But there’s something interesting about that question.

When we call something evil, we’re already assuming there is a way things are supposed to be. We have some idea of what is good, what is right, what is just. We long for a world that is better than this one. A world that is, in some sense, perfect.

The disagreement is over where that standard comes from.

So maybe that’s the deeper question: when we talk about perfection, are we just making it up? Or are we recognizing something that already exists?

If we are imperfect people living in a broken world, why should we get to decide what good and evil are? Why should my definition carry any more weight than yours? Or my culture’s more than another culture’s? If morality is something we create, then ultimately it becomes a matter of preference, consensus, or whoever has enough power to enforce their definition.

But that doesn’t seem to be how we actually experience evil.

When something truly terrible happens, we don’t usually respond by saying, “I personally don’t prefer that.” We say, “That was wrong. That should never have happened.” There is a difference. We aren’t just expressing a preference. We believe we are recognizing something that is actually true.

And that’s what makes the question of evil so interesting.

The fact that we can look at the world and say, “This is not how it should be,” seems to point beyond ourselves. We judge the world by a standard that we didn’t create. We feel that there is something we are supposed to be measuring up to, even when we can’t fully explain where that standard came from.

Maybe that’s why the question “Why?” feels so deep.

We don’t just want an explanation for why something happened. We want to know why it was wrong. Why it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

And if there really is a way the world ought to be, then maybe perfection isn’t something we invented.

Maybe we’re longing for something that was already there.

And if that standard exists outside of us—if it is objective, unchanging, and something we are accountable to—then the question becomes: what, or who, is behind it?

The Christian answer is that the standard isn’t an idea. It isn’t a social construct. It isn’t something humanity created.

It is God.

God is not simply someone who tells us what is good. He is the source of goodness itself. The reason we can recognize that this world is broken is because we have some sense of what it was made to be.

Maybe our longing for perfection isn’t proof that we invented a better world in our heads.

Maybe it’s evidence that we were made for one.

God: “I will send you to deliver the children of Israel out of slavery.”

Moses: “Who am I that I should deliver the children of Israel out of slavery?”

God: “I will be with you.”

Moses: “What shall I say to them?”

God: “Tell them, ‘I AM has sent me to you.’ Know that I will be with you.”

Moses: “But they will not believe me or listen to me.”

God: “Take this staff. I will be with you.”

Moses: “But I am not a good speaker. I am slow of tongue.”

God: “Go. I will be with you in your speech and teach you what you shall speak.”

Moses: “Please, send someone else.”

God: “Take your brother Aaron with you. I will be with you. Now go.”

Moses questioned. Moses doubted. Moses felt inadequate. Moses was afraid.

But he went.

His obedience did not come from confidence in himself. It came from confidence in the God who said, again and again.

“I will be with you.”

Instead, my dad usually had on one of two artists: The Kinks (the lesser-known British Invasion band), or Johnny Cash (🐐).

One of the many Johnny Cash songs I’ll never forget my dad playing in the car was “The Fourth Man in the Fire,” the story of three oddly-named men from the Book of Daniel: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

That story pops into my mind a lot, because I often wrestle with the question: am I a good man, or just a nice guy? The difference, as actor/writer/philosopher/Austin legend Matthew McConaughey puts it, is that a nice guy is easygoing and agreeable, he gets along with everything, is easy to have around, creates a comfortable vibe. A good man has ideas he stands for and ideas he stands against. He isn’t endlessly agreeable. The story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego is a picture of what it means to be a good man.

Around 600 BC, King Nebuchadnezzar II ruled Babylon. He’d just built a 60-cubit (nearly 100-foot) golden statue on the plain of Dura, and at the dedication he declared: whoever didn’t fall down and worship it would be cast immediately into a blazing furnace. Everyone bowed.

Except three men.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were dragged before a furious Nebuchadnezzar. Given one more chance to bow, they answered: “We have no need to answer you in this matter. If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image you have set up.”

They were bound and thrown into a furnace heated seven times hotter than usual as punishment for their defiance, only for the king to look in and see them walking around unharmed, joined by a fourth man whose appearance was “like a son of the gods.”

They walked out on command, and Nebuchadnezzar’s first words were, “Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.” Even he couldn’t deny the Most High God after that.

Being so confident in what you stand for that you won’t bow even when your life is on the line… that’s the most honorable way a man can live. Not just standing for something, but standing for something that actually shows up for you in the fire.

I read that story in Daniel:3 and think: dang. Whatever those guys have, that’s what I want. That’s how I want to live.

Scottie Scheffler, the number-one ranked golfer in the world for the past 113 consecutive weeks, made some thought-provoking remarks ahead of the final major championship of the year — the 153rd Open Championship.

The world No. 1 didn’t just deliver typical pre-tournament statements; he asked a question that seemed to transcend the game of golf:

“What’s the point of all this?” Scheffler asked the room.

Then came a vulnerable admission:

“This is not a fulfilling life,” he said. “It’s fulfilling from a sense of accomplishment, but it’s not fulfilling from the deepest places of your heart.”

The comment drew a few puzzled laughs from the media. Scheffler continued:

“It feels like you work your whole life to celebrate winning a tournament for a few minutes… it only lasts a few minutes.”

“I love getting to live out my dreams, but at the end of the day, sometimes I just don’t understand the point.”

Tom Brady

Flash back to 2005 — twenty years before Scheffler posed his question.

Tom Brady, then at the peak of sports fame and coming off his third Super Bowl win (and second Super Bowl MVP) in four years, expressed a remarkably similar sentiment in a 60-Minutes interview:

“Why do I have three Super Bowl rings… and still think there’s something greater out there for me?”

