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The morning light illuminates golden-green pollen as it drifts through the sunbeams, nature’s own glitter suspended in air and tickling my nose, much like the scent of sweet perfume from the color-filled wildflowers that filter among the spring grasses, growing wildly out of control like a rumor at a small town diner. 

Here I sit comfortably on my long, covered Texas porch overlooking the distant hills as I spot a smattering of Indian paintbrush, LYF (little yellow flowers), and a couple of iridescent bluebonnets lending their fragrance to the breeze. 

A chorus of bees hum their industrious melody among stands of tall greenery, within earshot but thankfully not within reach. We recently made our way back from the warmth of Florida beaches and have now returned to the ideal spring climate, the comfortable perfect days before the oppressive Texas heat sets in. 

It’s good to be home, and just in time for Easter. Happy Easter to you!.

Solitude Embraced

Sundays offer a different quality of silence than other days. It’s a chosen quietude rather than an absence of sound imposed by circumstance. My phone remains face-down, notifications accumulating unheeded. There is luxury in this deliberate disconnection, this small rebellion against perpetual availability and the dopamine rush of being needed. Somehow I’ve managed to resist reading my social media for a full month. I feel like I’ve had a restful time away. Oh, if I could give it up entirely and still survive in business. 

Wisdom Distilled

As I cradle my mug, I ponder the strange headlines about scientists working to cheat death through 3D-printed organs and brain transfers. Immortality in a lab, they promise. And recently news that if you sit in a hyperbaric chamber every day for 60 days, you can gain the health and cognition you had 20 years ago. Maybe I could check my social media while in a hyperbaric chamber while getting red light therapy after swallowing my 30 daily vitamins to reverse my aging? Hmm … something more to do.

Do we really want to live forever? Or should we give others a chance at their turn on earth? 

Tales Transcend Time

My great-great-grandfather has now lived for about 270 years. He was a Tennessee sheriff with wisdom that outweighed his ammunition. Legend tells how he spotted a fugitive by a campfire, and, instead of rushing in with guns blazing like some dime-store novel hero, he removed his badge, approached unarmed, and said, “Howdy, stranger, can you spare a cup of coffee?” Over flames and conversation, he disarmed the man with interest rather than intimidation. Eventually, he admired the fugitive’s gun, held it in appreciation, and only then made his arrest. Five generations later, I sip my coffee and realize I know a man I’ve never met — his patience, his cunning, his humanity — all preserved not in formaldehyde but in family narrative. He lives on.

Legacy Through Osmosis

Scientists tout hyperbaric chambers promising 20 additional years, while I silently transmit centuries to my children without even trying. My father’s entrepreneurial confidence flows through me like genetic material, not because he lectured me on business principles, but because I witnessed his phone calls, his negotiations, his presence. “Dad College” had no tuition but paid dividends beyond calculation. Now my children roll their eyes at my intentional lessons but absorb my every interaction — how I speak to strangers, how I treat their mother, how I navigate disappointment. They’re downloading my operating system whether I acknowledge the file transfer or not. It’s how I’ll live on … like it or not.

Immortality’s Mirror

I wonder which of my expressions my daughter will unconsciously mirror at 40. Will she inherit my laugh or my scowl? My generosity or my occasional insanity? The thought sobers me faster than my caffeine. We chase longevity supplements and cryogenic preservation without realizing we’re already achieving a kind of immortality through behavioral inheritance. I’m embarrassed recalling the times I’ve complained about bad drivers or slow service with my children watching — those moments potentially echoing through generations like ripples in ancestral waters.

Deliberate Eternity

As I take the final sip of my now-cooled coffee, loaded with lion’s mane to prevent Alzheimer’s, cinnamon to reduce inflammation, and MCT oil to superpower my brain, I wonder if wisdom follows the same pattern — revealing deeper notes with time and perspective. 

The longevity movements focus on extending our individual timelines, but they miss that we’re already smeared across time like watercolors bleeding beyond their borders. My great-grandfather’s jovial nature and creative business skills were adopted into my father’s life through osmosis, then unknowingly transferred to me — a kind of immortality achieved not through science but through story and presence. 

Perhaps my artistic side comes from my mother’s Aunt Ruth, whose oil paintings hang in the homes of her descendants, skills and passion probably acquired from a generation or two before her.  Our mental DNA and behavior may have been passed down for hundreds of generations. We don’t need hyperbaric chambers to transcend our lifespans; we need mindfulness about which parts of ourselves we’re programming into the future.

