“Yesterday you said tomorrow.”

It stuck with me longer than I expected. Not because it’s profound. It’s actually pretty obvious.

But because it’s uncomfortably accurate.

The Pattern

I’ve said “tomorrow” a million times.

There’s always a reason, too. I’m too busy. Too much going on. I’ll get to it later. It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s raining. Too early. Too late. I’ll start fresh tomorrow when things feel more aligned. The reasons never stop.

On the surface, all of that sounds reasonable. Productive, even. Like I’m just managing priorities.

But I know my own bullshit.

Most of the time, “tomorrow” has nothing to do with timing. It’s just a lazy way to avoid doing something I already know I should be doing. No pressure, no consequences, no discomfort – at least not in the moment.

And that’s exactly why it’s so easy and works. Because it feels harmless. It feels temporary. Until I realized that tomorrow never actually shows up.

It just quietly turns into a pattern. And over time, that pattern becomes an ugly habit. A slow, comfortable slide into mediocracy, doing less than I know I’m capable of.

It’s a fucking trap.

Calling It Out

I’ve never really had a boss.

For the better part of three decades, there was no one holding me accountable. No one checking whether I showed up, did the work, or followed through. At most, I’d get the occasional side eye from Michelle – and even that was optional.

Which means everything was always on me.

And that cuts both ways.

In business, I always found the grit. I pushed hard. I showed up. I did what needed to be done. The stakes were clear, the feedback immediate, and the consequences were real.

But in other areas – my health, my fitness, the things that didn’t scream for attention – I let myself slide. Not all at once. Slowly. Quietly. One “tomorrow” at a time.

And because there was no external accountability, it was easy to get away with it.

Until it wasn’t.

After I sold my business, something changed.

The external pressure disappeared. No deadlines, no urgency, no one waiting on me. And suddenly, “tomorrow” didn’t feel like a good enough excuse anymore.

I couldn’t bullshit myself the way I used to.

At some point, you have to face the guy in the mirror – and he knows exactly what’s real and what isn’t.

No More Tomorrow

At some point, I stopped accepting “tomorrow” as an option.

Not because I suddenly became more disciplined, but because I started seeing it for what it really was – a convenient, lazy escape hatch. A way to delay something I already knew mattered.

So instead of negotiating with myself, I changed the environment.

I hired a personal trainer. It’s a lot harder to say “tomorrow” when someone is standing there waiting for you. That external commitment removes the option to quietly slide.

I built more structure into my days. Reminders. Checklists. To-do lists. Not because I’m forgetful, but because I know how easy it is to conveniently “forget” the things that require effort. It’s all part of my Life by Design approach – designing a life on purpose, with intent, reducing friction where it matters, and removing loopholes where I tend to exploit them.

And then there’s the part that matters most.

I’ve become very aware of how little time is actually left.

If I’m lucky, I have maybe twenty good years. Twenty summers. Twenty Christmases. Twenty birthdays.

That’s not a lot.

The Stoics had a phrase for this: memento mori — remember that you will die.

It sounds heavy, but it’s not. It’s clarifying.

Because once you really internalize that, “tomorrow” starts to lose its appeal.

Closing

I still catch myself saying it sometimes.

“Tomorrow.”

That reflex doesn’t just disappear. Old habits die hard. It’s been there for decades, and it still shows up in small, almost invisible ways. A skipped workout. A delayed decision. Something I know I should do, quietly pushed out of sight.

The difference now is that I notice it.

I don’t automatically believe it anymore. I don’t give it the same benefit of the doubt. Because more often than not, “tomorrow” isn’t a plan. It’s just a softer way of saying “not today.”

And I’ve seen where that leads.

A day turns into a week. A week into a pattern. A pattern into something that feels a lot like mediocrity – the kind that doesn’t arrive suddenly, but builds slowly, almost comfortably.

That’s the trap.

These days, I try to interrupt it early. Not perfectly, not every time, but often enough to change the trajectory. To do the thing when it matters, not when it feels convenient.

Because when you zoom out, there aren’t that many “tomorrows” left.

And that alone is usually enough to make today count a little more.

The post Yesterday you said tomorrow. appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

Like most people of my generation, I grew up with it. Records were just how music worked. You’d sit down, put on an album, listen to it from beginning to end. You knew every song, every transition, every lyric. The album cover was studied in detail. The inserts mattered. It was an experience, not just background noise.

Then, sometime in my twenties, vinyl disappeared from my life.

CDs took over. Then DVDs. Then eventually everything went digital. Cleaner, more convenient, more modern. I got rid of my records without thinking twice. At the time, it felt like progress.

And for a while, it was.

Music became easier. Instantly accessible. Infinite. Whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it. No friction, no effort, no waiting.

But somewhere along the way, something else disappeared with it.

I didn’t notice it at first. It’s not something you can measure or point to directly. But the experience changed. Music became something I consumed, not something I engaged with. It was always on, but rarely felt.

About ten years ago, almost on a whim, I bought a record player again.

Not because I had a plan. Not because I wanted to start a collection. Just because something in me missed the way it used to feel.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that small decision would quietly change how I spend some of my evenings.

Back to the Beginning

At first, it was simple.

I started buying back the records I had as a kid. Albums from the 80s that I knew by heart – the ones I had played over and over again in my teenage years. Nothing rare. Nothing particularly valuable. Just familiar.

There was something oddly satisfying about finding them again. Holding the same covers. Flipping them over. Dropping the needle and hearing that first crackle before the music starts.

It didn’t matter that some of them were scratched. Or that they came with that slightly moldy, basement smell that Michelle absolutely hates. None of that felt like a flaw to me.

If anything, it made them better.

They had history. They had lived somewhere before they got to me. They weren’t pristine, but they were real.

That was the part I hadn’t expected.

