I once had a close advisor tell me that running a franchise system was like being the warden of an insane asylum. No joke.

Their working thesis went something like this:

Part of running a franchise system meant keeping everyone on the same protocol. Up at the same time, doing the same activities, and most importantly, taking the same medication.

According to them, when everyone followed the same protocol, things generally ran smoothly. But when franchisees stepped out of line or skipped their medication, everything had the potential to go off the rails.

Best to keep them heavily regimented and medicated. That was their theory.

Fuck of an analogy! And while I understood parts of what they were getting at, I might have opted for the classic parent and child comparison.

For instance, the franchisor (aka the parent) has the benefit of experience, having seen what works and what doesn’t. Like a parent, a franchisor should want to see their children thrive. Sometimes that involves encouragement. Other times, it requires a little tough love.

What I did observe over 15 years of building a franchise system, however, was two very different sets of characteristics:

1. The Anti-Franchisee List: 5 Archetypes of Risky Partnerships

2. The Pro-Franchisee List: 5 Archetypes of Successful Partnerships

The Anti-Franchisee List: 5 Archetypes of Risky Partnerships

When a concept starts to scale, you take risks, test markets, and learn through trial and error. Through this, you figure out not only who to sell to, but also who to avoid. Specifically, in hospitality-driven models, where I spent those 15 years, not everyone is created equal. Often, franchisors are asked what makes a great franchisee. For the purpose of this list, I want to flip the script and focus instead on the human characteristics that make for a risky partnership.

1. The Passive Income Tourist

To them, hospitality is just another “business vertical.” They pursue franchising as a side quest, expect “mailbox money,” and treat their investment like a rental property. Or they approach ownership like a retirement account, funding it once and expecting it to quietly grow while they sit back. The problem is, business ownership is not a hobby, especially in industries that demand personality. When adversity strikes, they are quick to blame the system. To them, success is something that is supposed to happen, not something they planned on earning.

2. The Status Collector

They do not yet understand the weight of an owner’s presence. Seduced by the aesthetic of ownership, they are not willing to live it. They assume branded hoodies at brunch and social selfies are the passport to viral success. At the same time, they cringe at the idea of early mornings, late nights, and weekends. What they have yet to learn is that leadership shows up in the unglamorous moments when no one is watching, like mopping the floor at 10 p.m. when the cleaner calls out sick.

3. The Turnkey Balance Dreamer

They’ve been sold on the idea that the road to balance runs through business ownership, with a franchise system serving as the accelerant. A turnkey path to more freedom, family time, and endless travel. Worse, they think a strong system replaces effort. What they do not realize is that business ownership is hard, and balance comes later, but only as it is earned.

4. The Corporate Success Story

Armed with a shiny resume, they are convinced their previous 9-to-5 success has prepared them for entrepreneurship. What they fail to admit is that they value predictability. Unfortunately, entrepreneurship comes in waves of uncertainty, with no guaranteed paycheck and no HR safety net. When the conversation shifts from 9-to-5 to 24/7, they find themselves in uncharted waters.

5. The KPI Cave Dweller

They do not understand the law of attraction and often lack social capital. They prioritize technology and metrics before considering the value of human connection. Too reliant on spreadsheets and overly complex KPIs, they miss the unmeasurable: how energy is contagious and culture starts at the top. Handicapped by these blinders, they create a trickle-down effect that can cripple frontline operations and the unit-level hiring process. Unwilling to recognize the “it factor” of a customer-centric business, they convince themselves that automation can compete with human connection.

The Pro-Franchisee List: 5 Archetypes of Successful Partnerships

On the flip, after 15 years of building and operating inside a franchise system, there are certain characteristics I’ve consistently seen separate high performing franchisees from the rest. These patterns have repeated themselves enough times that they’re difficult to dismiss.

1. The Hands On Owner

There is no substitute for an owner who lives and breathes the brand. The most successful markets almost always have an owner who is deeply engaged in the business. They set the tone from the top, but they are also close enough to the day to day operations to drive standards and accountability with their team. Franchise systems are not designed to be passive investments. The strongest operators lead from the front.

2. The Team Player

To benefit from a franchise system, you have to believe in its DNA. When communication from HQ is skimmed, ignored, or filtered through “we already do it our way,” important signals get lost and the system’s culture begins to splinter. High performing operators approach the system with both curiosity and restraint. They commit to a team first mindset and play for the logo on the front of the jersey, not the name on the back.