Tomorrow’s Ancestors

Setting down my empty cup, I realize that today I am someone’s ancestor — perhaps someone not yet born but destined to know me through the stories my children will tell, through the habits they unconsciously absorbed when I thought they weren’t paying attention. The greatest form of immortality isn’t avoiding death but creating life worth remembering, worth emulating, worth passing down like cherished recipes or heirloom furniture. The bluebonnets beyond my window will wither by next week’s heat, but their seeds ensure next spring’s revival — just as our words and deeds plant themselves in generations we’ll never meet.

Wisdom Distilled

Perhaps the true path to immortality isn’t found in laboratories or hyperbaric chambers, but in the conscious cultivation of our legacy. Science may eventually print new organs or transfer consciousness to younger vessels, but it cannot manufacture meaning or transmit values. (Or can it?) 

Our immortality project began the moment we entered this world and will continue long after we leave it — carried forward in the mannerisms of our grandchildren’s grandchildren, in stories told around future fires, in approaches to problems solved with wisdom accumulated across centuries. We live forever not by escaping death but by embracing the profound responsibility of life fully lived in full view of those who will carry us forward. 

The most potent immortality isn’t measured in extended years but in extended influence — the invisible inheritance we leave that shapes worlds we’ll never see.

And what about the lives we touch, those we influence — who may change forever, then influence the outcomes of their future offspring?

The real question isn’t whether you’ll live forever. You will. The question is: What version of you deserves that kind of immortality?

Eric Rhoads

There’s something about Sunday mornings that invites introspection. Perhaps it’s the gentle pace, the absence of workday pressures, or maybe it’s just the coffee — this Ethiopian blend that somehow tastes even better when paired with the soft light of dawn breaking over the water.

The pelican has returned today. He’s perched high up on the weathered piling at the end of the dock, looking somewhat prehistoric against the modern boats. I’ve been watching him for the better part of an hour now, his patient vigilance occasionally interrupted by hilariously ungraceful dives. For all his awkwardness in the air, he emerges successful more often than not. There’s a lesson there, I think.

The water is calm, and a mirror to the sunlit morning sky above. A few early fishermen have trolled by, raising their hands in the universal greeting of those who rise before the world demands it. There’s a fellowship among early risers that transcends background and circumstance — a quiet acknowledgment that we’ve chosen to witness the day’s beginning rather than merely catch it in progress.

I’m Honored

Several of you commented on last week’s post about finding peace in small moments. Sandra wrote about how she’s started taking her morning coffee on her front porch instead of scrolling through news. I applaud that. Michael shared that he’s teaching his grandson to identify birdsongs. His grandson will remember that when he’s an old man. These seemingly minor shifts create spaces where wisdom can find us.

Clothe Yourself

This morning, I’ve been reflecting on something that’s been circling my thoughts for weeks now — the transformative power of humility and losing oneself. In my morning quiet time I found myself revisiting 1 Peter 5, where the apostle writes: “Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for ’God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you.”

These words pierce me because they expose the younger man I once was.

The Old Me

I wasn’t always the person who sits quietly with morning coffee, finding wisdom in pelicans and dawn light. For too many years, I was someone else entirely — someone convinced of his own importance, someone who entered rooms expecting to be the smartest voice with all eyes upon me, someone who confused confidence with arrogance.

Full of Myself

When I owned my first radio station, at age 25, the Salt Lake Tribune called me “the Steven Spielberg of radio.” I started believing my own press clippings, letting that early acclaim become the foundation of an inflated self-image rather than a challenge to earn such praise daily through humility and hard work.

Tense Moments

I remember a particularly tense budget meeting where I steamrolled over our finance director’s concerns. David had carefully analyzed our budgets and warned of cash flow issues, but I dismissed his expertise with a wave of my hand. Six months later, he told me we were three weeks away from bankruptcy and we were scrambling for emergency financing at terrible terms. I had mistaken his caution for lack of vision, when in reality, he simply saw what I refused to see. I fired him and ended up with a “yes man,” which was much worse.

A Minefield

That wasn’t an isolated incident. My professional life became a minefield of my own creation. I remember the day we were in a staff meeting when one of my employees threw a fit, started screaming at everyone, then went into his office and started throwing things. I walked into his office, told him he was being inappropriate, and fired him on the spot. In hindsight, decades later, I should have suggested he take a walk and cool down, then have a conversation to hear his side of things, but also firmly let him know this behavior wasn’t acceptable. I had cut my own throat and had to find a replacement, which took time and cost me money. My immaturity encouraged the swift exercise of power, just because I could.

