Go Big or Go Home
Going Big in a World That Wants You Small: A Battle Cry for Fathers, Sons, and the Builders of the Next America
Preface
I started writing this on Father’s Day—just a simple thank-you letter to my dad.
In the note I remind him of a moment we had when I was a kid, which you will read about in this. After I sent the letter. I kept revising it and adding details. I send 3 versions before I realized that others may need to hear the message too.
So I'm a couple days late to the Substack's father's day essays but this one should stand the test of time.
What he gave me... I now carry.
And what I carry, I now pass on.
This essay is for him.
And for every father—and every son—who knows what it means to go big.
It Begins
What my father told me—and what every father must now say to his son.
“Son, you gotta go big.”
That’s what my dad told me.
And now I’m telling you—fathers, tell your sons the same.
It might be the most important thing you ever say.
We’re Not Telling Our Sons the Truth
This is a Father’s Day essay.
But it’s not sentimental. It’s a call to arms.
Our society has forgotten how to raise men.
We praise safety.
We prize comfort.
We protect our boys from pain, danger, risk, and responsibility.
But here’s the truth:
If your son never hears “Go big or go home,” he will never become the man he’s meant to be.
The Garage, the Wax, and the Words That Shaped My Life
I’ll never forget the moment.
I was a kid, standing next to my dad in the garage.
We were tuning my skis before a race—hot wax, edge sharpener, focus.
And above his workbench, there was a sticker from Dr. Zags Ski Wax:
“Go fast or go home.”
I asked him what it meant.
He didn’t shrug it off. He paused, looked at me, and explained:
“If you’re going to do something, you do it with everything you’ve got.
You push. You show up to win.
Otherwise—don’t bother showing up at all.”
Then he said the words that would shape my whole life:
“Nick, you gotta go big.”
He didn’t say it like a slogan.
He said it like a law of nature.
And I believed him.
Go Big Wasn’t Just Words—It Was Our Whole Life
My dad didn’t just say “go big.” He lived it.
And because of that, so did we.
We weren’t raised in bubble wrap.
We were raised in gasoline, edge wax, and lake spray.
I was skiing from the time I could stand upright.
We had a dirt bike and a huge backyard. I started riding young—helmet or no helmet—just guts and throttle.
I barefoot waterskied behind our boat, skipping across the lake at 40mph.
We skied through trees, full speed, in fog and blizzard, no hesitation.
We bombed groomers like we were competing for the World Cup.
My dad taught us to drive stick on icy roads and how to dig ourselves out of a snowbank when things went wrong.
We didn’t fear danger. We used it to forge judgment.
We didn’t chase cheap thrills. We practiced consequence.
That’s what made us strong.
That’s what made us men.
Life Was Risky—That’s Why It Worked
We had BB guns. I got shot. Ended up in the hospital.
We had knives. I cut myself constantly. It didn’t stop me.
And we had trampolines—real trampolines.
Ours was a rectangle. Why?
Because my dad learned you could go bigger on a rectangle than a circle.
No pads. No nets. Just steel springs, launch power, and pure velocity.
We used to bounce off the trampoline—onto the grass, into the pool, and even onto the asphalt—but you only make that mistake once.
That was the fun. That was the point.
If my friends and I had shown up to one of these netted bounce prisons today, we would’ve looked at the kids and said:
“What do you mean you don’t bounce off your trampoline onto the ground?”
“What do you mean your trampoline has a net?”
We would have called them pussies.
Because back then, pain was part of the deal.
You fall, you bleed, you get up.
That’s what childhood used to mean.
We Were Always Going Bigger
It started young.
We weren’t just playing—we were always pushing. Always escalating.
We’d race—me and my dad, friends, competitors—on skis, on snowboards, on bikes.
Who could go faster, jump farther, hold the edge longer without flinching.
We skied fast enough to break legs. We jumped cliffs high enough to crack ribs.
And we did get hurt.
Broken bones. Split lips. Concussions. But that was the point.
Every new level demanded more courage.
More risk. More guts. More balls.
It wasn’t just thrill-seeking.
It was a training ground. A lab for risk. A forge for judgment.
