Is it any coincidence that physical media is making a comeback?

I’m talking everything from print to vinyl to Polaroid cameras.

Some will argue nostalgia is playing a role. I’d argue we’re exhausted.

Exhausted by convenience. Exhausted by unlimited access. Exhausted by endless choice.

And apparently, I’m not the only one feeling it.

“Slow living” has become a legitimate cultural movement. Across social media, countless posts celebrate slower routines, home cooking, analogue hobbies, and intentional disconnection.

And yes, the irony isn’t lost on me.
We’re using the very technology exhausting us to learn how to escape it.

But digital fatigue is real. Constant notifications, endless access, and screen saturation have made unplugging feel less like an inconvenience and more like a luxury.

While trends like this take time to build momentum, I’ve been noticing the shift in my own circle for years. People are slowing down. Looking for and prioritizing real experiences.

Maybe analogue isn’t making a comeback because we’re nostalgic for the past.

Maybe we’re exhausted by the present.

Look around and you can see versions of this everywhere.

In hospitality, listening bars, phone free restaurants, social clubs, and communal dining are putting human connection back on the menu.

In fitness, run clubs, ruck clubs, community bathhouses, and races are making the workout almost secondary to who you’re doing it with.

Instant film is finding another generation of consumers. Dating apps are wrestling with declining engagement. And wouldn’t you know it, Gen Z is now drinking.

Yes, ma’am.

Recent data suggests 74% of legal drinking age Gen Zers now consume alcohol, up from 66% three years earlier. For perspective, the national average across the entire legal drinking age population is 76%.

So despite the early headlines and all the virtue signaling around an entire generation going sober, my thesis remains unchanged. These Little Fockers are just getting older and embracing the same social lubricant humans have relied on since the dawn of time.

Maybe analogue isn’t the only thing making a comeback.

Maybe human connection is too.

Maybe we’re simply looking for more reasons to actually be together.

The first time I experienced analogue with intention was about five years ago in Pittsburgh, PA, at a Jack White concert.

I happened to be in town on business and noticed Jack White was playing at the university. Without hesitation, my partner jumped on a plane and joined me for an extended weekend in The Steel City.

When we arrived at the venue, we were met with measured resistance. All concertgoers were greeted with a bag and forced to place their devices inside, where they would remain locked until the end of the show.

Weird, but okay.

We made our way to our seats, found home base, and evaluated our view.

Imagine this. Engaging with one another while sharing in the anticipation over two tall boy PBRs. No empty stage selfies. No scrolling to pass the time. Just two humans experiencing life in tandem.

And then it happened …

The show began.

I’m willing to bet she would agree. The first 30 minutes felt awkward.

We were so used to reaching for that intimacy killer. Hardwired into our personal software was the need to catch the perfect video just to prove we were there.

The end result? We were forced to endure the actual performance.

And that show reattached us to something we may have taken for granted. The experience itself. The music and artistry, courtesy of the one and only Jack White.

The 27-song setlist extended well past three hours. He played tracks spanning his entire catalogue, including his recent solo efforts and classics from The White Stripes. We also got well known singles from his side projects, The Dead Weather and The Raconteurs, along with covers of Mazzy Star and U2.

For us, music is our thing. We see a ton of live music together, probably 10 to 20 shows per year if I had to guess. And despite how strange it felt at first, to this day that evening stands as one of the best experiences we’ve shared together.

And there isn’t a video or picture to prove we were there.
(I wonder if it even happened …)

Maybe analogue isn’t simply a format anymore.

Maybe analogue is becoming the experience.

Real experiences, especially in person experiences, require a certain level of friction.

And I’m beginning to think that’s the point.

Friction creates anticipation. It flirts with patience. It delays gratification. It isn’t something we can pause, record, replay, photograph, order, stream, or swipe our way through.

Instead, it requires us to be fully present.

Maybe that’s what we’re craving.

Presence and belonging. Rituals and nostalgia. Tangible things that carry meaning.

Less noise. More connection.

For decades, technology has been relentlessly removing friction from our lives. On demand. One click. Same day. Everything, everywhere, all the time.

Convenience has its place. But so do moments.

Maybe we’ve removed so much friction that we’ve accidentally removed some of the experience and the anticipation that comes with it.

Maybe analogue isn’t really the movement. Maybe it’s the metaphor.

Analogue isn’t exactly a rejection of technology. It’s the deliberate reintroduction of experience.

Or maybe it’s simply a visceral response to feeling disconnected.

Maybe we’re not trying to go backward.

Maybe we’re just trying to feel something again.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

Branding. Creative. Marketing.

Three words businesses throw around interchangeably every day.

The problem is that many hire a marketing agency and expect them to define the brand. They hire a creative director and expect them to solve the positioning. They hire a brand strategist and expect leads to start pouring through the door.

Worse, businesses hire one person to own all three.

It’s rare to find one individual with the experience or capacity to own three distinct ways of thinking.

Branding, Creative, and Marketing aren’t interchangeable. They are connected and, more importantly, they are sequential.

Branding creates the framework.
Creative develops that framework into a tangible set of assets.
Marketing deploys those assets and puts them in front of the audience.

Creative can’t bring an identity to life until Branding establishes it. And Marketing can’t build a reputation around something that doesn’t exist.

Branding builds it. Creative brings it to life. Marketing tells the world about it.

If that sounds unnecessarily complicated, maybe it’s easier to explain through, I know, another damn sports analogy.

Humor me. Let’s build a championship team.

Branding Starts in the Front Office

Before anyone steps onto the field, the court, or the ice, someone has to decide what kind of team they’re trying to build.

