I've been writing in the same dotted Moleskine notebooks since 2006. Sermons I preached. Campaigns I ran. Quotes that wouldn't let go of me. Questions I couldn't put down. For most of those years I thought I was collecting notes. It turns out I was building the thing that would eventually save my life.

My working life never fit one lane. I was a pastor and a Christian apologist — debate stages and live Q&As alongside J. Warner Wallace and Josh McDowell. I was also a marketer: the kind who took ten percent of an insurance company's TV budget, moved it to digital, and broke every inbound record they had. I ran an equipment-rental counter out of college and left a branch manager. When a job disappeared with a baby at home, I sold marketing door-to-door until the money flowed. At a Fortune 500 industrial company, I tripled a territory's all-time sales record. Formation on one track, leverage on the other. I didn't know yet that they were the same work.

Then came the years it broke. A territory cut erased a third of my income the same year we closed on the house we'd built. Debt. Creditors. Days at one job, nights at another, drinking to take the edge off, performing "we're fine" for everyone outside. A marriage that nearly didn't survive. And one night, at the bottom underneath the bottom, I came closer to not being here than I ever intend to be again.

What pulled me back was my son — who believed I was his hero. I decided to become the man he already thought I was. Not with a breakthrough. With a decision, followed by architecture.

I had no motivation left, so I built something that didn't need any: a minimum daily. Walk through the gym doors, even if I don't train. Ten sales calls. One note to my wife, every day. Brick by brick, the system rebuilt the man. Then I went back to school — an M.A. in Executive Coaching from Concordia University Irvine, under Dr. John Townsend — and put everything I'd used to survive, the therapy and the theology and the systems, through one question: what does it take to stay whole while building at speed? The answer filled twenty years of notebooks. The daily structure became the Superhuman OS. The catalogue became the Systems Library. The writing became Superhuman Systems — the letter I publish as I go.

Today I'm an executive coach and AI consultant. I run 6 Signal, building AI infrastructure for contractors, and I coach founders and leaders whose ceiling isn't in their business. Most of the people who find this work are men; the work is for anyone building at speed who wants to stay whole. I live in Fort Worth, Texas, with my wife and two kids. The marriage we fought for gets better every day. I train. I write. I build. Everything still starts in the notebook.

There's a book in the notebooks too — Love Your Sin to Death. It'll take the time it takes.

I work slowly. I take responsibility seriously. And I don't rush trust.