3. The Long Game Operator

Even the best systems need time to work. Marketing campaigns take time to dial in. Pricing strategies evolve. Operational changes often feel uncomfortable before they become effective. Those who abandon initiatives too quickly tend to isolate themselves and rarely experience the payoff. High performing operators stay committed long enough to see the upside.

4. The Coachable Competitor

Some operators wait for feedback. Others actively seek it out. The strongest franchisees surround themselves with high performing peers. They share numbers, compare results, and treat feedback as an opportunity to improve. They understand that criticism isn’t always personal, even when they’ve invested considerable time, energy, and money into their business. Rather than allowing personal biases or market biases to cloud their judgment, they separate emotion from opportunity and turn constructive feedback into action.

5. The People’s Champ

The law of attraction. The ultimate X factor. Strong operators create momentum around them and know their presence in the market matters. They are visible in the community, connected to their members, and engaged with the people around the business. Charisma, authenticity, and genuine relationships create reach that marketing alone cannot replicate. Staff want to work for them and communities want to support them. When the other qualities are in place, this becomes the force multiplier. The strongest franchisees do not just operate a location. They become an aspirational presence that naturally attracts people to the brand.

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

Kinda Chic. Another regurgitated buzz phrase repackaged as original.

An online aesthetic and persona built around looking effortlessly cool. A little undone and a little imperfect. You know it, that carefully curated nonchalance vibe that takes considerable effort to achieve.

Kinda chic pretends to stand against something, but in reality, it is a carbon copy of whatever the algorithm is telling everyone to do.

There’s nothing chic about kinda chic.

At today’s pace, trends are copied, saturated, bastardized, and turned into a dad joke in under a week.

A trendy thing to say right now is that taste is the future. The funny thing about good taste is it’s usually the opposite of trendy.

And therein lies the challenge.

Taste is extremely difficult to scale. And in a capitalist economy obsessed with growth, that poses a problem.

Even though I’ve been known to say scale is where quality goes to die, I’m not pretending scale or monopolization is going anywhere. In fact, I think this global Amazon effect will only grow stronger in our day to day lives.

Which brings me to another trending buzz phrase: Anti Trend.

The idea is simple enough. Qualities that live outside the churn of fast fashion, mass adoption, and algorithmic sameness get positioned as Anti Trend.

But an Anti Trend approach isn’t about saying you are different. It’s about actually living differently. And there is a difference.

Cue the contradiction.

Anti Trend is now trending. The rebellion itself has become the trend.

But I’m okay with it.

In 2026, we’re finally seeing brands embrace defiance and nonconformity once again. Similar to the grunge wave of the early 90s, rebellion is back in style.

Less pretense. Less polish. More substance. More grit.

I’m all for it. The last decade has leveraged essentially the same playbook with a different set of Pantones. And people are tired. I’m tired.

The grunge movement of the early 1990s was more than a musical movement. It was a cultural correction. A rebellion against the consumption, commercialization, and manufactured perfection of the 80s.

It rejected what mainstream culture had become, trading perfection for an unapologetic embrace of imperfection.

In the right circles, you can feel something similar happening again. A noticeable fatigue with the hyper curated, beige aesthetic. Music, film, fashion, sports campaigns, even wellness brands are beginning to reflect it.

Where the early 1980s celebrated aspiration and success, grunge gave voice to skepticism, anxiety, and frustration, particularly among Generation X, a generation that in many ways looks a lot like Gen Z today.

Grunge wasn’t simply a new genre of music. It spawned a rebellious counterculture. A classic case of cause and effect.

Gen X: You sold us the polished American Dream. We don’t believe you.
Gen Z: You sold us the optimized digital version of life. We don’t believe you.

Perhaps the greatest irony was that the moment grunge became commercially successful, the industry began packaging, marketing, and selling the very authenticity that had made it appealing in the first place.

A movement that rejected branding became one of the most recognizable cultural brands of the twentieth century.

And maybe that’s where things get interesting.

If enough people give beige the middle finger, eventually the middle finger becomes a trend too.

Still, I’ll take it.

Back to taste …

Taste is a subjective MoFo and is largely driven by exposure, or lack thereof. It is the byproduct of curiosity and participation, not consumption. Taste was once something you discovered. Now it is something you’re sold.

The music you listened to, the cities you visited, the people you hung around with, and the people you hoped to sleep with. You participated. You chanced things. You took risks. And somewhere along the way, you developed a point of view.

Today, consumers are tasting someone else’s IG feed and trying to convince themselves it is their own.

Enter status …

Status, not to be confused with taste, has become an algorithmic checklist of things to own, restaurants to visit, and trips to book.