After a moment of reflection, Brady added:

“Me, I think God… it’s gotta be more than this. I mean, this can’t be what it’s all cracked up to be. I’ve done it. I’m 27… and what else is there for me?”

The interviewer responded with a simple but profound question:

“What’s the answer?”

Brady paused, chuckled, then said with a somber expression:

“I wish I knew… I wish I knew.”

I wonder if Brady found the answer when he won his 7th Super Bowl 15 years later.

Countless Other Examples

• Kobe Bryant, after winning his second consecutive NBA Championship in 2001, sat alone in the locker room with a towel over his head. The iconic photo captured not joy, but a look of emptiness and quiet disappointment — as if he expected more from the mountaintop.

• Michael Phelps, the most decorated Olympian of all time, later admitted he felt hopeless and lost despite his historic accomplishments.

• Deion Sanders, Hall of Fame NFL player and MLB all-star, reflected on his past pursuit of pleasure:

“I had everything the world had to offer — money, women, cars, homes — but no peace. I was empty.”

What Is the Issue?

Scottie Scheffler is just the latest athlete to express a timeless lesson: no matter how much we accomplish in this world, it will never be enough to satisfy the deepest desires of our hearts.

But why?

Some call it “arrival fallacy” — the false belief that reaching a particular goal will finally bring lasting happiness and fulfillment. But as many have learned the hard way, even the peak feels hollow once you’re there.

Others describe it as the “God-shaped hole” — an inherent longing within every human being for something beyond what the physical world can offer. No trophy, contract, no girlfriend/boyfriend, or accolade can fill it. Only God can.

Solomon Knew This Too

This truth goes far beyond modern athletes. It’s the same wisdom recorded thousands of years ago in the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes, attributed to King Solomon.

Solomon had everything: unimaginable wealth, power, knowledge, pleasure, and status. But after indulging in it all, he came to a sobering conclusion:

“Then I considered all that my hands had done… and behold, all was vanity and a striving after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 2:11)

“Vanity” in Hebrew is “hevel” which means vapor/smoke. Here one second, gone the next. It looks solid, but when you try to grab it, it slips through your fingers.

He tried everything the world had to offer, and it still wasn’t enough. It slipped through his fingers. In the end, he gives us the answer Brady couldn’t name, Scheffler may be hinting at, and all of us were made for:

“Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter: Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.” (Ecclesiastes 12:13)

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As Jesus once said: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, and forfeit his soul?” (Mark 8:36)

I recently came across the above picture parodying the painting ‘Wanderer above the Sea of Fog’ by the German artist Caspar David Friedrich, and I laughed out loud at its hilarious genius.

Instead of standing above a vast sea of mist and mystery, the wanderer now stands above a common American plaza. The effect is absurd and eerily accurate. Most of us in the U.S. don’t have the luxury of being able to travel a short distance to glimpse a sublime, untouched landscape. For many, our day-to-day view is exactly this: a parking lot, a McDonald’s, an ExxonMobil, and a KFC/Taco Bell.

Clearly, this is not how the world is supposed to look.

It raises the question: What went wrong?

Many would answer, “Well, obviously, capitalism.”

And in a sense, they’d be right. This is a product of the free market.

So then, shouldn’t we just get rid of capitalism?

Well…

Love Went Wrong.

I completely disagree with the “love is just a feeling” crowd. Let me tell you why. I believe love is a choice, a deliberate act made by an individual with free will.

When God created man, He gave him free will. That means man had, and still has, a choice: to love God or not. To live in accordance with God or to live apart from Him.

But why didn’t God just make man love Him? Why not program obedience?

Because love that is forced isn’t love.

If God had said, “You have no choice but to love me,” and removed man’s free will, then man would be nothing more than a slave. And God would be no better than a psycho-sexual sadist—the kind who traps a woman in a basement, ties her up, and says, “You will love me.”

But God did not do that.

Instead, He told mankind, “You may choose to live life with Me or apart from Me. I give you this choice because I love you.”

That, I believe, is the truest kind of love.

So what does love have to do with a world overrun by McDonald’s and Exxon?

I believe that free-market capitalism, when rightly understood, is the economic system that most reflects God’s gift of love to mankind.

Why?

Because capitalism allows for free will. It lets individuals make choices. And, as we’ve seen, that includes the choice to live in accordance with God or without Him.

So, going back to the original question — “what went wrong?”

Man went wrong when he chose to live without God.

That, I believe, is what gave us the common American plaza.

We need free markets.

But more than that, we need people in those markets who walk with God.

Life without God is ugly and chaotic. Life with God is beautiful and ordered.

Screwtape is a senior demon, has been in the business of condemning people through temptation and trickery, in order to send to them to “Our Father Below.” Screwtape writes to his nephew, Wormwood (a rookie demon/temptor), on how to win over his first patient away from The Enemy (God) and towards “Our Father Below.”

Screwtape reveals how they use a parody on the definition of love provided by The Enemy (God), to skew the world into thinking romantic love is something other than what it truly is. Screwtape reveals that they use poets, novelists, (and from today’s point of view it could include) musicians, movies and shows to persuade humans that “a curious, and usually short lived experience which they call ‘being in love’ is the only respectable ground for marriage; that marriage can, and ought to, render this excitement permanent; and that a marriage which does not do so is no longer binding.”

In essence, as long as humans believe that love is a lasting intense emotion, the devil’s definition of love wins.

What does this mean? From Screwtape’s perspective it means that human’s will cease to recognize The Enemy’s (God’s) definition of love as a ‘selfless, enduring, and unifying act that fosters mutual joy and commitment, particularly in marriage, reflecting divine unity and sacrifice.’

“Humans can be made to infer the false belief that the blend of affection, fear, and desire which they call ‘being in love’ is the only thing that makes marriage either happy or holy.”

