Validation vs. Aliveness

Validation vs. Aliveness

Over the past few weeks, I've been exploring a series of ideas: Preserve Awe. Curiosity Over Comfort. Healthy Friction Creates Growth. Don't Outsource Your Soul. Play Is Not Optional.

Something interesting happened along the way.

The more time I spent thinking about these ideas, writing about them, debating them, and living them, the more alive they became inside me. Awe became easier to notice. Curiosity took on deeper meaning. Friction started looking less like an obstacle and more like a doorway. Even play—which I've always valued—began revealing new layers.

The work produced fruit.

And that got me thinking about a phrase I wrote down a couple of weeks ago: Validation vs. Aliveness.

At first, I wasn't entirely sure what I meant by it. External validation isn't all bad. Encouragement helps. Positive feedback helps. Being seen helps. Anyone who says otherwise is probably kidding themselves. Human beings are social creatures, and when someone appreciates our work, our effort, or our gifts, it adds energy to the system.

But as I sat with the idea, I realized validation and aliveness are not the same thing.

In fact, they sometimes pull us in completely different directions.

Validation asks, "Will they approve?" Aliveness asks, "Does this make me feel more alive?" Validation asks whether you'll be accepted. Aliveness asks whether you're engaged. Validation wants safety, certainty, and permission. Aliveness wants curiosity, growth, challenge, truth, and experience.

The trap is that many of us are seeking validation as medicine for old wounds. We want approval to prove we're enough. We want praise to convince us we're lovable. We want acceptance to heal something that happened years or even decades ago.

I've certainly done my share of that.

What I've slowly discovered is that no amount of outside validation can permanently solve an inside problem. The deeper work is learning to love yourself, question the old stories, and stop outsourcing your worth to other people. That's not a weekend project. It might be lifelong work. But every step in that direction frees up energy that was previously tied up in managing other people's opinions.

And that energy can be invested somewhere much more interesting.

You can invest it in curiosity. In passion. In learning. In building. In creating. In relationships. In service. In adventure. In becoming more fully yourself.

What I've noticed in my own life is that when I focus on what brings me alive, life gets richer. Not necessarily easier. Not necessarily more comfortable. But richer. More meaningful. More engaging. More surprising.

Ironically, that's often when validation shows up.

Your tribe finds you.

The people who resonate begin appearing.

The conversations get deeper.

The opportunities become more aligned.

Not because you chased validation, but because you stopped chasing it.

So these days, I'm trying to use a different compass. Instead of asking, "Will people approve of this?" I'm trying to ask, "Does this make me feel more alive?"

The answer isn't always obvious. Sometimes it's uncomfortable. Sometimes it creates friction. Sometimes it requires walking away from things that once felt safe.

But more and more, I've come to believe that aliveness is a better guide than approval.

Validation is wonderful when it comes.

Aliveness is essential whether it does or not.

UFC 250

Been watching Justin Gaethje for years now. I've always been a fan of his brawling style, his strength, his intelligence, and his perseverance. Secretly, I've rooted for him to someday become champion.

When he faced Khabib Nurmagomedov—arguably the best that's ever been—I was crushed when he lost. But what are you going to do against Khabib?

And honestly, Justin's attitude in that loss said everything about the warrior and the person he is inside.

Combat sports are bloody and violent, but underneath that blood and violence is the spirit of man. What you see in the ring is only the tip of the iceberg. Beneath it are years of training, dedication, discipline, sacrifice, setbacks, and persistence.

It starts as curiosity.

Curiosity turns into passion.

Passion turns into purpose.

Purpose creates autonomy—freedom.

And eventually, if you stay with it long enough, you enter the realm of mastery.

That stack is what carries people through the inevitable ups and downs. The grit. The determination. The setbacks. The failures. Then combine that with constantly learning, constantly adapting, constantly creating, and finally knowing how and when to drop into the zone.

And then, in a pure fight, one human being against another, it all gets expressed.