And maybe that’s the distinction I’ve been struggling to articulate. Taste and status are not the same thing. In many ways, they are polar opposites.

Status, like scale, requires other people.

Scale needs enough people to want the same thing.
Status needs enough people to agree that the same thing is desirable.

Desirable becomes recognizable. Recognizable eventually becomes repeatable. Repeatable becomes scalable. Scalable becomes ubiquitous.

Ubiquitous, at least to me, is just another shade of beige.

Taste doesn’t require an audience and can exist completely independent of agreement. You can have impeccable taste in something nobody else understands, values, or even recognizes.

Case in point, I love old world, mineral rich red wines. Plenty of people love big, meaty new world Cabs. Neither is right or wrong. It’s simply a matter of taste.

But the moment you’re choosing something because other people will recognize what that choice says about you, you’ve introduced status into the equation.

Still, that doesn’t necessarily make the thing bad.

The restaurant could actually be that incredible. The hotel may very well be that beautiful. The clothes might hug just right. And the destination might actually be worth visiting.

That’s not the rub. The problem is that everybody is being served the same menu.

If said algorithm had a voice, which I’m sure it will soon, it might say:

My job is to force feed you a menu of my choosing, allow you to taste it, and convince you the discovery was your own.

Taste doesn’t require validation.

Status does.

When the same desirable things are being served to everyone, a certain level of sameness becomes inevitable.

Whether you live in a major metropolis or a sleepy suburb, today’s hyper connected world leaves us increasingly bound by one menu.

That is precisely why everyone looks somewhat trendy but strangely identical.

Same shoes. Same pants. Different people.

Maybe this is my Xennial DNA talking, but the way I remember it, school style involved clear silos of individual taste.

How you dressed was deeply personal. It was a way to express yourself.

You had preppie kids, skate kids, and surf kids. Not sure how we had surf kids in Ontario, Canada, but we did. You had goths, punks, later came emos, and everything in between.

You could practically tell what music someone listened to by what they were wearing.

Even the jocks didn’t really have a uniform. At least not where I grew up. We played the same sports but didn’t necessarily dress the same.

Today, I’m lost trying to explain to my 13 year old son that there is more to life than grey sweatpants and a freshly teased Broccoli Crop.

But among older teens and young adults, something else seems to be taking shape.

I recently got back from Spain, and in Barcelona, the shift was hard to miss.

I wouldn’t exactly label it as grunge, per se. More like the angst and attitude of grunge dressed in the early 2000s aesthetic of Indie Sleaze.

Apparently, I’m not the only one seeing it. Earlier this year, Pitchfork founder Ryan Schreiber titled an entire piece “#IndieSleaze Will Never Die,” arguing that five years into its revival, the culture that helped define the 2000s is increasingly defining the 2020s too.

Europe tends to be a few years ahead of North America on these things. And when the shift makes its way across the Atlantic, it usually shows up first in cities like Manhattan, LA, Toronto, and Montreal.

Nirvana tees. Deftones tees. Doc Martens. Low rise jeans. Cigarette in hand. Bras optional.

Quite literally, a walking, talking billboard for rebellion with a nod to the heroin chic queen herself, Kate Moss.

A little less polish. A little more indifference.

You wanna talk kinda chic? Heroin chic has a case.

Of course, if enough people start doing it, that becomes a uniform too.

Again, fine by me.

At least this recycled uniform has some angst and attitude.

Maybe that’s ultimately why I’m willing to accept the contradiction of Anti Trend becoming trendy.

I’d rather live in a culture where people occasionally overcorrect, rebel, dress weird, challenge societal norms, create subcultures, see those subcultures commercialized, and eventually rebel against those too.

I’d still take her over an algorithmically assembled costume masquerading as taste when what it’s really chasing is status.

At least there’s friction and participation.

Taste is personal. Status is social.

Taste is discovered. Status is signaled.

Status may argue, recognizable eventually becomes repeatable and scalable.

Taste might counter, I don’t speak beige.

Eventually, taste gives status and scale the middle finger. And the whole fucking thing starts over again.

Rebellion gets commercialized. Imperfection becomes carefully curated.

So be it.

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

Navigating a major transition earlier this year, I set a goal of writing and releasing one essay per week. A simple, self serving distraction to help reengage myself in a creative process I had lost somewhere during my most recent years chasing scale.

In the age of the endless scroll, powered by furry microphones and cringy short form parody, I’ve found it deeply rewarding to disappear into my own head and try to find a voice where fewer people are paying attention.

