“Nothing great ever came that easy.”

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― Unknown

In 2003, my future wife and I began to imagine a course where we could combine our skills as therapists with our experience as performance practitioners. A year later, during the NHL lockout, I had a rare window of time, and we decided to bring that idea to life.

That summer, we ran our first course. About twenty practitioners joined us for a weekend, all of them driven by the same desire to get better at helping their clients. We focused on the lower quadrant. It felt manageable, and more importantly, it allowed us to present a clearer approach to understanding movement and creating meaningful change.

After that, life moved quickly, and teaching was put on hold. But the idea never left us. There was a quiet conviction that what we were doing represented a different way to approach injury and performance. Instead of simply managing symptoms, we kept coming back to deeper questions. Why is the issue there in the first place? Why not take a proactive approach? Why not use the same therapeutic tools not just to reduce pain, but to build more resilient, capable humans?

Teaching, as we would come to learn, is not for the faint of heart. It demands more than experience. It requires structure, clarity, and a system that others can actually use. Translating what you know into something transferable is a different kind of challenge altogether.

I remember putting together our first course syllabus and presentation. It was a grind. Software issues, formatting problems, and a lot of trial and error. When we finally got through it, I remember saying to Jaime that I was glad it was done and that I never wanted to do it again. That was probably a hundred iterations ago.

If you are going to share what you know, you have to be prepared to revisit it constantly. There is always a better way to say something. Always a clearer way to teach it. You do not finish it once. You refine it, again and again, knowing it will never truly be complete.

In 2013, we felt the pull to return to teaching. Not because we had everything figured out, but because we had reached a point where what we understood needed to be shared. I hesitate to say “knew,” because certainty is a dangerous thing in this space. Everything exists in context. It is all shades of grey. You can move forward, but you need to do so with awareness and humility.

In the fall of 2014, we ran our first official Reconditioning course. We had a full room of about thirty-five people, all eager to learn. By then, we had built a reputation for helping solve more complex cases, and there was a growing curiosity around how we approached our work.

That weekend is still vivid in my mind. The day before we were set to begin, I came down with a stomach virus. I spent most of the day before the course in the bathroom, wondering how I was going to get through it. We had spent months preparing, and now I was in rough shape.

I managed to get through the first evening session on little more than electrolytes. No food, no energy, just enough to stay upright and deliver. Somehow, I made it through the weekend. It was far from perfect, but it was real, and it marked the beginning of something important.

Over the next five years, we committed to live teaching. After two strong courses in Montreal, we realized we needed to expand beyond our immediate circle. That meant learning how to communicate what we did in a way that resonated with people we had never met. It meant identifying who we were trying to serve and finding language that invited them into the process.

Then came 2020.

The pandemic disrupted everything. Like everyone else, we were forced to adapt. We shifted our live events into digital formats, something we were fortunate to be somewhat prepared for. We had already begun recording our courses and experimenting with online delivery. We leaned into that and expanded.

We also moved the International Hockey Performance Summit online. For three years, it thrived in that format. But when we tried to bring it back to a live setting, the interest just was not there. The landscape had shifted.

Private education was evolving quickly, and keeping pace required constant attention. About a year and a half ago, we made the decision to rebuild everything. We rethought the curriculum, reshaped the delivery, and incorporated the deeper work we had done in neuroscience. We reshot content, rebuilt the platform, and created a new digital experience from the ground up.

It was a significant undertaking. Tools like ChatGPT played a role in helping us move faster and stay organized, but the real work was in the thinking, refining, and building.

This past weekend marked the culmination of seventeen months of that effort. Our first two cohorts completed fourteen weeks of online learning and came together in Montreal for a three-day, in-person experience.

There were people in that room who had been with us since 2014. A few even traced back to that first course in 2004. That is what stays with you. Not the content, not the logistics, but the community. People who continue to show up, driven by a shared commitment to help others move better, feel better, and live with less limitation.

It was a meaningful moment. One that brought a sense of perspective to the work, the challenges, and the sacrifices along the way.