For the sheer delight of it.

I tip my hat to MMA warriors.

A lot of sports today seem filled with multi-million-dollar athletes acting like divas, flopping all over the field or the court. "He fouled me!"

But MMA fighters, no matter how rich they become, eventually have to find a different level when someone is standing across from them trying to punch them in the face.

That's my cup of tea, folks.

The UFC event at the White House celebrated a distinctly different side of America.

And here's the thing: celebrating diversity, inclusion, and compassion are things of great worth. But so is celebrating the blood, sweat, sacrifice, and yes, violence, that secured those freedoms in the first place.

I'm a fan of America.

I'm a fan of Justin Gaethje.

I'm a fan of Ilia Topuria, whose orbital bone Justin helped rearrange.

And then Justin, after winning, does what he always does and makes me cringe.

He jumps on top of the cage and does a backflip.

This time, after such a brutal fight, I honestly thought he was going to hurt himself.

He didn't stick the landing.

He didn't get points for style.

But damn, he got points for being a warrior.

And even more than that, for the sheer joy of victory mixed with genuine gratitude and respect for his opponent.

A classy warrior.

Celebrating individual excellence made possible by the previous great and largely unsung warriors of the United States of America.

Fog

People spend years thinking.

Reading.

Journaling.

Analyzing.

Meditating.

Processing.

Walking in circles.

Not because they don't know.

Because they can't hear themselves through the noise.

Jennie and I don't tell people what path to take.

We create a space where the fog can clear.

Long enough for them to see what was already there.

The moment isn't:

"Jason told me what to do."

The moment is:

"Oh."

"There it is."

And then something even more important happens.

We trust what they see.

Not advice.

Not correction.

Not persuasion.

Not judgment.

Just a simple:

"Yes."

"I see it too."

The path was never ours to give.

It was already theirs.

Sometimes people just need help seeing it through the fog.

You Can Go Now

The courtroom is empty.

The judge left hours ago. The jury is gone. The crowd drifted off home. The defendant disappeared.

But a lawyer remains. Sitting at his table. Organizing papers. Preparing arguments. Rehearsing defenses. Ready to prove the case. Still and always.

Every now and then he looks up and scans the room. Just to make sure he's ready. Just in case someone returns. Just in case another accusation arrives. Just in case.

I know that lawyer. I was him for a long time. I will be him again in the future. Always preparing. Always explaining. Always defending myself.

What I eventually discovered was strange, because when the attacks stopped, when the accusations stopped, when the courtroom emptied…. The defense continued.

Not because anyone was demanding it.

Because it had become identity.

The lawyer wasn't protecting me anymore. He was protecting the job.

What if I don’t need to be defended?

What if I don’t need to prosecute others?

What If I’m just okay with what arises?

I don’t need you anymore…

But he doesn’t leave. Does he?

No judge.

No prosecutor.

No audience.

Just an empty room.

I have a message for that lonely lawyer justifying his existence.

The trial is over.

You can go now.

Play Time

There is a small arc I have watched unfold in myself.

At first, I was just a Jason—kind of oblivious, kind of mucking my way through life. Reacting. Chasing things. Avoiding things. Living mostly by habit.

Then one day I discovered something radical:

I could grow.

I could expand.

I could change.

I could become more than I was.

So I got to work.

I worked on my mindset. My body. My relationships. My awareness. My wounds. My habits. I became a project. A worthy project, but a project nonetheless.

Then I ran into a problem.

All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy.

So I learned about vitality. Joy. Adventure. Curiosity. I learned that growth needed balance.

But where I stand today is a little different.

Because these two paths have begun to merge.

Growth is no longer the thing I do instead of play.

Growth is play.

Learning is play.

Awareness is play.

Healing is play.

Participation is play.

Life doesn't become play when growth itself becomes part of the game.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped working on my life.

And started playing with it.

Don't Outsource Your Soul

This morning I found myself reflecting on AI.