Power Over Practical

I think about the first radio station I purchased. On my very first day, I instituted policies that made no practical sense, designed for no purpose other than to demonstrate who was in charge. The confusion and resentment were immediate, but I was blind to it, mistaking compliance for respect. I ended up dropping those rules later.

Deep Sadness

Perhaps most painfully, I recall when one of our team members passed away unexpectedly. It was sad, but we had work to do. While the staff grieved, I lacked the empathy to give them space and time. I pushed forward with deadlines and expectations as if nothing had happened. I looked cold and heartless, though I, too, was hurting. Within a day, most of the team resigned. I stood in an empty office, bewildered by what I saw as disloyalty rather than recognizing my profound failure of leadership. A little space and empathy could have changed everything.

Fired from My Own Company

In San Francisco, when my tech company began struggling after the World Trade Center was hit, my board hired an adviser — without talking to me about it — specifically to help right the ship. I was offended that I was not consulted, and that the adviser was coming out of my budget. I refused his guidance at every turn. “I’m the CEO,” I’d remind him, as if my title granted me superior wisdom rather than superior responsibility. My relationships with the board suffered, and ultimately I was fired from my own company because I was too full of myself to listen.

Arrogance got in my way. My marriage suffered under the weight of my overconfidence. Friends and employees gradually drifted away. I couldn’t understand why people wouldn’t simply recognize my obvious brilliance and follow my lead.

Gradual Change

The change didn’t come as a thunderbolt revelation. It was more erosion than earthquake — a gradual wearing away of my pride through accumulated failures and missed connections. It was standing alone in that office after my team walked out, the silence finally loud enough to hear. It was the former employee who, years later, told me he’d never felt so dehumanized as in that moment I fired him without discussion. It was the adviser I ignored sending me a kind note when my company finally folded, saying simply, “When you’re ready to rebuild, I’m still willing to help.” It was the dinner party where I realized nobody was engaging with my clever observations. It was the look on my son’s face when I dismissed his opinion without consideration; I realized at that moment that’s what my own father had done to me. Now I was repeating his behavior.

The most painful realization wasn’t that I had been wrong so often — it was that I had missed so much wisdom by being unwilling to listen.

There’s no doubt that leadership in business or parenting requires a certain amount of confidence. Often a leader or parent can see things others can’t see and needs to ask people to implement ideas that may not be immediately clear to them. But as Proverbs explicitly states, “in the multitude of counselors there is safety.” The Bible doesn’t tell us to avoid seeking wisdom from those around us — quite the opposite.

Surrounded by Stars

I’ve learned, painfully and gradually, that the people I’ve hired are usually better than me in their areas of expertise, frequently smarter than me in ways I need, and listening to them is invariably safer and wiser than simply telling them what to do. It’s hard — ego doesn’t die easily — but I’ve trained myself to listen first, to ask, “What would you do?” and “How would you solve this problem?” before offering my own solution.

50-50

Though committees can sometimes dilute speed and effectiveness, I now try to genuinely hear my team, and when possible, I ask my executives to vote on certain solutions. There have been times I’ve overridden those votes and been right, leading to success. But truthfully, at least half the time when I’ve ignored collective wisdom, I’ve been wrong.

Hiding Out

Humility manifests in unexpected ways. For 22 years, I drove the same small Honda Element, well past the point when I could afford something more luxurious. Though I often daydreamed about a sporty upgrade, I resisted because I didn’t want my employees to feel I was showing off wealth or setting myself apart. And I did not want my kids to think we were even slightly wealthy, because I wanted them to be grounded in humility. When I finally did purchase a new car, I found myself hiding it in the garage whenever team members visited my home office. It seems like such a small thing, but these daily choices reflect our deeper values and how we position ourselves in relation to others.

Community

I often wonder what insights, what connections, what growth I sacrificed on the altar of my own ego. Peter writes that we should clothe ourselves with humility “toward one another.” This suggests humility isn’t just an internal state but a way of positioning ourselves in relation to others. It’s an orientation that says, “You might see something I don’t. You might know something I need.”

True humility isn’t self-deprecation or false modesty. It’s the honest recognition of our limitations alongside our strengths. It’s understanding that wisdom accumulates in community, not in isolation. It’s knowing that even pelicans — ungainly as they appear — have mastered skills we can only observe in wonder.