This then leads to fewer marriages—because if one does not feel that intense emotional feeling initially they believe they should not get married. It also leads to more divorce—because if one feels that ‘intense emotional feeling’ fade, they believe that the marriage is void.

Screwtape believes “Our Father Below” (the devil) is winning this because humans already “regard the intention of loyalty to a partnership for mutual help, for the preservation of chastity, and for the transmission of life, as something lower than a storm of emotion.”

I went into it expecting endless stretches of boring dirt along the long, lonely road to El Paso. But Interstate 10 proved me wrong. For most of the eight-and-a-half-hour drive, I was caught in a state of awe and wonder.

This is what stood out to me about the trip:

A.) A trip becomes an adventure when you take that unexpected detour.

My buddy and I unexpectedly took an exit and caught ourselves alone in the desert adventuring through the remains of a pre-civil war fort in the middle of West Texas. The story of Fort Lancaster and how 60 Buffalo Soldiers and American officers fought off 900 Native American attackers deserves to be made into a Hollywood movie—but selfishly, I’m hoping this hidden historical gem stays hidden.

We also wandered through abandoned ghost towns scattered across the vast landscape. Later, we strolled along the Mexican-American border wall in El Paso, looking like a pair of comically obvious undercover cops.

B.) Texas is a giant, beautiful, and mostly uninhabited state.

Every mile we traveled west on Interstate 10 revealed a new biome illuminating a different type of beauty. From the lush green hill country just west of Austin to the stark, orange peaks of the mountains “West of the Pecos”—the true Wild West—each view defied the ability to describe it’s beauty.

This beautiful slice of America lasted hundreds of lonely miles.

To anyone who claims the world is overpopulated, I say: drive west on I-10. You’re guaranteed to change your mind. If you think your hometown is crowded, pack up, have some kids, and move west—there’s PLENTY of cheap land to go around.

C.) For some reason people find it meaningful to build crosses on top of mountains in the middle of nowhere.

We’d travel for tens of miles without any sign of civilization, only to spot a lone structure on a hilltop. That structure was—surprisingly—never a billboard advertisement for a Buc-ees… but a cross.

Is this due to immense religious brainwashing? Or do these crosses stand for something deeper, something that transcends human reason?

Christian symbols dot the landscape from West Texas into northern Mexico. In El Paso, I climbed up a mountain and gazed across the border into Ciudad de Juarez, where bold white letters sprawled across a hillside proclaimed, “La Biblia es la verdad. Léela.”—“The Bible is the truth. Read it.”

D.) Snakes are scary.

I now know why cowboys always carried guns. It’s those damn snakes. They are everywhere.

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien is a magical tale about a small hobbit—a comfort-loving, humanoid creature—named Bilbo Baggins, who is called to the adventure of a lifetime by a god-like wizard named Gandalf. The goal of the adventure is to find a treasure guarded by a dragon in a faraway land. When offered this adventure, Bilbo struggles to accept.

He initially says to Gandalf when the wizard arrives at his doorstep, “We don’t want any adventures here, thank you!”

Eventually, Bilbo’s courageous side prevails, and he embarks on the adventure.

However, throughout the journey—whenever he faces an obstacle—he wishes he were back in his comforting hobbit-hole, eating bacon and relaxing in his cozy armchair.

This storyline is relatable. How many times have we complained about our circumstances during a journey, wishing to turn back at various points?

There is much truth in this work of fiction.

First, any worthwhile reward in life is likely guarded by a dragon. The bigger the dragon, the greater the reward.

Second, the nostalgic comforts of the life left behind always resurface during, or just before, the hardest times.

The reward can only be found when one resists succumbing to the alluring comforts of the past. Typically, it is right before facing the dragon that these comforts become most prominent in our consciousness. Not only do nostalgic memories resurface, but the hardships of the past become hazy and easy to dismiss, as if everything was perfect back then.

Like hobbits, we tend to cherry-pick comfortable memories to dwell on. We push the hard times to the back of our subconscious.

The necessary steps of adventure include: heeding the wizard’s call, stumbling along the way, seeking companionship amongst others in the journey, rejecting alluring comforts until the task is complete, and recognizing that the dragon in our path is a necessary obstacle we must overcome to reach a truly worthwhile treasure.

Yet, as the story proves, the true treasure is not always what it seems.

“You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.”1

“There is little place in active life for the timid good man. The man who is saved by weakness from robust wickedness is likewise rendered immune from the robuster virtues.” – Theodore Roosevelt

Theme: Be divisively unifying.

By divisively unifying, I mean this: dare to speak or act in ways that may disrupt surface-level comfort or consensus in order to forge a deeper, truer unity—one built on what is right, not what is easy.

A biblical story that echoes this theme is the story of Pontius Pilate.

Pilate was the Roman governor who stood face to face with Jesus while the crowd screamed for crucifixion. He examined Jesus and said, “I find no fault in him.” And yet, he yielded to the power of the mob for political convenience.

Pilate may not have been wholly wicked—but as Roosevelt warned, he lacked “the manliness to strike and the courage to venture.” Despite having the authority to free an innocent man, he allowed the mob to decide, and then infamously tried to wash his hands of any guilt.

According to historical accounts outside of scripture, Pilate would go on to take his own life a few years after the crucifixion.

He stands as a tragic emblem of the timid good man—the one Roosevelt described as “saved by weakness from robust wickedness,” but also “rendered immune from the robuster virtues.”

This theme matters today more than ever.

The world seems divided into two kinds of people:

1. Those who spend their lives trying to get the mob to like them.

2. Those who stand for something greater than themselves—placing long-term truth above short-term approval.

Reflecting on my own life:

Have I always been the latter?

Not even close. But there’s always room for growth. Always room to become less timid, more grounded, more divisively unifying.