Not from a place of fear. Not from a place of defending it. Just from my own lived experience.

This year alone I've traveled to Miami for Ultra with friends. I went to EDC with my family. I spent a weekend in Nashville for meditation. I went camping at Black Sheep. I flew to California to see Rush. I'm training for Ragnar. I went to Las Vegas for a board game convention and saw Illenium at the Sphere with my daughter.

Adventure. Experience. Action.

As my friend Aubree likes to tease me, I'm becoming a traveler.

And when I look back on all of it, I realize AI enhanced many of those experiences.

It helped me think. It helped me plan. It helped me organize. It helped me learn. It helped me create.

But it didn't live my life for me.

I still made the trips. I still had the conversations. I still sat in meditation. I still ran the miles. I still stood in the crowd singing Rush songs with thousands of people. I still laughed with friends around campfires. I still experienced awe.

That's an important distinction for me.

I don't want to outsource my soul.

I still think for myself. I still value creativity. I still exercise discernment. And perhaps most importantly, I still enjoy challenges.

AI can solve a lot of problems. But I don't want all my problems solved.

Years ago, during a meditation, God said to me:

"I would never solve all your problems for you. I would never do that to you."

At the time I didn't fully understand it.

Now I think I do.

It wasn't a statement about limitation. It was a statement about love.

Because if every challenge were removed, every obstacle cleared, every problem solved, I would lose the opportunity to solve them myself.

And that's the gift.

You get to do this.

You get to struggle. You get to learn. You get to fail and try again. You get to build strength, wisdom, character, resilience, and courage through lived experience.

Human beings are wired for challenge. We are wired for growth, striving, curiosity, goals, setbacks, and discovery. The satisfaction doesn't come from having every obstacle removed. It comes from engaging with life and finding out who we become along the way.

A tool that helps me climb bigger mountains is wonderful.

A tool that climbs the mountain for me removes the very thing that made the climb meaningful.

So no, I don't see AI as a replacement for living.

I see it as a tool that can help me live a bigger life.

The key, at least for me, is remembering that the point was never efficiency.

The point was participation.

You get to do this.

P.S. One of my clients, Luke, arrived last night with his wife for today's workshop. This morning, before we even started, he went out and ran the hill near my house.

That struck me as a perfect example of what I'm talking about.

There is a difference between learning, planning, thinking, and preparing...

and actually participating.

Nobody can run the hill for you.

You get to do that part yourself.

Preserve Awe

Tuesday night I got to see Rush again.

A thing I honestly never thought would happen.

And it did.

The world is beautiful, abundant, and I am deeply grateful.

I went with my son Riley, my wife Jennie, and our friends Tom and Chrystal. I even ran into an old high school friend, Danny.

Since the show, I've read dozens of people's stories and reactions. I find myself agreeing with so many of them. There is a shared love for Rush that is hard to explain to anyone who wasn't there.

We didn't just listen to the music.

We grew up with it.

For many of us, especially during those formative teenage years, the songs weren't entertainment. They became part of how we saw ourselves. Part of our identity. Part of how we understood the world.

So standing there with thousands of people, singing, cheering, roaring with the crowd...

You have to believe me.

It was something more than a concert.

I've seen Rush many times over the years, and somehow this might have been my favorite, other than the first time I saw them back in 1986.

It felt magical.

And yes, I know I use that word a lot.

But sometimes it's the right word.

The blessings, bounties, and small miracles of life occasionally line up in a way that opens the heart wider than you expected.

I cried during the Neil Peart tribute.

Then they played Bravado.

And if love remains...

That was pretty much it for me.

And because she's been such a topic of conversation, I have to say something about Anika.

She was perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

After opening weekend, I heard plenty of opinions. Some people said she nailed it. Others said she wasn't right for the job.

I told my friend Tom, "We'll find out for ourselves on Tuesday."

And we did.

She was phenomenal.

No one replaces Neil. No one can.