That responsibility starts at the organizational level with ownership, the president, and the general manager. The people sitting around boardroom tables, scribbling ideas and identities across whiteboards long before a coach has their puzzle pieces to work with.

The questions they’re considering: What kind of organization are we building? What do we stand for? How are we going to compete? What characteristics are nonnegotiable? What will separate us from every other organization chasing the exact same trophy?

This is where the DNA gets established.

And once you understand the DNA, you can begin assembling the people capable of living it.

Not simply the most talented players available. The right players for this team.

There is a difference.

A championship roster isn’t necessarily a collection of the best individual players. It’s a collection of complementary assets. Strengths, personalities, roles, and values that together create the fabric of something bigger.

Some bring speed. Some bring skill. Some bring grit. Some bring leadership. But not every great player belongs on every great team.

Branding works the same way.

The goal isn’t to build something for everyone. The goal is to understand exactly what you’re building, who belongs inside it, and what you’re willing to stand for.

Branding establishes the DNA.

Creative Takes It Into the Locker Room

Once the front office establishes the DNA, someone has to give it expression.

Enter the coaching staff.

This is where the vision leaves the boardroom and enters the locker room.

The system. The style of play. The positions. The lines. The roles. Even the language used inside the room. It’s the tone of practices. What behaviors are rewarded. And what behaviors will not be tolerated.

Accountability to that fabric is everything.

It’s reflected in the way players prepare and how they carry themselves, not only as individuals, but in their commitment to a vision greater than themselves.

Think of the players as creative assets. How you deploy them becomes the puzzle.

Each player brings individual qualities, but it’s the responsibility of the coaching staff to leverage them in a way that pushes the team and the game plan forward.

The front office may have decided what kind of team it wants to build, but the coaching staff is responsible for making that fabric tight, consistent, and undeniable.

Creative works the same way.

Branding establishes the DNA. Creative gives that DNA expression.

Marketing Builds the Reputation

Now we finally get to put what we’ve built in front of the world.

Marketing is the megaphone.

By this point, the organization should know what it stands for. The players should fit the DNA, and the coaching staff should know how to leverage their individual assets to bring that DNA to life.

Marketing takes what already exists and begins building a reputation around it.

Rivalries become stories. Players become characters. Style of play becomes reputation. The arena, the court, or the field becomes theater.

The DNA becomes undeniable.

Fans begin to understand what the organization represents. Opponents know what they’ll be facing. The media believes the narrative. Eventually, the reputation can precede the team itself.

That’s the power of great Marketing.

Most Businesses Start at the Wrong End

Marketing can amplify an identity, but it can’t manufacture one.

If the organization doesn’t know who it is, Marketing will eventually expose that.

You can make the video louder and the graphics prettier. You can buy more media and fill the theater with smoke, lights, and music.

But eventually, the whistle sounds and the clock starts.

And everyone gets to see the team you actually built.

This is where a lot of businesses get it backward.

They start with Marketing and try to reverse engineer the culture, the fabric, the DNA. They hire the agency. Change the logo. Redesign the website. Shoot the campaign. Buy the ads. Chase attention. And then they wonder why none of it feels connected.

The problem isn’t necessarily the Marketing. The problem may be that nobody in the front office ever answered the most important question:

What kind of team and organization are we trying to build?

Without that answer, Creative is left trying to bring something to life that doesn’t exist, while Marketing is tasked with building a reputation the organization hasn’t earned.

Great teams, companies, and organizations know the opposite is true. Branding, Creative, and Marketing aren’t the same, and they aren’t interchangeable. They are sequential.

Branding comes first because it creates the framework.
Creative takes that framework and develops a tangible set of assets.
Marketing takes what has been built and puts it in front of the fans.

Branding builds it. Creative brings it to life. Marketing tells the world about it.

You can’t market your way into a championship culture.

You have to build one first.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

A viral quote from the outrageous 2005 comedy The 40 Year Old Virgin that somehow still has legs today.

David (Paul Rudd): “You know how I know you’re gay?”
Cal (Seth Rogen): “How?”
David: “You like Coldplay.”

Arguably one of the world’s biggest memes before anyone even knew what a meme was.

Side note: Man, do I miss the non PC comedies of that era.

Anyway, I’m going on record. If listening to Coldplay is considered gay, consider me a big homo.

The casuals are quick to forget the beauty and genius of Coldplay’s early catalogue.

Their first four albums, Parachutes (2000), A Rush of Blood to the Head (2002), X&Y (2005), and Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends (2008), represent one of the strongest four album runs to launch a legendary career.

These were the albums that gave us songs like “Don’t Panic,” “Shiver,” “Yellow,” “Politik,” “In My Place,” “The Scientist,” “Fix You,” “Viva la Vida,” “Violet Hill,” and “Death and All His Friends.”

But first, let me take a moment to reminisce. I’ve been a huge Coldplay fan ever since a close friend of mine returned home in 2000 after playing professional hockey overseas in the UK.

When he returned, he handed me a burned CD with a song we all now know as “Yellow.” It had just started gaining mainstream attention in the UK but hadn’t quite crossed the pond yet.

It was quite literally music to my ears, a breath of fresh air in the middle of an alternative rock heavy era.

Look at the stars.
Look how they shine for you.
And everything you do.
Yeah, they were all yellow.

It’s hard not to smile when those opening lyrics hit.

For those who don’t know the history, Coldplay’s debut album, Parachutes, developed a cult following and eventually pushed the band into the mainstream. But the industry still had questions. Was this a moment, or did they actually have staying power?

Their second album was approached with far more caution and skepticism than its eventual impact would suggest. A Rush of Blood to the Head went on to launch Coldplay into superstardom, becoming one of the defining albums of the century and selling more than 15 million copies worldwide.