We were learning the difference between fear and danger—and how to move through both.
Even into adulthood, my dad and I raced each other.
On skis, head-to-head until he was about 65.
And you know what? Even then, he didn’t hold back.
That’s what he gave me.
Not just approval. Not just support.
He gave me a life of tests.
And in each one, the only question that mattered was:
“Do you have the balls to push the limit?”
And before we move on—let me say this clearly:
Some may read this and think, Wow. Skiing. Dirt bikes. Pools. Boats. This kid was privileged.
You’re damn right I was.
My grandfather had a humble upbringing.
He had a good head on his shoulders and was able to serve our country in war and in peace—so that my father and his sister would have a better life than he had.
My father worked his way up in the restaurant world—eventually owning a successful business—so that we could have it a little better than he did.
And now? I carry that same torch. I inherit the legacy of pushing the ball forward.
That privilege I have—it’s now my duty.
My responsibility.
My burden.
Am I going to let the family legacy slide on my watch?
Not a chance.
And neither should you.
Don’t make excuses for inaction.
Recognize where you are in your family’s legacy.
Whether you’re starting from nothing or standing on someone else’s shoulders—
Push the ball forward.
That’s how we honor our fathers.
That’s how we earn the right to be called one.
From Slopes to Science: Going Big with the Brain
Going big wasn’t just about sports.
It was a mindset. And I took it with me.
In high school, I didn’t coast.
I discovered that if you took classes at our local community college, they were guaranteed to transfer to my school of choice.
So I took Calculus I and II, Physics I and II, English, and web development.
Because that’s what “go big” looked like at the time.
I was good at math and science.
So what did I do? Aerospace engineering.
Supposedly the hardest major at CU Boulder.
I picked it because it was hard.
(Had I known what MIT was at the time, I probably would have picked that.)
Junior year, while taking 18 credits and working part-time, I discovered I could raise money for research and hire my friends to build drones.
So I did.
Senior year of college? Could have slacked, only needed a couple classes to graduate.
Instead, I joined the brand-new entrepreneurship program.
Took extra classes. Became the first graduate of CU’s engineering entrepreneurship program.
Did an independent study in the Great Books.
Led a senior projects team of 9 people.
Worked as a research assistant on drones.
When everyone else went to work for Lockheed or Boeing—
I was able to leverage the relationships I developed as a research assistant and started my own company.
My first customers were US Air Force Special Programs.
I bootstrapped it to 17 people by the time I was 28.
Corner office with pristine views of the Flatirons. Making bank. Could’ve coasted.
Instead, I bet the farm.
Tried to launch a 2nd commercial software company. Failed.
The core business withered. Went broke.
Even then, I didn’t retreat.
I was exactly where I needed to be.
I met my hot wife. Found God. Rebuilt. Regained contracts. Got stable again.
And now? In my late 30's, I could probably sell the company and retire—albeit modestly.
But that’s no fun.
Because comfort is never the goal. Going big is. Demonstrating what is possible if you have the courage to try.
Going Big Means Going Together
Not every man is going to be Jesus, or Napoleon, or Elon Musk.
But every man can go big in something.
Start a business.
Take back your town.
Homeschool your kids.
Start a church.
Build a brotherhood.
Forge a new county.
You don’t have to be the hero. But you do have to stop hiding.
Because most men today aren’t going big.
They’re shrinking. Scrolling. Disappearing.
Tired. Sedated. Waiting to be told what to do.
But here’s the thing about men:
We come alive when we have a mission.
We rise when we’re called.
And sometimes, that calling starts with a friend who says:
“Let’s go.”
If you’re not the one who starts the fire—
Join someone who has.
Support him. Back him up.
Be the man who shows up early, stays late, and makes the mission possible.
I am beyond grateful for all the men that have chosen to follow me.
No one builds alone.
And no one wins alone.
When you join the right team, the team's wins become your wins.
If You Don’t Know What to Build—Build a Culture That Wins
There’s one thing every man can build—no matter his skills, status, or starting point:
Culture.
If you don’t know what to build, build or join a culture that produces winners.