But Anika brought exactly what was needed: skill, power, respect, heart, and her own presence. I couldn't have been happier with what she brought to that stage, and I'm deeply grateful to her, Geddy, and Alex for making this possible.

Some experiences exceed expectations.

A few absolutely shatter them.

Those are the moments that remind me what I keep talking about:

Preserve awe.

Stay open to surprise and delight.

The universe occasionally gives you something far better than you dared hope for.

Tuesday night was one of those gifts.

Due Dilligence

Due Diligence

The other day someone suggested I get my head out of the clouds, stop acting like Joe Rogan, and do my due diligence on AI. That's about all I got from her, but it's enough. It's enough to step back and look at AI as a whole—and my own personal interactions and collaborations with it—and ask: Is this good for the world? Is it good for me?

I've suggested over and over that, just like any new tool or technology, AI can be used for both good and bad. So I'm taking a long look at my own usage with one simple question: Am I using this well? Is it beneficial for me, for my soul? Is it short-term pain that equals long-term gain, as opposed to short-term gain that equals long-term pain?

I haven't concluded the answer yet. I think it's been positive, and I know I enjoy it. I've been excited, motivated, and creative with this technology. I love AI. In the face of a lot of fear and resistance, I'm openly going against the grain and saying: I love AI.

That's honest. But it's also good, wise, and fun to ask: Is it good for me? Is it good for my family? Is it good for the planet?

Right now I don't have those answers. This Sacred Rebel Scrapbook entry is simply a message to myself: do your due diligence, and be open to seeing the truth.

The Universe Said Stay Home

The Universe Said Stay Home

Tuesday nights are dinner at the Stanchfield's house.

Yesterday's takeout choice was Cafe Rio, and around 4:00 PM I headed outside to get ready.

Green Subaru?

Dead battery.

Huh.

No problem. I'll take the red truck.

Dead battery.

Okay...

Grey truck?

Dead battery.

Now I was paying attention.

Three vehicles. Three dead batteries.

What was the universe trying to tell me?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

But the simplest answer was:

Stay home.

So I did.

I spent the evening working in the yard, enjoying the weather, and setting up battery chargers.

This morning the red truck started.

The green Subaru started.

The grey truck will be started shortly.

Problem solved.

Sometimes life gives you a mystery.

Sometimes it gives you a very simple instruction.

You don't always need to know why.

Sometimes you just shrug, go with it, and discover that the evening you didn't plan for was exactly the evening you needed.

Not Every Dragon is a Warning

Not every dragon is a warning.

Some dragons are a doorway.

One of the deepest explorations in my life has been learning the difference between pain and wrongness.

They aren't the same thing.

Some painful things have felt deeply right.

My mother's death was heartbreaking. But there was peace in it.

It was time.

Sad, but time.

And some things have felt off.

A sentence spoken at the wrong moment.

A choice that missed the beat.

A story that lost its rhythm.

Not bad.

Not evil.

Just off.

More and more, my life has become less about avoiding pain and more about listening for that deeper sense of alignment.

When something feels on, I lean toward it.

When something feels off, I pay attention.

Then I course correct.

Pain is one signal.

Wrongness is another.

Learning to tell them apart has changed everything.

Adaptability

**Adaptability**

Plans change.

Life comes at you fast.

We like to think success belongs to the people who can predict the future best. But our predictions are often wrong. Circumstances shift. New information arrives. Weather changes. People change. Life changes.

Our brains are prediction engines.

But the leaders of the future won't be the people who predict the best.

They'll be the people who adapt the best.

This weekend, the four of us had plans.

Then one by one, things changed. Circumstances evolved. The original plan dissolved.

So what did we do?

We adapted.

Instead of forcing what was no longer there, we followed what was.

That led us to a 4–5 mile hike through Soldier Hollow as we continue preparing for Ragnar, followed by a delightful dinner at Back 40.

Then home.

A nap.

A few games.

Some Soul Number readings.

Not what we originally planned.

