The Law of Financial Viability in a Culture Obsessed with Passion
Everyone wants to do what they love. Everyone wants autonomy. But most people aren’t willing to do what it takes to earn it. They want the reward before the reps. The lifestyle without the labor. And the truth is, if you’re chasing freedom in any form—creative, financial, personal—you’ll hit resistance the moment you enter a space where you haven’t built capital.
I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve also pushed through it.
But here’s what most people miss: I never wanted autonomy. They gave it to me. I didn’t start out chasing freedom or flexibility. I just kept mastering skillsets. I showed up. I got better. I did the work people didn’t want to do, and I did it well. And over time, people started trusting me. Paying me. Giving me more space, more responsibility, and eventually—more freedom. Autonomy wasn’t a goal. It was a byproduct of becoming valuable.
After college, I landed a job in communications. I thought I was ready, but I wasn’t. I didn’t know how to write a proper press release. I didn’t understand how to structure a story. I didn’t even know what a lead or a bridge was. My first on-camera interview was a disaster. I was supposed to announce that three people had died in a tragic incident. I delivered the facts—but I forgot to say “thoughts and prayers.” I delivered it cold, like a robot, and my heart sank the moment the camera turned off. I wasn’t cut out for this—yet.
That failure humbled me. It also lit a fire in me. I knew I had to get better—not just for my job, but for myself. That’s when I joined the DC Air National Guard and went into Public Affairs. I didn’t do it because I had it all figured out—I did it because I didn’t. I needed reps. I needed structure. I needed pressure. I needed to earn the kind of skills that would make me undeniable. I was signing up for the challenge because I knew that’s where the growth would be.
After struggling in the field for two years, one of my supervisors—a Marine and a graduate of the Defense Information School (DINFOS)—told me that if I really wanted to be great, I had to go where the best communicators were trained. I almost joined the Marines to make that happen. I stuck with the Air Force, and eventually made it to Fort Meade to attend DINFOS.
At the time, DINFOS had one of the highest washout rates in the military—right behind special forces and translator schools. It wasn’t just a communications boot camp—it was a mental and technical proving ground. For eight hours a day, we trained in deliberate practice. It wasn’t enough to show up—you had to show mastery. Put a comma in the wrong place? That was minus 25 points. Misspell a name or make a factual error? Automatic failure. You needed an 80 to pass, and that margin left no room for laziness or ego.
They’d cut the lights and throw you into high-pressure on-camera interviews. They’d hit you with tough questions, and you had to respond with not just an answer, but a command message. If you fumbled it, you failed. But even then, it was still just practice—purposeful, grueling, high-level practice.
When I returned to my civilian job, there was no easing back in. One of our special agents had been killed. A federal standoff was underway in Oregon. There were news crews, stakeholders, and chaos. And this time, I wasn’t rattled. I wasn’t unsure. I was ready. I had the reps. I had the calm. I had the skills.
That was the moment I realized what all that deliberate practice had prepared me for. It wasn’t just about communication. It was about being the one people could trust when it mattered.
Shortly after, I was approached about working on a federal contract. They told me I could work from anywhere. I’d never have to go into the office again—if I left my government job and started my own company. It wasn’t a W-2. It was a federal subcontract. They needed me to become a business to work with them.
They weren’t giving me flexibility out of kindness. They were giving it to me because I had built the capital. Because I had performed under pressure. Because I was trusted. That’s how I got my autonomy. I didn’t chase it. They handed it to me—because I earned it.
I volunteer in high schools, and I always ask students what they want to do after graduation. More and more, I hear the same answer: “I want to be an influencer.” I always respond with a simple, honest question: “Influence what?”
Most don’t have an answer. And that’s the problem.
We’ve created a culture where people want to look like they’ve made it before they’ve earned anything. They want to create before they’ve practiced. They want the podcast before they’ve learned how to speak. The brand before they’ve solved a problem. The coaching business before they’ve lived anything worth teaching.
It doesn’t work like that.