Let me share what I’ve learned about what humility is and isn’t, in case it helps your own journey:

What Humility Is:

• Being confident enough to say “I don’t know” or “I need help”
• Acknowledging others’ contributions before your own
• Listening fully before responding
• Being willing to change your mind when presented with new information
• Admitting mistakes quickly and completely
• Celebrating others’ successes as enthusiastically as your own
• Making decisions that benefit the team, even at personal cost
• Seeking feedback, especially from those who report to you

What Humility Is Not:

• Downplaying your strengths or accomplishments
• Avoiding necessary leadership decisions
• Refusing to share your expertise when it’s needed
• Letting others treat you poorly
• Being indecisive out of fear
• Speaking negatively about yourself
• Avoiding healthy competition
• Surrendering your convictions when they truly matter

The balance isn’t always easy to find. Some days I still catch myself slipping into old patterns — interrupting someone’s insight with my “better” idea or dismissing a concern that feels inconvenient. But awareness is the first step toward change, and each Sunday morning reflection helps me recalibrate.

Humility in Parenting

One of the hardest transitions I’ve experienced is going from dad of small children who need constant guidance to father of adult children who don’t want to be told what to do. I’m resisting the impulse to offer unsolicited advice and trying to listen more and guide them with questions. It’s so hard.

These Sunday Coffee sessions have become, for me, a practice in humility. I share not because I have all the answers, but because in articulating questions, I often find others walking similar paths. I try to force myself to be vulnerable, to bare all, though it’s often an embarrassment. It’s part of my strategy to remain humble. Your comments each week remind me that wisdom emerges in conversation, not monologue.

When have you recognized arrogance operating in your life? 

What were the costs? And how did you find your way to a humbler approach to the world and others? 

When have you had to balance the necessary confidence of leadership with the essential wisdom of listening to your team?

As you sip your coffee this morning, consider these questions:

1. What is one area of your life where practicing more humility might heal a relationship or improve a situation?
2. Who in your life demonstrates true humility in a way you admire, and what specific qualities can you learn from them?
3. What’s one step you could take this week to “clothe yourself with humility” in your interactions with others?

Perhaps that’s the truest humility — the willingness to be exactly what we are, neither more nor less, and to trust that it’s enough for the work we’re meant to do.

Humbly,

Eric Rhoads

The steam rises from my coffee in lazy spirals this morning, dancing with the Florida sunlight streaming through my hotel window. The ceramic mug feels extra heavy today, weighted perhaps by the words that have been living rent-free in my head all weekend. The bitter aroma of my dark roast mingles with the lingering scent of a bitter feeling, and somewhere outside, a blue jay is having what sounds like an existential crisis. Welcome to the club.

The Knot in My Chest

I take a sip and let the warmth spread through my chest, hoping it might dissolve the knot that’s been sitting there since Friday. You see, I just witnessed something that would make even Machiavelli wince — a masterclass in how to turn a big gain into a much bigger loss.

The Dating Game Gone Wrong

Picture this: You’re dating someone for a year. You’ve met the parents, picked out curtains together, and are about to sign a lease. Then suddenly, they call someone else, not you, to have them tell you that they’ve found someone richer and prettier. Oh, and good luck with those curtains! That’s essentially what happened in my business world this week, and let me tell you, it’s just as classy as it sounds.

A Dance of Trust and Betrayal

Without getting into uncomfortable details or mentioning names, my team and I have been dancing with some professionals for over a year who were going to do a big project for us. Late last year they did a remarkable project for us that made a game-changing difference in our business. Unlike so many others in their field, these people were different — they were ultra-high-ethics, they played no games, they didn’t even act overly eager. They even told us no on previous projects when they felt they couldn’t deliver excellence. We appreciated that, because usually someone in their position would be telling us what we wanted to hear just to get our business. 

Finally, a Plan!

Soon after, they made a proposal and got us excited about what they could do for us, something they were sure would revolutionize part of our business. We had been working toward this goal all year, and because of that, we had not spoken with or even considered others offering similar services. I met with my executive team, we burned dozens of hours carefully considering their proposal, and, deciding to do it, we shifted budget dollars elsewhere to move forward. We only suggested a slight change that would give them more income. 

Hello, You’ve Been Dumped

Then came Thursday. The head of this company called one of my colleagues to announce they’d landed a $2 million client and decided not to go forward with the project they had bid on. Suddenly our substantial project and the year we had invested meant nothing. They didn’t even have the decency to tell me personally, though I had approached them after a friend’s recommendation. Worse, we lost a year of preparation for this moment, and another year of getting someone else hired and up to speed. 

