The Decade I Spent Chasing Someone Else’s Version of Success

It makes me sick to my stomach to think of all the time I wasted chasing someone else’s version of success.

In 2008, I discovered kettlebells — and more importantly, their charismatic leader, Pavel Tsatsouline.
Pavel cast a vision of strength and masculinity that was gritty, minimal, and hardcore.

Something in that called out to me.

It was the opposite of the mainstream fitness industry — it felt so raw and genuine.

I was hooked.

I took Pavel’s certifications.
Opened a gym teaching his methods.
Eventually began assisting at his workshops.

He was a strong leader — classy, humble, charismatic.

And like most young coaches in that world, I tried to emulate him.

I wanted to be him.

Everyone in that community did.

The Blind Spot of Belonging

The problem was, that system of training delivered a very specific result.

If you’re not familiar with the “hardstyle” kettlebell era — it was rooted in minimalist strength.

Few exercises. Heavy weights. Short, brutally efficient sessions.

You learned the swing, the get-up, the clean and press, the snatch, the squat.

That’s it.

No machines, no mirrors, no bodybuilding fluff.

Just iron, chalk, and tension.

It taught posture, breathing, and core-bracing better than anything I’d seen.

It built coordination, grip, and resilience.

It made average people feel like they were doing something hardcore.

And for beginners, it was pure gold.

You got strong enough.

Athletic enough.

It gave you the physical capacity to go live an active, capable life.

But there was a ceiling.

Once you mastered the technique, progress slowed.

To keep getting stronger or more conditioned using only kettlebells, the sessions had to get longer, heavier, and more brutal — while the returns got smaller.

They were the right tool for building a foundation of movement and everyday strength.

But to go beyond intermediate — to build real muscle, advanced strength, any form of endurance — you needed other tools.

Barbells are king for strength.

Zone 2 cardio (impossible to do well with kettlebells) is king for aerobic development.

And while swings and cleans teach power, true athleticism needs plyometrics and 3D movement — things that kettlebells just can’t provide.

And when it came to physique?

The effort-to-reward ratio wasn’t even close.

Barbells, dumbbells, and machines were simply better suited for building muscle.

I mean, you can pull out a screw with a butter knife… but at the end of the day, a screwdriver gets the job done faster and more effectively.

Still, I stayed in it for years because of what that community gave me: identity.

It made me feel like I belonged.

And belonging can be intoxicating — especially when you’re still trying to figure out who you are.

In that circle, we made fun of people who tracked their food.

We mocked anyone who trained for aesthetics or did cardio.

We believed we were the “real” coaches — above all that vanity and fluff.

So even though I secretly wanted to be jacked, strong as an ox, and able to run all day…

I suppressed that part of me.

I told myself I was being a “good student,” when really, I was just afraid of being judged.

The Moment Everything Shifted

Fifteen years of lifting.

Ten years of kettlebells.

And one quiet realization that changed everything:

I wasn’t having fun.

Somewhere along the line, training stopped being play and became performance.

Not performance for myself — but for an organization, a title, a tribe.

I was always trainign for the next certification.

I was tired of earning validation I no longer needed.

From that moment on, I promised myself:

if it doesn’t serve my goals or make me enjoy the process, it doesn’t get my energy.

The Lesson Hidden in the Detour

Looking back, I can see how easy it is to let loyalty handicap your growth.

To stay in a tribe because it feels safe, not because it’s helping you evolve.

For a while, I felt like I’d wasted a decade chasing someone else’s standards.

But now, I see it differently.

That chapter taught me the most valuable lesson of all:

When you play someone else’s game, you’ll always lose by their rules.

But when you play your own game, you get to make your own.

What That Means Today

My training doesn’t look like anyone else’s — and neither does my business, my marriage, or my friendships.

Because the moment I stopped performing for someone else’s definition of success, everything in my life began to feel lighter.

More aligned.

More mine.

If there’s a takeaway here, it’s this:

Your heroes can inspire you.

But if you don’t outgrow them, they’ll quietly define you.

The work of adulthood — and mastery — is learning to carry the best lessons from your mentors without surrendering your own vision.

Maturity isn’t about rejecting your mentors. It’s about finally becoming one by carving out your own path and equipping others to do the same.

Much Love,