Retirement wasn’t the end of the mission. It was the first time I got to choose what came next.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life … and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854)

Something funny has been happening with Zen Warrior Class lately.

People are actually reading this thing.

Some of you have known me for twenty years. You knew me in uniform, through deployments, moves, promotions, long days, early mornings, and all the chaos that comes with a military career. Now you’re apparently checking in to see what the hell Clas is doing after retirement.

Fair question.

Then there are people who never knew that version of me. You know me as the realtor. The guy teaching jiu-jitsu. The husband and father. The dude riding around on a Harley. The guy buying beat-up properties in Puerto Rico and somehow convincing his family that this one is definitely a good idea.

For you, the question seems to be a little different:

Who the hell is this guy—and how did his family get here?

That might actually be the more interesting story.

Because we didn’t come from money. There wasn’t some giant inheritance, family business, or secret shortcut waiting for us. We came from pretty ordinary cloth. What changed wasn’t where we started. It was what we learned to do with what we had.

And maybe that’s what this chapter of Zen Warrior Class is really about.

Not retirement.

Not reinvention.

Building a life worth showing up for.

A life where success isn’t measured only by rank, income, properties, degrees, belts, or whatever other scoreboard we decide to keep.

It’s measured by whether you’re actually present for it.

And September rolling into October gave me a few reminders that we’re getting closer.

Class Capital: La Isla del Encanto

Retirement has given me the opportunity to pursue something I spent much of my military career preparing for: building a future on our own terms.

Our latest Class Capital venture has taken us to the mountains of Comerío, Puerto Rico, where we’re transforming a modest two-bedroom home into our newest short-term rental property.

What started as an investment has become an exercise in patience, adaptability, and perseverance. From replacing the roof to rebuilding the interior, every phase presents new challenges. Working across distances, coordinating contractors, and navigating unexpected setbacks have reinforced a familiar lesson from my military career: plans rarely survive first contact unchanged.

During my recent trip to the island, I had the opportunity to assess our progress firsthand, reconnect with the community, and appreciate the natural beauty surrounding our investment. The experience reminded me that success isn’t always measured by how quickly we reach the finish line.

Sometimes progress is measured in inches, not miles.

For our family, Class Capital represents more than acquiring properties or generating income. It’s about creating opportunities, establishing roots beyond familiar borders, and building something that will endure long after the work is finished.

The house in Comerío still has a long way to go, but so do I.

Rebuilding the warrior

The warrior’s greatest battles aren’t always fought against an opponent. Sometimes, they’re fought within ourselves.

On July 1, 2026, I found myself facing a different kind of battlefield.

A serious ankle injury, a Maisonneuve fracture, required surgical intervention to repair the damage and stabilize my ankle. Screws, surgical hardware, stitches, swelling, and the uncertainty of recovery became my new reality.

For someone who has spent much of his life moving forward—whether as an Army paratrooper, martial artist, instructor, father, or competitor—being physically sidelined presents challenges that go far beyond the injury itself.

The physical pain was one thing. The mental challenge was another.

What happens when the warrior can no longer fight the way he’s accustomed to fighting?

The answer is simple, although the execution is anything but.

You adapt. You rebuild. You keep showing up.

The Battlefield Changes, but the Mission Remains

Throughout my military career, I learned that circumstances rarely unfold according to plan. The mission changes, resources become limited, and obstacles emerge without warning.

Recovery is no different.

There were no shortcuts. No amount of determination could force bones and ligaments to heal overnight. Progress required patience, discipline, and a willingness to accept limitations without surrendering to them.

For a lifelong athlete, patience can be harder than physical training.

But recovery taught me something important: Rest is not surrender. Adaptation is not weakness. And progress isn’t always measured in miles, repetitions, or victories.

Sometimes progress means taking another step without assistance. Sometimes it means regaining mobility. Sometimes it means recognizing that your body needs another day before pushing forward.

Every small victory matters.

The Return to the Mats

On October 10, 2026, approximately three and a half months after surgery, I returned to competition at the Tap Cancer Out Chicago Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu tournament.

I finished with a silver medal, going 1–1 against two outstanding competitors.

But the medal wasn’t the greatest victory.

The victory was stepping back onto the mats.

It was demonstrating to my children that setbacks don’t define us. It was having my family and teammates there to witness the return. It was proving to myself that although the body may experience setbacks, the warrior’s spirit can continue to grow.

Representing Polaris Martial Arts, The Fighter’s Union, and Faith and Flow Jiu-Jitsu made that moment even more meaningful.

Project Scarlet: More Than a Machine

Some projects are measured in horsepower. Others are measured in memories.

After years apart, Scarlet, my 1968 Chevrolet Chevelle Malibu, is finally back home. Thanks to my cousin Aaron, who put countless hours into her over the years, she’s ready for the next chapter. There’s a 454 big-block waiting to come alive, a garage full of parts, and a long road ahead.

But this time, the mission is different.

Scarlet isn’t just about restoring an American muscle car. She’s about giving Dominic and Brianna something we can build together. An opportunity to get our hands dirty, solve problems, make mistakes, and learn that anything worth doing requires patience, discipline, and perseverance.

In the Army, I spent two decades building teams, developing leaders, and preparing others for challenges ahead. Retirement hasn’t changed that responsibility. It’s simply brought the mission closer to home.

Someday, the kids may forget which wrench we used or how many weekends we spent in the garage. But I hope they’ll remember the conversations, the laughter, the frustrations, and the satisfaction of bringing something back to life together.

Because the greatest things we build aren’t always the things we leave behind.

Sometimes, they’re the people standing beside us while we build them.

The Zen Warrior Philosophy

The Zen Warrior isn’t someone who never experiences defeat, injury, fear, or uncertainty.

The Zen Warrior is someone who learns to navigate those experiences with purpose.

Military service taught me resilience. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu taught me humility. Recovery reinforced the importance of patience.

Together, these lessons continue shaping the person I strive to become.

At 44 years old, retired from military service and still pursuing new challenges, I recognize that my next mission isn’t about proving I’m invincible.

It’s about demonstrating that growth remains possible through every season of life.

My scars tell a story. The hardware in my ankle tells another. Neither represents the end of my journey.

They’re reminders that I’ve been tested, that I’ve had to rebuild, and that I still have more to accomplish.

A warrior doesn’t stop being a warrior when he’s injured. He simply learns a new way to fight.

There’s another lesson taking shape in my garage, beneath the hood of a 1968 Chevrolet Chevelle named Scarlett.

At nearly 60 years old, she’s weathered the passage of time. Her engine needs to be rebuilt, her body needs attention, and there’s plenty of work ahead before she returns to the road. But her potential hasn’t disappeared simply because she’s spent time sitting still.

In many ways, neither has mine.

Restoring Scarlett alongside my children reminds me that rebuilding isn’t about returning to what we once were. It’s about taking everything we’ve experienced, preserving what matters, and creating something capable of going even further.

Old machines, like old warriors, still have plenty of miles left in them. Sometimes, they just need a little rebuilding.

Together, these lessons continue shaping the person I strive to become.

The mission continues.

We Show Up.