That momentum carried into album three, X&Y. Definitely more commercial, but still beautiful from start to finish. It also gave us the powerhouse single “Fix You,” still my favorite Coldplay track to date.

Then came Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, Coldplay’s ambitious fourth album. Released in 2008, the album was produced alongside the legendary Brian Eno, whose fingerprints can be found across career defining work from David Bowie, Talking Heads, and U2. Viva la Vida became a critical and commercial triumph, finishing as the year’s best selling album worldwide and winning Best Rock Album at the 2009 Grammy Awards.

Their commercial success and global reach would only grow from there.

But in my opinion, this is also where their songwriting and artistry peaked.

And this is where my metaphor begins to take shape …

As I said in my previous essay, This Is, Was, the Story of a Girl, every brand eventually reaches a point where scale begins asking it to compromise. The question is whether leadership answers yes.

To be clear, rock stars, pop stars, and businesses eventually wrestle with many of the same questions. What’s next? How do we take this to another level? How does a business go from a single unit to a portfolio of units? How does a band go from the garage to stadiums? Different industries, same question: How do you scale without losing the very thing that made you special in the first place?

On Coldplay’s journey to scale, they faced that same question. They were no longer in the business of playing small indie clubs. Their music was now being asked to fill arenas and create a wall of sound capable of lighting up stadiums around the world. And if I had to guess, much of what came next was strategic.

They didn’t completely sell out, but they clearly wanted to sell more.

What may surprise you is just how far Coldplay’s reach extends beyond North America and the UK. At the time of writing, they’re ranked 11th in the world on Spotify. Even more interesting is where people are listening. According to Spotify, their largest audiences are in São Paulo, Mexico City, London, Sydney, and Santiago.

Coldplay didn’t just become bigger. They became global.

For Coldplay, both the band and the brand, the gamble paid off. That doesn’t mean there aren’t critics, myself included.

I’ll be honest, I’m not a huge fan of Coldplay’s newer music. There have been some bright spots since 2009, including “Us Against the World,” “Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall,” “Always in My Head,” and “O.” But it’s been years since they crafted an album I love from start to finish.

That doesn’t mean I don’t understand the business angle. Their newer music feels strategically crafted for scale. Bigger sounds. Broader collaborations. Broader appeal.

Hell, even their 2021 album is called Music of the Spheres. Intentional? Maybe they’re already foreshadowing a future residency at the Sphere in Vegas.

Tongue in cheek analogies aside, if you have the opportunity to see Coldplay live, please do. They remain one of the greatest live acts in the world. For the rest of my life, if they’re within 60 miles of me, I’m there.

But pay attention when you do.

The greatest anticipation, the loudest cheers, and the grandest crowd sing alongs are still reserved for the very songs that gave Coldplay its voice in the first place.

There’s probably a lesson in there for all of us.

To close, I can only borrow the words of Chris Martin:

Tears stream down your face.
When you lose something you cannot replace.

Even still, if Paul Rudd’s theory holds up and listening to Coldplay determines my label, consider me as gay as they make ‘em.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

Fifteen years ago, my business partner, Kirk Dewaele, and I set out to build a concept for former athletes and high performers. People who operated outside the bell curve. We eventually called it MADabolic.

But the idea behind MADabolic was never really about us.

It was always about her.

Long before there was a gym, a franchise, or even members, there was an untapped whitespace in the market. She became its physical expression.

People often described the original MADabolic logo as inspirational.

Close, but not quite.

She wasn’t meant to be inspirational. She was meant to be aspirational.

There is a difference.

Inspirational says, “Come as you are. You are supported.”

Aspirational asks, “Who are you? What do you stand for?”

That distinction shaped nearly every decision we made as founders.

This image represented the mindset of an outlier, rooted in strength.

Strength wasn’t just physical. Strong was beautiful. Strong was disciplined. Strong was empowering. Strong was something to stand for.

That’s who she represented.

Not a customer. Not a demographic. Not even a type of fitness enthusiast.

She was a belief system long before she was ever a logo.

She was our muse.

The Story Behind Her

I can still remember my internal monologue.

Not the finished logo. A very specific look I couldn’t get out of my head. Quiet confidence. Strength without arrogance. Beauty without an audience. Subtle. Edgy. Powerful in a way that didn’t need to announce itself.

I wasn’t just searching for artwork as an example. I was searching for someone who could visualize an idea I couldn’t yet explain.

After countless Google searches and combinations of words, I eventually stumbled across the blog of a nineteen year old art student in San Diego.

Her name was Jennifer Fong. Her blog was called Mind Sketch.

It was more than artwork. Every illustration carried its own personality. They felt like stories frozen in a single frame.

One illustration immediately stopped me.

It was called Fighter.

The moment I saw it, I knew I had found her.

Not because she was finished.

Because she already embodied everything I believed MADabolic could become.

On our first phone call, I explained the concept, the personality, and the image that had been stuck in my head for weeks. It felt like she already understood.

Together, we adapted her original illustration into what would eventually become the face of MADabolic.

When the work was finished, I sat down with my friend and cofounder, Kirk Dewaele.

I wasn’t presenting a logo. I was presenting an idea. I was presenting our future.

Thankfully, with Kirk’s unwavering belief and support, he saw the same vision I did.

MADabolic was born.

Culture Rich Brands Don’t Chase Everyone

One of the biggest misconceptions in business is that great brands try to appeal to everyone.

They don’t.

In fact, culture rich brands do the opposite.

Take our logo, our muse.

She wasn’t designed to represent everyone. She wasn’t even designed to represent women.

She was an outlier that represented a standard. A mindset.

She was the visual expression of a belief system.

Culture rich brands build an ecosystem that naturally attracts one person while intentionally repelling another.

