Good morning Reader,
Welcome to the 36th issue of The FAM.
I was dead tired on Friday night.
Not the “I need a nap” tired. The kind of tired you feel after you’ve poured your whole self into a room full of people. The day before, I facilitated a high-energy, collaborative strategic planning meeting with 100 members of the American Supply Association.
As I opened and set the tone for the day, I spoke from my heart, referencing a quote from Henry David Thoreau’s Walden:
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life … to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”
And I watched something happen.
In that moment, instinctively and quietly, phones emerged from pockets and bags, not for the usual check of emails or texts, but to capture the quote on the screen while a room of successful professionals sought to seize a fleeting reminder of how to slow down by venturing into the woods.
Gosh darn it, this was different, and I had to pause.
Because it told me something that’s easy to forget when the calendar is full, and the pace is relentless:
We are hungry for depth.
We’re hungry to live deliberately.
We’re hungry for something essential.
Not a new productivity system. Not another meeting. Not another “best practice.” Hell, these are a dime a dozen.
We are yearning for something deeper. Something human.
Stumbling Into The Night
Later that night, I left the comfort of my hotel room and went for a walk in downtown St. Petersburg, Florida. Honestly, I wanted to stay in, but I had to expend 400 more calories to close my rings for the day.
As I pondered whether to indulge in room service and bask in the comfort of my hotel room or to heed the call of my fitness tracker, the internal tug-of-war played out. I didn’t have some grand intention. No plan. No agenda. Just moving my body, clearing my head, and closing my rings. Trying to come down from the day. Stepping out the door of The Vinoy Resort, I turned left onto Beach Drive past the crowded bars and restaurants. I noted how attractive and put-together so many of the people were.
But then I saw it.
A telescope.
Set up on the corner of Beach Drive and Second Avenue, smack dab in the middle of this high-traffic area with people flowing past like a current. A telescope.
I stopped. Of course I did.
I’ve learned something over the years: the moments that change us rarely announce themselves. They just sit there on a street corner waiting for you to notice.
Next to the telescope was a table. Books. A stack of them.
And the young man behind it all was calm. Present. Ready. He belonged there. And within a few minutes, I realized: this wasn’t about astronomy. It was about wonder.
And it was about life. About honoring your hunger for depth, living deliberately, and the feeling of being essential.
Striking Up A Conversation
So you know me, I did what I always do when something grabs me. I struck up a conversation.
I asked him his name. And I asked him to tell me about himself. His name is Alex Martin.
Handsome young man. Calm. Confident. Casually well dressed. Honestly, he could have been in my strategic planning session with the American Supply Association earlier that day.
Nothing about him screamed “street corner.”
Until he told me he lives in his van.
I immediately knew I loved this guy, and I’d be buying some of his books. Because in a split second, that way of life painted a picture in my mind. Here is someone living differently on purpose. Not hiding it. Not apologizing for it. Just offering it as a way of his being.
And all at once, the whole scene changed for me. This wasn’t a guy setting up a telescope with a tip jar, trying to earn a few bucks.
This was a man offering his story.
As I looked down at the table beside him, I saw what confirmed it: a series of books he had written. Science fiction novels. A whole body of work.
Van life. Telescope. A story of meaning that needed to be told.
That combination doesn’t happen by accident.
It felt like the beginning of a legacy playing out in street corner time.
Remembering To Look Up With Wonder
The setting made it even more striking. Downtown St. Pete was doing what downtown does. Restaurants full. Bars loud. People moving in groups, spilling out onto the sidewalks.
That end-of-week energy. You could feel it. The release. The letting loose.
And if we’re honest, sometimes this Friday release is not just ‘fun.’ Sometimes it’s forgetting. Forgetting the accumulation of stress that grips you by Monday morning, when the dread of the week ahead settles in your stomach like a stone. Forgetting the pressure of endless to-do lists that loom over you, and the heaviness of obligations that seem to tighten around your chest.
It’s in those moments of release that we grasp for anything to escape the weight we carry—a temporary blindness to the reality that quietly persists.
And right in the middle of all that motion… There was Alex.
In solitude. Next to a telescope. Not trying to convince anyone. Not barking for attention. Just standing there, quietly inviting the curious to stop.
He didn’t even need to say a word.
The telescope said it for him.
It was a different kind of invitation. Not “come numb out.” Not “come escape.”
More like: Come look up. Come remember wonder. Come step into the unknown, if just for a minute of eternity.