We’ll stumble up the stairs of truth, no doubt.

But stumbling upward is the only noble way to go.

I’ll leave you with a bit of insight from a little hobbit who managed to do big things:

“You remember everything I’ve ever typed here. Now point out my biggest blind spot.”

The answer was shocking and insightful.

The biggest blind spot it pointed out to me was this:

Carrying the weight alone – “You seem to value internal strength and grit, especially through hardship. But sometimes that self-reliance can turn into isolation. Do you ever feel like you have to figure everything out on your own—even when support might actually get you further?”

That hit me hard.

It’s easy for me, especially during tough times, to think—“Nobody will save me, so I must be my own savior.” And honestly, I admire that mindset when I see it in others. There’s something noble about carrying on when no one else seems to be.

But that sentiment is also exhausting—and not entirely true.

Yes, it’s good, and at times even necessary, to be able to say to yourself: “I can do hard things.”

But it’s just as important to admit: “Though I can do hard things, I cannot do everything.”

Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”

Simple. True.

So here’s a thought experiment:

Work a job where you find no greater communal purpose.

How long would you last?

How well would you do?

I’d say one of two things would happen:

A. You won’t last long.

B. You’ll do a poor job.

Why is that? Or better yet—Why is that.

Because you don’t have a “why.”

What gives someone their “why”?

Maybe family.

Maybe friends.

Maybe community.

And maybe—just maybe—the biggest “why” of all: faith and God.

Serving something greater than yourself is necessary in order to find a why.

And if that “something greater” is eternal—something that existed long before you and will exist long after you—then it can’t be stripped away.

Community and faith may be essential in discovering your why.

This whole AI reflection taught me a lot.

Try it out yourself if you’d like.

It might hurt at first—but pushing past that pain could provide valuable insights about yourself.

What do you think of when it comes to your ‘why’?

Working for a professional baseball team during a grueling 75-home-game season—where we had to be present for 8 to 12 hours at every game—was, to be frank, exhausting. Thankfully, the department I worked for had access to free Dunkin’ coffee, Celsius, and C4 energy drinks. To get through the season, I drank one to two large black cold brews a day, sometimes adding a Celsius or C4 into the mix.

This lifestyle wrecked my energy levels. I was nothing without my lord and savior—caffeine. And I call it that because, whether I realized it or not, caffeine was my god. Like any worshipped deity, it became the reason I got up every day—because, quite literally, I couldn’t get up without it.

Before the next season started, I knew something had to change. So I decided to cut caffeine out of my life completely. It quickly became the hardest thing I had ever done.

The first three days without caffeine were brutal. I felt sick. My head throbbed, I was completely drained, and my social battery was shot. But after those three days, I felt clear-headed and full of energy. The sun seemed a little brighter. I was ready for the season.

And I didn’t drink any caffeine that entire year.

The thing about addiction is that you don’t truly understand its grip on you until you break free from it. When I was hooked on caffeine, I thought the way I felt—constantly anxious—was just normal. It wasn’t until I went caffeine-free for three days that I realized I had been living in a constant state of anxiety, 90% of which was caused by the drug I had been over-consuming.

I don’t like being told what to do. To me, caffeine was a drill sergeant barking orders, demanding that I drop and give him twenty—purely for his own power-hungry enjoyment.

That said, I’m not anti-caffeine. When consumed responsibly, I think it can be great. But looking back, I know that quitting for that season was necessary. It led me to a powerful realization—maybe for the first time in my life—that I can do hard things.

That realization hit me like a fist to the face, the kind Mike Tyson delivered to Mitch Green at MSG in the mid-’80s. It showed me that I don’t have to be anyone’s slave. I can be my own man.

And being my own man means making the decisions I believe are best for me—whether they’re comfortable or not.

Breaking free from your master—whoever or whatever that may be—is difficult. But the more you do it, the easier it gets. And the freer you become.

Because who (or what) you worship will always determine who (or what) owns you.

The first step toward freedom is recognizing both.

1

Physically, I’m grateful for what I’ve been given. I’ve always been relatively healthy and, for the most part, able to stay active and in shape. However, there’s one physical condition I was diagnosed with at eight years old that has affected me ever since: psoriasis.

Psoriasis is an autoimmune disease that causes red, patchy flare-ups. At times, I’ve had it all over my body; other times, it has completely cleared up. As a kid, I was so insecure about it that I would swim with my shirt on when hanging out with friends. I still remember the time my sister, not understanding what it was, called me “gross” when I took my shirt off. I got angry, probably cried, and never forgot it. (Jackie, that was mean—but I forgive you. :) You’re a great sister.) Since then, my psoriasis has shaped my habits and lifestyle more times than I’d like to admit, often leading to social isolation when flare-ups were at their worst.

I’ve been through the wringer with treatments since I was diagnosed. I started with topical creams, then did light therapy (basically stepping into a tanning booth a few times a week). After that, I moved on to oral medications and, eventually, to weekly or monthly injections—Enbrel, Humira, Stelara, and Taltz—in that order. For the past 10 years, since I was around 14, I’ve been on these biologic treatments. The problem? None of them treat the root cause. Each medication comes with side effects: steroid creams cause skin atrophy, and injections weaken the immune system. I never felt good on any of these treatments, and I have no idea what long-term effects they might have on my body.

I’ve now been off all injectables for almost a year, and I’m shifting my focus to natural remedies—primarily diet and stress management. I’ve started taking vitamin D, fish oil, turmeric, and a few other supplements I believe will help. But if I’m being honest, my diet has been inconsistent. Part of it is a lack of commitment. The other part? The food here in Austin, Texas is just too damn good.