It has been a long road.

And it feels like we are just getting started.

 “The measure of a life is not in what we accumulate,
but in what we awaken, in ourselves, and in others.”

― S.L.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you’ve probably sensed a shift in my thinking. Over the past while, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on direction, on change, and on what I want this next chapter of life to look like.

For some time now, I’ve felt a growing sense of isolation. The pandemic changed the fabric of our community in ways that never quite returned to what they once were. Living in the mountains, something that once felt like an opportunity, slowly became a place where I felt disconnected. The truth is, I never really fell in love with skiing, and neither did my family. That matters more than you think when winter stretches on.

More than anything, I struggled to build the kind of community that energizes and challenges you. And if I’m being honest, that’s at least partly on me. You have to reach out in order to be reached.

At the same time, my wife and I have been building our education business. It has been some of the most meaningful work I’ve ever done, but also some of the most demanding. The ground beneath you in that space is never entirely stable, and since the pandemic, it’s been shifting even faster.

The way people learn has changed. The way they want to learn has changed. On one hand, there is a desire for flexibility, autonomy, and access. On the other, there is a deep need for connection, for shared experience, for being in a room with other people. It creates a kind of tension that is not easy to resolve. You are constantly trying to meet both needs, knowing that neither one alone is enough.

Layer on top of that the pace of technology, the ever-changing algorithms of communication, and the constant demand to stay relevant, and it becomes a landscape that is both full of opportunity and quietly exhausting. It is easier than ever to build and share, but harder than ever to truly connect.

And yet, through all of it, one thing has remained consistent for me.

I am driven by purpose.

I have come to understand that I am at my best when I am creating change. Not change for the sake of it, but change that improves what already exists. I’ve always been drawn to questioning convention, to asking whether the way things have always been done is actually the way they should continue to be done. I want the work I do to elevate people, to help them see what’s possible, and to give them a pathway toward it.

Most of that work has lived in the world of human performance. More recently, it has expanded through the podcast, through writing, and through the ongoing exploration of ideas in public. It has been a deeply creative process, one that I care about a great deal.

But creativity, especially when it lives in public, asks a lot of you. It requires constant attention, constant refinement, and a willingness to keep showing up. There are days I love that process, and days where I find myself wanting something quieter. Less doing, more being.

That tension led to a simple question.

What else is possible?

So I put myself out there. I opened the door to opportunities in leadership and performance, knowing that any real shift would likely mean a significant change for our family. A new place, a new rhythm, a new beginning.

At the same time, my wife and I were having our own conversations about what we wanted life to feel like moving forward. We both felt the same pull. Less isolation. More connection. A stronger sense of belonging.

What came back to us was something we couldn’t ignore.

An opportunity to return to Montreal. To a place that has always felt like home. A chance to reconnect with community, to support our daughter as she begins her university journey, and to build a life that feels more aligned with who we are now.

And professionally, an opportunity that felt uniquely right.

To step into a role where I can lead, create, and do the kind of work that has defined my career. To take on reconditioning projects from beginning to end, and to shape them in a way that reflects everything I’ve learned over the years. To challenge convention, to explore new possibilities, and to help others perform at the highest level of what they are capable of.

All of it within an environment I’ve admired for a long time.

Cirque du Soleil has always represented something different to me. It is a place where art and science intersect, where the limits of human performance are explored not just for outcome, but for expression. Every show is a reminder of what the human body can do when imagination and discipline come together.

To be part of that environment, to contribute to it, and to learn from it, feels like a natural extension of everything I have been pursuing.

So this is not an ending. It’s not even a pivot.

It’s a continuation, just in a new setting.

We will continue to teach, to write, and to build what we’ve started. But we will do it from a place that feels more connected, more alive, and more aligned with what we want our lives to be.

Sometimes change comes slowly, through quiet reflection.

And sometimes it asks you to step forward before everything feels certain.

Here is the next adventure.

 “Never Give Up….”

― RAYE – Life Boat

This past week felt like a convergence point.