Listening to those records didn’t feel like going backwards. It felt like reconnecting with something I hadn’t realized I had lost. Not just the music itself, but the way I used to experience it – sitting down, paying attention, letting an album unfold instead of skipping through it.

Spotify, by comparison, started to feel different.

Endless. Frictionless. Convenient. And, if I’m honest, a bit hollow.

Beyond Nostalgia

Once I had worked my way through the records I remembered from my teenage years, something shifted.

I wasn’t just revisiting the past anymore. I started exploring it.

I moved into the 70s. Albums I hadn’t owned myself, but had heard growing up – the music my mom used to play around the house. ABBA, among others. Songs that had been in the background of my childhood, now suddenly in the foreground, experienced differently.

From there, it kept going.

The 60s. The 50s. Even a few recordings from the 40s.

At that point, it wasn’t about nostalgia at all. It was about discovery – but a different kind of discovery than what streaming offers. Not endless choice, but selective depth. Fewer options, more attention.

There’s something grounding about putting on a record that has existed for decades. Music that has survived not just trends, but time itself. These albums have lived through wars, moves, ownership changes, entire lifetimes. They’ve been played, stored, forgotten, rediscovered.

And somehow, they’re still here.

That changes how you listen.

It’s no longer just about whether you like a song. It’s about what has endured, and why. These records aren’t just recordings. They’re artifacts – small cultural monuments of their time.

And sitting with them feels very different than scrolling through a playlist.

Evenings with Miles

Somewhere along the way, this became a ritual.

Late evening, usually after Michelle has gone to bed, when the day has finally quieted down. No TV. No background noise. Just a drink, a record, and a bit of space to think.

There’s one album I keep coming back to: Birth of the Cool by Miles Davis – the original 1961 pressing. Not perfect. A few pops, the occasional crackle. Nothing that would pass for “high fidelity” by modern standards.

And yet, it feels more alive than anything I can stream.

I put it on, sit down, and let it play.

No skipping. No checking my phone. No multitasking.

Just listening.

It doesn’t feel like entertainment. It feels like presence. A different pace. A different kind of attention. The kind that doesn’t come easily anymore.

It’s a small thing, objectively. Just music, played on an old format.

But in those moments, it feels like I’ve stepped out of the constant flow of everything else – the noise, the inputs, the endless stream of things competing for attention – and into something slower, quieter, more intentional.

And that, more than anything, is what keeps me coming back.

Imperfection, Soul, and Why It Matters

Michelle doesn’t get it why I like them. She looks at some of these records – scratched, slightly warped, carrying that unmistakable “old basement” smell – and asks the obvious question:

Why would you spend money on this when you can listen to a perfectly clean, remastered version on Spotify?

It’s a fair question. And objectively, she’s right.

Streaming is better in almost every measurable way. It’s cleaner. More precise. More convenient. You get the same album in ultra-high definition, instantly, without leaving your chair.

But that’s exactly the point.

One has a soul.
The other is just a bunch of digital 0s and 1s.

The pops, the clicks, the imperfections – they’re not flaws. They’re part of the experience. A reminder that this thing existed long before it got to me. That it has a history. That it has been played, handled, moved, and preserved over time.

Streaming removes all of that. It strips music down to pure signal – just data, delivered flawlessly.

And in doing so, it also strips away something harder to define.

Call it texture. Call it presence. Call it soul.

It’s not that one is better than the other in an absolute sense. It’s that they offer fundamentally different experiences. One optimizes for efficiency. The other for attention.

And at this stage of my life, I find myself choosing the latter more often than not.

Because not everything has to make sense. Sometimes it just has to make you happy.

The post Why I Buy Old Records in a Streaming World appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

When you spend twenty-five years inside companies – building them, scaling them, selling them – pieces of your identity get farmed out to titles, urgency, metrics, and other people’s expectations. When the exit papers were signed, I expected liberation. What I got instead was a strange emptiness: a man with freedom and resources, but no operating system. No purpose, no reason to get up in the morning and put on pants.

2025 became the year I confronted that.

It didn’t start with lofty intentions. It started with discomfort – the realization that without a business to run, the engine of my life sputtered. So I rebuilt it the old-fashioned way: one brick at a time.

The Physical Rebuild

It sounds cliché to say I got in shape – except this wasn’t a fitness trend.
It was therapy without a therapist.

30 pounds lost. 135 hard workouts. Strength returning in ways I hadn’t seen since my mid-30s.
VO2 up. 12% body fat. Biological age is 8 years less than my chronological age.

I wasn’t chasing aesthetics nearly as much as I was rebuilding my foundation.
When the inner world feels unstructured, the body becomes the most accessible place to create order.

And the best answer to just about any question is: Go to the gym.

Learning How to Live Without a Company as My Identity

This was harder than any workout.

I had to learn how to live like a civilian. No fires to put out. No board calls. No ambitious calendar.

Instead, this year was:

• long walks through London
• slow coffees
• art galleries
• cooking
• wellness retreats
• absurdly enjoyable lunches

In addition: 103 travel days – 14 trips – across Nice, Hamburg, Berlin, Amsterdam, Minneapolis, Wisconsin, Geneva, Lyon, Dijon, Dubai, Crete, Munich, South Tyrol, and Paris.
I wasn’t escaping anything. I was expanding, trying on new settings, calibrating who I was outside the boardroom.

London became the first real city in my life where I wasn’t visiting, hustling, or escaping.
I was living.

Taste Became a Practice, Not a Purchase

This one surprised me a bit.

Art collecting wasn’t just about collecting objects – it became a way of understanding myself.
Vintage Louis Vuitton luggage, old vinyl, and contemporary fine art appealed because they promised continuity with a soul.
Learning to bake bread and croissants in Paris and to cook more intentionally was a reclaiming of creation over consumption. Even drumming – which began as a hobby – turned out to be something deeper: expression without utility. As a founder, that’s foreign terrain.

