I’ll never forget making my dad drop me off a block away from school so no one would see our car.
It was a 1985 Pontiac Bonneville. It was a massive tank of a car—a hand-me-down from his dad when it was already a decade old, with faded brown paint, a sagging headliner that we pinned up with thumbtacks, and a radio that worked when it felt like it.
I couldn’t understand why my dad would drive such a crappy car, but I wasn’t about to let the kids at school see me in such a monstrosity.
At that time, my bedroom wall featured exactly one poster: a Lamborghini Countach in classic red.
The contrast between my daily reality and that poster wasn’t lost on me. It wasn’t just about the car itself — it was what it represented. Freedom. Success. Arrival. When you grow up in West Texas, Lamborghinis aren’t exactly common sightings. They existed in a different reality that seemed galaxies away from mine.
My dad worked hard his entire life but never splurged on himself. He drove practical cars into the ground, wore the same tennis shoes until they fell apart, and defined success by how well he provided for his family, not by what he bought for himself.
We grew up squarely middle class in a rich oil town. There were five kids in our family, and I didn’t know it at the time, but my dad was making a huge sacrifice to keep food on the table.
You see, my dad loves cars, too. In fact, as I reflect, he is the one who shared that love with me when I was a kid. Growing up, some of my fondest memories were going to car shows and dealerships with him, talking excitedly about the latest sports cars and what made them special.
But my teenage brain couldn’t reconcile his sacrifice. Something in me rebelled against it. While I respected his values, I secretly promised myself that one day, I’d make enough money to buy whatever car I wanted without guilt or hesitation.
Fast forward to my early thirties. After starting my first company and finding my first taste of financial success, I finally did it.
I bought my first supercar—an Audi R8 in Suzuka Gray. The feeling of sliding behind the wheel of that car for the first time is something I’ll never forget. It wasn’t just the pinnacle of engineering, speed, and design. It was tangible proof that I had broken through my own limitations. I had crossed an invisible threshold that existed solely in my mind.
For the next decade, supercars became a central part of my identity. I joined weekend drives across Texas, attended track days across the country, and built meaningful friendships through car meets. The joy wasn’t just in owning these mechanical masterpieces — it was in the experiences they facilitated and the community they introduced me to.
I became an advocate for spending money on things that bring genuine joy, using my own experience as a testament. Buy the car. Take the trip. Life is too short for delayed gratification that never arrives.
Last year, I reached the peak supercar experience: I custom-ordered a Lamborghini Hurucan Tecnica. I poured over the specifications for countless hours, obsessing over every detail. I created a masterpiece, a beautiful one-of-one spec in Bronzo Zante, with Ad Personum black and white interior punctuated by gold detail. The irony isn’t lost on me that the color isn’t so far off from that old Pontiac.
Even though I already owned a McLaren 720s, I decided to add to my collection rather than trading it in. If one was cool, wouldn’t two be even better?
I waited for nearly two years before I took delivery of my magnum opus.
Delivery day was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I hired a videographer to capture every detail of my big day. I felt like a kid again, bubbling in anticipation.
But something shifted shortly after I drove the car home for the first time. Initially, it was imperceptible — a subtle waning of enthusiasm when the keys were in my hand. I still loved looking at the Lambo in my garage. I still felt that flutter of appreciation for its design and what it represented. But I wasn’t driving it. Neither car, actually.
It took my wife calling me out to fully realize what was happening.
“When was the last time you actually drove the Lamborghini?” she asked one evening.
I couldn’t immediately answer. I checked the mileage, and the truth was undeniable: less than 1,000 miles combined on both supercars in the previous twelve months. No rallies. No track days. No weekend drives just for the fun of it.
There’s a saying I often share with clients: “Show me your bank account and show me your calendar, and I’ll show you what you value.”
My bank account still said I valued supercars — they represented a significant portion of my net worth sitting in the garage. But my calendar told a different story. I wasn’t making time for the very thing I claimed brought me immense joy.
This dissonance hit me hard.
What else was I holding onto out of identity rather than genuine current joy? What other artifacts of old dreams was I preserving at the expense of new dreams taking shape?
Getting quiet with myself, I realized the supercar chapter of my life had served its purpose beautifully. Those cars helped me heal a part of myself that needed to prove something. They facilitated adventures and connections I’ll treasure forever. But holding onto them now felt more like allegiance to a former version of myself than an accurate reflection of who I am today and what truly lights me up.
I’ve spent the last few years talking about alignment — about the courage it takes to continually reassess what matters and adjust accordingly. I’ve coached countless entrepreneurs through similar realizations. And here I was, facing my own misalignment.
The decision to sell the Lamborghini wasn’t about financial necessity or even practicality. It was about integrity, about practicing what I preach, about shedding what no longer serves to make space for what does.
It was about acknowledging that my relationship with material symbols of success has evolved as I’ve grown more comfortable in my own skin.
There’s something liberating about releasing the things we once thought defined us. About recognizing that we can appreciate a chapter of our story without needing to live there forever.
I’m not the same person who needed that car to feel complete, and that’s a beautiful thing. It represents growth, not loss.
Perhaps the most important realization was that these decisions aren’t the permanent, one-way doors we make them out to be. I can sell the Lambo today and buy another one in a year if my values shift again. Life isn’t static, and our decisions don’t have to be either. Giving ourselves permission to evolve — to change course when alignment demands it — is perhaps the greatest form of freedom.
As I handed over the keys to the dealer, I felt a momentary pang of loss, quickly replaced by a sense of spaciousness. Not just in my garage, but in my mind. One less thing to maintain, worry about, or justify. One step closer to a life where every resource—time, energy, attention, and yes, money — flows toward what truly matters now, not what mattered then.
The poster on my wall did its job. It inspired a journey that taught me more than I could have imagined.
But the greatest lesson wasn’t about achieving the dream — it was about having the courage to let it go when its season had passed.
To letting go with grace,
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