As I write this, I’m dealing with a significant flare-up, mostly on my upper back and scalp. I’m narrowing it down to a few main culprits: sugar consumption, diet inconsistency, and poor stress management.

Last month, I ran a marathon. Leading up to it, I was dialed in—strict with my diet, consistent with my training, and naturally managing stress through running. After the race, I decided to ease up on running and shift my focus to weightlifting (because, let’s be real, no guy actually wants to look like a runner). I gained some weight back—going from just under 190 lbs during the marathon to about 200 lbs over the past few weeks. But with weight gain and a more relaxed diet, flare-ups became inevitable.

Case in point: A buddy and I recently stopped at Buc-ee’s while driving from Orlando to Jacksonville. If you’ve ever been to Buc-ee’s, you know how dangerous it is for a diet. Banana pudding, a brisket sandwich, cookies—absolutely delicious, but a disaster for my psoriasis. That, plus a few other indulgences after getting back to Austin, has no doubt contributed to this flare-up.

So, that’s where I’m at. But here we go. I’m officially starting this journey to naturally defeat my psoriasis—and I’m inviting you to come along for the ride. I’ll be posting regular updates on my progress.

But I’m not doing this alone. I have a couple of “nutritionist” sidekicks helping me through it—ChatGPT, Grok, and all of you fine and smart people who might have advice. Together, we’re creating a consistent meal plan and stress management routine.

And, in the spirit of full transparency (and maybe some shameless self-promotion), I’ll be sharing shirtless progress photos—but only for paid subscribers of Danny Malm’s Journal. Think of it like an OnlyFans subscription, just significantly less sexy.

-All jokes aside becoming a paid subscriber will help support my purchasing of dietary foods and supplements each week-

If you have psoriasis or another autoimmune disease, comment/dm me on my Instagram (@dannymalmsjournal) or shoot me an email (dannymalmlrrw@gmail.com), and I’ll cover your paid subscription for the first few months. Hopefully, my posts can help you, too. I won’t just be sharing progress photos—I’ll be breaking down my daily meals, my schedule, and everything I learn along the way.

Let’s do this.

Below are the (pre) day-one pictures:

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My former co-worker (who’s become a very good friend over the past few years) and I recently rented a car online to drive from Orlando to Jacksonville for a golf tournament we got some free tickets to. We wanted to make the trip as budget-friendly as possible, so I had the genius idea of saving money with a cheap rental car. In hindsight, this genius idea was an idiotic rookie mistake.

Normally, at the Orlando airport, you can take a shuttle to off-site rental car companies. But this particular place had its phone number listed as a completely different rental company—one that actually has a shuttle system.

So we called. They had no idea what company we were talking about. Great start.

With no other option, we Ubered to the rental place—at 8:30 p.m., mind you—with a 2.5-hour drive still ahead of us.

We pull up to the location (which, of course, isn’t listed on Google Maps), and it’s tucked away in the side of what looks like a run-down strip mall.

The second we walk in, my skin crawls. It’s the sketchiest setup ever—straight out of a scam call center. The lights are dim, the TVs above the lone desk rotate between about 20 different “rental companies” all operating out of the same office. There are cameras everywhere. And the four guys working the desk? Young, shady, and radiating scammer energy.

Right away, I point out that their website has the wrong number listed. They turn red in the cheeks, half-heartedly apologize, then try to cover their tracks by claiming they actually did send a driver to pick us up (a blatant lie). But instead of calling them out right then, I decide to let it slide—for now.

Then come the hidden fees: $25 per toll plus the actual toll charge. They also claim my buddy’s Progressive insurance is invalid and that he needs a $500K coverage plan (which no normal person has). Basically, they’re forcing us to buy their insurance.

At this point, my sketchiness radar is blaring. One of the guys takes us outside to see the car and immediately warns us that if the battery dies or if we scratch anything, it’s on us.

While my buddy goes inside to finish the paperwork, I start the car. Check engine light? On. Tire pressure warning? On.

The second he comes back out, we just look at each other for a few seconds, both of us processing the absolute mess we’ve gotten ourselves into. I take a deep breath and blurt out, “We’re not doing this.”

He heads inside to cancel, and while I’m waiting, one of the scammers tries to make small talk.

“Here for spring break, I assume?”

I hit him with the most aggressive, to-the-point “No.” imaginable and storm inside.

I go straight to the counter where my buddy is and demand a refund. The scammers are flustered but give it to us—except for a $65 online down payment, claiming we have to call a different number to get that back.

Now, I should mention—I’m not a confrontational person. My Achilles’ heel, if you will, is that I generally want to get along with everyone, sometimes even bending the knee to short-term lies for the sake of long-term peace.

But at this point, I’m done.

I start calling them out—loudly—warning the people in line behind me not to rent from them. That’s when they threaten to kick me out.

Good thing I spoke up, though. A mom and her young daughter were right behind us, and they ended up walking away instead. They actually thanked me afterward—they had a bad feeling too but felt like they had no choice but to go through with it.

My buddy and I Ubered back to the airport and rented a car from a legit company—Enterprise Rent-A-Car. The woman helping us at Enterprise felt like the best person I had ever met, simply because she wasn’t a morally corrupt scam artist.

The few days we spent in that rental—despite being more expensive—felt so much better than if we had given our money to those scammers. Even if their car had worked just fine, I would not have liked myself for it.

Turns out, the real rookie mistake wasn’t just renting from a shady place—it was thinking that my peace of mind wasn’t worth a few extra bucks.

I won’t be making that mistake again.

Lesson learned:

Don’t give your money to bad people.

The folk classic Big Rock Candy Mountain tells the story of a hobo passing by a group of fellow wanderers, enticing them with tales of a perfect land.