The Emotional Homework Was the Real Work

No one talks about this.

Company exits break your identity far more quietly than failure ever does.

I felt ego-loss, professional loneliness, the awkward abundance of time without urgency, the sudden realization that I had mastered performing but not being.

Most people distract themselves at this stage.
I sat in it.

It was uncomfortable. But it was also clarifying.

Because the longer I sat there, the clearer it became that my life had been optimized for achievement, not meaning.

The Rebuild

The good news: I didn’t stay there.

Travel helped.
Structure helped.
Fitness and health became the anchor.
Truth telling – especially to myself – became a habit.

And slowly, life took shape again. Not because I chased more, but because I intentionally did less.

I started worshipping quality over quantity – in experiences, relationships, routines, purchases, conversations, even meals.

The Family Legacy Project Changed Me

If there was a theme of “purpose rediscovered,” this was it.

Interviewing my mother and uncle about their escape from East Germany, their loss in the Hamburg flood, the rebuilding – and weaving it into a book – became something profound.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t creating assets for my balance sheet; I was creating meaning for my life.

Legacy isn’t net worth, it’s narrative.
That truth landed hard this year.

The Shift That Defined 2025

If I had to distill the year into a single before/after:

Achievement → Aliveness

I went from chasing momentum to cultivating presence.
From optimization to enjoyment.
From more to less but better.

This wasn’t retreat. It was refinement.

2025 was the year my ambition found a pace that didn’t destroy the person carrying it.

What I Carry into 2026

Health and fitness lead. Not negotiable. Top priority.
Depth beats breadth.
Subtraction precedes addition.

2026 is for building on top of that – intentionally, beautifully, and without pretending that the old playbook still applies. But that’s food for another blog soon.

The most valuable thing I learned this year?

Success is not the peak.
Identity is.

I spent 2025 recovering mine.

The post 2025: The Year I Rebuilt Myself appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

I, on the other hand, collect Keepalls from the 1980s. They’re over 40 years old, yet still in incredible condition. They smell like history. They’ve got scratches, scuffs, a bit of wear. Each one has a pulse. Each one feels like it’s lived a life, carrying stories I’ll never know. They’re not commodities – they’re companions.

And don’t even get me started on the quality. There’s no way any bag you buy today will still be around in 40 years. My bags from the 80s? I guarantee they have another 40+ years ahead of them with the proper care I give them.

Whether it’s a vintage Louis Vuitton Keepall from the 1980s, a 70-year-old Blue Note jazz record, or a 30-year-old Porsche 911 – I’ll take the old, unique, imperfect version over the latest release every single time.

Because while the new stuff might look “perfect,” the old stuff has a soul.

Cracks, Pops, and Soul: Why I Collect Old Vinyl

I spend an embarrassing amount of money on 70-year-old jazz vinyl. Original Blue Note pressings, Village Vanguard recordings, the greats at their best. These records aren’t perfect – far from it. They have scratches, pops, and clicks. The covers are torn, frayed, and sometimes they smell like a basement.

Michelle hates them. She thinks they’re flawed, broken, and ugly. But for me, those so-called flaws are exactly what make them magical. They carry the soul of decades past, the energy of every room they’ve been played in. When I drop the needle, I don’t just hear Coltrane or Miles Davis – I hear the history of that physical record, every scar baked into it.

Sure, I could listen to a pristine, remastered digital version of Blue Train – but it’s sterile, flat. I want the raw, imperfect, living version. I don’t want to hear what the music could be in theory. I want to hear what it actually is, scratches and all.

Why a 30-Year-Old Porsche Beats a Shiny New One

I live in central London right now, and truth be told, I need a car about as much as I need a hole in my head. But if I were to buy one, it wouldn’t be the shiny, gadget-packed model sitting in the dealership today. It would be something with history, with patina – a 30-year-old Porsche 911 over a brand-new one any day.

Modern cars come with every imaginable bell and whistle – touchscreens, driver-assist tech, buttons stacked on buttons. But strip all of that away and ask: where’s the soul? Where’s the connection?

Give me raw engineering, unfiltered. A steering wheel that actually fights you back, gears you feel in your bones, an engine that roars instead of whispers. No autopilot. No software updates. Just a machine built to be driven, not to drive itself.

Old cars remind me that less really is more. They’re imperfect, inconvenient, sometimes even dangerous by today’s standards. And yet – they’re alive.

Why It Matters (The Bigger Point)

Collecting old things isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about authenticity, craftsmanship, and soul. I don’t want the newest, most pristine object – I want something that’s been lived in, tested by time, and still standing strong.

That reflects my own philosophy: I’d rather own fewer things that carry meaning than piles of shiny, disposable junk. Quality over quantity, every single time.

And here’s the bigger angle – in business and in life, chasing the “new” is easy. Anybody can copy the latest trend, add more features, or buy the next shiny thing. That doesn’t take taste, or commitment, or vision. The real challenge is to find what’s unique, nurture it, and stick with it through the imperfections. That’s where the real value lies.

Closing Thoughts

At the end of the day, I’m not collecting bags, records, watches, or cars. I’m collecting stories, character, and meaning. The scratches, the pops and clicks, the dents – those are the fingerprints of time.

New things may shine, but old things endure. And in a world obsessed with more, faster, newer, I’d rather invest my time, money, and attention in the things that actually last.

The post Why I Prefer Old Stuff Over New Shiny Things appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

That line has always stuck with me. It’s from Mary Schmich’s famous “Wear Sunscreen” essay, and it couldn’t describe my own journey more perfectly.

I’ve lived in all of those places – Southern California, New York City – and they left their marks on me. Each city shaped me in different ways: some good, some not so good. Add in Hamburg, my forever “Heimathafen,” and now London, my current chapter, and you’ve got the cocktail of experiences that defines who I am today.