MADabolic was no different.

The goal was never inspiration or to create mass appeal.

MADabolic was built to reach people who operate outside the bell curve.

The truth is, when you try to appeal to everyone, you eventually identify with no one.

Our Hope

One week ago marked the end of an era. Fifteen years alongside my cofounder.

As new leadership takes the company in its own direction, I sincerely hope she is not forgotten.

Not because of nostalgia and not because she belongs to us.

Because she represents an idea that always mattered far more than either of us.

Every brand eventually reaches a point where scale begins asking it to compromise. The question is whether leadership answers yes.

Our biggest fear is what that next wave of scale might prompt.

Brand dilution is almost never one catastrophic decision.

It’s death by a thousand compromises.

One exception. One accommodation. One attempt to become just a little more appealing to everyone.

Until one day, the brand no longer remembers who it was built for.

In our case, who she was.

Because this was never really the story of a logo.

It was the story of a belief system.

She just happened to give that belief system a face.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

Remember that weird blip in time? That pandemic thing that caused us all to lose our minds and bet against ourselves as human beings.

In the fitness industry, specifically brick and mortar fitness, we were told to “Evolve or Die.”

By evolve, these newfound experts meant at-home digital offerings. We were warned that a technological tsunami was coming, and if we weren’t on the right side of that wave, we’d be swept away.

Fast forward a few years. In person fitness has never been stronger.

Peloton and that Mirror thing. A long list of empty promises that, in my opinion, confused convenience with experience.

The keyboard pundits will argue that digital is more approachable, more convenient, and more affordable.

Fair play. But digital is still digital.

A more recent “Evolve or Die” narrative centers around technology, speed to lead, and automation.

Today, nearly every gym runs some version of the same CRM software. Lead response is automated. Retention is reduced to a math equation. Follow up becomes a rehearsed template. Every interaction is optimized for efficiency.

The problem is that every time you introduce automation, you remove an opportunity for human-to-human interaction.

Some businesses believe that is a worthwhile tradeoff. I don’t.

If you’ve followed my writing, you already know I’m biased when it comes to hospitality.

I’m just not convinced automation makes businesses more memorable.

It’s the same reason I still ask for a paper menu every time I sit down at a restaurant.

Sure, QR codes are convenient for the server. They’re also a pretty shitty restaurant experience. That seemingly harmless prompt forces the diner to reach for the very device that pulls them away from the people sitting across from them.

The coffee industry tells a similar story.

Years ago, Keurig and Nespresso arrived with the promise of convenience. Fast. Affordable. Consistent. If the experts were right, the neighborhood coffee shop should have disappeared.

Instead, craft coffee exploded, independent cafés are thriving, and Starbucks is still everywhere.

Turns out, convenience isn’t the only thing people value. Routine, experience, and human connection still matter.

That familiar smell of your neighborhood store. The perfectly curated playlist in the background. The well placed tattoos on your favorite barista and their smiling face as they greet you by your first name while they craft your order without instruction or hesitation.

Yes, the coffee matters, but so does the consistency, the attention to detail, and the human that makes its way into each cup.

Coffee from a plastic pod has its place: when you’re in a rush, on vacation, or stuck in a hotel room. But let’s be honest, if you love coffee, having it from a pod every day, as convenient as it may be, would truly grind your own bean.

Automation also has its place, just like Peloton, QR codes, and coffee pods do. But convenience isn’t the same thing as hospitality. And efficiency isn’t the same thing as belonging.

The best experiences still require people.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

Cult came first. We need to start there.

Most people don’t realize this, but culture didn’t give us cult. It happened the other way around.

The Latin word cultus meant care, devotion, or worship. Over time, it evolved into cultura, the act of cultivating. Eventually, we arrived at what we now call culture.

In other words, before you can build a community, you first need to build a cult following. A small group of people united by a shared belief system.

Community can be manufactured. Culture cannot.

When you’re building an audience, especially a niche audience, culture is everything. You’re not creating something for everyone. You’re creating something for a specific someone.

That’s what turns customers into followers, followers into advocates, and advocates into evangelists.

Community makes people feel included.

Culture makes people feel they belong.

The analogy is perhaps best illustrated inside a franchise system, something I’ve spent much of my career studying. The balance between culture and community within a franchise system is a delicate one.

I introduced this framework in Las Vegas while presenting at the 2025 HFA (Health & Fitness Association) Conference. Later that year, I adapted it for the 2025 MADabolic Conference.

In both settings, the goal was the same: to illustrate what I believe is one of the most misunderstood dynamics in franchising, the relationship between Culture (Franchisor) and Community (Franchisee).

One of the biggest misconceptions in franchising is that community comes first.

It doesn’t.

Every time I revisit this framework, I’m reminded that scale without alignment is just noise. True growth happens when culture and community move in sync.

Culture creates loyalty. Community creates reach.

Let me explain.

CULTURE (Franchisor)

Culture is the DNA of the brand. It represents the values, standards, and non-negotiables that define the system. It is established by the franchisor, remains consistent across every location, and is never left up to interpretation.

It defines the tone, behaviors, and expectations that surround the concept.

It answers three simple questions:

Why do we exist?
What do we stand for?
Who are we inviting in?

COMMUNITY (Franchisee)

Community is the local expression of that culture. It is built by the franchisee through relationships with members, neighbors, local events, and surrounding businesses. While community is more flexible, it should always reflect the same standards, tone, and identity established by the brand.

It answers the very same three questions:

Why do we exist?
What do we stand for?
Who are we inviting in?

That delicate balance only works when those answers remain rooted in the DNA established by the culture.

In short, the franchisor creates the culture so every community experiences the same identity. The franchisee builds the community that reinforces and amplifies that culture.