The Sourdough Theory of Business

Here’s the thing about business relationships — they’re like sourdough starter. You can’t just whip them up overnight with some instant yeast and hope for the best. They need time, attention, and consistent feeding. When you throw away a year of careful cultivation for a quick buck, you’re not just losing one relationship — you’re sending ripples through the entire business community.

The Real Mathematics of Loss

Let’s break down the real cost of their $2 million “win”:

1. Reputational damage that will echo through professional networks faster than gossip at a small-town diner
2. A burned bridge that could’ve led to multiple future opportunities exceeding that amount
3. The complete erosion of trust that took a year to build
4. A lesson in “what not to do” that will likely be shared in countless business school case studies
5. Loss of friendships and future years doing business together
6. Having to live with themselves knowing they’ve officially crossed the line

The Million-Dollar Sandwich

The irony here is richer than my coffee with MCT oil – in chasing $2 million, they’ve potentially cost themselves multiples of that in future opportunities and reputational damage. It’s like selling your soul for a sandwich, only to realize you could’ve had a lifetime supply of gourmet meals if you’d just waited a bit longer. I had already recommended them to a CEO friend with more than $2 million to spend. I’ll be rescinding my recommendation. 

Dad’s Wisdom

My father gave me solid advice as a young man: You need to know your limitations and what lines you’re not willing to cross, way before you ever face those decisions, because when the time comes, emotion clouds your clarity. He always said integrity is all you have, and once it’s lost, you start pushing the limits a little more, and then a little more, and before long you end up in jail. It’s about setting the line and never crossing it.

The Trust Equation

And here’s the real kicker — the mathematics of trust. Trust is built in drops and lost in buckets. Each positive interaction adds a tiny drop to the reservoir of goodwill. But one significant breach? That’s a firehose of damage that can destroy years of relationship-building in minutes. If they came back today with a change of heart, I wouldn’t do business with them ever again.

Your Integrity Score

When you’re building a business — or any relationship, for that matter — remember that your reputation is like a credit score. Every action either builds it up or tears it down. And just like with credit scores, it takes years to build a good one but only one bad decision to tank it. No amount of business is worth the loss of your reputation.

The View from the Top

Next time you’re tempted by a shiny new opportunity that requires stepping on existing relationships, remember: The view from the top is spectacular, but the climb is a lot harder when you’ve cut down all your ropes. We spent a year building trust and a moment tearing it down.

Old School Thinking

Maybe I’m old school in a brave new world where integrity no longer matters. I too was once a younger, more aggressive businessperson who would have been excited about a big new customer. But even then I knew the right way to handle my commitments. Someone’s mother did not teach these kids the Golden Rule.

Ouch!

Sadly, I feel like a man kicked in the gut, with the air knocked from me. Of all the people I’ve done business with, I never would have expected it from these people. I’ll chalk this up to their inexperience, and hopefully they’ll learn from their ethical lapse and never do it again, because one day that big client will leave them. Lord knows I’ve made stupid mistakes that ended up biting me in the butt long-term. All I can do is forgive them, forget them, pick myself up, dust off, and move forward. After all, part of my job is dealing with problems. Hopefully I’m not creating them.

Stay caffeinated, my friends.

Eric Rhoads

Less than a week after snowballs melted in my gloved palm, I’m stretched out in a lounge chair, watching late January sunlight paint the distant mountain in watercolors. The morning air in Austin still carries winter’s bite, but the sun promises 70 degrees by noon. It’s warmer here than in Florida, but in a few days Florida will return to its sunny self. A cardinal flashes crimson against the live oak’s winter-bare branches, while somewhere in the distance, a tractor hums its morning song across the back 40.

This is the kind of morning that reminds you that being alive is a gift worth unwrapping slowly. The kind that makes you question why we spend so many precious hours under fluorescent lights when God’s own lightbulb is putting on a free light show. 

Time Flies

I’m shocked that our first month of the year has already passed. Time slides by these days, faster than a rattler disappearing under a rock. One minute you’re making resolutions over champagne, next thing you know you’re watching Valentine’s chocolates go on clearance. 

My grandmother used to tell me that the years speed up as you age, back when I was too busy being immortal to believe it could ever happen to me. Now I’m watching my hands turn into my father’s, and that face in the mirror has my grandfather’s smile lines.