San Diego: When Life Is Too Easy

I loved living in San Diego. It was paradise: sunny skies every single day, sailing on the bay, eating clean, working out, living a beautiful life surrounded by beautiful people. I was billing top consultant rates, had zero hardships, and on paper, it looked perfect.

But after a while, it started to feel like Groundhog Day. Every day was the same. Always sunny, always pleasant, always easy. Like chocolate ice cream every day. Nothing ever challenged me. I grew up with seasons, with change, and I realized I missed that rhythm. Too much comfort dulls you. It smooths out the edges until you stop feeling sharp.

San Diego taught me that beauty and ease aren’t enough for me. If every day looks the same, it’s not really living.

New York City: Where Hustle Meets Soul

Leaving San Diego, we dove headfirst into its polar opposite – New York City.

The energy hit me right away, I could almost taste it. There’s a constant buzz in the air. It was gritty and raw, every block pulsing with ambition. There’s a reason people say, “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.” New Yorkers walk faster, talk louder, grow sharper – and I wasn’t just surviving there. I was thriving. It made me feel alive. It fed my soul.

San Diego was comfort. NYC was clarity. Suddenly, I wanted to do big f*cking things.

But New York’s edge cuts both ways. I’ll never forget the day in Whole Foods when Michelle, in a rare moment of calm, accidentally nudged the cart of the person ahead. He snapped back at her – hard. Tearful, she came home that day, reminded how harsh “soft touches” can feel here. Or the time we reached for the last salami in the display case – before we could react, someone snatched it right in front of us. Instant reality check. In NYC, you’ve got to be quick – whether in business or at the deli counter.

New York didn’t wear me down. It fed my hunger. It taught me how to move faster, think sharper, and live bigger. It wasn’t just a city I lived in. It became how I walked through life.

Hamburg: My Heimathafen

And then, of course, there’s Hamburg – my soul, my Heimathafen.

It feels like an old shoe to me – it just fits. Comfortable, familiar. I instantly know my way around, never need a map, and I pass by places that have been there since I was a kid. It’s continuity in a world that changes too fast.

Hamburg isn’t flashy like New York or London. It doesn’t shout for attention. It’s quiet wealth, understated, and conservative. To newcomers, it can feel cold, maybe even distant. But if you lean into the simplicity – like sitting down with a midday beer at the Alster on a sunny day – you get it. You start to feel the city’s rhythm, and you fall in love with it.

The North German mentality is in my DNA: productivity, efficiency, Fleiß. It’s not something I learned later in life – it’s who I am. My ambition may belong to New York, but my foundation – order, discipline, persistence – is Hamburg through and through.

London: Refinement Without the Rough Edges

And now, London. My current chapter.

If New York was raw energy and Hamburg is quiet strength, London is refinement. It’s a city of history, class, and polish. 2,000 years of it layered into every street, every building, every ceremony. It has everything New York has – culture, commerce, ambition – but without the rough edges. It’s cleaner, politer, more measured.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy. The weather is famously shit, and London isn’t cheap either. But what I love is the balance: it’s global and cosmopolitan, yet with a sense of tradition and formality that’s uniquely British. You can feel the weight of history here, but also the dynamism of one of the most connected cities in the world.

It’s the perfect place for me right now. Having sold my business, I have the freedom to design my own life – and London makes that easy. From here, I can travel the world with ease, explore my passions for fitness, art, and culture, and enjoy the kind of life that once felt impossible when I was grinding 24/7 as a CEO.

London isn’t forever. But for this chapter, it’s exactly right.

What These Cities Taught Me

Each city shaped me in ways I couldn’t have predicted.

San Diego taught me that too much comfort dulls your edge.
New York showed me how alive you can feel when you lean into the grind.
Hamburg grounds me – it’s home, heritage, and discipline.
London gives me refinement, balance, and a stage for my current chapter.

I don’t believe in living life on autopilot. I’ve always designed mine with intent. And part of that design is choosing the environments that stretch you, challenge you, and sometimes even comfort you.

At heart, I’m a New Yorker. In my soul, I’m Hamburg. For now, I live London. And I carry a little bit of Southern California’s sunshine with me, too.

Because here’s the truth: the cities we live in don’t just shape our routines – they shape who we become.

The post Soft in California. Hard in New York. German at Heart. London by Choice. appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

What really happens after selling a business? Here’s my story of letting go, finding freedom, and building a new life by design.

I never started my company with the goal of selling it. In fact, for most of its life, the thought of letting go never even crossed my mind. I loved the work, loved the team, and loved the challenge of growing something from nothing.

But businesses, like people, have a lifecycle. My partners were older and started asking the hard questions: How does this end? What’s the plan? At first, my answer was simple: Why sell? We’re making money, we’re successful, I’m happy. Let’s just keep going.

Then reality hit me. At some point, it has to end. A business doesn’t run forever, and pretending it will is just self-delusion. So I began a new journey I hadn’t anticipated – preparing to scale myself out of the business.

Freedom > Money

When we started thinking seriously about an exit, one thing became crystal clear to me: I wasn’t going to stick around for an earn-out.

On paper, an earn-out can look appealing – more money dangled on the back end, a chance to “prove” the business continues to perform. But here’s the truth: I didn’t start my company for money. I started it for freedom.

The idea of selling my company only to turn around and ask permission to take a Friday off, submit expense reports, and work under someone else’s rules? No thanks. That would have been the exact opposite of why I became an entrepreneur in the first place.

For me, the real wealth was autonomy. The money just came along for the ride.

Culture by Design

If you ask most founders what makes their business valuable, they’ll point to revenue, margins, or growth rates. All important, of course. But for me, one of the things I was most proud of was our culture.

I’d spent years inside Fortune 500 companies as a consultant, walking into rooms where three out of four people clearly hated their jobs. The corporate dread was palpable. I swore I’d never build a company like that.

