Sixty pounds in the rain

Sixty Pounds in the Rain

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On a recent spring Wednesday, I carried my son on my back in a thunderstorm.

It was school pickup. One of those Florida surprise storms where the sky opens without warning and the drops are enormous. Only we were in Los Angeles, a couple hundred yards from the car: Mike, Pierce, and me, all in cotton hoodies and pants, instantly soaked through.

We didn't have umbrellas. And Mike was recovering from a back injury, so there was no chance he could carry Pierce.

So I crouched, Pierce climbed on, and I jogged.

Sixty pounds of six-year-old, piggyback, up from the sidewalk onto the grass to get past families and umbrellas clogging the sidewalk. My legs felt strong and capable. My lungs felt alive and joyful. Mike and I were smiling and laughing. (Pierce was miserable.)

At the very end of 2025, I sent a two-sentence Slack to the team member who manages our calendars at CTOx: "Please ensure that meetings I need to lead or attend start at 10 AM instead of 8 AM, effective immediately. Thank you!"

That was it. Polite yet clear.

That Slack opened a two-hour window every morning. I started spending it in our home gym. Compound lifts, progressive overload, a slow and steady rebuild of a body that sat through months of 8 AM calls. I also started eating a real breakfast instead of grabbing whatever I could find before the first meeting, and replacing my second cup of morning coffee with electrolyte drinks.

Each of these changes traced back to a single act of elimination: moving a meeting boundary by two hours.

The dramatic subtractions get all the attention. Leaving a career. Saying no to 13 opportunities in two weeks. Those are the ones people write about because they feel like the plot turning.

But the small ones compound quietly. That chain ran all the way to the piggyback.