It’s been fun, challenging, and more than anything, therapeutic. Fortunately, I’ve also received a slew of positive feedback, which admittedly feels good.

Yes, I too like personal acknowledgement. Sue me.

Turns out, some people seem to enjoy these rants and/or my unorthodox writing style. The secret I want to share with my supporters, and frankly the less enthused, is that the writing process has never been easy for me.

I believe I’m a decent storyteller and have a knack for organizing random and copious amounts of information into a thesis that supports my position or bias. But the whole “writing like an actual professional” idea is completely foreign to me. Nothing specific to the art of writing comes naturally to me.

I have no classical training. I write like I speak. My grammar is terrible and my sentence structure can be unfamiliar. But I’ve become increasingly confident in the process behind it.

For me, writing is really an exercise in synthesis. Taking a ridiculous amount of seemingly unrelated information, observations, experiences, and opinions and trying to figure out what, if anything, connects them.

My writing doesn’t arrive with a fully formed thesis. I prefer to argue my way toward one.

This week, that process was more mentally cumbersome than usual. We had just gotten back from vacation, my parents were in town visiting, my two sons both celebrated birthdays, 11 and 14, and my oldest, Grayson, unfortunately suffered a horrific knee injury at his football game Tuesday night.

Between the post vacation blues, catching up on life, Mum, Dad, family commitments, birthdays, ER visits, MRIs, and follow ups, my brain feels like a can of smashed assholes.

All that to say, organizing half baked thoughts and bringing a central idea, argument, or point of view to life through a supported thesis proved extremely difficult this week.

As a respectable cop out to my promise of a weekly essay, I thought it could be fun, or at least interesting, to share my creative writing process. Or, as I like to call it, my creative ranting process. A non traditional, reverse engineered approach that helps bring my weekly brain dumps to life.

I typically get my best ideas in three places. In the shower, in the car, or in the gym.

So here’s how my process typically flows. I pick a hot button topic, or simply a topic important to me, once a week. The initial ranting begins about a week before the essay actually drops. Meaning, this week, I’m developing ideas for next week’s essay while fine tuning and finalizing this week’s post.

It usually starts with me under the influence of the mind altering hot water of my shower, inspired by music and lyrics in my car, or pushing my physical boundaries at the gym. In all three scenarios, at least for me, my brain runs wild when given permission to wander.

Because of this, I keep my phone close by with my Notes app open, ready to listen.

Then, as the ideas flood in, I begin an intense debate with myself, recording these random thoughts and arguments through my Notes app. I give an opinion, challenge generic positions or societal norms, and then poke holes in my own argument. It all comes out raw, unedited, and most importantly, in my own voice.

After multiple rants from multiple venues, the shower, the car, the gym, themes begin to take shape. Eventually, I sit down in front of my laptop, Notes app locked and loaded, and begin organizing those scattered thoughts into something resembling a structure.

From there, natural headings emerge with complementary bullet points. Then fragmented paragraphs start to form.

Next comes creating some sort of sequence. It typically starts with a hook, followed by an observation. Maybe a question worth exploring. Eventually, I stumble into a thesis, challenge that thesis, find some resolution, and hopefully finish with a callback that brings the entire piece full circle.

When I’m happy with the flow of the initial draft, I run it through an intentionally curated ChatGPT thread designed to edit for clarity and grammar while maintaining my voice. Once I receive the edit, I go back into the essay and rework it further in my own voice. This is probably the most important step and involves more subtraction than addition.

To summarize:

• Rant — Pick a weekly topic and sound off into the Notes app.

• Organize — Group random thoughts into themes.

• Sequence — Arrange those themes until an argument starts to emerge.

• Write — Turn the scattered thoughts into headings, sentences, and

  paragraphs.

• Rinse — Run the rough draft through GPT for clarity and grammar while maintaining my voice.

• Rework — Tighten the draft, focusing more on subtraction than addition.

• Repeat — Return to any step as needed.

Now that you know my process, I want to bring you into this week’s can of smashed assholes.

What follows are a few of the themes, arguments, and half baked statements I’ve been working through but, up to this point, haven’t been able to bring together into a cohesive argument.

Some are contradictory. Some overlap. Some aren’t fully developed. That’s the point.

My gut tells me there’s an essay buried somewhere in here. That many of these seemingly related ideas are saying the same thing in different ways. I just haven’t figured out exactly what that thing is yet.

Fear not, next week you can expect the finished product, as promised, in your inbox at 6:03 AM Friday morning Eastern.

