I didn’t know how to say it out loud.
We were headed to Palo Duro Canyon for the Fourth of July—me, my wife, my brother Travis, my cousin Justin, and the rest of the family. It should’ve been a celebration. Long rides, good food, beers around the campfire. But this time, I wasn’t showing up with a win. I was showing up wounded.
I had just lost my job. Fourteen years in the game. Seven of those spent building something from nothing—turning $1.2 million into over $20 million. And it didn’t matter. Just like that, I was out. Vision too big, maybe. Voice too loud. Or maybe I was just in a place that couldn’t handle what I saw coming.
So when the ride came, I clipped in and took off.
I ride differently when I’m holding something in. My brother and cousin call it fearless. I don’t know if it’s that. I think it’s just… necessary. The faster I go, the quieter it gets in my head. The pain in my chest gets replaced by the fire in my legs. The anger, the shame, the questions—all of it gets burned off by the trail.
That morning, I didn’t just ride—I charged. Barreled through the canyon like I was trying to outrun what happened. I needed that trail to take something off me, and it did. Literally.
I crashed hard. Blood, dirt, and silence.
I laid there for a second, stunned, then rolled over and looked at the sky. I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t hurt in the way you might think. For the first time that whole weekend, I actually felt something leave me.
It was the weight.
The pressure to explain myself.
The fear of looking weak.
The lie that I had to earn my place again.
That crash didn’t break me—it released me.
Because when your body hits the ground, there’s nothing left to perform. No more proving. No more pretending. It’s just you, the dirt, and God.
I got up slow, blood on my arm, mud in my shirt, and this strange calm washing over me. My cousin Justin and brother Travis circled back to check on me. They’d seen me push like that before, but something was different this time. I think they knew. I wasn’t just riding—I was trying to shake something off.
And maybe that’s what reset rides are really about.
It’s not about finishing strong. It’s about letting the trail strip you down until you’re honest again. About who you are. What you’re carrying. And what you actually need.
Later that day, I told my family what happened. I didn’t sugarcoat it. I didn’t make it sound noble. I just told the truth. And you know what? It was okay. They didn’t need a polished version of me. They needed the real one.
I think we all did.
Sometimes, what looks like failure from the outside is actually freedom in disguise. That crash? It wasn’t a wipeout. It was a reset.
I’m still riding with scars. Physically and otherwise. But they remind me of what I let go of that day. The need to prove. The weight of being impressive. The fear of being seen without a win to my name.
Now, when I ride, I ride for peace—not performance. I ride for clarity—not clout. I ride to remember that I’m already enough, even when everything I’ve built gets taken away.
And if I hit the dirt again? So be it.
Because falling doesn’t mean you failed.
Sometimes, it means you finally stopped carrying the weight that was never yours to hold.
—Jason
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