Because when the culture wins, you win too.
That’s how I grew up.
It wasn’t just my dad. It was his friends too—and all of their boys.
We were part of the Steamboat Springs Winter Sports Club—
a small-town program that produced more Olympians than anywhere else in America.
It wasn’t just about skiing fast. It was about how we were raised.
High standards. High stakes.
Pain meant progress. Guts meant glory.
Winning wasn’t everything—but it sure as hell wasn’t nothing.
And here’s the thing:
Every time someone from our club makes it to the Olympics—every medal, every victory—
it feels like I’m winning. Like I’m there with them.
Because when you’re part of a strong enough culture,
its victories become your victories—even if you’re not the one on the podium.
That’s the power of belonging.
That’s the gift of a righteous culture.
And now?
That’s one of the most noble things we can build.
Not just a company.
Not just a church.
A culture.
A way of life that forms our sons into warriors, builders, leaders—men who win.
And it doesn’t have to be a sports culture.
In my professional career, I’ve been brought into technical cultures of excellence—
places with the same ethos as the Winter Sports Club.
These were teams and lineages that trace their roots to Los Alamos and the Manhattan Project,
to the birth of the internet,
to the pioneers of spaceflight.
They were builders, engineers, dreamers—united by one thing:
The aspiration to Go Big.
No matter the domain—athletics, technology, art, or faith—
great cultures are built by men who strive.
And every generation needs to build its own.
Men Need a Mountain to Climb
Why does going big matter?
Because it brings out the best in us.
It pushes us past laziness, past comfort, past safety.
It forces our courage forward.
It hammers our instincts into strength.
A man needs something to strive for—something real, something hard.
That doesn’t always mean jumping off cliffs or building rockets.
It could mean raising a family. Restoring a house. Defending your town. Launching a company. Running for school board.
Whatever the form—a man must be used.
He must be strained, spent, tested.
He must sweat. Bleed. Contribute. Create. Conquer.
Because that’s how he becomes fully alive.
In times of peace, striving creates beauty:
Art. Architecture. Music. Technology. Family.
In times of crisis, striving becomes sacrifice:
Standing firm. Telling the truth. Bearing the weight so others can endure.
Either way, going big builds the soul.
It turns men into anchors for their people.
And right now—we need anchors.
Build the Culture—Even If You Never See the Promised Land
Some of us won’t live to see the world we’re fighting for.
That’s not failure. That’s faith.
Remember Moses—
He led his people out of slavery.
Faced Pharaoh. Crossed the wilderness. Climbed the mountain.
But he never made it to the Promised Land.
That part was left to Joshua—his successor, his spiritual son.
And that’s how this works.
We don’t build for ourselves.
We build so our sons can cross over.
We raise the banner.
We carry the burden.
We break the ground so they can lay the foundation.
Because maybe our job isn’t to finish the story.
Maybe it’s to forge the culture that makes the ending possible.
Fathers: This Is Our Duty Now
This Father’s Day, I’m not just remembering what my dad told me.
I’m passing it on.
Fathers—tell your sons to go big.
Say it early. Say it often. Say it like you mean it.
“Go big or go home.”
And if they ask what it means?
Tell them it means:
Live with fire.
Live with honor.
Live with purpose.
Take risks.
Accept consequences.
Build something eternal.
Because this world doesn’t need more safe, silent, sedated men.
It needs dangerous men—disciplined, righteous, and resolved.
It needs fathers who raise sons who will fight, build, and win.
And why?
Because we are not in normal times.
As I argued in America’s Collapse as a National Security Crisis and The Fog of the Quiet War—
this isn’t just cultural decay.
It’s not just another election.
It’s not just moral drift.
It’s collapse.
It’s crisis.
It’s war.
A war of memory. A war of meaning.
A war for the soul of our civilization.
And in this kind of war?
Small men lose.
Safe men fold.
Only men who go big—together—can turn this thing around.
So go big.
Go together.
And go now.
Because this Father’s Day isn’t just about memories.
It’s about missions.
So light the fire.
Sharpen the edge.
Raise the banner.
Go big. Or go home.