To summarize:

Culture (Franchisor)
Provides structure, standards, and brand identity.

Community (Franchisee)
Builds local trust, relationships, and engagement.

Together
Culture gives community meaning. Community amplifies culture.

In my opinion, every great brand starts as a cult. Then it grows into a culture. And if you’re lucky, that CULTure becomes a movement. Eventually, it becomes a community.

Community without culture isn’t a franchise. It isn’t even a system.

It’s just a vague association.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

I’m all for capitalism, but even capitalism needs guardrails.

Prior to the 2025-26 season, the NHL officially relaxed its mandatory dress code. Players would no longer be required to wear suits and ties to the arena. Instead, they simply had to dress in a manner “consistent with contemporary fashion norms.”

Contemporary fashion norms?

What the fuck does that even mean?

But that’s not really the question.

What happens when organizations abandon the very constraints that once made them distinctive?

Out of the four major North American professional sports leagues, the NFL, MLB, NBA, and NHL, hockey has always represented something different. Not because it lacked superstars. Not because it lacked personalities. Because it asked those personalities to become part of something bigger than themselves.

The crest always came before the name.

The team always came before the individual.

I still remember the distinct smell of walking into the rink. It’s hard to explain how musty and crisp can complement one another so perfectly. The dampness in the air. Years of sweat embedded in the concrete. The beautiful sound of freshly sharpened skate blades carving into the ice as background music.

It was all unmistakable.

But more than anything, I remember the feeling of walking through those arena doors wearing a suit and tie. The dress code wasn’t an inconvenience. It was an occasion. Competition was the event, but the suit was a quiet reminder that being a professional started long before the opening face-off.

Looking back, I realize it had very little to do with the suit itself. It was wrapped in privilege. It represented respect. And somewhere between lacing up my boots and lacing up my skates, it gave me a profound sense of belonging.

In every team sport, there are two kinds of players.

The individual.

And the teammate.

The individual treats the game like a personal brand campaign. They may wear the same jersey, but their motivations are different. They value recognition as much as results and celebrate personal milestones, even in defeat.

The teammate understands that personal success only matters when it elevates the group. Their identity becomes part of the connective tissue that holds a team together. They sacrifice statistics for chemistry and ego for championships.

In hockey, that philosophy wasn’t reserved for the ice. It was the standard. It was the expectation. And sometimes, it was as simple as twenty suits walking into an arena together.

Even the tightest of teams still need a leader.

Few athletes embody that philosophy better than Connor McDavid. The best player in hockey, and arguably the best player the game has ever seen, chose to sign well below market value to give the Edmonton Oilers greater flexibility to build a championship roster.

And not once.

Twice.

First in 2017.

Then again in 2025.

By most estimates, those decisions may have cost him between $40 million and $50 million over the course of his career.

Why?

He plays for the crest on the front of the jersey, not the name on the back.

Show me another superstar in the NFL, MLB, or NBA willing to leave that much money on the table for the good of the team.

A different sport. The same lesson.

I felt something similar when the New York Yankees loosened their longstanding facial hair policy. I’m not even a fan of Major League Baseball, but traditions matter. Organizations become iconic because they preserve the very things that set them apart.

Up until that point, as someone who rarely followed baseball, here’s how I saw it.

There are Major League Baseball players.

Then there are the New York Fucking Yankees.

I understood the business case. I just wasn’t convinced it was worth the cultural cost.

Ironically, the 2026 Stanley Cup Champion Carolina Hurricanes reminded us why. Throughout their championship run, the team became almost as recognizable for their coordinated suits as they were for their suffocating, team first brand of hockey, once the puck dropped.

Neither was flashy or performative. It was never really about the suits. It was about the culture they represented.

It was a reminder that the best teams still understand something many organizations are slowly forgetting.

Culture doesn’t begin when the game starts.

It begins the moment people choose to put the institution before themselves.

I’m not suggesting every player should look the same. Individuality has its place. Style has its place. And shit, capitalism certainly has its place.

But as I said initially, even capitalism needs guardrails.

The NHL didn’t remove the dress code by accident. It made a calculated business decision, and it may ultimately prove to be the right one. But business decisions often come with cultural consequences.

Maybe the suits never produced a championship.

Maybe they simply represented the culture that did.

I often use professional sports tunnel walks as quiet teaching moments with my sons. Not because I cared whether someone wore a suit, but because I cared what the suit represented.

Respect for the game.

Respect for your teammates.

My sons have heard that speech more times than they probably care to admit, but those moments made it easy to explain the difference between being a great athlete and being a great teammate.

Looking back, I realize I was never really teaching them about hockey.

I was teaching them what it means to become part of something bigger than themselves.

I used to think the suit was part of the uniform.

I now realize it was part of the culture.

And while I’ll always miss lacing up my skates beside my teammates, I’ll miss lacing up my boots and tying my tie just as much.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

A little while back, I shared a flight home with members of my Charlotte based team. As we regrouped in the terminal at Charlotte Douglas Airport, I mentioned a fascinating conversation I’d had with the gentleman sitting beside me.

One of my teammates looked at me and laughed.

“Wait... you talk to people on a plane?”

My longtime business partner and cofounder, Kirk, couldn’t resist the opportunity to land a subtle jab.

“Are you kidding me? You should hear the random conversations this guy finds himself in.”

This specific team is full of lovable shit talkers, so the friendly chirping was both expected and welcomed.

I smiled.

“Absolutely. There are always unique inflight opportunities.”

Many years ago, my father gave me a piece of advice that has stuck with me ever since. If I remember correctly, I believe it originally came from my grandfather.

“Always dress sharp on an airplane.”