So I worked relentlessly to create a culture by design, not by default. We built a small but mighty team that genuinely enjoyed working together. Even though we were a remote company, we had camaraderie, trust, and a sense of fun.

That made the exit harder. Selling wasn’t just a financial decision – it meant handing over a group of people I cared about. I wanted to be sure they’d be treated well, that the company we’d built with intention wouldn’t get crushed under someone else’s bureaucracy.

Letting go of the numbers was easy. Letting go of the people was not.

The Letting Go

The funny thing about an exit is how quickly you become irrelevant.

At first, the transition period was busy – my inbox full, the team pinging me constantly with questions: Where do we keep this file? How do we handle that client? Who signs off on this contract? I was happy to answer, to ease them into the new reality.

But week by week, the questions slowed. Until, almost overnight, they stopped. No more pings. No more calls. No one needed me anymore.

At first, it felt liberating. After 20+ years of running a company, I could wake up at 10:30, pour a glass of wine, and call it a day if I wanted to. No pressure. No responsibility. No weight on my shoulders.

But that freedom carried a sting I hadn’t expected: the realization that I wasn’t important anymore. I fell into what so many founders warned me about but I hadn’t truly understood – the post-exit hole. When you’ve tied your identity to building, leading, and being “the guy” for decades, what happens when all of that is gone?

It’s not the money you miss. It’s the meaning.

Life After Exit

If I could do it over again, I’d have taken more time off. A real break. Not two months of wine-at-10:30 novelty, but a year on an island somewhere – time to reset, disconnect, and rediscover myself outside of business.

Instead, I slipped back into old habits. Within weeks, I was dabbling with new ideas, tinkering with projects, starting new ventures. It wasn’t because I had to – the pressure of payroll and revenue was gone. It was because building is what I know. It’s who I am.

The difference this time? I no longer needed to swing for the fences. Some of my new companies are profitable, others are loss leaders. But I enjoy them. I explore what interests me, experiment with AI, create projects that are fun and useful – without the crushing weight of “it has to work.”

I also realized something important: freedom without purpose feels hollow. The real challenge after an exit isn’t money management. It’s meaning management. What do you want your days to look like when you never have to work again?

That’s where I’ve landed. Less about chasing, more about choosing. Less about running a company, more about running my life with intent.

Life Today

These days, I’ve built a different kind of routine. My health has become my top priority. I train, eat well, and treat fitness like it’s my job – because in a way, it is. Longevity is the best investment I can make.

The travel bug I’ve always had is now fully unleashed. With London as our home base, Michelle and I can hop across Europe at will. A long weekend in Italy, a few days in Switzerland, a week in Crete – no guilt, no stress, no asking for permission. Technology makes staying connected easy, so being globally mobile isn’t a hurdle anymore. (That’s probably another blog entirely.)

I’ve also discovered passions I never had time for before. Fine art and collectibles have become both an indulgence and an investment – a mix of beauty and strategy that keeps me sharp and engaged.

In short: life is pretty darn good. Not perfect, not without its challenges, but designed with intent. And that’s exactly the point.

Reflections on Letting Go

Looking back, the exit wasn’t really about selling a company. It was about learning to let go – of control, of identity, of the belief that my worth was tied to the business I built.

The truth is, I’ll always be an entrepreneur. I’ll always build, tinker, and create. But I no longer feel chained to it. My days are mine to design now, whether that’s a workout, a trip, or simply sitting in front of a painting I love.

What I’ve learned is this: the goal was never money. It was freedom. And the real work starts after you achieve it – figuring out how to live with purpose when you no longer have to do anything at all.

I scaled myself out of the business. What I found on the other side wasn’t emptiness. It was the space to build a life that feels like mine.

The post Scaling Myself Out of the Business: Lessons From Letting Go appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

A few weeks ago, my buddy David Schnurmann told me a story that touched a nerve with me.
One afternoon, he and his son sat down with his mom, Judy, for a casual 30-minute video chat. No production crew, no fancy gear – just a son asking questions about her life.

A year later, Judy passed away unexpectedly.

That simple recording is now the most valuable thing his family owns. It sparked what David calls The Judy Project – a movement to help people capture their loved ones’ stories before it’s too late.

When he shared this with me, it hit a nerve.

Because I’m working on something similar: a family history project to preserve my own mother’s and uncle’s memories before time quietly erases them. It’s all part of my life by design and living with meaning and intent.

My Family Project

My family’s story is remarkable and fragile. My grandmother escaped post-war East Germany with her children in 1960, slipping through the central cemetery in the middle of the night in Berlin just before the Wall went up. They arrived in Hamburg with nothing, only to lose everything again in the massive 1962 flood. My mom was still a teenager when she decided to become a nurse – mostly for the free housing.

These aren’t just dramatic anecdotes; they’re the roots of who I am. But if I don’t capture them now, they’ll vanish when the last person who lived them is gone.

That realization pushed me to start recording interviews with my mom and her brother. We talk about the late ’50s, the escape, the flood, and the small but vivid memories that shaped our family’s DNA. No scripts, no perfect lighting – just an audio recording of their voices, their laughter, and the occasional long pause while a memory surfaces.

Why It Matters

Every session feels both ordinary and profound. I set up a simple mic, hit record, and let them talk. There’s no production team, no fancy editing. Just raw, living history.

Later, I run the audio through AI transcription tools and start shaping it into a book – chapter by chapter, memory by memory. I’m careful not to embellish or fictionalize. The point is to preserve their words, not mine.

It’s a slow process, but every time I replay a story – my mom describing the fear of sneaking through Berlin, or laughing about her first nursing shift – I feel a quiet urgency. These voices won’t be here forever, but the recordings will.

