What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

It’s the kind of question we throw at kids while they’re still picking their noses and eating paste. Not something you expect to be wrestling with at fifty, staring at your ceiling at 2 a.m., wondering if you’ve built the life you were supposed to.

But here I am. Still figuring it out.

All I ever wanted to be was a VFX artist. An animator. A guy who made cool shit.

And I did that. I’ve worked in broadcast, built theater shows, directed media shoots, led design teams, and helped shape brands for major sports networks. I’ve stood at the helm of multimillion-dollar events, managed insane logistics, juggled teams of artists, fabricators, performers, and everything in between. I carved a career out of chaos. I’ve made a living telling other people’s stories.

And I’ve gotten damn good at it.

But somewhere in the mess of client meetings and quick turnarounds, something else started pulling harder.

Six years ago, a few of us got together and started dreaming up a kind of adult Boy Scouts. A place for men to be men, but with a focus on healthy masculinity and adventure.

That was the total mission statement.

At the time, we just wanted an excuse to get outside. Learn some skills. Earn some patches. Give men a place to learn to be better men, without all the macho chest-thumping bullshit. And go do stupid adventures.

So we didn’t start with a workshop or a weekend retreat.

We launched with the Great American Monkey 1000.

A thousand kilometers on tiny, ill-equipped motorcycles across the Rocky Mountains.

Bikes that were destined to break. Riders who didn’t know better.

It was beautiful mayhem.

And it worked.

That trip alone brought in our first 25 members, many of whom I had never met and are now some of my closest friends. Because deep down, most of us are starving for something that feels real. Something we can bleed into and build alongside other men who give a damn. Something with brotherhood, risk, and meaning baked into it.

A place where you could challenge yourself and support your brothers.

I’ve now mentored four other brothers.

I’ve earned eleven merit badges.

I’ve failed a few others, and I’m still chasing them.

I’ve earned the rank of “Gentleman” in the Guild, and that actually means something to me. Because I know what it took to get there.

More than any rank or patch, what’s really changed me is the firelight.

I’ve watched hard conversations happen under the stars that cracked people open.

Guys letting their guard down, talking about real stuff.

No posturing. No alpha bravado. Just honesty and presence.

I’ve seen men who never had a place to talk finally talk.

I’ve seen them realize they could be stronger and softer.

Capable and kind.

Respected without dominating.

Vulnerable without apologizing for it.

You know those moments.

The kind where nobody’s trying to fix each other. Just sharing the weight.

Where a guy lets something out that’s been welded shut for years, and instead of mockery or silence, he gets nods.

Or a hand on the shoulder.

I’ve seen men open up without unraveling.

I’ve seen guys drop the act and finally breathe.

No macho strut. No goddamn peacocking.

Just presence.

That’s the kind of strength I’m chasing now.

Not the loud kind. The steady kind.

The kind you earn when you show up for someone else even when your own tank’s on fumes.

And I don’t say that like I am some guru. I say it as a guy who’s still figuring it out too.

The Guild started as a side project. A hobby.

As long as the books stayed in the black, that was good enough.

But it’s where I spend every spare hour.

It’s what I think about when I wake up and when I should be sleeping.

It’s the work I want to do. Not because it’s a job, but because it feels like the only thing that’s mine.

So yeah, I changed my LinkedIn.

Not to signal some career move.

Just to be honest about what matters most to me.

The Guild isn’t how I make a living.

But it’s where I feel most alive.

If you’ve ever felt that shift when the thing you’re good at starts to feel like a cage instead of a calling, you’ll know what I mean.

It’s not some midlife meltdown.

It’s the fog lifting.

It’s the part where you stop bullshitting yourself.

So no, I’m not quitting my job.

But I am changing direction.

Shifting my focus.

Shifting how people see me.

I’m building something I believe in.

And I’m figuring out how to become the man I still want to become.

That feels like the next great adventure.

And for the first time in a long damn time, it feels like mine.