Volume 5: The Weight of Starting Over

5 Minutes for Fighting… Myself, Volume 5: The Weight of Starting Over

Every time I start over, I tell myself it’s the last time. But maybe starting over isn’t failure. Maybe it’s the only reason I’m still here.

I’ve rebuilt my life so many times that I’ve lost track of the versions of me that came and went. The hockey player. The addict. The inmate. The comeback story. The speaker. The coach. The business owner. The guy who everyone thinks has it figured out now. Every single version of me has been built on top of the wreckage of the last one, and I guess that’s the strange beauty of it. Every time I start again, I’m building on truth, not image.

Right now, I can feel it again. That heavy pull in my chest that tells me I’m standing at another crossroads. I know I need to make some changes if I want to grow, but change always demands sacrifice. Some of the decisions in front of me feel impossible. Some of the opportunities that have been put in front of me are incredible, and if I take them, they could change everything for my family and me. But they also come with uncertainty, and uncertainty can feel like walking back into a storm you’ve already survived once before.

From the outside, I bet it looks like I’m doing great. I’ve got projects on the go, I’m coaching, speaking, meeting amazing people, building things I once dreamed about. But the truth is, I’m still figuring it out. I’m still trying to find that balance between chasing the next dream and keeping the lights on. Life is expensive, and trying to hold it together on a single income isn’t easy. Between family responsibilities, kids, bills, and the unpredictability of entrepreneurship, some days it feels like I’m running a marathon in water.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned about starting over. It’s not just about survival anymore. It’s about alignment. There’s a difference between rebuilding out of desperation and rebuilding out of purpose. In the past, I started over because I had no other choice. I was running from rock bottom, clawing my way out of addiction, incarceration, and chaos. Now, when I start over, it’s because I’m searching for truth. I want to live a life that actually feels like mine, not one I built out of fear or necessity.

The weight of starting over isn’t just financial or logistical. It’s emotional. It’s waking up and realizing you’ve outgrown your comfort zone again. It’s admitting that the thing you worked so hard to build might not be what you’re meant to keep. It’s scary to admit that, especially when people are watching. You don’t want to look like you’re struggling. You don’t want to explain why the thing that looked like success from the outside doesn’t feel right anymore.

Starting over feels a lot like failure, at least at first. But the truth is, failure is often just the first step in refining who you are.

When I think back on all the times I’ve started again, there’s always been a moment of complete honesty that came before it. That one quiet night when you admit to yourself, this isn’t working anymore. And that moment is brutal. It’s raw. It feels like you’re tearing something out of yourself. But every time I’ve listened to that truth, something better has eventually come from it.

Starting over is like clearing ice after a messy practice. It’s hard, it’s slow, and it takes time for the surface to look smooth again. But when it does, you realize how necessary it was.

The weight I feel right now is a mix of fear and faith. Fear that I won’t make the right decision. Faith that I’ll land on my feet like I always have. And in between those two is where I’ve lived most of my life, that narrow space between uncertainty and trust.

I think that’s the thing about rebuilding when you’ve already been through hell. You know what you’re capable of surviving. There’s a certain confidence that comes from knowing you’ve lost it all before and somehow found your way back. You learn to stop asking why me and start asking what now.

But even with all that perspective, it still hurts. It’s still heavy. There’s a loneliness that comes with being the one who has to hold it all together. Some days I wish I could just stop, just coast for a while. But I don’t think I was built for comfort. I think I was built for growth. And growth always comes with pain.

People sometimes tell me how inspiring my story is, and I’m grateful for that. But they don’t see the nights I sit in silence trying to figure out what’s next. They don’t see the moments when I question everything I’m doing. They don’t see how many times I’ve almost quit, or how often I think about what life would look like if I just stopped trying so hard. But deep down, I know that’s not who I am. I can’t stop. I can’t sit still. Not because I’m chasing some imaginary finish line, but because I’ve seen what happens when I stop moving. And I refuse to go back there.

Maybe that’s why starting over feels like both a curse and a gift. It’s exhausting, yes, but it’s also proof that I’m still alive, still evolving, still fighting. Most people don’t get to start over. They stay stuck in what’s safe because the unknown feels scarier than misery. I’ve lived that way before, trapped by my own comfort, by my own fear. Not anymore.

I don’t know exactly what’s next. I’ve got some ideas, some dreams that feel too big to say out loud yet. Some opportunities that scare me because they might actually work. And that’s the thing about growth. It always demands a little bit of risk. You can’t step into something new if both feet are still planted in what’s old.

The weight of starting over is heavy, but it’s also freeing. Because every time you do it, you learn to carry less that doesn’t belong to you. You stop dragging old mistakes into new beginnings. You stop needing to prove you’re worth saving. You start realizing you already are.

I’ve learned that the real challenge of starting over isn’t building something new. It’s forgiving yourself for needing to. It’s quieting that voice that says, you should have had this figured out by now. That voice doesn’t know what it’s talking about. Life isn’t meant to be figured out. It’s meant to be lived, and sometimes that means burning it down and rebuilding it better.

The older I get, the more I understand that success isn’t stability. It’s authenticity. If I’m not being real, it’s not worth it. I don’t want to live a life that looks good online but feels empty in real time. I’ve done that. I’ve played that game. I’ve worn the mask. Now, I just want peace. And maybe peace starts with being honest about where you are, even when it’s messy.

Right now, I’m standing in the middle of uncertainty again, and weirdly, I’m grateful for it. It means I still care. It means I still want more. It means I haven’t given up on the life I know I’m capable of building.

Starting over is heavy. It’s humbling. But it’s holy work. Because every time I do it, I shed a version of myself that was built for survival and move closer to the one built for purpose.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you’re at that same crossroads, if you’re staring at a life that used to fit but doesn’t anymore, don’t be afraid to start again. Don’t let the fear of failure keep you stuck in something that’s slowly killing your spirit. You can always rebuild. You can always begin again.

Maybe we were never meant to arrive. Maybe the point of all this is to keep evolving, to keep letting go, to keep growing, to keep starting over until we become the truest version of ourselves.

The weight of starting over is heavy, but so is the weight of staying the same.

So I’m choosing movement, even if it’s slow, even if it’s uncertain. Because the only thing heavier than starting over is pretending I don’t need to.

Until next time, keep fighting, even when the restart hurts.

Love Brady