Until then, here’s where I left off this week.

There’s Nothing Chic About Kinda Chic

• Another regurgitated buzz phrase repackaged as original.

• Another boring carbon copy of whatever the algorithm is telling everyone to do.

• Kinda chic pretends to stand against something. In reality, it stands for nothing.

• Kinda chic pretends to stand against something, but in reality, it’s typical.

The Grunge Revival

• Less pretense. More substance.

• The 80s celebrated aspiration and success.

• Grunge gave voice to skepticism, anxiety, and frustration.

• Generation X is a generation that, in many ways, looks a lot like Gen Z today.

• Grunge wasn’t simply a new genre of music. It was a cultural correction.

• A classic case of cause and effect.

Taste vs Trends

• Everyone keeps saying taste is the future.

• So one could argue this idea of “taste” is kinda “trending.”

• But isn’t good taste almost the exact opposite of being trendy?

• If an algorithm is constantly telling you what’s cool, how much of that is actually your taste?

• Taste, at least to me, is a rejection of today’s algorithmic menu or color palette.

• Taste, at least to me, is a search for raw uniqueness, experience, and a point of view.

• Are we actually discovering our own taste anymore, or are we just consuming someone else’s?

Taste vs Status

• Status has become an algorithmic checklist of things to own, restaurants to visit, and trips to book.

• Taste was once something you discovered. Now it is something you’re sold.

• Today, you are “tasting” someone else’s feed, convincing yourself it’s your own.

School Kids & Style

• 2026 = Walking clones with the same freshly teased Broccoli Crop.

• 2026 = The uniform, a textured fringe and a pair of grey sweatpants.

• 1996 = Clear silos of individual taste representing a way to express yourself.

• 1996 = You could tell what music someone listened to by what they were wearing.

The Anti-Trend Movement

• Anti-Trend isn’t about saying you are different. It’s about actually living differently.

• Anti-Trend is now trending. Feels weird.

• The rebellion itself has become the trend.

Standalone Boom Statements w/ No Home

• Kinda Chic vs Kinda’ Punk Rock (could be fun to argue)

• Beige is the new black!

• Beige is much easier to scale.

• The problem with taste is that it is difficult to scale.

• Same shoes, same pants, but different people.

• Everyone looks somewhat trendy but oddly identical.

I feel like there’s an essay here. Fuck it, I know there is.

The ranting is done. Now comes the organizing, sequencing, writing, rinsing, and reworking. Somewhere along the way, I’ll find a thesis, challenge that thesis, poke holes in my own bias, and hopefully find my way to some sort of conclusion.

That’s the part of this process I enjoy and have become increasingly confident in. I don’t need to know exactly where an idea is going when I start. I just need to trust there’s something worth exploring and give myself enough time to argue my way toward it.

So, back to the shower. Back to the car. Back to the gym.

Phone close by, Notes app open, curious, and ready to listen.

I know these things are related.

I just haven’t figured out why yet.

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

Instead of fighting for the same general customer, a niche narrows the field by defining a specific audience while creating its own set of standards and expectations. It forces you to identify a belief system and then asks you to speak directly to that belief system.

Many brands take a shotgun approach.

A wide-ranging blast designed to hit as much as possible.

To niche is to do the exact opposite.

It trades the shotgun for a sniper rifle.

This calculated approach allows you to focus on a specific target.

Some will argue niching is restrictive. Partly true. But restrictive is not necessarily bad when viewed through a defined scope. It gives you a clear sight line and removes peripheral distractions.

Important to note, a niche concept can’t exist on positioning alone. It needs to show up everywhere. Every single touchpoint should reinforce exactly who the brand is for and, equally important, who exactly it is not designed for.

A friend and colleague of mine, Emma Barry, often labeled “The Oprah of Fitness,” might have said it best in her book Building a Badass Boutique:

I’m not saying a general approach won’t work, but in a world with endless choices, there will always be a subset of consumers looking for something more specific. Something that feels like it was built for them rather than adapted to include them.

That’s the real opportunity.

You don’t need everyone.

You need to matter more to someone.

Taking this one step further, I’ve come to think about consumers through two admittedly broad archetypes.

The “I want to be SEEN” consumer and the “I want to BELONG” consumer.

The SEEN consumer wants to know there’s a place for them.

The BELONG consumer wants to know they’ve found their people.

One says, come as you are.

The other says, this is who we are.

Neither is right or wrong and neither is inherently better than the other.

Both present lucrative opportunities. They just require completely different strategies.

