Fourth Quarter Doesn’t Have to Be a Slow Fade.

The Fourth Quarter Doesn’t Have to Be a Slow Fade. 

When I was a kid, I thought the fourth quarter was where heroes were made. The clock’s running down, the crowd’s on its feet, and the great ones dig in for one last push.

Life’s the same way, except most people spend the fourth quarter trying not to get injured. They ease up, play it safe, hope the clock runs out quietly. We’ve been taught that after the career, the kids, the milestones, you’re supposed to slow down. Coast.

But here’s the truth: you only get one fourth quarter.

And it doesn’t have to be a slow fade. It can be the exclamation point on a life well lived.

From the outside, this next chapter can look like a postcard: vineyards, stone houses, espresso instead of emails. People often say to me, “Man, you’re living the dream.” But most never actually do it. Not because they can’t, but because they never stop long enough to ask themselves why they want it.

Reinvention isn’t about escaping what you built. It’s about questioning what you still want. It’s about getting honest about whether the life that once fit still does, and whether you’re willing to trade comfort for curiosity again.

Because later? Later’s a myth.
The clock keeps running, but how you play the rest is still up to you.

Somewhere in my thirties, I bought a framed photo of Jack London in a small shop in Sonoma County. He’s sitting in a heavy leather coat, wind in his hair, looking like a man who didn’t believe in coasting. At the bottom was a quote that’s followed me ever since:

I would rather be ashes than dust. I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than be stifled by dry rot… The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.

For twenty-five years, that quote hung in every office and home I ever lived in. At first, it was just art. But over time, it became something else, a challenge. A reminder that life isn’t meant to be preserved; it’s meant to be spent.

Because deep down, my biggest fear was that I’d reach the end of my life and whisper, shoulda, coulda, woulda.

I didn’t want to die with my best stories untold, or a remote control in my hand, running out the clock.

So I did the one thing that scared me most.
I started over.

Reinvention isn’t cinematic. It’s not standing on a balcony with a glass of wine while life rearranges itself neatly around you. It’s bureaucracy, broken French, and more than a few mornings wondering what the hell you’ve done.

When we moved to France, I didn’t know exactly where we’d land. We sold the house, packed up Sully, and trusted that somewhere on the other side of fear was a life that felt more alive. What I found wasn’t ease; it was clarity.

Because reinvention tests everything you think you know about yourself. It humbles you. It reminds you that confidence isn’t permanent, it’s practiced. Every time you try, fail, and try again, you build a different kind of strength, one that has nothing to prove and everything to learn.

The truth is, most people don’t avoid reinvention because it’s hard. They avoid it because it’s humbling. It strips away everything that once made you sure of who you were and replaces it with the beginner’s version of yourself.

But that’s also where the magic starts. Because the minute you stop needing to prove who you are, you finally remember why you’re here.

I think about that Jack London quote a lot. It’s odd to realize you’re in the fourth quarter, and fairly close to the ashes.
But when he said ashes instead of dust, he didn’t mean recklessness. He meant demanding a quest for a full life, the kind that fades if you’re not paying attention.

The fourth quarter isn’t about defying time. It’s about refusing to coast through it. It’s realizing that the goal was never to stay comfortable, it was to stay awake.

Reinvention isn’t a crisis. It’s a decision. It’s looking at your life, the one you worked so hard to build, and saying, this is good, but it’s not done.

Every day here in France reminds me that comfort was never the point. Growth was. Curiosity was. Laughter was. And maybe, if you’re lucky, a glass of wine at sunset with someone who still sees the fire in your eyes.

Because the truth is, the clock’s always running. The question is what you’re doing with the time left on it.

The great ones don’t run out the clock.
They play until the final whistle, fully, fearlessly, alive.