The Myth of “Great Genetics”

And What Really Happened Instead

I have come to realization that us humans enjoy a tidy explanation, myself included! I’ve been guilty at times for assuming a narrative that doesn’t fall on truth—it’s easy to judge a book by its cover, yet when we take the time to open the pages of the book. We might surprise ourselves with what we discover. You see someone who’s fit, strong, and carrying themselves with quiet confidence, and your mind naturally begins to weave a story that feels simple and logical. “Oh, they must have great genetics,” you think, as if that alone explains their success. It’s a neat little bow, tied up to make sense of something that might otherwise feel out of reach.

But here’s the truth: that’s rarely how it works. It certainly wasn’t for me. And chances are, it isn’t for them either. The journey to strength—both inside and out—is almost always far more complex, more layered, and more human than all of the stories we tell ourselves.

If genetics were the whole story, I would be a different character entirely. Most of my family members are obese and trapped in an endless tug-of-war with sugar addiction. I know this struggle intimately because I’ve lived it. Still do, to be honest. I’m a recovering sugar addict, emphasis on recovering. This isn’t a backstory I share lightly, but it’s essential to understand why I chose this path. The roots run deep. I grew up watching my father wrestle with morbid obesity—5’9”, 330 pounds—and witnessing his daily battles changed me.

It wasn’t one dramatic moment. It was a slow, quiet revelation. Seeing him out of breath after climbing a single flight of stairs or watching him struggle to bend down and tie his shoes didn’t just make me feel for him; it made me wonder, Is this my future too? And maybe that’s where it all started—not with a burst of motivation, but with a whisper of fear. I wanted something different for myself. For him. For anyone who might feel stuck in that same cycle.

The Body I Didn’t Recognize

People see me now and assume I’ve always lived in this body—this body that moves fluidly feels strong, and wears energy like a second skin. But that’s not how it started. For five long years, from 6th through 11th grade, I lived in a body that felt like it wasn’t mine. The word “husky” was thrown around. A gentle euphemism. Kids are rarely that kind. “Chubby” was the less delicate version. The playground isn’t a place for soft words.

I was on sports teams but not “sports-shaped.” There’s a certain kind of isolation that comes with that. You’re in uniform, but you don’t feel like part of the team. You feel eyes on you—some indifferent, some cruel—but every glance feels like an X-ray, like they can see more than you want them to. It sticks with you, that feeling of not belonging. It follows you off the field, into the hallways, into your home. It lingers.

But somewhere in that loneliness, a seed was planted. I didn’t want to wear that invisible badge forever. I wanted to trade it for something else. I didn’t know what it was yet, but I knew it wasn’t this.

The Barnes & Noble Classroom

It’s funny how an ordinary moment becomes the origin point of something extraordinary. I was 12 years old, wandering a Barnes & Noble with my mom. While she browsed the self-help and fiction aisles, I found myself drawn to the magazine rack. Specifically, that rack—the one lined with issues of Men’s Fitness and Men’s Health.

It wasn’t a casual glance. It felt like something more sacred. I sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through glossy pages of bodies that seemed otherworldly. But I wasn’t just staring at physiques. I was studying. I read every article on nutrition, metabolism, training splits, and the biology of muscle growth like it was scripture. Not just looking for answers—I was looking for a map.

At 12, I didn’t have the language to call this “personal development” or “self-study.” I just knew I was searching for something. Every weekend, I’d return to that rack with a pen in my pocket and a head full of questions. I wasn’t preparing for a written test; I was preparing for a test you take every day of your life.

The Math of Change

By high school, something was different. Not all at once. Not suddenly. But gradually, like the way water wears down stone. My clothes fit looser. My energy wasn’t just something I had to summon—it lived with me now. Workouts stopped being punishment and started being fuel. This wasn’t some miracle or divine transformation. It was physics. It was math. It was the slow, steady compounding of effort over time.

But here’s the twist—the most profound change wasn’t physical. It was mental. I learned that the things you consume—food, thoughts, habits, energy—become you. Every choice I made about what I fed my body, my mind, and my spirit was another page in a larger story. The more I respected that process, the more I saw the world respond.

People see your change before you do. In the school hallways, the whispers stopped. The stares shifted. They weren’t gawking at the weight I’d lost. They were seeing something deeper. People recognize self-respect when they see it because it’s rare. I realized something crucial: people will always treat you the way you treat yourself.

At 17, I knew what I wanted to do. I didn’t just want to change myself—I wanted to show others how to do it too. I didn’t want to be a “trainer” in the gym-rat sense of the word. I wanted to be a guide. A bridge between mind, body, and soul. Because once you understand that those three are inseparable, everything changes.

Full Circle at 24 Years Old 

Here’s the part of the story I almost don’t believe myself.

I’m 24 years old, walking into a Barnes & Noble. I’m not 12 anymore, but I still glance toward the magazine rack. I see something I’ve seen a thousand times before—Men’s Fitness, Men’s Health, all lined up like old friends. But this time, something stops me. It’s a highlighted feature on the cover, with my name on it. 

I stand there for a second, longer than I probably should. Not in shock, but in recognition. I see myself—the younger version, the 12-year-old kid on the floor, looking for a map. I see him, and I hear him say, “See? We did it.”

As I walk over and pick up the magazine, It’s heavier than I expected, as I slowly turn the pages, I come to discover that I have a center fold piece, maybe that’s just the weight of everything it took to get there. Every weekend in Barnes & Noble, every workout I didn’t want to do, every doubt I had to silence—it’s all in this weight I’m holding.

I bought that magazine. It sits on a shelf in my home as a reminder. Not of the “win”—but of the work. Because moments like this aren’t born from luck. They’re built, brick by brick, inch by inch. And sometimes, they come back to remind you: Yes, it was worth it.

The Shift from Trainer to Vibrational Coach

After nearly three decades of studying, living, and breathing this world of transformation, I realized something. The word trainer felt too small. Too flat. This was never just about push-ups and meal plans. It was about energy. About vibration. Every food, every thought, every rep, every belief—it’s all frequency. And the frequency you live on determines the life you live in.

I’m not a trainer anymore. I’m a Vibrational Coach. Because when you learn to shift your vibration, everything shifts. Your mind. Your body. Your relationships. Your world. It all moves. It has to.

At 12, I sat on the floor of Barnes & Noble, looking for answers on a page. At 24, I stood in front of that same rack, holding the proof in my hands. And now, at this point in my life, I know something I wish I could tell my younger self:

The answer was never in the magazine. It was always in me.

And it’s in you too.

Your version of Barnes & Noble is waiting for you.

Your version of the magazine cover is waiting for you.

Your future self — 5, 10, 12 years from now — is counting on you to start collecting those bricks today.

You don’t have to know how it will all play out. You just have to start.

Because one day, you’ll walk back into the place where it all began, and you’ll see yourself on the cover. Maybe not a literal cover, but your version of it. It might be a promotion, a relationship, or a dream you thought was too big for you.

But it’s not too big for you.

It was built for you.

Brick by brick.

Page by page.

One tiny, daily, unglamorous decision at a time.

Stay with it.

Don’t stop.

Because I promise you — if you do, one day you’ll stand in front of it and say,

“We did it.”