Different consumers. Different needs. Different belief systems.

Let me share a personal story here …

A few years back, my business partner Kirk DeWaele and I were asked to consult for another fitness concept. We were even given the opportunity to invest in its future.

At the time, I’d like to think we had built a strong reputation through MADabolic, the cult-like brand we co-founded and built from scratch. A no-nonsense strength and conditioning concept designed to disrupt the boutique space.

Our niche? Strength, structure and accountability. A fitness program built for 25–45-year-old high achievers and ex-athletes who craved more than what the traditional group fitness scene offered.

Our positioning was essentially anti-average and anti-boutique. Everything we did, from the science behind our workouts to our tone, our policies, even our music, was intentionally at odds with much of the industry.

Did it rub some people the wrong way? Absolutely.

But for the high-performing outliers, they had found their people.

The concept we were asked to evaluate was different.

Strike that. The product and consumer were the polar opposite of ours.

Originally designed as an all-women concept, it fundamentally had a niche hardwired in. From what we could tell, it provided a fun and safe environment for first-time female consumers discovering fitness and others rediscovering fitness after a hiatus.

As I said, a very different consumer with very different needs.

So why were the two guys responsible for the DNA of MADabolic being asked to help a company that looked nothing like it?

That’s a great question.

My guess? They needed us to help them become distinctly themselves.

Something we had experience developing.

One of the first questions we asked was simple.

Who is the current customer?

Their answer?

The untrained, overweight female.

Throughout the process, leadership made it clear they believed their existing consumer had handcuffed them to suburban markets. They wanted to pursue more metropolitan sites. They wanted to scale and they wanted a cool factor.

Part of this new direction included a complete rebrand. First, they introduced more gender-neutral Pantones to the branding. Next came a trendier approach to the creative and marketing. Finally, they shifted from all-female to coed classes.

The logic was simple: a women’s-only product reached only 50% of the available market.

In theory, it all made sense.

But there was one problem.

Their new intended consumer had little interest in the product to begin with. Worse, that consumer already had plenty of superior options to choose from.

After Kirk and I toured some of their facilities, evaluated the product, looked at the numbers, and had a series of conversations, we eventually sat down with leadership to present our ideas.

We told them perhaps the biggest issue was that they saw their existing consumer as limiting, or as the primary thing holding them back.

We disagreed.

We saw her as the opportunity.

We stressed that there was, and still is, a substantial pocket of women in this bracket who do not currently speak gym and do not need another trendy fitness concept pretending to be for everyone. What these women needed was something unapologetically specific to them.

What came next kind of shocked them.

We told them to abandon the entire rebrand, including the new color scheme. We told them to abandon the idea of becoming trendier. We told them to abandon the idea of coed classes.

We told them to go back and prioritize the very consumer they were turning their back on.

And we told them our potential investment hinged on it.

We proposed a simplified structure designed to empower this individual, not overwhelm her. Workouts that would build her, not break her. Results gained through repetition and supported by a digestible three-day commitment.

We proposed one low friction membership option: $125 per month with a simple 90 day commitment. A set schedule: Mon/Wed/Fri or Tue/Thu/Sat. The intention was to create camaraderie and accountability through small group silos that trained together regularly. An important step we felt would support the discovery and rediscovery process.

We even proposed a specific approach to music. Something nostalgic, fun and predictable. Our initial thought for the soundtrack was classic hip hop mashups, all day every fucking day!

Biggie & 2Pac
Eminem & Dr. Dre
Missy Elliott & Timbaland
N.E.R.D. & Outkast
Jay-Z & Kanye
Ludacris & Nelly

Just as my friend Emma stressed: single minded and specific.

You get the gist.

Most people know us for an undeniable strength and conditioning concept built for high performers. What some may not know is that we intentionally forged that niche based on what we saw missing in the industry. At no point did we believe that was the only opportunity.

This all-women concept represented an equally compelling niche opportunity. The consumer was the complete opposite of ours, but the same principle applied. Everything we proposed was single minded and specific to her. Predictable and repeatable. An environment that wasn’t intimidating. Simple commitments. And a nostalgic soundtrack.

That’s the power of niche concepts. Two completely different concepts can be equally specific while serving completely opposite physical and psychological needs.

When done right, a niche should attract a specific consumer while repelling the other. That’s the level of specificity that makes a true niche work.

And I still believe it would have worked.

In the end, our proposals were shut down. Leadership chose not to return to their roots.

That jab left a mark.

