The Fire You Need

Campfires, freedom, and the brutal truth about who shows up when your life changes.

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In this week’s newsletter: why every man needs a fire to sit around, the strange headspace of freedom after fourteen years, and what I learned about expectations when everything shifted.

Years ago I worked with a psychologist. One of the things we spoke about has stuck with me ever since.

Every man needs a fire to sit around.

He wasn’t talking about an actual fire. He was talking about the thing that centers you. The place where you stop, pause, focus on one thing and let everything else fall away. Reflection without agenda. Thinking without solving. Just sitting with whatever comes up and letting it move through you.

Your fire could be silence. Could be exercise. Could be a goal you’re working towards. Could be a friend you can be completely honest with. Could be meditation. Could be a long drive with no destination, windows down, music off, just you and the road. Could be writing. Could be prayer. Could be standing in your garden at 6am with coffee going cold in your hand while the birds wake up.

The point isn’t what it is. The point is that you have one.

That place where you’re fully present. Where the noise quiets. Where you can actually hear yourself think.

I’ve thought about that conversation a lot over the years. This weekend I found mine in the most literal sense possible.

I went away. Sat around an actual campfire for two nights. Watched the flames. Listened to the wood crackle and pop. Smelled the smoke in my clothes. No phone. No agenda. No trying to figure anything out. Just fire and darkness and stars and whatever my mind wanted to bring up.

A glass of whiskey in one hand. A cigar in the other. The smoke from both mixing with the smoke from the fire. Leaning back in a camp chair, feet stretched towards the heat, watching the flames dance and shift. There’s something about that combination. The warmth. The slowness. The ritual of it. Your breathing slows. Your shoulders drop. Your mind stops racing and starts wandering. It’s masculine in a way that’s hard to explain but easy to feel. Just sitting. Just being. No performance. No productivity. Just a man, a fire, and time.

A lot came up.

The first week out

Last week I officially stepped back from Wild Eye after fourteen years.

We put out a video and a podcast. Made it public. If you haven’t seen them yet, the links are at the bottom.

Strange week.

I’d wake up early, the way I always have. Make coffee. Sit down at my desk and start working on the new business. Building. Creating. Writing. Doing the things I’ve been wanting to do for years. And then somewhere around mid-morning, this wave of guilt would roll in. Like I should be going to the office. Like I’m skipping school and someone’s going to catch me. Like I’m getting away with something I shouldn’t be getting away with.

Fourteen years of a certain rhythm doesn’t just disappear because you made a decision. Your nervous system still expects the old pattern. Your body still wakes up ready for the thing that’s no longer there. Your brain keeps checking for the familiar, and when it doesn’t find it, something feels off. Even when everything is exactly as you wanted it to be.

Freedom is a weird headspace when you’ve been in a structure for that long.

Not bad. Just unfamiliar. And unfamiliar takes time to settle into.

I’m not rushing it. Letting the strangeness be strange. Letting the guilt surface when it surfaces. Noticing it. Not fighting it. Just watching it do its thing while I keep building what’s next.

Who shows up

Something big happens in your life and you expect people to check in.

You make a major announcement. You step away from something you built. You change direction publicly. And you think the people in your world will reach out. Send a message. Ask how you’re doing. Acknowledge that something significant just shifted.

Some do. A handful. The ones who always show up. The ones who’ve been showing up for years, quietly, consistently, without fanfare.

Most don’t.

This isn’t a complaint. This isn’t bitterness. Just observation. Just the world being exactly what it is.

Nobody gives a fuck.

People are dealing with their own shit. Their own lives. Their own transitions and pressures and fires they’re trying to keep lit. Their own kids and mortgages and health scares and career doubts and relationship strains. You are not the main character in anyone else’s story. You’re a side character at best. A background extra most of the time.

Accept that and you stop waiting for external validation. Stop expecting people to show up the way you think they should. Stop keeping score of who messaged and who didn’t.

It’s up to you to figure out what you want. Up to you to follow through on it. Up to you to build the life you’re after.

And maybe that’s the real lesson. Maybe you expected too much. Maybe the disappointment says more about your expectations than it does about anyone else. That’s a you thing, not a them thing. It stings. I won’t pretend it doesn’t. But there’s something important in letting people be whoever they need to be. Moving on with grace. Not holding it against them. Not making it mean something about your worth. Just accepting that everyone’s running their own race and you’re not always going to be on their radar. That’s okay. It has to be.

