Your Burning Homestead Moment

Only 3 Spots: Find Your Death Star (Starts Jan 1)

Real quick, I’m opening only 3 spots for a January 1 start of Find Your Death Star: a 30-day, one-on-one guided mission to identify your one bold goal for 2026 and finally act on it. If this resonates, you can book a free discovery call here.

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On the surface, I thought I was a success. I was seven years into an Air Force career with the job, team, and the mission I thought I’d always wanted. So why was I crumbling?

Sitting in the senior intelligence officer’s (SIO’s) office at the 347th Rescue Squadron at Moody Air Force Base, Georgia, my heart was racing, and my vision blurred.

My fingers clutched the arms of a well-worn government-issued office chair as I sat across from my brand new boss, a man who would become what we all desperately need in our darkest moments, a friend. Major Nicholas, callsign “CLUTCH” McCrabb.

Nobody wants to cry in front of a man named McCrabb.

We were a few months into a grueling training cycle for a series of exercises that would certify our team for deployment to the Middle East. I say “grueling” not because of the long hours or difficulty, but because of the environment of surface-level perfectionism created by (some) so-called leaders who cared little for the people or the mission, only about appearances.

I had survived my last Air Force assignment by trying to just work harder, hoping and praying that my team and I wouldn’t make any mistakes. When we did, I knew what was coming: another inevitable dressing down in that same, cold, windowless government facility known as a secure compartmented information facility (SCIF).

Earlier that week, I was staying long after everyone else should have left the office. Twelve hours in, the hum of the fluorescent lights felt like a flickering heartbeat, steady, numbing, almost alive. We were chasing another project deadline, another finish line painted by someone who had never run the race. We may have lived in the same house, but I hadn’t seen my wife in weeks. My phone was locked away in another room—no distractions (or security violations). She called the office landline again and again, and I told myself I’d call her back later.

I didn’t.

When I finally left the office, I saw the message: Please come home. Thirty minutes later, I sat in the car, the engine off, my hands desperately gripping the steering wheel, staring at the garage door like a caged animal at the zoo. I didn’t want her to see me like this. Empty, drained, hopeless, angry. What I didn’t know was that she had just lost a coworker in a sudden, awful accident. She needed comfort. But I had let my better self wither in that cave of despair known as a SCIF. I was deceiving my wife and, more importantly, myself, that I was ok.

I was not.

I had spent every ounce of energy trying to please people who barely knew my wife’s name. This wasn’t about “work ethic.” It was worship. And I was bowing to false gods. Nothing was ever good enough. My confidence was in pieces, the culmination of years of compromise and living according to the gospel of borrowed ambition.

So let’s just say it was a bad day to be in CLUTCH’s office. I hadn’t slept well in months, and it had become harder and harder to hide my episodic depression. He looked across the desk at me and asked a simple question. “Hey man, what’s going on, are you ok?”

Are you ok?

I wept.

Moments like this are when you know you’re truly lost. I was either sad or angry all the time, and I knew it was because I’d sacrificed everything I liked about myself for those who only measured my worth in output. No one made me do this.

Something had to give.

That SCIF was the site of what I’d come to call my burning homestead moment. If you grew up watching Star Wars, you’ll remember Luke Skywalker staring off at the twin suns of Tatooine, longing for something greater. Then tragedy strikes. The homestead he’d been raised on by his aunt and uncle is burned to the ground by the Empire; his only known family killed. Everything is gone. It’s only then that Luke answers the call to adventure he declined just hours before. It’s the horrible event that forces Luke’s hand and leads him to accept the calling he’s felt all along — to go with Obi-Wan Kenobi to Alderaan, to learn the ways of the Force, to become a Jedi like his father.

For me, the feeling of compromise had eaten away at my soul. Like Luke, I wanted more, but instead, I’d lost my hope and self-confidence. And hopelessness is the worst curse for a man. Soon after the sit-down with CLUTCH, I called my friend and mentor, Catholic Priest Father Roderick Vonhögen. His encouragement reminded me of who I was when this whole journey had begun. Deep inside me, there remained a Riley who dreamed of making an impact by leading others with my natural gifts and creativity.

This whole time, I had been chasing someone else’s version of success.

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Ok, that was kinda heavy, I know. But it’s why I came back to this substack.

I have something for you.

Life’s a little different now: My SOS students gave me the Sword of Godric Gryffindor as a gift to represent fighting the “careerist bureaucrats.”

It’s been over a year, a deployment, and a PCS. Many of you think of me as “that guy with the Full Focus YouTube videos.” The truth is, I used Michael Hyatt’s planners to achieve other people’s priorities.

Until I didn’t. I lost my spark, but I rediscovered it the hard way.

Find Your Death Star is for you. It’s a 30-day, one-on-one guided mission for ambitious guys who feel stuck, burned out, and restless. For those who know there’s something more they’re meant to pursue. We’ll start with 1 on 1 call to clarify your values, diagnose what’s actually holding you back, and name one bold, meaningful goal, your “Death Star.” From there, you’ll enter a personalized 30-day challenge designed around your life, with direct text support from me to help you stay focused, push through resistance, and keep choosing what actually matters to you.

Clarity, commitment, and momentum.

This is a first for me; I’m only taking 3 clients for a beta test, January cohort. Enrollment closes December 31, and the 30-day mission begins January 1.

Book a free 20-minute discovery call here:

-Riley