything just got harder. Running felt heavier. Pull-ups became negotiable. Getting off the floor required planning. Putting on jeans—already an infrequent ritual—felt like a personal attack.

The tricky part was that I still looked like I trained. That’s a dangerous place to live. When the outside still looks “fine,” it’s easy to ignore the inside. I could still lift heavy things. I could still coach. I could still perform. But I knew—quietly, uncomfortably—that I wasn’t taking good care of myself.

And I had excuses. I had excellent excuses.

A new job. A new state. Buying a house. Getting laid off. Buying a business. Getting evicted. Opening a new gym. Kids changing schools—twice. Kev in law school (which was harder on me than expected; I was very brave). Kev becoming a lawyer (this part is excellent). Remodeling. Travel. Injuries. Stress. COVID. Life.

There is always something. There always will be.

Eventually, I cleaned things up. Dialed in my diet. Got more intentional with my training. Lost about fifteen pounds. Felt better. More like myself. Stronger. Lighter. More capable.

And then we bought another house.

Remodeled two of them.

Changed half the gym.

Got married.

Went on our honeymoon.

And now I’m trying to get Kev pregnant—vasectomy be damned.

Life does not wait for you to get your routines perfect.

So now I’m on the descent. And it is slow. Maddeningly slow. Humbling in the way only time can be. But I didn’t arrive at that summit overnight, and I won’t climb down in a day either. That’s not how bodies work. That’s not how lives work.

Honestly, a house fire is the better metaphor. Because if I am honest that is what the last 6 months have looked like. A house fire that just keeps going. And I am the house, and the people trapped inside, AND the fire department. And the arsonist, because this is absolutely self inflicted.

Before you build anything meaningful, you have to clear the debris. You don’t get to skip that part. You don’t get to paint over the damage and call it “character.” You have to shovel. You have to haul. You have to confront what’s left after the fire and decide what stays and what goes.

Only then do you pour a foundation.

Progress—real, sedulous progress—often doesn’t look like progress at all. No one applauds when the plumbing goes in. No one compliments electrical wiring. But if those things are wrong, nothing else matters. San Diego’s permitting process alone could humble a monk. It teaches you patience, restraint, and the value of doing things correctly even when no one is watching.

Bodies are the same.

James Clear writes in Atomic Habits that success is rarely the result of one defining moment, but rather “the product of daily systems.” Those systems are boring. Repetitive. Unsexy. They don’t photograph well. But they work.

One day, someone will comment on your kitchen—and by kitchen, I mean your glutes—and they’ll see what you’ve been building. Not because it was sudden. Not because it was a fugacious transformation. But because you stuck with it long enough for the invisible work to surface.

And when you’ve walked that path—when you’ve been both the person making progress and the person quietly backsliding—you begin to see others differently.

You stop assuming laziness.

You stop assuming indifference.

You start recognizing load.

Nerd word alert! That’s occhialism: the awareness that every person you pass has a life as vivid and complicated as your own. Their own summit. Their own debris. Their own slow rebuild. From the outside, it might look like nothing is happening. But something almost always is.

This idea shows up everywhere once you start noticing it. Viktor Frankl wrote about it in Man’s Search for Meaning: the unseen inner battles people fight quietly. Brené Brown talks about it through the lens of shame and vulnerability. Even Ted Lasso—yes, the mustached oracle of Apple TV—built an entire cultural phenomenon on radical empathy and the belief that people are doing the best they can with what they have.

Which is why I don’t panic when someone tells me they “fell off” for a few weeks. Or months. Or years. Which is why I don’t rush people. Which is why I don’t sell six-week miracles.

Sedulous beats sudden every time.

This is also where coaching and community matter. Not because people lack discipline, but because they lack context. A good coach sees the long arc when you’re stuck in the short term. A good community normalizes effort without glamorizing burnout. At RESET, we don’t just count reps or load bars—we pay attention to people. We notice when someone shows up despite everything. We celebrate consistency, not just outcomes.

There’s a reason Patrick Lencioni writes about teams outperforming individuals even when the individuals are talented. Humans do better when they feel seen, supported, and accountable to something bigger than themselves. Fitness is no different.

Maybe you already missed your 2026 skills goal. Cool. There’s plenty of 2026 left. Maybe January didn’t go how you planned. Or February. Or March. That doesn’t disqualify you from April. No single day will launch you forward. But one careless one can drag you back.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about direction.

Whatever you’re working toward—bigger arms, a smaller waist, moving pain-free, feeling capable in your own body—we’re here for it. We’re in your corner. We’re not in a hurry. We’re building something meant to last.

Just keep going.

Sedulous beats sudden every time.

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