What Matters Most

What we build is important, but who we become matters most.

Just last week, someone asked me what it takes to balance being an entrepreneur, a husband, and a father. It was a good question—one that caught me off guard because, truthfully, I’m still figuring it out.

In that moment, I gave the answer I’ve leaned on for years: “It’s all about balance.” It sounded right, maybe even a little wise. But a few nights later, at exactly 2:34 a.m., I woke up out of a dead sleep thinking about that conversation.

I had an epiphany and have since changed my answer (something I reserve the right to do).

The goal isn’t balance.

The goal is alignment.

Allow me to explain.

Each of these roles—entrepreneur, husband, father—demands something different from me. But at their core, they’re all asking the same question: Who are you becoming in the process?

And let me tell you, if you’re not intentional about answering that question, life has a way of answering it for you.

In entrepreneurship, it’s easy to get caught up in metrics, growth, and validation. Ego thrives on those things. It loves the spotlight and whispers, “You’re doing great—just keep proving it.”

But the work that really shapes you doesn’t happen in the metrics. It happens in the moments.

• When you lose a deal you thought was a sure thing and choose to handle it with grace instead of bitterness.

• When a team member shines, and you celebrate their success louder than your own.

• When the plans fall apart, and you press forward anyway, knowing persistence matters more than perfection.

These moments don’t show up in quarterly reports, but they’re the real measure of success. They’re where character is built.

At home, the same principle applies. If ego loves the hustle of business, love thrives in the stillness of family life.

It’s not the big gestures that make you a great dad. It’s the small, consistent choices—telling bedtime stories, showing up at practices, and sitting on the couch when they want to talk about their day. These moments don’t make headlines, but they’re where the deepest connections are formed.

I’ll be honest: I’ve had seasons where I got this backward. Times when I poured so much into my work that my family got what was left of me (instead of the best of me). It wasn’t intentional, but the result was the same—missed moments I can’t get back.

That’s where margin comes in.

Margin has been one of the hardest lessons for me to learn, but it’s also been one of the most important.

Margin is the space between your limit and your load. I've said it before and I'll say it again: if your schedule has zero margin, your life will fall apart. Without margin, you’re constantly running on empty—snapping at your kids, zoning out during dinner, or skipping that date night you promised your spouse.

Hurry kills everything we hold dear.

The problem is, ego loves a packed schedule. It tells us that being busy means being important. That every email, project, or opportunity is a step closer to success.

But love doesn’t work that way. Love requires time, presence, and focus—all things that get squeezed out when we’re running too fast.

I used to believe the hustle was just part of life. But the older I get, the more I realize that the best things—marriage, fatherhood, meaningful work—can’t thrive without breathing room.

Here’s the truth: entrepreneurship, fatherhood, and marriage aren’t competing priorities. They’re interconnected. Each one shapes the others, and the person you are in one area inevitably impacts the others.

If I’m short-tempered at home, it’s usually because I’ve been running too hard at work. If I’m patient and present with my team, it’s because I’ve learned to be patient and present with my kids.

The question isn’t whether you can balance it all. It’s whether you’re becoming someone who can align these roles in a way that reflects your values.

For me, that alignment comes back to a few simple choices:

• Choosing presence over productivity. Work can wait; your family shouldn’t have to.

• Choosing humility over ego. Your business doesn’t need a hero; it needs a leader who empowers others.

• Choosing margin over hustle. Burnout helps no one. The people you love need you at your best.

When I think about my life 20 years from now, I don’t want to be remembered for how many clients I landed or how much revenue I generated. I want my wife to say I made her feel cherished. I want my kids to remember that I was there—fully present—for the big moments and the small ones.

Entrepreneurship, fatherhood, and marriage aren’t just things I do; they’re who I am. They’ve forced me to grow, challenged my priorities, and taught me what matters most.

The work we do is important, but who we become will always matter more.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading my ramblings.

The process of putting thoughts into words is a form of accountability for me. It reminds me of who I want to be when my actions don’t line up with my values. It forces me to pause, reflect, and recalibrate when I fall short—because I do, often.

If anything, writing this isn’t about offering answers—it’s about reminding myself of the lessons I’ve learned and the kind of man I want to become. This process keeps me accountable, especially on the days when my priorities slip or my ego gets too loud.

So, if these words feel like they were written for you, know they were also written for me. And if you’re wrestling with the same tensions of work, family, and self, know that you’re not alone. We’re all figuring it out as we go, one small, intentional choice at a time.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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PS — The photo attached to this post is of me with my (almost) 13-year-old daughter, Lila Blue. This week, a boy asked for her phone number after her basketball game. I wasn’t there (lucky for him), but just so we’re clear: if you want to talk to her, you’ll have to talk to me first.