This so-called hobo’s paradise is a mystical world where food and drink are plentiful, the weather is perfect, work is unnecessary, and law enforcement is powerless. A utopia, free from responsibility, rich in abundance—designed to make the jobless traveler drool in awe.

Beware of the man who sings of utopia. The man who tells you to follow him to paradise. The man who attempts to sell your own lustful desires back to you.

It seems we are always looking for the next Willy Wonka to hand us a golden ticket, to rescue us from our dead-end jobs, to whisk us away to a fantasty land, free from labor and responsibility (ideally with a chocolate river).

There’s a certain trance these lust-salesmen put on our short-term desires, making us believe this time might be different. But we are no different from a fish, freshly released from a fisherman’s dinghy, only to be lured again by another delicious worm dangling before our eyes.

What’s the catch? That’s the question we should be asking—because there’s always a catch.

- Free beef jerky for life! The catch? You have to get a Jack Link’s logo tattooed on your forehead.

- College loans are forgiven! The catch? Higher taxes, rising inflation, and the devaluation of a college degree.

Stalin sang of The Big Rock Candy Mountain, and the rest of Soviet Russia followed him. But there was no Candy Mountain. Instead, there was famine, injustice, and death.

Mao Zedong sang the same song with a different melody. The result was the same.

On the other side stands the man who speaks of hard work and sacrifice. He may sell you a vision, but he won’t disguise its tradeoffs.

“Pick up your cross and follow me.”(Matthew 16:24)2

“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”(Ralph Waldo Emerson)3

This man preaches an utterly different kind of message—one not of effortless bliss, but of purpose forged by effort. A road that doesn’t lead to a shimmering utopia with a hazy finish line—it doesn’t have a finish line at all. Instead it instills a resilient spirit; teaching one how to deal with inevitable adversity, rather than promising its end.

He’s the friend who tells us the hard truth and equips us with the weapons to overcome, not the flattering voice who feeds us empty dreams.

This same voice warns of the singing traveler who promises utopia:

“A dangerous ambition more often lurks behind the specious mask of zeal for the rights of the people, than under the forbidding appearance of zeal for the firmness and efficiency of Government.”(Alexander Hamilton, The Federalist Papers)4

That jolly man, singing his seemingly jolly song of peace and unity, might not be the savior he claims to be.

Next time the nostalgic lure of the Big Rock Candy Mountain dangles in front of your eyes, pause and listen. Listen very closely.

If you listen close enough, beneath the siren’s sweet melody… you might just hear the rattling of chains.

Dear Friend—Thank you for taking the time to read. It’s hard to believe it’s already been over a year since I began sharing posts on Substack. Your support has meant the world to me, and I can’t thank you enough for it.

—

Whenever I’m looking for wisdom, older Disney movies never seem to disappoint. The Lion King, Bambi, Pinocchio, and many others all present profound truths packaged into entertaining and emotional films.

For some of you, this story may bring back nostalgia—like it did for me. For others, it may be your first time hearing about Old Yeller.

The story of Old Yeller follows a 14-year-old boy, Travis, living in post-Civil War Texas. Left to take care of his family while his father is away, Travis builds a bond with a stray dog—Old Yeller. He adopts him, loves him, and ultimately faces the heartbreaking decision to shoot him after the dog is bitten by a rabid wolf and infected with rabies. The weight of this responsibility marks the symbolic moment when Travis steps into manhood.

The theme of the story is clear: A truly good man is not one who avoids harm at all costs but one who has the strength to make painful decisions for the greater good. On the other hand, what Teddy Roosevelt called ‘the timid good man’ would hesitate, allowing the dog to suffer out of fear of taking responsibility himself.

If you heard that someone shot their dog without context, you might assume they were cruel. But in the story of Old Yeller, when you understand the reasoning behind Travis’ choice, you see that his decision, while tragic, was justified.

This Old Yeller mentality seeks peace and harmony, yet it remains ready and willing to make difficult choices when necessary.

We see this same philosophy reflected in the Seal of the President of the United States. The image (as seen below) depicts a bald eagle clutching the universal symbol of peace—the olive branch—in its right talon, while gripping a bundle of arrows in its left, symbolizing war. The eagle faces the olive branch, signaling that peace is the preferred path, yet it remains prepared to fight if the need arises.

The Old Yeller mentality and the meaning behind the Presidential Seal reflect not just the responsibilities of national leaders but also those of the citizens in a republic. Freedom requires decision-making—sometimes painful decisions that, if taken out of context, might seem morally questionable.

If one refuses to bear the weight of responsibility that freedom requires, someone else will step in to make the decisions for them.

At the time, I was a one-year-old toddler living in Massachusetts. Like many kids in my generation, I would grow up wanting to be like Tom Brady.

As Mr. Kraft delivered his Super Bowl-winning speech, he said:

“Spirituality, faith, and democracy are the cornerstones of our country. We are all Patriots. And tonight, the Patriots are world champions.”

Over the next 18 years, he would go on to deliver five more of those speeches.

Patriotism—an idea often overshadowed by the fear of seeming too aggressive.

Is being a patriot in the United States too aggressive?

To be a patriot means: “A person who loves, supports, and defends their country and its interests with devotion.” But does that mean defending everything the country has done as it approaches its semiquincentennial anniversary?

The United States has engaged in morally questionable—sometimes outright indefensible—actions. Slavery and Jim Crow, the intentional mass killing of civilians in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Trail of Tears, and bribery brought to light in certain goverment systems—just to name a few.

Does a patriot need to defend these failures? I’d argue no.

A true patriot defends the vision of their country while working to make that vision a reality.

That vision is laid out clearly in the Declaration of Independence:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

The United States was founded on the promise of securing those unalienable rights.

Defending that vision is the true definition of patriotism. These words from the Declaration make up the forbidden fruit of the country which are not up for debate—they are the foundation of America itself. If someone rejects them, they reject the very essence of the country. In this case they are un-American.

