Everyone wants freedom.
The time. The money. The control. The option to say no.
Freedom Isn’t Given. Freedom Isn’t Free
I spent thirty years chasing it the way they told me to—through degrees, titles, rank, and recognition. I stacked them all. None of it got me there.
- I’ve got a BS in Industrial Tech focused on robotics.
- I was a senior network engineer managing infrastructure from New York to Virginia.
- I served as a Captain in the U.S. Army and commanded soldiers on the battlefield.
- I ran $100 million airport renovation projects.
- I’ve got an MBA.
- I invented and patented a surgical device.
And I still wasn’t free.
The education got me jobs. Good ones. But every title came with a leash.
As a network engineer, I had a thousand bosses. Everyone with a laptop problem thought they owned me. Even the CTO got treated like a scapegoat when things went south—so imagine how they treated me, his flunky.
Even the Army, where I clawed my way from enlisted to officer—commanded troops, saw combat in Iraq, got a Bronze Star, pinned captain—eventually had me making coffee for majors in some HQ office. Freedom? Not even close.
As a construction manager, I made bank—but I was still just the help. I walked into Subway wearing a dirty t-shirt and a hard hat. The kid behind the counter barely looked up when I asked for more mayo. He saved the smile and the mayo for the guy in the suit and tie.
I invented and got a patent for a medical device. Sounds impressive. You’d think it would mean something. But my name came after the company owner’s. And when the company sold? No check. No call. No credit. Device shelved. Forgotten.
Eventually I realized the ugly truth: freedom isn’t something someone else can give you. It comes at their expense. And they’re not just going to hand it over.
So I made a choice.
I scraped together every dime I had. Borrowed the rest. Put my house up as collateral. And bought a business.
A pool company. [Read about that experience!]
From day one, I was up at 4 a.m., home at 8 p.m., seven days a week. I checked behind techs. I made the sales calls. I did the billing. For two straight years.
My employees had nicer cars than me. One had a Mercedes. Another drove a brand-new Jeep. Me? I drove a beat-up Prius. Not because I couldn’t afford better—but because it was cheap on gas and I was putting 500–600 miles a week on it.
I had a Tesla Roadster sitting in the garage. One of the original prototypes. Left over from better times. But when the Prius died, I loaded chlorine in the passenger seat and hauled bags full of dog shit on the rear deck. Because that’s what the job required.
I cleaned pools. In board shorts, flip-flops, and a boonie hat stained with bleach. I looked like hell. But I owned the damn company. And I earned every inch of it.
Michael Gerber once said: “Work on your business, not in it.”
Sometimes you just have to jump in headfirst and scrub tile with your own hands.
One Sunday—my only afternoon off in months—I took my daughter to Disney. A property manager called screaming. One of my techs drained her pool and left the tile dirty. She said if I didn’t fix it now, we’d lose the account.
So I left the park, took my daughter with me, and met her at the property.
She yelled at me the entire time—in front of my daughter.
She was right. The job looked like shit. So I dropped to my knees and scrubbed the tile while she kept screaming.
When I was done, I apologized. Said we’d pay for the water loss.
As we walked to the car, she glanced at my Roadster and said, “I guess I’m paying you too much.”
I smiled and asked if she wanted to go for a ride.
She stayed a client until I sold the company.
Why? Because I handled the account myself. I showed up. I took her bullshit. She paid. Whether it was for a clean pool or someone to yell at—it made no difference to me.
But after I sold? The new team wouldn’t play that game. Wouldn’t take her calls. Wouldn’t let her scream at the receptionist. So she walked.
No hard feelings. I got what I needed. So did she.
After the first year, I could’ve caught my breath. But instead, I doubled down. I took every dollar I made and bought a bigger company.
Then I did it again. And again. Until one day, I sold it.
Three years and eight months. No vacation. No shortcuts. Just work. Real work.
When I had 50 people on the payroll and was running one of the biggest pool companies in the area, I didn’t stop to catch my breath. I wasn’t out in the field anymore—I was tied to a desk and glued to my phone, putting out fires and keeping the machine running.
And not once did I complain when techs told me I should “try being out in the field.” I just smiled. Because they had no idea what I had sacrificed to build this business.
That’s what it took.
Today, I have what I wanted. I’m not rich, but I’m free. I own my time. I don’t have a boss. I don’t have to ask for permission or beg for a raise or pretend I care about some VP’s quarterly goals.
This was the path:
- Risk.
- Early mornings.
- Dog shit.
- Long days.
- Humiliation.
- Unfair criticism.
- Patience.
And then—freedom.
The one thing no one will hand you.