Naturally, young and naive, I asked why.

“Because you never know who you may share a row with.”

For whatever reason, that simple advice never left me.

Business. Personal. Travel is something I’d struggle to live without.

Spend enough time in airports and on airplanes, and you begin to notice things you never used to.

One of those things is this:

What does my inflight attire say about me?

Or better yet...

What do I need it to say?

For what it’s worth, I refuse to pay for first class. That said, I often find myself sitting there thanks to airline status earned from years of travel.

Less interesting than the extra legroom or warm towel, you may find my coach to first class dress code strategy a little more entertaining.

In first class, I’ll still dress professionally, but I often tone it down. I’ll pair my patchy sleeve of tattoos with a funky pair of sneakers. Oddly enough, that alone is usually enough to spark curiosity.

In coach, it’s almost the opposite.

I may even overdress a little. Not to impress anyone, but because it often creates intrigue and opens the door to conversation.

Both approaches create interest for entirely different reasons, but they often lead to the same outcome: meaningful dialogue.

I never lead the dance.

I’m simply happy to participate.

Here’s how I see it.

You’re sitting beside a complete stranger. They know nothing about you, your company, or your story. They didn’t click on your website. They weren’t referred by a trusted friend. They’re not in your inbox because of some clever AI algorithm.

They simply happened to book Seat 9A.

Every single flight presents a unique puzzle, and I love these rare opportunities.

People often assume it’s about selling. It’s not. These aren’t sales calls. They’re live reps.

And the real exercise is downloading and organizing.

To earn even the smallest amount of trust, you first have to gather information. That usually starts with a simple icebreaker, followed by thoughtful questions and genuine curiosity. You listen more than you speak. You learn about their story, their perspective, and their interests.

Only then have you earned the right to share a little of your own. Even then, there’s a very good chance they aren’t buying. That’s perfectly fine.

The point was never the sale.

The point was the puzzle.

Somewhere around 35,000 feet, everyone becomes briefly accessible.

That’s an opportunity most people never notice.

Every flight is a room you’ll never be invited into again.

You never know who you’ll share an armrest with.

Or what you’ll learn from them.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

Are you building a brand that invites everyone in, or one that challenges the status quo?

Every founder and every brand eventually answers that question, whether they realize it or not.

Are you saying:

Come as you are.

Or...

Join the few.

This isn’t lazy jargon. This is strategy. This is identity. This is clarity.

Here’s how I think about it.

Inspirational Brands

Inspirational brands meet people where they are. They remove intimidation. They celebrate progress.

This type of client wants to be celebrated for who they are.

The message is simple:

“We see you. You’ve got this.”

These brands are intentionally approachable. They speak to people at the beginning of their journey and create momentum through encouragement, accessibility, and community.

Aspirational Brands

Aspirational brands meet people where they want to be. They don’t simply sell a product or service. They sell an identity.

This type of client wants to belong to something few people do.

Their message is more internal.

“I want to become that.”

These brands challenge people rather than reassure them. They thrive by standing for something specific, attracting a smaller audience that embraces their culture.

In other words:

Inspirational Brands are community driven and tend to optimize for accessibility, scale, and volume.

Aspirational Brands are culture rich and optimize for niche positioning and long term brand equity.

The biggest mistake isn’t choosing one over the other.

It’s trying to be both.

If you’ve followed my rants for some time, this probably sounds familiar.

Inspirational leans more inclusive.

Come as you are.

Aspirational leans more exclusive.

Join the few.

Neither approach is right or wrong.

It depends on your business model, your values, your audience, and sometimes... your margins.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

Imagine waking up one day and deciding to become a chef.

Entrepreneurship isn’t much different.

Mastery rarely comes easy. HelloFresh removes many of the barriers to cooking from scratch, much like franchising can accelerate the learning curve of business ownership.

Just as HelloFresh delivers preportioned ingredients and foolproof recipes, a franchise system provides a blueprint designed to bridge the gap between beginner and professional.

Like franchising, HelloFresh eliminates years of trial and error, sidestepping amateur mistakes like poor timing, oversalting, underseasoning, or overlooking the little details that can make or break a meal.

There’s just one hiccup.

HelloFresh can’t account for every palate, and each recipe is ultimately built for a general audience. Likewise, even the best franchise systems still depend on engaged owners, committed employees, and disciplined execution.

People often confuse having a recipe with possessing the discipline to follow one. Systems don’t eliminate execution. They simply improve the odds.

In short, both come in a box, but someone still has to do the cooking.

A franchise system is a collection of playbooks and best practices. HelloFresh is a box of ingredients and recipes. Neither is a turnkey solution because, as we all know, there’s no such thing as a turnkey human being.

Recipes scale. Humans don’t.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

A while back I came across a LinkedIn post that challenged Simon Sinek’s bestseller, Start with WHY: How Great Leaders Inspire Everyone to Take Action.

Full disclosure. I F’N loved that book when I first read it nearly a decade ago. I still believe in its core message today.

The post wasn’t trying to tear Sinek down or poke holes in his philosophy. It simply offered another way to think about purpose. In short, its argument was simple.

Start with WHAT, not WHY.

That subtle shift set off a game of ping pong between my ears. It forced me to confront a topic that quietly shapes far more of our lives than most people care to admit.

EGO.

Including my own.

As I mentioned, Start with WHY arrived at exactly the right time in my entrepreneurial journey. I needed that message. Sinek’s follow up, The Infinite Game? Not so much. I wanted to love it, but to me it felt too safe, too convenient, and perfectly timed.

It lacked ambition.

Fuck it. It lacked EGO.

Spend five minutes on any platform today and you’ll notice people casually diagnosing everyone around them. Narcissist. Toxic masculinity. Gaslighting. Clinical labels have become commonplace insults.