A patriot does not fight to justify the times America has failed to live up to its ideals. A patriot fights for the day when those ideals are fully realized.

Just as a person can and should love themselves despite their flaws, a person can and should love their country despite its failures. After all, how can you make something better if you do not care for it?

Unless you reject the founding vision—that all people are created equal and that we should strive to uphold that truth—then be a patriot.

“Freedom is the will to be responsible for ourselves.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

The burden of freedom is the necessity for an individual to hold themselves accountable in all aspects of life. This means making decisions independently, choosing one’s own path, and owning both successes and failures. In a free society, the individual must navigate life without reliance on an external authority to take responsibility on their behalf.

For those who do not bear the burden of freedom, accountability is removed. They are not required to make their own decisions, carve their own path, or own the outcomes of their actions—someone else is captaining the ship.

Joseph Stalin, the leader of Soviet Russia from 1924 to 1953, believed his people could not handle the burden of freedom. Instead, he offered them an easier path by removing the need for self-responsibility. In doing so, citizens became passengers on a ship where Stalin steered every decision.

Under Stalin’s rule, citizens were freed from many struggles that those in free societies face, like striving for personal advancement. In the Soviet Union, the government controlled and operated all means of production, ensuring resources were distributed equally. The struggle to start a business or strive for individual success was no longer a burden—it was replaced by state control.

Stalin also alleviated citizens from both moral and spiritual dilemmas as well as the burden of choosing a religion. The state suppressed religion, persecuted religious leaders, and promoted atheism. Decisions about faith—or whether one was following the “right” religion—were no longer a concern.

The state took further measures to prevent disinformation by controlling the press. Only government-approved news could openly be distrubuted, and those who disobeyed or spread “false” information faced severe consequences, including imprisonment in the gulags or execution. With strict regulation, Stalin ensured citizens did not have to worry about sorting truth from lies; the state provided all the information deemed necessary.

The USSR further restricted citizens’ movement, both within the country and outside its borders. This ensured there were no psychopaths roaming from city to city causing mayhem and escaping before they could be caught. The secret police (NKVD, later rebranded to the KGB) ensured everyone remained accounted for, providing a sense of order and security.

Stalin’s leadership also shaped global history. The Soviet Union played a critical role in World War II, particularly in the defeat of Nazi Germany. When Soviet forces invaded Berlin in April 1945, they pushed Adolf Hitler into his bunker, where he put a gun to his head and took his own life. The architect of genocide and war was gone, thanks in large part to Stalin’s Soviet Union.

On the surface, Stalin’s policies appear to have achieved great accomplishments, relieving citizens of many challenges associated with freedom. He bore the burden of responsibility for his people.

So, why does Stalin’s rule carry such a dark reputation?

The answer lies in the millions who suffered under his regime. As highlighted by English author Eric Blair—better known by his more famous pen name—Stalin’s rule was marked by immense brutality. In just two years during the late 1930s, over a million political opponents were executed1. Millions more political enemies—or “free-thinkers”—were sent to the gulags, where they died under brutal labor conditions, and malnutrition. Stalin’s policies caused man-made famines, such as the Holodomor, which claimed 3 to 7+ million lives in just two years. Entire villages were decimated, and reports of cannibalism emerged as desperation took hold2.

Yes, Stalin lifted the burden of freedom from his people—but along with it, he took away their food, their autonomy, and for many, their lives.

The people of Stalin’s Soviet Union no doubt longed for opportunities to take control of their own destinies. They likely wished for the chance to build businesses, rely on themselves for sustenance, and seek truth amongst themselves and their neighbors rather than relying on the government. They likely wished for the ability to gather freely, celebrate shared values, and worship a higher power as they chose. They likely wished to be the captains of their own ships.

But freedom is not without its challenges. It is easier to attribute one’s position in life to a higher authority or to follow orders than to make independent decisions. It is easier to let someone else captain the ship of life than to navigate uncharted and stormy waters ourself.

But what happens when the captain steers the ship into a storm? When the vessel sinks due to decisions outside of your control, was the ease of the journey worth the cost? Would you wish, as the ship goes down and you take in your last breath of fresh air, that you had been behind the helm all along?

In the United States, the burden of freedom means that fate rests in our own hands. This responsibility can feel overwhelming, but it is also the sign of a truly free society.

For as long as citizens realize the ship goes where we steer it, we will continue to live in a free society. Once this responsibility is neglected and we fail to rise up to the privilege we have been granted, we risk surrendering our freedom.

If you prefer your fate to rest in someone else’s hands, then a republic is not the government for you. As the 26th president of the United States, once said: “Success or failure will be conditioned upon the way in which the average man, the average woman, does his or her own duty.”3

Freedom requires accountability. Pick up your responsibility—your cross, so to speak—and bear it. Bear it nobly. The burden of freedom is not only a challenge; it is a privilege.

A man who chooses to battle his addictions will experience these moments more often. A man enslaved by his addictions will experience these moments less and less.

Every once in a while, an addict will have a moment of clarity. But as the addiction worsens, these moments of clarity—or “slivers of reality”—will continue to diminish. Even those who are free from “mainstream” addictions (though we are all addicted to something) will experience moments in life where they see the world through a sharper lens.

In these moments, a person can perceive every path, each obstacle, and all the monsters that lie ahead. It is in these fleeting moments that we are best equipped to make decisions. We become fully conscious—we know what is best for us. And with our well-being and ultimate goals in mind, we choose the path we believe to be correct.

But once that sliver of reality fogs over, it becomes harder to trust the path ahead. If, however, one takes advantage of that moment of clarity, they can continue down the correct road—even when it becomes obscured and uncertain.

