I got fired.
No warning. No write-up. Just a gut-punch meeting, a forced handshake, and a hollow “we’re going in a different direction.”
After 14 years in sales leadership… after building not one, but two companies up… after giving everything I had—mind, body, heart—I was out.
And what hit hardest wasn’t the paycheck I lost.
It was the purpose I thought I’d finally found.
I’ve spent the last seven years helping build a company from a dusty $1.2 million in revenue to over $20 million. We broke records. We rebranded. We created something real—something strong. I didn’t do it alone, but I led from the front, side by side with my team, every mile of the way.
I believed in where we were going. I gave voice to the vision, heart to the strategy, and sweat to the grind. I celebrated every win like it was personal—because it was. I helped define the culture, earn the trust of our customers, and guide the growth like I was building something I’d pass down to my kids one day.
Then one day, it was gone.
Not because I failed.
But because my boss didn’t share my vision.
And that wrecked me.
There’s no easy way to say what it feels like to be told you’re not needed—when everything you’ve done says otherwise. I drove home that day in silence. Not angry, just… numb. I walked into my house, looked at my wife, and said four words I never thought I’d say:
“I just got fired.”
What do you do when the life you’ve been building suddenly isn’t yours anymore?
I’ll tell you what I didn’t do: I didn’t polish my resume.
I didn’t rage-post on LinkedIn.
I didn’t go looking for another ladder to climb.
I grabbed my bike.
And I rode.
That afternoon, I climbed a trail I’d ridden a hundred times—but it felt different.
Heavy. Hollow. Holy.
Every crank of the pedal, every stretch of dirt beneath me, gave me space to breathe.
To ask God questions I didn’t know I had.
To cry behind my sunglasses and let the wind carry the shame I didn’t earn but still felt anyway.
And somewhere along that ride, a strange thought landed in me:
“Maybe I wasn’t fired. Maybe I was freed.”
That’s when the word came: Failureship.
I didn’t create it to sound clever. I created it because it’s what I was living.
Failureship is what happens when leadership collides with loss—and instead of running from it, you ride through it. It’s not failure that defines you, but the faith you hold onto while you’re falling.
And make no mistake—I fell hard.
But something holy caught me on the way down.
If you’ve ever poured yourself into something only to have it ripped out of your hands—this space is for you.
If you’ve ever been made to feel like your vision was too big, your heart too passionate, your leadership too much—you’re not broken. You’re just in the wrong room.
And maybe, like me, it took a brutal door slamming shut to finally open one you were meant to build yourself.
I’m not writing this from a mountaintop. I’m writing it in the middle of the climb.
No job title. No guaranteed income. No backup plan.
But for the first time in a long time—I’m not pretending anymore.
I’m riding in the direction of freedom.
Failureship isn’t about failing. It’s about the faith to keep going after everything says you shouldn’t.
And if you’re in that place right now—between what was and what could be—just know:
You’re not alone.
You’re not lost.
And you’re not done.
This is just the beginning.
If this post hit something in you—subscribe to Gear Shift for monthly updates as I build something new from the ashes of what was. I’ll share what I’m learning, where I’m riding, and how we’re creating a mountain bike park built on the belief that failure isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning of your ride back.
—Jason
This was the hardest post to write—but it’s also the one that launched everything.
If you’re navigating your own pivot, subscribe to Gear Shift for more behind-the-scenes stories from the road, the ride, and the rebuild.
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