The Harsh Truth

Here’s the gut punch: none of us are promised tomorrow.
Your parents, grandparents, that aunt with the legendary stories – one day they simply won’t be there to tell them.

I’ve lost count of how many friends have said, “I wish I’d recorded my dad’s voice” or “I can’t remember the exact way Mom told that story.” Once those voices are gone, so are the details: the cadence, the humor, the little side comments that bring a memory to life.

You can inherit houses, stocks, or vintage watches. But you can’t inherit a conversation that never happened. That truth is what finally shoved me from “someday I should do this” to setting up the mic and pressing record – now, while I still can.

My Own Project

That’s why I finally stopped talking about it and started doing it.
I’m sitting down – virtually and in person – with my mom and her brother to capture the stories of our family’s past.

We’re focusing on the late 1950s through the 1970s:

• My grandmother’s daring escape from Leipzig to Hamburg in 1960.
• A new life in Hamburg as the Wall went up in ’61.
• The devastating 1962 Hamburg flood that swept away everything they owned.
• My mom’s decision to become a nursing student – mostly for the free housing.
• My own earliest memories from the mid-’70s, when the world felt big and safe all at once.

I’m recording every conversation and using AI tools to transcribe and eventually shape them into a book for our family. No polished scripts. No second takes. Just their voices, their words, their laughter, their pauses – captured before time can steal them.

My Call to Action

This project isn’t about creating a bestseller – or even about future generations.
I’m not doing it for some hypothetical grandkids or to leave a neat family archive for my son.
Truth is, I don’t know if he – or anyone – will ever listen to these recordings or read the book.

I’m doing this for me.
It’s my way of holding on to the people and places that shaped me, of making sense of the messy history that led to who I am today.
Capturing these stories while I still can is selfish, in the best sense of the word.
It’s a way to honor where I come from, to wrestle with the past, and to make sure I never forget.

Closing Thoughts

If you’ve ever thought, “I should record Mom’s stories someday,” stop waiting.
Life doesn’t hand out reminders until it’s too late.

My family book project isn’t complicated: a quiet Zoom call, a voice recorder, and a few thoughtful questions. But it gives me something priceless – a way to revisit the people and moments that built me, in their own words, unfiltered and real.

I don’t know who will ever read the finished book, and that’s fine.
This isn’t about a legacy for others.
It’s about presence for me – capturing the heartbeat of a family before it fades into silence.

A special thanks to my friend David Schnurmann, whose own experience inspired me.
After recording a simple 30-minute video with his mom, she passed unexpectedly a year later.
That single recording became a cherished keepsake and led him to create The Judy Project – a movement to help others preserve their family stories.
His example is the reason I stopped waiting and hit record.

The post The Legacy That Money Can’t Buy appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

I’ve always loved cars – the older, faster, louder, and more ridiculous, the better. And lately, I’ve been thinking about what actually makes something perfect.

Is it perfect when you can’t possibly add anything else? Or when you can’t take anything more away?

Modern life – and modern cars – are obsessed with “more.” More features, more tech, more buttons, more complexity. But my 1967 AC Cobra 427 S/C is the exact opposite: no gadgets, no power steering, no airbags, no windows, no roof, barely even seatbelts. It’s just a massive engine, four wheels, and a steering wheel. That’s it.

Driving that Cobra, you realize something: perfection isn’t about addition. It’s about ruthless subtraction – stripping away everything that isn’t absolutely essential, until all that’s left is the core, the soul, the very essence, the stuff that matters. In a world addicted to “just one more feature,” the real flex is knowing when to stop.

So here’s what that car – and this mindset – taught me about business, investing, and life.

Two Schools of Thought

There are two types of people in this world: the adders and the subtractors.

The adders are always chasing the next upgrade, the next feature, the next “improvement.” Their motto: If a little is good, more must be better. It’s everywhere – not just in cars. Look at the Amazon website or Facebook. They’re a hot mess, each page overloaded with a hundred different links, options, notifications, pop-ups. The SAP screen to create a single purchase order? Same story – layer after layer of buttons, tabs, and settings. Hell, I used to be one of them. In my old business, I added more features to our website, more gizmos, one more link, one more “must-have” nobody actually asked for.

Then there are the subtractors – the people who see every new addition as potential clutter or noise, something that dilutes the experience. For them, perfection happens when there’s nothing left to take away. Every cut brings you closer to the essence, the soul.

Over time, I’ve switched camps. Now I take a clue from Steve Jobs, who obsessed over what NOT to include. I cut until there’s nothing left to cut. I want to distill everything – my products, my network, my schedule – down to its core. That’s why I love the Cobra. That’s why I cut over 3,000 LinkedIn connections in one afternoon. Subtraction isn’t about scarcity or minimalism for its own sake. It’s about stripping away the bullshit so what matters can actually breathe.

This isn’t just about cars or websites. It’s a game changer for how you run a business, invest, or design your life.

Real World Example: The Car Analogy

Let’s bring it back to the Cobra.

This car is the exact opposite of modern complexity. There’s no touchscreen, no power windows, no lane assist. No cup holders, no climate control, not even a radio. It’s all engine, wheels, and raw, mechanical feel. There’s nothing extra. Every ounce is there for a reason.

When I’m behind the wheel, it’s just me, the road, and the roar of a V8. It’s not comfortable. It’s not convenient. Pure, brutal, undiluted exhilaration. There’s nowhere to hide from the experience – no digital cocoon, no distractions. The Cobra is honest. It forces you to pay attention. And that’s the beauty.

Contrast that with most modern cars. They’re so packed with features and “driver aids” you sometimes wonder who’s actually driving. They numb you. The connection to the machine gets buried under a pile of options and conveniences. At some point, the car stops being a car and becomes a rolling compromise.

The Cobra isn’t a compromise. It’s distilled down to the bare essentials, and that’s why it’s perfect.