Nobody’s coming to save you. Nobody’s coming to cheer you on.

That’s not sad. That’s just how it works.

The people who do show up, the few who check in, who send a message, who actually give a fuck. Hold onto those ones. They’re rare. They’re gold. And they probably don’t even know how much it meant.

Two nights around the fire

Sitting around that campfire, wrapped in a blanket, watching sparks drift up into the darkness, I let my mind run wherever it wanted.

Wild Eye. The years. The relationships. The things I’ll miss and the things I won’t. The guilt and the freedom and the strange in-between I’m living in right now. All while knowing the company is on a solid trajectory. It’s a great space to be.

Greenland. The weight of what’s coming. The excitement underneath the nerves.

The new business. The coaching. The consulting. The keynotes I’m building. The work that actually lights me up. And the possibilities that now seem to exist. Opportunities that might have always been there but were hidden behind the structure of what was. Now, with the structure gone, I can see them. Doors I didn’t even know were there. Paths I couldn’t have walked while I was walking the other one. It’s strange how leaving something can open up so much more than staying ever could.

The people who showed up this week. The ones who didn’t.

I didn’t try to solve any of it. Just let the fire do what fires do. Burn through things. Turn them to ash. Make space for whatever comes next.

By the second night, something had settled. Not resolved. Settled. The noise had quieted. The guilt had loosened its grip. The path ahead felt clearer, even though nothing external had changed. Something internal had shifted. Like the fire had burned through some of the debris I’d been carrying without realizing it.

One month out

Yesterday marked exactly one month until I arrive in Greenland.

One month from now, I’ll meet up with the team for two days of final prep before we head onto the ice. Until then, it’s just me. Training. Working. Building.

This weekend was about letting the central nervous system relax before the last push. I wrote about this in my previous post on the paradox of recovery. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is stop. Let the system settle. Give yourself permission to just exist for a few days without optimizing anything.

A couple of drinks. No training. No protocols. Just stillness.

Starting tomorrow, that changes.

One month of strict training. Strict diet. Strict peptides. Strict protocols. Everything dialed in. Everything intentional. Mixed in with work and coaching and business development and all the other pieces that keep running regardless of what’s happening on the expedition front.

That’s the balance right now. Building a business while preparing for the hardest physical challenge of my life. Neither one waits for the other. Both demand full attention.

Where I am right now

Change is strange. Even when you choose it. Even when you want it.

Freedom is strange. Even when you’ve earned it. Even when it’s exactly what you needed.

Nobody really gives a fuck. Which is fine once you stop expecting them to.

The campfire taught me something I already knew but needed to feel again. The only person who needs to care about your path is you. The only person who needs to show up for your life is you.

That’s not lonely. That’s ownership.

Once you accept it, you stop waiting. Stop expecting. Start building.

That’s where I am.

Building. And it feels great.

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And that’s it for this week.

As mentioned, we put out two pieces of content this week about my departure from Wild Eye after fourteen years.

Both are honest. Both go deep into the decision, the emotions, and what comes next. If you’re going through your own transition or thinking about making a big change, they might be worth your time.

My new website is also live.

You can click through here to see what I’m doing now, how I work, and what the coaching and consulting side looks like.

It’s still evolving. But the foundation is there. Strategic performance advisory. Coaching. Speaking. Expeditions. The work that lights me up. The work I’m built for.

If you want to follow the Greenland expedition or get involved, I have dedicated pages on the website as well.

One month out. Back to strict training tomorrow. I’ll be documenting everything on YouTube,

A good friend sent me this at the end of the week, and given everything I’ve been sitting with, the timing felt almost too perfect:

If you take one thing from this newsletter, make it this: find your fire. Whatever centers you. Whatever quiets the noise and lets you actually hear yourself. Make time for it. Not when you’ve earned it. Not when everything else is done. Now. Because the clarity you’re chasing isn’t going to come from more thinking. It’s going to come from more stillness.

And on the people front. Adjust your expectations. Not everyone will show up. That’s okay. It says nothing about your worth. Let them be who they are. Focus on who you are. Focus on what you’re building. The ones who matter will find their way to you. They always do.

As always, you can reach me directly on email or WhatsApp or reach out from my website.

Stay safe out there.

Do good work.

G.

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