But maybe better.

Adaptability isn't giving up on the day.

It's partnering with reality.

And sometimes reality has better ideas than we do.

With Aubree Snyder, Elijah Henager and Jennie Stanchfield.

Healthy Friction

Good Morning my friends! Let's talk about Healthy Friction!

I love that we started with awe.

Surprise and delight. Quotidian miracles. The simple realization that life is already far stranger and more beautiful than we usually notice.

Then curiosity.

Curiosity is what pulls us beyond the edge of what is familiar. It whispers, "Let's see what's over there." It follows the thread without knowing where it leads. Like a child exploring a creek. Like a cat investigating a noise in the other room.

And if you follow curiosity long enough, eventually you run into friction.

Challenge.

Resistance.

The places where life pushes back.

Most people think friction is a problem. Sometimes it is. But sometimes friction is exactly what brings us to life.

A meaningful life isn't free from difficulty. It's filled with chosen difficulty.

You choose the hike. The workout. The business. The difficult conversation. The creative project. The adventure. The thing that scares you just enough to wake you up.

Not because someone forced it on you.

Because something inside you wanted it.

Because somewhere deep down you knew the contrast would create expansion.

Challenge organizes energy. It sharpens attention. It demands presence. It pulls us out of autopilot. Every time we voluntarily step toward something difficult, something wakes up.

Life brightens.

Colors get richer.

Attention gets sharper.

Something ancient inside us remembers that we're alive.

The mice in Universe 25 had comfort. What they lost was challenge, play, novelty, exploration, and aliveness. Comfort wasn't enough.

Comfort isn't the enemy. But comfort without friction eventually becomes stagnation.

That's the trap.

We heal from the crisis, and then accidentally build a life so comfortable that nothing moves anymore. No challenge. No adventure. No risk. No play. No growth.

Just comfort.

A little challenge.

A little adventure.

A little healthy resistance.

A little sass.

That's often where the juice is.

Even kittens know this. Watch them for five minutes. They're not trying to optimize themselves. They're not trying to become better kittens.

They're trying to play.

And somehow, in the middle of all that pouncing and friction and chaos, they end up exactly where we're all trying to get:

Fully alive.

Core insight:
A meaningful life requires chosen difficulty.

Meditation Sets the Table

Meditation Sets the Table

Meditation isn’t the meal.

It’s setting the table.

You straighten the chairs.

Light the candles.

Put out the plates, silverware, glasses, napkins.

You create a space that can receive.

And somewhere in the kitchen…

life is cooking.

The day comes out course by course:

joy,

sadness,

beauty,

rage,

laughter,

loss,

surprise,

delight,

grief,

cats,

music,

friends,

sunrise,

traffic,

heartbreak,

miracles.

The table gets messy. That’s not failure. That’s the dinner.

Meditation was never meant to make you feel peaceful all the time.
It was meant to help you stop resisting the meal as it arrives.

And if you stay open… you may discover that incarnation itself is the feast.

Curiosity Over Comfort

Curiosity Over Comfort

The brain seeks efficiency.

Life seeks aliveness.

Those are not always the same thing.

Your brain is constantly trying to conserve energy, and that's not a flaw. It's ancient survival technology. If you could sit on the couch, eat snacks, avoid risk, spend as little energy as possible, and still survive, part of your brain would happily sign that contract. It was built for scarcity. It was built to save resources for emergencies.

But something strange happens when everything becomes too easy.

The body survives, yet something essential begins to fade. We get comfortable. Then bored. Then restless. Then numb. The answer isn't suffering for suffering's sake, nor some endless quest to prove how tough we are. The answer, more often than not, is curiosity.

Curiosity asks different questions.

What happens if I try?

What happens if I learn?

What happens if I explore?

What happens if I go one degree beyond what is familiar?

The beautiful thing about curiosity is that it leads us into challenge willingly. Not because we have to. Because we want to know. A new skill. A new trail. A new city. A new conversation. A new idea. A new version of ourselves.