How I Apply Subtraction to Business, Investing, and Life

This mindset goes way beyond cars. It’s how I think about business, investing, and the way I run my days.

In business, subtraction means refusing to add another feature just because we “could.” I used to cram my products and websites with add-ons, bells, and whistles, thinking it made us look bigger, smarter, more valuable. But most of it was noise. These days, I cut. Ruthlessly. If a feature doesn’t directly serve our core customers or drive real results, it’s gone.

In investing, I do the same. There’s always a new product, a “must-have” asset, some hot opportunity. But I keep things simple: low-cost index funds, real estate, art I actually love. If I don’t understand it, don’t use it, or it doesn’t align with my goals, I cut it from the portfolio.

Even in my daily routine, I subtract. I cut out the meetings, tasks, and social obligations that don’t serve me. My not-to-do list is now as important as my to-do list. I say no more often than I say yes – because every unnecessary “yes” makes my life heavier and less clear.

It took me years to realize that more isn’t better – better is better. Sometimes, perfect is what’s left after you’ve stripped away everything that doesn’t matter.

The Payoff – What I Gained By Saying Enough

Here’s what happens when you get ruthless about subtraction:

• Clarity: Every decision gets easier. No more wading through noise or pointless options – just focus on what matters.
• Freedom: My calendar, my investments, my business, and even my garage are lighter. I have space for what actually moves the needle. That’s real freedom – not being owned by your own stuff.
• Energy: Fewer obligations mean more bandwidth for health, creativity, and actual fun. I’m not weighed down by unnecessary “maybes.”
• Quality over quantity: Every project, trip, or connection means more, because I’m no longer chasing the next shiny object. What remains is intentional.

Cutting down is not about living a lesser life. It’s about finally making room for the stuff that counts.
This is the same principle behind my “Life by Design” philosophy and why I walked away from the grind in Dubai – fewer distractions, fewer pointless commitments, more space for things that actually light me up.

The truth? The day I started cutting – features, obligations, people, junk – I actually got more. More time, more fulfillment, more results. Not by adding, but by letting go.

The Challenge – Start Cutting

So here’s my challenge for you:
Next time you think about how to make something “better” – your work, your investments, your relationships, even your own headspace – don’t ask what you can add. Ask what you can take away. What’s the extra weight, the noise, the stuff you’re just carrying out of habit or fear? Get rid of it. Cut until what’s left is undeniable.

That’s how you get to the essence, the core, the part that actually matters.
It’s not always comfortable. Sometimes it’s brutal. But that’s where real perfection lives – not in endless addition, but in fearless subtraction.

Just look at the Cobra. Nothing left to add, nothing left to take away. That’s how I want to build everything – from my next project to my actual life.

Less, but better. That’s the whole game.

The post Less Is More – Or When Is Something Perfect? appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

If there’s one reason my life is richer, calmer, and more productive than ever, it’s this: I stopped doing things that drain me, annoy me, or just don’t serve any real purpose. Many people chase happiness by cramming more onto their to-do list. I do the opposite. I got intentional about what not to do.

This idea isn’t new, but it hit home for me when I saw Greg Isenberg share his “things I’m not doing anymore” list. It was so simple, so obvious, and yet so rare. So I started my own. Every month, I review it, update it, and hold myself accountable. My not-to-do list is my blueprint for a happier, saner, more meaningful life.

Why a Not-To-Do List Matters (And How I Build Mine)

For most of my career, I bought into the lie that doing more equals living better. More goals, more hustle, more obligations. All it got me was a busier calendar and a mind that never shut off. Eventually, I realized that real productivity and happiness come from doing less – less of what drains me, distracts me, or keeps me stuck.

That’s why I started my not-to-do list. Every month, I sit down and review it. My criteria are simple, and I don’t make exceptions:

• If it drains my energy, it’s out.
• If it creates stress for no good reason, it’s off the table.
• If I’m only doing it to serve my ego, not my real life, it gets axed.
• If it doesn’t move the needle on my happiness, fulfillment, or impact, it’s gone.
• If I’m doing it out of guilt, habit, or “because I always have,” I scratch it.
• If it makes my life smaller or more resentful, it’s history.

This isn’t about running from challenges or hiding from reality. It’s about intentionally making space for the people, projects, and experiences that add real value and joy to my life.

What’s On My Not-To-Do List Right Now

Here’s where things get real. This list isn’t theory – it’s the choices I actually make, month after month, to protect my energy and design a life that works for me:

• I don’t schmooze with random strangers at networking events. I never enjoyed it and I’ve stopped pretending it’s valuable. If a connection matters, I rely on personal introductions from people who know me and who I respect, not roomfuls of business cards.
• I don’t prioritize work over workouts. My health is non-negotiable. If the calendar gets tight, the gym wins. Everything and everyone is just going to have to wait.
• I don’t defer trips until “things settle down.” Life never really slows down and there’s never the perfect moment. If I want to go, I book it.
• I don’t fly long-haul red-eyes in economy anymore. One day lost to feeling like shit isn’t worth it. I value my health and my time too much.
• I don’t connect with random strangers on LinkedIn anymore. If there isn’t a clear, mutual, long-term benefit, I don’t hit accept. I just got rid of 80% of my LinkedIn connections and am not about to start collecting random faces or meaningless digital acquaintances again. My network is now intentional, curated, and valuable – quality over quantity, every single time.
• I don’t let guilt or pressure force me to respond to calls or emails immediately. I’ll get to it when I’m good and ready. My time, my rules.
• I don’t ignore health issues or procrastinate on self-care. I’m proactive, even if it means paying out of pocket for scans, tests, or treatments. Health before wealth.

Some of these might sound blunt or even ruthless. That’s the point. Every “no” on this list creates space for a bigger, better “yes.”