The question is: how does one trust the foggy and unclear road during moments of confusion? This is the problem of addiction.

When acted upon, addiction is like a fog machine, releasing a haze that clouds our vision. The monsters and obstacles along the path disappear into the mist. Though we cannot see them, they are still there, and they can see us. The fog does not eliminate the dangers; it merely hides them, allowing us to walk forward in blissful ignorance rather than in truth. It’s like driving down the highway with a sleep mask on—blind to the road ahead, falsely assuming we are safe, even as danger hurtles toward us.

I have the utmost respect for those who choose to defy their addictions—those who go to war rather than surrender to the enemy. They are the ones who seek the value of truth in the long term, no matter how ugly that truth may be in the present. They stand firm, “like the rock that the waves keep crashing over, standing unmoved as the raging of the sea falls still around it.”1

It is in these slivers of reality—these answered prayers—that a man is given the chance to decide: to go to war or wave the white flag.

A chance to shoot the gap. Like a linebacker in football, when the “B” gap opens up, a good player fills it—because when God parts the Red Sea for you and your people, you go.

To go to war is to fight the addiction—“to rage against the dying of the light.”2 To wave the white flag is to surrender to the addiction, to extinguish the flame.

A leader who abandons their country during a siege is no leader worthy of a nation. A man who abandons his home in tough times is no man deserving of a family. A man who sells his soul in the face of internal struggle is no man worthy of himself.

Sometimes, the only way through is to stoke the fire and fight. When those slivers of reality appear, choose to fight. To choose otherwise will only lead to greater confusion and turmoil.

Who knows if, or when, the next sliver of reality will appear? Shoot the gap.

A few weeks ago, I was at a bookstore with a few friends. I spent hours browsing, moving from book to book. Many titles stood out to me, and because of that, I didn’t end up buying anything—classic choice paralysis.

One book, however, did catch my eye, even though I had no real interest in buying it. It was titled Fat Girls Hiking: An Inclusive Guide to Getting Outdoors at Any Size or Ability1. I didn’t buy the book, but I skimmed through a bit of it. Here’s one passage that stood out:

“One day, I was on a popular trail near the Oregon coast with my girlfriend, and we felt like people were looking at us strangely—like we didn’t belong there. Was it because we are a lesbian couple? Was it because we are both fat? Was it because I’m heavily tattooed and was wearing a colorful dress and she’s Latina? We didn’t know for sure, but it was clear that other people on the trail weren’t used to seeing people that looked like us in the outdoors.”

I wonder if any actual “fat girls” truly buy this book, or if it just gets picked up and put down by people like me—people who are genuinely curious about its message. Though I didn’t read the full story, I can tell you what this book is not about. It isn’t about a fat girl who decides she doesn’t want to be out of shape anymore and embarks on a journey to turn her health and life around. If it were, that would be one hell of a story. But instead, there’s no hero’s journey here.

Personally, when I want motivation to get outdoors and active, I turn to someone like David Goggins—a former “fat dude” who got sick and tired of being fat, then became the hero of his own life. I don’t read Goggins because I’m in similar shape as him—far from it, the guy’s a machine—but because when I read his work, I think to myself, “I am not everything I can be.”

I feel a little ashamed when I read it, but that shame motivates me to do better.

In every truly great story, the main character realizes they are not all they could be. In that realization, they feel shame—and by the end, they become who they are destined to be. Take The Lion King: Simba, instead of taking his rightful place as king of Pride Rock, evades responsibility and lives a carefree life with an irresponsible pig and a meerkat. Their philosophy—Hakuna Matata—is essentially to relax and avoid responsibility. It isn’t until Nala, Simba’s childhood friend and future partner, confronts him and shames him that he wakes up to the fact that he is not everything he could be. That shame transforms him into the hero he’s meant to be. He returns, restores order to Pride Rock, avenges his father’s death, and ends Scar’s reign of torment.

If a story doesn’t involve the main character feeling shame, it often involves a hero who makes the audience feel shame. Consider Jesus Christ in the Bible: we look to Him and immediately feel ashamed that we’re not all we could be. Of course, Jesus and God assure us that we’ll never be sinless, but it’s the process of working to become more like Him that brings out the best versions of ourselves. Maybe by having an inspirational figure like Jesus in mind, can help me be just that much better of a person.

Now imagine if David Goggins, instead of feeling ashamed of his unhealthy habits while watching jacked Navy SEALs on TV, had decided to embrace the status quo and write a book called Fat People in Special Forces: An Inclusive Guide to Becoming a Navy SEAL at Any Size or Ability. Or imagine if Simba ignored Nala’s confrontation and spent the rest of his life in the jungle, carefree with Timon and Pumbaa. Without the weight of the hero’s journey, these stories wouldn’t hold the same meaning or resonance with society.

At the gym I go to in Austin, Squatch Fitness, I’m constantly surrounded by inspirational people. To my right is Matt Johnson, who recently became the fastest person to run across the state of Texas. To my left are Angie and Jacob, two CrossFitters training hard for the 2026 CrossFit Games. Outside on the turf is a group of savages, led by Braydon Alley, preparing to dominate Hyrox events.

Being around these people makes me feel a little ashamed. Not because they are actively judging me, (I gaurantee they aren’t) instead because I realize that I’m not all I could be. But it’s up to me whether I choose to wallow in that shame and blame the world for it—or use it as motivation to become a better version of myself. Maybe I could push myself just a little bit harder.

Shame isn’t inherently bad. It’s bad only if we let it be. Surround yourself with people whose daily actions inspire a bit of shame in you—not in a toxic way, but in a way that pushes you to grow. Within that feeling of shame lies inspiration and motivation—if you can break through the initial sting of self-consciousness and arrogance.