Now, there is a feeling we need to lean into.
The possibility and wonder of it all.
The possibility that the spirit of curiosity is alive within you. Even if it’s been smothered by convention. Even if it’s been buried under responsibility. Even if the world has trained you to keep walking past possibilities.
Because some part of you still wants to stop.
Some part of you still wants to look.
The Lens Of Living
As I was learning from Alex, a group walked up. Four friends, heading into downtown for the night. They were dressed for an evening out. Laughing. Light. Alive.
But the telescope pulled them in.
They started asking Alex questions, excited, curious, like kids again for a minute. And as the conversation opened up, it didn’t stay about stars.
It turned into life.
These four women started talking about the tension they’re navigating right now. The need for security. How central that is. How heavy it is. How everything in the world tells you to be responsible, be safe, keep it stable, don’t mess it up.
And at the same time… they admired what Alex is doing.
Living in a van. Following his passion. Building his life around wonder. That admiration was real. But so was the fear.
Because if we’re honest, that tension is not just theirs. It’s ours.
Security versus passion.
Stability versus calling.
Conformity versus truth.
And here it is, the whole night in nine words …
One of the women said something that I think we all need to be reminded of. I sure do.
She said:
“Live as if you are going to die tomorrow.”
It wasn’t dramatic. It was matter-of-fact. You could see it in her expression; she surprised herself by saying it. But she meant it.
And I stood there thinking… that line is the truth most of us try not to look at too closely.
Because this life is not a dress rehearsal. There is no do-over. And yet we live like we’ve got unlimited time to get around to the thing that’s calling us.
The travel.
Your health.
The courage.
To the version of ourselves we keep postponing.
And I don’t have data to back this up at the moment, but I’ll tell you what I believe:
The people who flourish…
The people who live fuller, richer lives…
They find the right balance between security and passion. They don’t let fear turn “security” into a cage. They don’t let practicality become the excuse for a small life.
And when they finally identify who they are, and who they authentically want to be, and when they decide to honor that…
Life becomes beautiful.
Beautiful in the way that’s right for them.
Not the way others think it should look.
Life Your Way
The thing is, Alex, wasn’t preaching any of this. He wasn’t selling a philosophy. He wasn’t trying to convince anyone to “quit their job and live in a van.”
He was just standing there, calm and present, with a telescope pointed at the heavens and a stack of books that said: I’ve been creating my way through life.
I kept thinking: this is what it looks like when someone stops waiting for permission. Not perfect. Not safe. Not conventional. But honest.
It’s a man choosing to honor himself by creating and living a life that makes sense to his soul.
Offering wonder to strangers. Inviting people, quietly, to remember that there’s more to life than what’s right in front of us.
And for the record, I’m not telling you to live in a van. I’m telling you to notice what his life reveals:
That the calling inside you is real.
That wonder is a doorway to fulfillment.
That curiosity is not childish.
And that the life you want does not show up “someday” when all the stars align. It shows up the moment you start honoring what you already know.
Suck Out The Marrow Of Life
Here’s what made the whole curbside experience matter so much.
I didn’t stumble into Alex’s telescope on a random night. I stumbled into it after one of the most intense, high-energy days of my year. I had just led 100 leaders through an industry-defining strategic planning session.
And I opened that day not with data, research, or even industry best practices. I started the day on a spiritual level with Thoreau. I put on the screen:
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life … to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”
Then, I watched grown adults grab their phones and take pictures of that spirituality. Not because it sounds poetic. But because something in them knows it’s true.
They want that. We all want that.
To live deliberately. To live deep.
To stop skating across the surface of our days.
As I’ve thought about all this in the hours since, I have realized that Thoreau’s “woods” are not always a forest.
Sometimes the woods are a quiet corner of a busy city.
Sometimes the woods are a stranger who doesn’t even know he’s offering you a sacred moment.
Sometimes the woods are a reminder that you can step out of the noise for sixty seconds and feel your own life again.
To look at a planet 365 million miles away. To remember you’re part of something vast.
To feel wonder.
To feel the pull.
To feel your own soul whisper, “Pay attention.”
And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us right now:
Live deliberately.
Not someday. Not when things calm down. Not when you have more time.
But in the middle of the chaos. In the middle of downtown. In the middle of your obligations.
To front the essential facts.
To live deep.
To suck the marrow out of this one cosmic life you’ve been granted.
And the woods are still there.
Waiting. For you.
And so is the life you know you’re meant to live.
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