The Results – What Actually Changed When I Started Saying No

This isn’t theory or wishful thinking. The moment I started enforcing my not-to-do list, everything shifted. It’s all part of my Life by Design approach.

• More time and energy: I don’t waste hours on small talk, inbox ping-pong, or soul-sucking obligations. That space is now filled with the stuff that actually moves my life forward – workouts, trips, meaningful work, actual downtime.
• More clarity: By stripping away the noise, it’s obvious what (and who) is worth my attention. Decision-making is faster and less emotional.
• Less stress: Fewer pointless commitments means fewer drains on my mental bandwidth. I don’t let FOMO, guilt, or other people’s priorities run my day.
• Stronger relationships: With a curated network and more intentional connections, every conversation is higher-value, more enjoyable, and far less transactional.
• Better health: By refusing to put work, travel, or social obligations ahead of my well-being, I’m in the (almost, but not just yet) best shape of my life – mentally and physically.
• Real freedom: Saying “no” by default gives me the space to say “hell yes” to the right opportunities, people, and experiences.

The best part? None of this required superhuman discipline. Just the guts to put my happiness and priorities first.

Your Turn – Build Your Own Not-To-Do List

If you’re tired of feeling busy but unfulfilled, maybe it’s time to try subtraction instead of addition. Start by creating your own ‘not-to-do’ list. Write down every obligation, habit, or “should” that drains you, bores you, or keeps you stuck. Audit it ruthlessly. Then start by simply saying ‘no, thank you’, or just by quietly letting things go.

You’ll be surprised how quickly clarity and freedom show up when you stop doing what no longer serves you. Remember: every “no” is just space for a better “yes.” It’s your life – design it accordingly.

The post My Not-To-Do List: What I’ve Stopped Doing to Start Living appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.

My Mantra – Launch Early, Fail Fast, Iterate Often

If there’s one lesson that’s followed me through every venture – from building my previous company into a SaaS leader, to launching experiments at Tomco Capital, to bottling my own gin – it’s this:

Launch early, fail fast, iterate often.

I didn’t invent the phrase, but I’ve lived it for decades. When we pioneered online SAP training, there was no roadmap, no “proven” model. We went first, took small calculated risks, and figured it out as we went. Not everything worked – some things crashed hard – but the point was, we didn’t wait for perfect. We shipped, we learned, and we did it again.

That same mentality is exactly what led me to gin. Not because I had a big business plan or dreams of building a spirits empire – but because I was curious, a little bored, and wanted to see how far I could get by just starting.

The Beefeater Epiphany – You Don’t Need a Giant Team

Not long ago, I took a tour of the famous Beefeater distillery in my neighborhood in central London. Here’s what blew my mind: the entire global supply of Beefeater gin is made in a plant about the size of a modest apartment building. The operation is run by a master distiller and two apprentices. That’s it.

Every excuse about “needing a huge team,” “millions in capital,” or “perfect infrastructure” fell apart right there. If three people can supply the world with one of the best-known gins, what was really stopping me – or anyone else – from launching something on a smaller scale?

That visit didn’t just demystify the gin business. It became a metaphor for entrepreneurship: scale isn’t about headcount or resources. It’s about focus, process, and the guts to do things differently.

I walked out thinking, if the big guys can do it lean, so can I. And so can you.

Just Start – How Tom’s Gin Came to Life

Armed with nothing but curiosity (and a newfound respect for simplicity), I decided to try making my own gin. No pedigree, no “plan” – just a willingness to get started and figure it out as I went.

I sourced a base spirit, ordered botanicals, and started distilling in embarrassingly small batches. The first try – Tom’s Bathtub Gin – wasn’t exactly world-class, but it was a start. Each round, I learned what worked (and what didn’t), tweaked the process, and kept iterating. That’s how Tom’s Blindmaker Edition was born, followed by Navy Strength and Gunpowder Gin. Some tasted great. Some were barely drinkable. All of them taught me something new.

Here’s the point:
You don’t need a perfect recipe, massive resources, or even a clear endgame.
You just need the guts to take the first shot, the humility to learn quickly, and the discipline to try again. Most people never get started because they’re waiting for permission, a plan, or some magical moment of certainty. That moment never comes.

What Tom’s Gin Really Is (and Why That’s the Point)

Let’s get real: Tom’s Gin isn’t a revenue machine, and I have zero plans to take on Tanqueray. Right now, it’s a passion project – a hobby with a label. Most of what I make gets “quality tested” (read: drunk) by me, and whatever’s left goes to friends and family. I’m not bottling dreams of global domination; I’m bottling curiosity.

And that’s exactly the lesson:
You don’t need grand ambitions, massive budgets, or an airtight business plan to start something.
You just need to be willing to move, to experiment, to accept that it might not work out (and to laugh when your first batch tastes like pine cleaner).
Anyone can start a gin brand – or any project, business, or side hustle – if they stop overthinking and just begin.

The only thing that separates you from the people doing the work is action.

The Real Lesson – Stop Waiting, Start Making

If you take anything from my gin experiments (or three decades of building companies), let it be this: The winners aren’t the ones with the best plan – they’re the ones who move first, learn fast, and aren’t afraid to look foolish along the way.

Stop waiting for permission, capital, or the “perfect” idea.
Start with what you have, launch early, fail fast, and iterate often.
You’ll never regret trying. You’ll only regret sitting on the sidelines, watching someone else bottle their own version of success.

What could you start – today – that you’ve been overthinking for years?
Chances are, you’re closer to your first batch (and your next breakthrough) than you think.

Want to stop overthinking and actually launch your next project or business? That’s exactly what I work on with my coaching clients. If you’re serious about taking action and want a partner who’s done it all, failures included: book a call with me.

The post How to Start a Gin Brand (and Why You Should Stop Waiting for Perfect) appeared first on Thomas Michael - Founder Coach & Strategic Advisor.