Also worth noting: I bench-pressed 285 lbs last week (100 lbs more than I weigh), I’ve got a solid right hook, I can run a marathon on a moment's notice, and I proudly exercise my 2nd amendment rights. I’ve known this day was coming for a while, and I've prepared accordingly.

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The Soul-Sucking Voice of Reason

Hey guys, it’s me, Josh.

I have something I believe is worth sharing.

I’ll start with a quote that has absolutely consumed me for the past two weeks:

"Beware the soul-sucking force of reasonableness."

I first read “The Power of Moments” by Chip and Dan Heath in 2018. In fact, I highlighted that exact quote my first time through, but it wasn’t until recently, while I was on a 700-acre ranch in the middle of Texas (with no phone or internet), that those prophetic words punched me right in the gut.

"Speed bumps are reasonable. Climbing Mt. Everest is not," says the author.

Reasonableness feels safe, sensible, and even wise. But if we’re not careful—it’ll quietly squeeze the life out of the things that make life meaningful: creativity, passion, and purpose.

In reflection, I came to the realization that the most beautiful and worthwhile things in my life were far from “reasonable” by the world’s standards.

Before proceeding, I’d like to offer a few examples to further solidify my argument:

Example #1:

In 2005, I was trying to impress a girl named Breanne Ledford. So I did the obvious, totally normal thing and wrote her a song. I handed her a burned CD with zero explanation after hanging out one evening (not a date, mind you), and crossed my fingers waiting for her to call. This was incredibly unreasonable and I still cringe when I think about it, BUT IT WORKED.

Example #2:

In 2018, me and two buddies decided it’d be a great idea to hop on a plane to China in search of a manufacturing partner. The mission? To create the world’s largest blanket. It was weird, ambitious, and we were definitely out of our comfort zones. But the “unreasonable” paid off—we built a multi-million-dollar business and had some pretty wild experiences along the way, like hanging with sumo wrestlers and NBA players. Reasonable? Not exactly.

Example #3:

In 2021, Bre came down with a very serious case of baby-fever. We already had three kids, and our youngest was eight years old—talk about hitting reset. This was, by most standards (including my own standards), completely and totally unreasonable. And now we have a very opinionated two-year-old named Ruby Jane who reminds us what “unreasonableness” looks like daily. Best decision ever.

Example #4:

In 2023, my 13-year-old son Jude announced he wanted to run a marathon. I got a lot of “reasonable” advice from people telling me he was too young and maybe I was pushing him too hard (even though it was all his idea). Fast forward a year later: Jude runs a half-marathon with me EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND, he just completed his second full marathon (crushing last year’s time by an hour), and is training for a 100-mile ultramarathon in 2025. Reasonable? No chance.

Example #5:

Just this past year, I decided that branding big companies wasn’t enough—I wanted to help families brand themselves. I dove headfirst into making this calling a reality. Earlier this year, I launched "Rally Family Branding" to the public, and just a few days ago, I finished the manuscript for my first book, "Rally Your Family". Now, to be clear, I have no business writing a book. But that’s precisely why I did it. Reading a book is reasonable. Writing one? Totally unreasonable.

*Shameless plug: You can preorder my book at www.RallyYourFamily.com

• Reasonable is building for comfort; unreasonable is risking it all for something that matters.

• Reasonable protects what it has; unreasonable pursues what it could become.

• Reasonable seeks approval; unreasonable builds conviction.

Here’s the thing: Reasonable actions get us predictability and safety. And hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. But the truth is, we don’t become the best version of ourselves by playing it safe.

I feel like someone out there needs to hear this today (I know I do on a regular basis). If you’re holding back on a dream or goal because it feels “unreasonable,” remember the things that give life meaning rarely come with a safety net.

• Think you’re too young to make a difference? You’re not.

• Think you’re too old to try something new? Try again.

• Think you’re not “built” for a big challenge? You’re tougher than you realize.

It won’t be easy, but that’s part of what makes it worth it. A truly meaningful life requires “long obedience in the same direction”—and occasionally, a dose of crazy.

And sure, there’s risk in choosing the unreasonable path—but if you ask me, there’s even more risk in playing it safe. I know my life would look vastly different had I listened to that ‘soul-sucking voice of reason.’

From my perspective, the older we get, the more reasonable we become. I turn forty next year (forty!) — but I’m committed to being even more unreasonable during the next four decades than I was the first four. I’m just getting started, baby.

But just so we’re clear—we will not be having a fifth child. Even I have my limits.

Ok, that’s it from me today. I hope this hits home for at least one of you.