A company that once had momentum and a defined position is now a fraction of the size.

In pursuit of a larger opportunity, the shotgun approach caused them to lose their audience altogether. Their quest to reach more people ultimately alienated the right people.

Maybe a narrower scope would have generated a bigger bang.

If you pay attention, you’ll notice that when someone describes their love for a product or brand, it’s never about how the brand speaks to everyone. It’s about how the brand speaks to them.

And maybe that is the bigger lesson. Everything can’t be intended for everyone.

Niching isn’t about getting smaller. It’s about getting more specific.

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

“Playing Guilty” is one of the great terms to come out of hockey culture.

It’s an unwritten rule that celebrates a certain level of grit, loyalty, and perseverance among teammates.

Its origins are a little hazy, but it goes something like this …

The phrase is quietly applied to an individual player, or group of teammates, who test the typical boundaries and somehow end up exposed to an above-average dose of shenanigans the night before a game.

A few become a few too many and curfew becomes an afterthought.

The problem: tomorrow’s expectations don’t change.

If anything, they are now heightened by guilt and loyalty.

Because truthfully, no one gives a shit about yesterday.

“Playing Guilty” is a state of mind.

It’s a sacred promise to yourself and a shared code among teammates that regardless of what happened the night before, you can still be counted on.

No excuses. No sympathy.
You made your choices.
Now fucking perform.

For whatever reason, that ridiculous little piece of hockey culture followed me long after I stopped playing.

But the late night isn’t really the point. It’s simply a metaphor for yesterday making today more difficult. And right or wrong, today doesn’t always care why.

Through athletics. Through entrepreneurship. Through good decisions and some spectacularly shitty ones. Through wins, losses, relationships, fatherhood, and whatever comes next.

Playing Guilty is an internal promise to show up and perform every single day.

Not because yesterday doesn’t matter. It does. But yesterday is a game you don’t get to play anymore. Today still expects something from you.

Maybe that’s why, all these years later, that phrase still speaks to me.

Whether it’s a coach breathing down your neck, employees leaning on you for leadership, your kids needing your full attention, or your partner deserving your support, every role comes with expectations.

You have a duty. You have loved ones to provide for, teammates and partners to do right by, dreams to chase, and people to prove wrong.

Playing Guilty. PLYN GLTY.

Same idea. Different chapter.

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

Most people do not want to see the struggle. Even fewer want to understand or can relate to the grind. Nope. They want the end product.

As Bernadette Jiwa eloquently put it in Marketing: A Love Story, “People almost never buy the process. They buy the result.”

Take GLP-1s as the most current example. And let me lead with this: I’m all for these drugs for the right population. For those who have struggled with their weight for much of their lives, I believe they can provide a valuable head start and I’ve seen positive results within my own circle.

What happens after the head start, and whether lasting habits follow, is ultimately up to the individual.

Ever considered why they’ve become such a talking point?

The struggle has largely been removed from the story. They just seem to work.

From a low-friction marketing perspective, that’s precisely what makes them so compelling and the perfect case study.

And let’s be clear, these companies aren’t exactly leading with the potential issues or serious side effects. Nope.

The narrative is the desired outcome, not the potential downside.
Again, not the process. The result.

Let’s embrace some sarcasm and look at a few more examples.

When’s the last time you saw an Invisalign ad featuring a paid actor with janky-ass teeth? Never. It’s always some happy go lucky person with a beautiful smile flying a kite or something.

How about those enticing Sandals Resort commercials? Notice how they never show the family MF’n their way through customs, with the kids acting like outright menaces every step of the way.

Nope. Just sand and smiles.

Now let me paint a masterpiece …

Could you imagine a Preparation H ad leading with progress pictures?

Not a chance.

Come to think of it, those hemorrhoid advertisements usually feature some freshly recovered butthole, with a pearly set of whites, flying a kite at some Sandals-like resort.

The point is …

People don’t buy the process. They buy the result.

People don’t buy who they are. They buy who they want to become.

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

There’s something magical about introducing your kids to the pulse of New York City.

A few years back, we decided to flip the traditional birthday script. Instead of gifting stuff, we decided to give the kids something more than another item. We chose to prioritize travel and moments.

And fittingly, that new tradition began in Manhattan.

Experiencing NYC with them for the first time wasn’t just about showing them the iconic landmarks. It was about letting them feel the rhythm of the city.

The lights. The smells. The culture. The diversity. The heartbeat.

That rhythm starts building even before you get there. On the ride in from the airport, you cross bridges with their own storylines and watch that unmistakable skyline grow larger through the window. A city that can swallow you in the best possible way.