Many people now confuse confidence, ambition, and competitiveness with personality disorders. More often than not, those labels really mean one thing.

“You disagree with me.”

Or...

“I don’t like your leadership style.”

Or...

“You don’t think like me.”

Take Simon Sinek himself.

Don’t confuse humility with the absence of EGO. That’s his gift. His dopamine may come from millions of people sharing his seemingly EGOless message, but I’d wager the real high comes from being quoted, reposted, retweeted, and ultimately standing on stage as thousands applaud the man behind the message.

In other words, his EGOless agenda fuels his closet EGO.

So let me return the favor and address my own.

When my cofounder and I launched MADabolic more than fifteen years ago, our WHAT was straightforward. Create one of the most respected strength and conditioning brands in group fitness.

So what was our WHY?

I can give you the politically correct answer, or I can give you the honest one.

Let’s do both.

Through a PR lens, many encouraged us to say things like, “Our WHY is helping people.” Or my personal favorite, “Our WHY is making the world a healthier place.”

And for what it’s worth, those are worthy missions.

They just weren’t ours.

The truth?

We wanted to build something undeniable. Something that could not be ignored in any neighborhood we entered. We wanted to disrupt the fitness industry and create something competitors couldn’t copy.

And if I’m being completely honest, we wanted to be recognized for it. At least I did. I won’t speak for my much more humble business partner.

Cue the comments.

“What a narcissist.”
“What an egotistical asshole.”
“Wow. Toxic masculinity at its finest.”

Fair enough.

I’m not writing this to convince anyone. I’m simply telling you what has always driven me. And I suspect many founders, leaders, artists, athletes, and entrepreneurs quietly march to a very similar rhythm.

It sounds something like this.

“I want to create something undeniable that speaks to a specific few.”

Well class... that’s EGO. And that should be perfectly OK.

Does every company need to hold itself to Patagonia’s mission? Should every brand eventually arrive at lululemon’s relatively newish inclusive positioning

For the record, I admire both brands tremendously. Their mission simply wasn’t ours, and it doesn’t have to be yours either. We need both.

I’m comfortable admitting that my WHY has always been competition, innovation, mastery, and significance. That’s my EGO talking.

If that sounds uncomfortable, so be it.

For the amateur clinicians keeping score, CliftonStrengths, formerly known as StrengthsFinder, exists to identify an individual’s natural patterns of thinking, feeling, and behaving.

My diagnosis?

Brandon wants to build. He wants to compete. He wants to test himself. He wants to create something worthy of respect.

He’s also hoping you’ll notice.

Helping people became the byproduct of pursuing excellence, not the other way around. I’m proud of both the pursuit and the unintended outcome.

Now that the bitter aftertaste has settled in for some of you, let me offer a palate cleanser.

“Elevating the world from mediocrity to greatness.”

Recognize it?

That was lululemon’s original mission statement. Interesting, isn’t it?

And even though lululemon is cut from a much softer fabric today, it earned the right to try on inclusivity at greater scale because its founder, Chip Wilson, possessed an obsessive level of conviction that bordered on unhealthy.

What do black stretchy pants have to do with greatness?

Nothing.

That’s the point.

It’s a reminder that progress often begins with obsession. That measured EGO has a place. That relentless ambition deserves a seat at the table alongside empathy and inclusion.

Because without a healthy dose of EGO, very little of significance ever gets built.

There is no Apple without Steve Jobs.
There is no Beyoncé without Madonna.
There is no U2 without Bono.
There are no Chicago Bulls without MJ.
There is no Muhammad Ali without Cassius Clay.
And there is no lululemon without Chip Wilson.

So for those who believe EGO is the enemy, maybe it’s time to see it differently.

Maybe EGO isn’t the villain. Maybe it’s the frenemy that moves the needle.

Because the greatest irony of all is this: trying to suppress, ignore, or demonize EGO is often EGO itself.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

I spent nearly 15 years in boutique fitness franchising. My co-founder and I had the privilege and pain of scaling a single unit idea into a corporate portfolio and a multimillion dollar franchise system that stretches coast to coast. That initial $10,000 investment became a 15 year MBA in entrepreneurship, business strategy, and brand positioning.

One of the biggest returns from those 15 years was learning to recognize, or at least acknowledge, the power of average. And the protagonist of this short story is the marketing machine known as Taylor Swift.

If there’s a lesson to be learned from Taylor Swift’s meteoric rise, it’s that average can be incredibly marketable, and it’s partly why she’s become one of the most successful artists of all time.

Before the Swifties come swinging, let me back up and show some love.

I have a deep respect for Taylor’s drive and relentless pace. Based on everything I’ve observed, she possesses many of the same characteristics found in exceptional entrepreneurs, business leaders, athletes, and change makers.

When it comes to her music, Swift’s songs are catchy but not groundbreaking. Her lyrics are relatable but not profound. She’s predictable and remarkably consistent, but not revolutionary. It’s this calculated approach that makes her so appealing to such a broad audience.

Her success is remarkable and well documented. Her catalog, however, is far less remarkable. Or dare I say, average.

Compare her with less commercial, more avant garde artists like Björk, Karen O, Brittany Howard, M.I.A., Sharon Van Etten, Courtney Barnett, Alanis Morissette, Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, Lauryn Hill, or Sinéad O’Connor. Artists who push boundaries through originality, imperfections, and unique storytelling.

Swift chose a different path. Her strength lies in being relatable enough to resonate with the masses while staying comfortably within the boundaries of what’s familiar and safe.

Taylor Swift is simultaneously remarkable, marketable, and unremarkable.