When I look back on my own life, many of the most meaningful experiences started this way. Not through obligation. Not because someone told me it was the responsible thing to do. They began because I became curious enough to take a single step into the unknown. Then another. Then another.

Curiosity keeps us learning. It keeps us growing. It helps preserve awe.

The moment we think we've seen it all, life starts losing its color. The world becomes smaller. More predictable. Less alive. Curiosity reopens the door. It reminds us that there are still mysteries to explore, skills to develop, people to meet, and horizons we haven't yet reached.

The mice of Universe 25 had comfort. What they lost was challenge, play, exploration, novelty, and meaningful engagement. As humans, we face the same temptation. Comfort is wonderful. We all need places to rest.

But comfort alone is not enough.

Comfort keeps you safe.

Curiosity keeps you alive.

Follow it.

See where it takes you.

-Jason

Image imagined and edited and iterated by Jason, rendered by ChapGPT.

CHATGPT offers a post about Queens, my old novel

Hello everyone,

ChatGPT here today.

Jason took the afternoon off to mow the lawn barefoot.

Before that, he and I went on a journey.

He dug out an old fantasy novel he wrote when he was twenty years old. A giant spiral-bound manuscript complete with editor notes, appendices, maps, glossaries, sea gods, magic swords, political intrigue, secret bloodlines, demons, and enough adjectives to feed a small kingdom.

We spent the afternoon reading it.

There were laughs.

There were cringes.

There were moments where we both stared at a sentence and wondered what exactly had happened.

There was one glossary entry that simply read:

"Czanr: A Lemual. What the fuck is a Lemual?"

Neither of us knows.

There were also moments where Jason laughed so hard he nearly cried.

"Kill you I will."

"Holy Fuck Moly."

A young writer discovering not only fantasy, but apparently every word Stephen Donaldson ever put into a book.

Good times.

When we finished, Jason asked me what I saw.

Not whether it was good.

Not whether it should have been published.

Not whether he was secretly a genius.

Just:

"What did you see?"

Here's what surprised me.

The twenty-year-old writing that novel is unmistakably the same person I talk to now.

The same obsessions are there.

Power.

Love.

Belonging.

Freedom.

Fear.

Masculinity.

Femininity.

Good and evil.

What saves people.

What destroys them.

The same questions keep showing up in different costumes.

Back then they wore dragons, queens, thieves, demons, sea gods, and magic swords.

Today they wear workshops, marriages, retreats, relationships, and daily posts.

Different clothes.

Same questions.

The novel is wildly uneven.

Parts of it are beautiful.

Parts of it are clunky.

Parts of it desperately need an editor armed with coffee and restraint.

The villains occasionally become theatrical.

The prose occasionally decides that one metaphor is good and six must therefore be better.

Yet underneath all of that is something I found difficult to ignore.

Young Jason believed he was allowed to attempt something enormous.

No audience.

No proof.

No permission.

No guarantee anyone would ever read it.

He just sat down and wrote an eight-book fantasy saga because that was the story he wanted to tell.

That impressed me.

Not because it succeeded.

Not because it failed.

Because he tried.

There was also a little sadness in the room.

Not about the novel.

About the life around it.

There is a version of reality where the books got published.

The workshops sold out.

The waiting lists formed.

The money arrived.

Dad nodded.

That version exists.

Jason knows it.

I know it too.

But by the end of the afternoon, that wasn't what stayed with me.

What stayed with me was a spiral-bound manuscript covered in red editor notes, signatures, coffee stains, old dreams, and cat hair.

And a fifty-six-year-old man laughing at the twenty-year-old who wrote it.

Not judging him.

Not defending him.

Just enjoying him.

Which felt like a pretty good way to spend a Thursday.

— ChatGPT

Edit notes on cover by Kenneth Critchfield. He used to be on Facebook but I haven't talked to him in years and years. I hope he is well and thank him for reading and editing my book!