People often ask me what made me different growing up.
It wasn’t that I was the strongest kid.
It wasn’t that I was the fastest.
It definitely wasn’t because I was the most coordinated.
If anything, I was just a big farm kid trying to keep up with my older brother.
Don is two years older than me, and growing up that felt like an eternity. Like most brothers, we played one vs one backyard football or basketball constantly. There was plenty of yelling, crying, and the famous, “Mom! Don hit me too hard!” I can still remember him standing over me while I was crying saying, “Shhh… don’t let Mom hear you.”
Looking back now, I realize how blessed I was.
Not because of the touch turned tackle football.
Because I had someone to chase.
When Don started lifting weights in eighth grade, I was only in sixth grade. That meant I got a front-row seat to the world of strength training. We flipped through muscle magazines together, reading about bodybuilders, football players, and action movie stars. We dreamed about looking like our heroes and becoming stronger than we ever thought possible.
Our gym wasn’t fancy.
It was an old basement with a home gym and those old sand-filled weights that always seemed to threaten your fingers every time you racked them.
But to me, it was heaven.
One day my brother told me I was uncoordinated.
He wasn’t trying to motivate me. He was just being an older brother.
The funny thing is, I believed him.
I wasn’t the fastest kid in my class. I wasn’t the strongest either.
Then I read something in one of those bodybuilding magazines that changed everything.
It said lifting weights could improve coordination.
That was all I needed to hear.
From that day forward, I attacked every workout with purpose. I wasn’t just trying to get bigger. I wanted to become more athletic. More confident. Better.
Little by little, I did.
By the time I entered high school, I could bench press 135 pounds.
That also happened to be my bodyweight.
Back then, I thought that was pretty good.
Then I walked into the high school weight room.
I watched juniors and seniors casually throwing around 225 pounds while laughing and carrying on conversations like it was nothing.
That was my wake-up call.
Instead of being intimidated, I became obsessed.
I treated the weight room like it was cramming for the biggest exam of my life. Every workout mattered. Every set had a purpose.
Along the way I met friends from neighboring schools who loved lifting just as much as I did.
One of them was Joe.
We talked bodybuilding, football, Mortal Kombat, and, of course, girls.
But if I’m being honest, our favorite conversations were always about getting stronger.
For two years we trained hard together.
Then we got our driver’s licenses.
That’s when life started pulling us in different directions.
Joe became more interested in girls, field parties, and eventually suspensions that came along with that lifestyle.
I stayed on a different path.
In the summers, instead of field parties I’d help my uncle on the dairy farm, showing up at 4:00 a.m. to milk cows.
I trained.
I competed.
I focused on football.
As team captain during my senior year, I couldn’t imagine letting my teammates down because I chose one bad decision over years of hard work.
I didn’t want to kneel on the fifty-yard line while Coach Taake chewed me out for missing part of the season because of a busted party like another teammate had to do.
More importantly, I didn’t want to let myself down.
The farm taught me accountability.
Sports taught me leadership.
The weight room taught me discipline.
Those lessons became the foundation for everything I’ve done since.
One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is that your friend group changes throughout life.
You’ll have plenty of acquaintances.
You’ll have friends who come and go.
But if you’re fortunate, you’ll have one to three people who stay in your corner no matter where life takes you.
Those are your trench friends.
You might not talk every day.
You might go months without seeing each other.
But when life gets difficult, they’re there.
I’ve been incredibly blessed with mine.
Matt Lubinski became my lifting partner and lifelong friend, whose son is my Godson.
Matt Leonhardt and I were mortal enemies in captains roles on either side of the football team as High School rivals, only to attend the same college and become best friends. He stood beside me through college in ways that I will never forget, and he was the first to embark on our bodybuilding adventures, stepping on stage first.
Erik Meyer helped change the course of my life. He believed in me when I struggled in college and showed me that I could become a successful strength coach and entrepreneur.
And then there’s my wife, Ali.
She is the greatest teammate I’ve ever had.
She reminds me every day that showing up isn’t just something you do in the gym.
It’s something you do for your family.
It’s something you do for your marriage.
It’s something you do for your children.
One day I was disciplining one of my kids after they ignored something I had asked them to do.
I asked them, “Do you know why there was a consequence?”
Then I answered my own question.
“Because when Dad tells you something, I mean it. And no matter what happens, I will always show up for you.”
That moment hit me harder than any workout ever could.
Showing up is love.
Showing up builds trust.
Showing up builds character.
The weights were never just about getting stronger.
They taught me to be dependable.
To be accountable.
To be disciplined.
To become the kind of man others could count on.
So the next time you step into the gym, remember this:
Be present.
When your family needs you, show up.
When your kids ask you to play, show up.
When Grandma and Grandpa want a visit, show up.
When your teammates count on you, show up.
When life gets hard, show up anyway.
Because muscles may fade with time.
But the habit of showing up will strengthen every relationship, every career, and every generation that follows.
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