So, you want to know the secret sauce behind all this discipline and motivation? Here it is: I don’t have it. Surprise! It's not willpower lighting my fire; it's pure, unadulterated discipline.

And I’m not judging you for not being clued into this, if you really are trying to change to be the best version of yourself that you can be, by the way…

If you ever see me have “that” look that so often gets mistaken as a personal attack, you’re right, but it’s me judging myself, usually very harshly. That’s my cross to bear and my problem to solve, but what you’re feeling is your own guilt and shame surrounding your choices, but that’s another story for another day. 

Ever notice how people marvel at those who can shed pounds or build muscles like a sculptor chipping away at marble? Apparently, to everyone else, that’s me—making it look easy while just a whiff of envy hangs in the air, thanks to my “effortless” transformation that grates on friends and foes alike.

I mean, you’d think if you listened to them that I didn’t have to work for it at all.

Let’s clear the air, shall we? 

It’s not easy, but it is simple.

You probably assume I’m the nice, quiet guy in the corner, ready to help poor souls in need. Well, my real pals know I'm more of an unfiltered realist with a soft spot for those who actually want to help themselves. I don't have time to coddle tire kickers or squabbling drama queens crying about how their partner loses weight so easily while they struggle… Meanwhile, they’re pouring soft drinks and sugary snacks down their gullet all day while talking about how the rest of life isn’t fucking fair.

My best buddy loves to point out my less-than-rosy side—yes, I’m that guy who’ll serve truth with a side of sugar, just to avoid World War III. The truth is, I have to write my true thoughts down more than I speak them, because in conversation, I usually don’t get the chance, because for most people who aren’t actually ready to make a change, they always have their entire repertoire of excuses loaded for an opening salve that lasts way longer than I want to have a conversation with them.

But it wasn’t always this way. Rewind to when I woke up groaning “Fuck my life” as a daily mantra. Yes, that was your soon-to-be “motivational guru” trapped in a nice-guy persona, scraping by while auditioning for “Most Likely to Let Everyone Down” on the team. Ah yes, the classic millennial dream: get educated, earn a degree, land a job, buy a house, maybe toss in a spouse—all because someone promised you this formula would work like magic. 

Spoiler alert: it didn't. Twenty years in and this fairy tale turned into a saga of loneliness that’s less unique than it feels.

Grateful for the hand-ups I got, I still battled that nagging emptiness inside. Achievements piled up, but fulfillment? Nope. I was just a lonely teacher standing on the sidelines of my own life, watching my dreams to rock out in a heavy metal band (or just find a way to do art, inspire others, and play hard) fade away. Instead, I settled for the “safe bet”—leading a band instead of jamming my soul out on stage… and I had sacrificed my health to get there. 

Talk about an anti-climactic plot twist.

Sure enough, I probably would have messed it up, even if I had gotten what I wanted… even though I would like to think that I wouldn’t be your typical Rockstar, drug and booze wise. I’d be on the bus playing video games when I wasn’t performing or entertaining a parade of groupies. 

I just let the never ending queue of bullshit that comes with the education system fuck me instead.

Now, I can’t just throw shade at every student… or even most of them. Some were real ones, especially the band kids, smashing life in and out of the band room, and trust me, I was cheering them on. But on the whole for the genpop students? Let’s just say I was babysitting more than teaching, dealing with kids who might as well have been there to audition for the next reality show—"Students Who Hate School and the Retarded Parents Who Support It.”

The highlight of my life wasn’t about career wins but about the joyous beginning of my marriage. Except for the kicker: we didn’t even live together for the first three years. Say what? Isolation in a marriage? I was doing all the heavy lifting for our future, or so I thought, while the universe giggled behind my back. It was chaos, loneliness, and a full-blown identity crisis wrapped up in "must keep it together." 

Fast-forward to my physical appearance—oh boy, here comes the reality check! I morphed from “slightly pudgy” to “hey, look at those chubby cheeks” to downright “fat as fuck.” Not an immediate change, but suddenly my clothes were rebelling, and I was looking at a potential hundred-pound gain since my high school glory days. 

Mornings? A Herculean effort to rise from my bed; nights? Drowning my woes in booze, wishing an alcohol-induced coma might magically fix my day.

Then, school days turned into a circus—cheating kids, administrative nonsense, and paperwork that would have made a medieval scribe weep. I was spoon-fed nonsense while trying to teach real science, only to be reprimanded for daring to encourage critical thinking. Oh, the irony in trying to teach the scientific method while dodging a new age of educational dogma.

I got slapped with the duty of teaching 7th grade life science for being such a good band director too, for a whopping $400 raise a year, bringing my salary to just under $32,000 dollars a year before taxes. High five!

Not a great deal, even for the economy 10 or so years ago... especially when you factor in all the variables.

But just when I thought I was stuck in this pit of despair, one fateful night, fate slapped me upside the head. There I sat, cramming my face with greasy takeout, all while I slid into a state of self-pity worthy of a dramatic film. I was supposed to be living my dreams, not wallowing like a sad sack on a couch yelling at the TV, telling the athletes and performers who actually had the guts to lay it all out on the line in front of everyone that I could do it better.

The moment came watching some reality fighting show. Spoiler alert: A fighter I admired was banged up in an ambulance, and all I could think about was how far I had fallen—in both fitness and dignity. Meanwhile, there I was, a self-proclaimed champion of excuses, still stuffing my face and spiraling into oblivion, as I lost what made me, me, little by little with every bite, thought, and feeling…

I thought they had something I didn’t… willpower, but really, it was the discipline to show up every single day and fight for what they wanted their life to be. That’s it.

It struck me like a ton of bricks: I had become the person who cited every excuse in the book for why “this” or “that” couldn't be done. The de facto couch potato champion, couldn’t even rise from my seat after conducting a concert. I was a shell of my former vibrant self who once thrived on music, sports, and inspiring others.

This was my wake-up call—the moment I figured out that my biggest opponent was, you guessed it, me. That revelation? Priceless. The harsh truth? I was responsible for where I found myself—in a mess of my own making. Once I realized that, everything started to change.

So, here’s the takeaway: if you’re dragging excess baggage and laying all the blame on willpower, it's high time you re-evaluate. Because it’s not about lacking something; it’s about facing what you’ve buried under layers of excuses. 

Reality check incoming! Tune in next week for part 2.

You're on the brink of transformation, so why not revamp your kitchen as you revamp your life?

Here's a little pro-tip... Make it as hard as possible to "mess up".

Grab the Southern Renegade Cookbook, get the inside scoop of how my story can help you achieve your goals, and start cooking up a storm that’ll leave excuses in the dust. The journey to your best self starts now at https://rogueconsciousness.com/renegade-cookbook!