Forced to Think

After last week’s unfortunate funeral for a friend, I’ve been rethinking my longevity plan. Am I doing enough? Am I going overboard? It appears my routine of supplements, strength training, stretching, and diet is working. But Thursday’s checkup with my MD buddy brought unexpected good news — grip strength matching guys 20 years younger, lung capacity of a 30-year-old, and all markers aced. Though he did mention I should plan financially for triple digits. Just got to dodge those buses.

Making Changes

Here’s the thing about aging: It’s not the enemy we make it out to be. It’s more like a dance partner who’s going to lead whether you like it or not. The trick isn’t fighting the dance; it’s learning the steps. That’s why my phone spends its nights in the kitchen now, far from my bedroom’s sacred sleep space. It’s why I chase that morning light like a cat after a laser pointer, and why my standing desk looks like something from a sci-fi movie. Staying vibrant and healthy has a lot to do with a lot of little things.

The Fountain of Youth

The real fountain of youth isn’t about popping pills or chasing miracle cures. It’s about staying in the game. It’s one of the reasons I host weekly model painting sessions on Wednesday nights, so I can make sure that I’m getting a dose of a social prescription at least once a week, so I can share laughs, stories, and keep my brain sharp with the challenge of painting portraits from life. It’s why I’m adding more artist retreats and painting trips when people younger than me are cutting back. 

Keep ’Em Younger

My goal is to always have more social connections than a switchboard operator and move more in a day than most folks do in a week. The scientists say this kind of social butterfly behavior is better for longevity than any supplement, though I take about 30 a day. Something about how laughing with friends oils your DNA better than olive oil ever could (though it’s remarkably good for you and you should drink a liter of the pure stuff a day.). My grandmother used to say, “Make sure to make a lot of younger friends, because you’ll outlive all of the ones your age.” It was great advice, and unfortunately is ringing true. I’ve lost four good friends in the last 10 days, but I have tons of friends half my age.

Don’t Go Slow!

I’m not trying to outrun death — that’s a fool’s marathon. In fact, the key is to be ready for it, excited about the next chapter. What I’m after is the kind of life where I can still drop to the ground to pick up guitar picks that have fallen without effort, groaning, or pain. Researchers say deciding to “slow down” is like setting a 10-year timer on your life. So I keep moving — playing pickleball and basketball with my daughter, lifting weights until it hurts, working out till I’m breathless. MCT oil and lion’s mane in my coffee, daily intermittent fasting, avoiding my sugar addiction to keep my glucose from spiking, and taking  peptides — it all adds up.

Here’s the truth: We’re not just trying to add years to our lives – we’re trying to add life to our years. 

Maybe if we keep our phone radiation out of our bedrooms to keep our sleep pristine, we lift enough weights that it’s a struggle, and we work out till we can hardly breathe, eat the perfect diet, nurture enough friendships to fill a small concert hall, and keep moving like we’ve got ants in our pants, we’ll still be chasing dreams well into our hundreds.

Staying Vital

There is no retirement for me. Have you seen the statistics on what happens after retirement? I work hard to stay busy and to mentally keep up with the brilliant 30-year-olds I surround myself with in my business.  I do my best to surprise them with an occasional “How did he know that?” moment. This is why I read like a madman, continue to attend conferences and learning events, and take a half dozen or more courses a year online. Again, it all adds up

So now my phone spends its nights in splendid isolation down the hall, like a teenager who’s been grounded. And wouldn’t you know it? I’m sleeping deeper than a philosopher at a calculus lecture. Sleep is the number one anti-aging drug. The more you can get, the more your brain recovers. My next step is to stop all screen time one hour before sleepytime. 

Learning from Experts

But here’s the thing about trying to stay young — it’s not about popping more supplements than a health food store’s inventory. Sure, Harvard longevity expert Dr. David Sinclair (who I suspect has a portrait aging in his attic somewhere) talks about NAD+, berberine, and resveratrol with the enthusiasm of a kid describing ice cream flavors. I do exactly what he says, but between you and me, I think the real fountain of youth is getting our weight under control and just refusing to sit still long enough for time to catch up with us. 

Staying vital is a full-time job. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done, but the reward is bigger than the rewards of employment. More time with family and seeing my own kids age, and being there for the special moments in their lives is the best gift I can give all of us. It’s never too late for new New Year’s resolutions. After all, it’s still January for a couple more days.

Eric Rhoads