I know the chair you're sitting in
For six years I was sick. Throwing up most mornings — in Oman, in Qatar, in Kenya — insomnia, panic attacks, doctors who couldn't tell me why. In 2020 God healed me. I'd love to tell you I walked straight out of that into the best years of my life.
I didn't. I drifted. I let go of every discipline I had. I put on forty pounds. And one morning at thirty-four I looked in the mirror and the sentence that came out of me was, "I don't like the dad that I'm becoming."
Nobody else could see it. From the outside my life looked great. That's the part that scared me. I ran the tape forward fifty years and saw a comfortable, small man with a long list of what-ifs — and kids who learned by watching me that a dream is something you mention at a cookout and never do anything about.
At the end of 2022 I sat down in a coffee shop in Northern Virginia and prayed a dangerous prayer: God, do not let me move from this chair until You bring the fire back in my heart.
It came back. Then I asked Him what to do, and I heard one word.
Soccer.
I had never played. I told God it was the stupidest thing I had ever heard.
On January 1, 2023, I found a ball in my in-laws' basement and tried toe taps like a toddler as fat as a buffalo. I filmed it and posted it with zero followers, so I couldn't quit in the dark. A little under four years later I pulled a Team USA shirt over my head at a 6v6 World Cup in Essen, Germany, at thirty-eight years old.
I'm not telling you that to impress you. I'm no one special — an average dad from the cornfields of Indiana, and God did that, not me. Soccer was never the goal. Soccer was the vessel. The goal was the man I was being forged into while I did it, and the wife and five kids who got that man back.
You probably don't need soccer. You need the thirty days I've never been able to skip since: win the morning, keep a promise you made to yourself, pray again, and do the one thing with your kids you keep meaning to do.
That's the Reset.