A return to the moon.
A return to my past.
A shift in direction for my family.
And the experience of watching something rare emerge on stage.

For some time now, I have had a quiet feeling in my gut that something was not quite right.

My wife and I have been working relentlessly to build something we believe in. Something meaningful. Something that can help people move, think, and live better. It has always been a labour of love, rooted in a desire to share what we have learned over a lifetime.

But the reality is, building something like that in today’s world is not simple. Economics shift. Technology evolves. The landscape changes faster than you can stabilize your footing. It can feel like navigating a maze that keeps redrawing itself.

And somewhere in that process, I began to feel alone.

What started as a conscious decision to step into a quieter life, to enjoy nature and space after the pandemic, slowly turned into isolation. No one to blame but myself. But also not the life I want to lead.

At the same time, there has been a growing sense of responsibility. A pull to continue using what I have learned to help others move beyond their limitations.

This past weekend changed something.

I stepped back into my past. Concordia University held its Hall of Fame event, and several people who shaped my early career were being honoured, including athletes I had worked with, and my mentor and friend, Ron Rappel.

Walking into that room felt like stepping into a time machine.

It was a gathering of athletes, coaches, therapists, and physicians who had all been part of a shared pursuit. I found myself moving from one conversation to another, reconnecting with people I had not seen in decades.

And what came rushing back was not just the memories, but the feeling.

Connection.

The act of being around others who are striving, learning, exploring what is possible.

Some of the relationships built during that time remain among the most meaningful in my life. That environment shaped me more than I realized.

At the same time, my wife, my daughter, and I were making a decision.

We are heading back.

Back to the city. Back to where it all began professionally. Not out of nostalgia, but out of a desire to reconnect with what allows us to grow, to contribute, and to feel alive.

The chapter we created up north served its purpose. It gave us space, perspective, and time. But it has run its course.

It is time for a new chapter.

Then, on Sunday night, everything seemed to come together.

We went to see Raye perform.

And what I witnessed felt like the emergence of something rare.

A true artist.

My daughter introduced me to her music a few years ago, and since then, it has been a constant in our home. There is something about her that draws you in. Not just the voice, but the honesty. The depth. The willingness to explore without limitation.

You cannot quite define her sound.
You cannot neatly categorize her.
She does not fit into a box.

She is simply Raye.

If you have not listened to her yet, give yourself the space to do it properly. Put it on and let it run. See where it takes you.

What stood out most that night was not just the talent.

It was the message.

Hope.
Resilience.
Joy.

Not spoken as ideas, but expressed through experience.

Supported by an incredibly talented micro-orchestra, she did not perform at the audience. She invited them into her world. Into her musical home. And for a few hours, everyone in that room became part of it.

In her music, she does not hide from difficulty. She speaks to heartbreak, trauma, and moments where giving up felt close.

One line in particular stayed with me:

“Never give up.”

And then, in a moment between songs, she looked out into the crowd and said, “Everything is going to be alright.”

Simple words. But delivered with conviction.

You could feel that they were earned.

It felt like the entire weekend had been building toward that moment. As if everything I had experienced over those few days had been leading to a single message.

A reminder.

At the same time, almost as if it were part of the same story, we watched the return of a mission connected to Apollo 11 Moon Landing.

Fifty-six years after humanity first stepped onto the moon, we were again looking back at our planet from afar.

That image.

That small blue sphere in the vast darkness.

I was six years old when I watched the moon landing on television. And seeing those images again brought back that same sense of possibility.

It is remarkable what we are capable of.

And yet, it is just as remarkable how easy it is to lose our way.

This past week reminded me of something simple, but important.

We are meant to connect.
We are meant to grow.
We are meant to contribute.

And when things feel uncertain, when the path becomes unclear, sometimes all you need is a moment, or a series of moments, to bring you back.

A conversation.
A room full of people.
A decision to change direction.
A voice on a stage.

What a week.

What a reminder.

Never give up.

Everything is going to be alright.