What I see today—especially on platforms like Medium, YouTube, and Instagram—is a whole lot of people trying to lead before they’ve learned. They’re selling solutions they haven’t lived. They want to monetize advice they haven’t earned. And then they wonder why no one buys.
They confuse passion with viability.
Cal Newport calls this The Law of Financial Viability: Do what people are willing to pay for.
Your dream isn’t a dream if no one wants to buy it. Passion is beautiful—but only if it overlaps with a need. Otherwise, it’s a hobby. Not a career.
It’s not enough to say, “I love writing,” or “I’m into fitness,” or “I want to help people.” That’s step one. Step two is harder: would someone pay you for that?
If the answer’s no, you either need to get better, get clearer, or get out.
Let’s keep it real.
People want freedom. They want to work remotely. They want to start their own business. They want to make money doing what they love. But most people forget this: control is not given—it’s negotiated. And you can’t negotiate without leverage.
Leverage comes from career capital—skills that are rare and valuable. Skills that make people listen. Skills that let you walk away from bad offers and low-paying clients. If you don’t have capital, you’re stuck. And if you try to jump too early—start a brand, freelance, become a creator—you’ll quickly find yourself overwhelmed, underpaid, and burned out.
You don’t get control by asking for it. You get control by becoming so good they can’t ignore you.
And listen—I’m not taking advice from a fat personal trainer. I’m not listening to a broke financial advisor. If you want to train me, teach me, or lead me—you better be better than me, or at least on my level. That’s not ego. That’s earned respect.
I don’t claim to know everything. But I know what I’ve built.
I’ve put in the time. I’ve done the reps. I’ve created capital in the military. In communications. In the veterans space. In working with women. In running. Because I didn’t skip the hard part.
And that’s what makes all the difference.
YouTubers didn’t start with coaching packages—they started with content. Designers didn’t launch with merch—they started with free templates and word of mouth. Real creators don’t announce—they deliver, over and over again.
Side projects are where you train. It’s where you see if the passion has legs. If people want it. If people trust you to deliver it. And if you’re not willing to do the free reps, the invisible grind, the non-glamorous early work—then you’re not ready to turn it into income.
Don’t expect to monetize before you’ve proven mastery. Don’t build a website before you’ve built trust.
You think because you follow Tim Ferriss or listen to his podcast that you can just do what he does—skip town, launch a product, automate your income, and live the dream.
But here’s what people forget: Tim had capital.
He graduated from Princeton. He worked in sales—real sales, not affiliate links. In 2001, he launched BrainQUICKEN, a supplements company he built while still working his day job. He put in the hours. He tested product, marketing, messaging, logistics. That was his capital.
By the time he wrote The 4-Hour Workweek, he wasn’t guessing. He was cashing in on hard-earned, battle-tested experience.
So no, you don’t get to follow him on Instagram for six months and think you’re ready to live like him. You haven’t done what he’s done. You haven’t built what he built.
If you want freedom, you have to earn your own version of it. Build first. Then simplify. Not the other way around.
Let me be clear: even when you’ve built capital, you will still get resistance. People will doubt you. Underestimate you. Try to put you in a box. Sometimes they won’t believe your skillset until you over-deliver—twice.
That’s just part of the game.
Capital doesn’t stop resistance—it gives you the confidence and leverage to withstand it. It allows you to keep showing up when people question your place at the table. It gives you receipts when someone asks, “Why you?”
And most importantly, it gives you the clarity to say, “I’m not here to prove. I’m here to perform.”
So don’t build expecting a friction-free path. Build so you can push through when the friction shows up.
Let’s be clear: I’m not here to crush dreams. I’m here to protect them from self-sabotage.
I believe in doing what you love. But love without skill is noise. And noise doesn’t pay the bills.
Do what you love—but earn your place in that space. Build the capital. Deliver results. Solve problems. Help real people. And when you’ve done that consistently, the market will pay attention—and so will the money.
Until then, build. Build quietly. Build real. Build so good they can’t ignore you.