Disclaimer: I’m convinced my brain hasn’t fully developed yet, so please take everything I say with a grain of salt. This could, in fact, be terrible advice. It’s hard to say.

Godspeed.

——-

PS — The photo attached to this post is my family on the riverbank of the 60-acre property we purchased back in June. In true ‘unreasonable’ fashion, we’re building a multi-generational family estate. Lord willing, this is just the start of a legacy that will make a lasting, positive impact for generations to follow. More to come in 2025.

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17 year anniversary

I wanted to let you know that Bre and I are celebrating 17 years of marriage today—our waitress at dinner last night refused to believe us, but it’s very true (I have the marriage certificate and MTV episode to prove it).

In addition to still being married, and despite having four children constantly jockeying for our attention (one, in particular, named Ruby), I’m very proud to report that we love each other more than ever.

Last week, I was having coffee with a friend, and he asked how long Bre and I had been married. After letting him know, he kindly said, “You guys make it look effortless.” I was quick to respond, “The things that look effortless often require the most effort.”

Our marriage is great—but great things require great effort.

I spent some time this morning reflecting on our relationship, and I want to share a few of the lessons I’ve learned over the years.

1. Words matter. I tell Bre how beautiful she is every single day. If you don’t believe me, ask her. It’s easy because her physical beauty is obvious—but the older I get, the more I’m attracted to her heart.
   

2. Goodbyes matter. I never leave the house without hugging Bre and praying with her. I do the same with each kid. No exceptions. Ever.
   

3. Gratitude matters. There was a season early in our marriage when we had very little. I remember going to Walmart and having to take things out of our cart because we couldn’t afford them. Guess what? We had each other, and we were still happy. When you focus on the good, you have more of it. If I’m being honest, the life we currently lead feels like a dream—but I refuse to forget that what I currently have used to be what I always dreamed of. Read this one twice.
   

4. Humility matters. I’m wrong—a lot. Over the years, I’ve learned to admit it and learn from it (instead of doubling down). Wisdom isn't found in certainty. Wisdom is trying to figure out what is right instead of trying to be right.
   

5. Margin matters. Margin is the space between your limit and your load. Without margin, we live in a constant state of hurry—and hurry kills the things we hold dear. As a father of four, this lesson was especially hard to learn. I used to tell myself that being busy was just a part of life. It was ok, because all the things we were doing were “good things”. Trust me on this one: if your schedule has zero margin, your life will fall apart.
   

6. Your relationship with God is paramount. Here’s a Dallas Willard quote I’ve wrestled with a lot — “We don't believe something by merely saying we believe it, or even when we believe that we believe it. We believe something when we act as if it were true.” — I believe our words and actions are an overflow of what’s going on inside of us. I want my life and legacy to be the ultimate testimony of what I believe. Serving others and living a life that reflects Christ’s goodness is the goal. If that remains my focus, being a good husband comes naturally.

Ok, that’s all the unsolicited marriage advice I have for today.

Friendly reminder: I’m not very smart, so please use your best judgment when reading anything I write.

Godspeed.

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My short stint as a musician

I used to be a musician.

Not a very good musician. But a musician nonetheless.

When I was pursuing the love of my wife (currently my wife), to my cringe-worthly dismay, 20-year-old Josh actually wrote and recorded a song for her in an attempt to win her over. As painful as it sounds, it somehow worked and ultimately gave me enough confidence to keep writing.

In an unexpected turn of events, Bre and I somehow got married on an MTV reality show (a blog post for another time), and that opportunity opened a few doors for me.

In 2006 I found myself recording my first album in Brooklyn, New York and simultaneously preparing to perform live on MTV in Times Square for New Years. It was wild.

I enjoyed the ride, but never had intentions of making a career out of it. I loved writing music (I’ve always been a creator at heart), but didn’t love performing.

In 2010 I hung up my guitar and removed all of my music from iTunes and Spotify. It was fun while it lasted, but I didn’t want to be known as a musician.

Fast forward to 2023. My daughter, Gwyn, found a box of my old albums in our basement and started asking questions. She listened to my music and became my biggest fan overnight (it only lasted about a week or two, before Ben Rector took my place). It was endearing and fun while it lasted.

She asked me why my music wasn’t on Spotify—I told her it used to be, but I took it all down. She thought that was a bad move and convinced me to put it back up.

In an effort to appease my 9-year-old, “Songs for Jude” by Josh Stewart is now available on Spotify (and everywhere else you might stream music).

I still cringe a little bit when I hear my 20-something-year-old voice, but I’m proud that I’ve always been willing to take chances and push myself out of my comfort zone.

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