This strategy isn’t unique to pop music. We saw it firsthand during our 15 years in franchising.

Average is the hallmark of most large franchise systems.

Humor me for a second. Google “top 10 franchises in the USA” and you’ll notice these companies aren’t known for excellence. They’re known for consistency, accessibility, and broad appeal. They’ve mastered the art of being just good enough. They’re not trying to be the best. They’re trying to be the most predictable.

And that’s exactly where their success lies.

To build something that scales, you often need to master the art of average.

Excellence, while admirable, is much harder to replicate at scale. It’s exclusive by nature. It appeals to a niche audience and demands a level of control that’s difficult to maintain as you expand.

Brands built on excellence often grow more methodically because they’re built for a specific someone rather than everyone.

The question every entrepreneur eventually needs to answer is this:

Are you building for excellence or scalability?

Neither answer is right or wrong.

But you do need to decide.

I’ve had this conversation countless times with founders during the startup phase. My advice is always the same. Define your end goal early because it’s incredibly difficult to pivot in the opposite direction once the foundation has been poured.

If your goal is to create something truly unique, something remarkable, you’re probably building a brand that’s more niche, more exclusive, and less concerned with appealing to the masses. Scaling excellence requires patience and restraint.

If your goal is mass scale, however, you need to embrace average. Broaden your appeal. Become more accessible. The secret to scale has always been appealing to the middle, because that’s where average lives.

Taylor Swift figured this out as a teenager.

She built an empire by understanding exactly who she was, exactly who her audience was, and delivering on that promise over and over again.

While her music may be unremarkable, her understanding of brand positioning is remarkable. Her business acumen is exceptional. Her work ethic is legendary.

She understands something many entrepreneurs never do.

Average works.

It always has.

Her success is a direct result of an unwavering commitment to her brand and the understanding that, sometimes, being unremarkable is remarkably marketable.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...

It was the middle of the 2001/2002 season. I was playing for the Erie Otters in the Ontario Hockey League, grinding through what would eventually become a championship season.

I was 20 years old. Little did I know, I was about to receive some of the best career advice of my life. It just happened to come wrapped in nicotine and profanity.

Unexpectedly, our captain, Brad Boyes, a future NHLer and league MVP, had come down with mononucleosis. We were heading into the most important stretch of the season without our star player.

My coach, Dave McQueen, named me interim captain. The decision made sense. I was currently the team’s assistant captain and had captained my previous team. In fact, Erie had traded for me largely because of my leadership qualities and my willingness to do the ugly work required to build a championship team.

My role was the unmeasurables: grit and accountability. I played hard. I played physical. And I protected teammates. I’d like to believe most who saw me play would describe me as the type of player you loved having on your team and hated lining up against.

McQueen sat me down and explained the assignment.

“Cully, when you go, the team goes. We need you going.

Simple enough

The interim captaincy came with more responsibility, but it also came with more ice time. And that is where my unintentional detour began to take shape

Within a few games, I started putting up better numbers on the scoresheet, and the team kept winning. From an outsider’s perspective, everything looked great on paper

The problem was my game started to take on a new shade. To handle the extra minutes, I unknowingly started conserving energy. I became less physical and avoided unnecessary traffic and collisions

I drifted away from the chaos that built my reputation as a player and found a comfortable new home on the perimeter of the ice surface

To be honest, it was subtle, and my newfound success on the scoresheet created a blind spot. But the reality was that I was abandoning the very thing that made me valuable. The exact characteristics that led Erie to acquire me.

A couple of weeks into this new role, my assistant coach, Peter Sidorkiewicz, poked his head into the locker room.

“Cully. Coach wants to see you upstairs.”

Never good

The coaches’ lounge looked different in the early 2000s. The atmosphere was equal parts cigar smoke, Canadian whiskey, and ruthless feedback.

On this day, there was a single foldout chair in the middle of the room. McQueen and Sid sat across from me. The two carried on with small talk as if I wasn’t even there

Then it shifted to the team’s success, along with mentions of my improved numbers.

Then there was a noticeable pause. McQueen looked at me and said:

“Cully, you’ve found a nice little home on the perimeter.”

I cautiously laughed, but deep down I knew where this was headed.

“Maybe I’ve been doing it wrong all these years. Wasting all this energy trying to run people over,” I joked.

No reaction. No smile. Just deafening silence.

Then he took a pull from his cigar and said:

“Cully, you’re not that fucking good.”

More awkward silence.

“We brought you here for a specific reason. Your job is to make the game easier for your teammates by making the ice a miserable place for our opponents. Get back to doing what you do best.”

McQueen then took a second drag before he hit me with the finisher.

“And if you happen to prefer being on the perimeter, we will be happy to put you in the stands. That’ll give you a real nice fucking view of the ice from the outside.”

Harsh? Maybe. Accurate? Absolutely.

McQueen was my kind of coach, and he understood something I would spend years relearning in business. This lesson had nothing to do with hockey. It was about understanding your value.

Teams do not win because everyone does everything. Teams win because everyone knows their role and executes it exceptionally well.

Too often in today’s culture, we celebrate balance. We celebrate being well rounded. We even encourage people to try on a little bit of everything, just to see what fits.

I understand the human side of that, and in the right circumstance, there is value in it. My only caution is applying that same thinking to business.

Years ago, I came across a quote from filmmaker and photographer Clayton Cubitt:

In other words, find the thing that creates disproportionate value. The thing that makes you, you. Find it, sharpen it, and leverage the fuck out of it.

The older I get, the more I appreciate what McQueen was trying to show me. Stay in your lane. Own your role. And exhaust your gift.

The last thing any organization needs is another perimeter player.

Brandon Cullen
In search of life’s [im]perfect soundtrack ...