If you’re a regular, like we are, you’ll need to swallow your pride and take them to Times Square.

Watch their eyes light up when they first see it glowing in neon, larger than life. There’s something about their reaction that can’t help but feel nostalgic. They’re discovering it. You’re rediscovering it through them.

Grab a bagel. Grab a slice. Grab some street meat.
Suddenly, these simple foods become part of the experience.

And walk. Walk everywhere.
Eventually, it starts to feel as if the city itself is guiding you.

Wander through Central Park, a massive green oasis surrounded by steel. Take the subway, the ultimate New York rite of passage. Skip the Uber and brave a yellow cab. Watch as your driver weaves through traffic and neighborhoods on pure instinct.

Over and over and over again.

You’ll be reminded of the real New York.

The grit and grind that make it unlike anywhere else.

Take in a Yankees game. Even if your kids don’t fully understand the history, they’ll feel it in the air as they enter the concourse. And yes, buy the ridiculously overpriced merch. Years from now, that hat or shirt becomes less about the Yankees and more about remembering they were there.

If possible, experience Madison Square Garden, but even if you never make it through the doors, take in the block it sits on and appreciate the history that has walked those sidewalks. Home to the Rangers and the Knicks, MSG has earned its reputation as “The World’s Most Famous Arena.” Some of the most iconic moments in sports, music, and entertainment have unfolded beneath its roof.

Stop by Chelsea Market, grab a quick coffee or a bite, then exit and head up the stairs to the High Line. A breathtaking trail 30 feet above the streets below, stretching 1.5 miles along Manhattan’s West Side. Built in 1934, this repurposed and reimagined railroad track weaves through gardens, architecture, art, and some spectacular views, revealing a softer side of the city.

And then there are the moments.

Moments that have nothing to do with retired railroad tracks, iconic landmarks, or famous sporting venues.

The curiosity. The unprompted conversations.

On our first trip to the city, my youngest was nine. Completely unprovoked, he looked up at me and said:

“Dad, you know what the coolest thing about NYC is? All the different religions.”

I paused. Slowly took in what he was saying.

And then it hit me.

What he really meant, through that through that innocent nine-year-old lens, was the mix of cultures, accents, traditions, and people that call this place home.

He was noticing the world.

Residents. Immigrants. Tourists. Different languages, backgrounds, beliefs, foods, clothes, and customs, all colliding on the same sidewalks and somehow creating this living, breathing organism that is undeniably NYC.

You want to show your kids the world?

Show them New York City first.

And do it before life has a chance to blunt their optimism and curious little minds.

Let them wonder. Let them stare. Let them ask questions.

Let them notice how people look different, sound different, eat differently, worship differently, and experience life differently than they do.

Because New York has a remarkable way of making the world feel enormous and incredibly small at the exact same time.

Take your kids to New York City.

Let them see the world while they’re still curious enough to take it all in.

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

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 was, and still is, a lovable group of 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.

Spend enough time in airports and on airplanes, and you begin to notice things you never used to. One of those things is that people dress like slop-tarts.

Borrowing from my grandfather’s advice, I still ask the mirror a few questions before leaving for the airport.

What does today’s inflight attire say about me? What do I need it to say? Is it professional enough if I happen to get bumped to first class?

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.

And somewhere along the way, I’ve realized “dress sharp” doesn’t necessarily mean dress formal. Sometimes it’s fitted jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and my timeless checkerboard Vans. Other times it’s trousers, a wool sweater, and boots.

The common thread is intention.

Ironically, I’ve also noticed the casual version can create more curiosity in first class, while the more polished version can do the same in the main cabin.

What’s the 45-year-old guy doing in checkerboard Vans?
Why the hell is this guy dressed so proper?

Different questions. Same curiosity. And both often lead to the same outcome: conversation.

I never lead the dance. But I’m happy to engage.

Here’s how I see it.

For a few hours at 35,000 feet, social barriers get strangely rearranged.

You’re sitting beside a complete stranger. They know nothing about you, your line of work, or your story. They didn’t click on your website. They weren’t referred by a trusted friend. And they aren’t whoring themselves out to your inbox because of some clever AI algorithm.

They simply happened to book Seat 4F, and you happened to get upgraded to 4D.

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

People often assume it’s about selling.

It’s not.

These aren’t sales calls. But they are live reps.

I’ve found that even the smallest amount of trust starts with curiosity. That usually begins with a simple icebreaker, followed by thoughtful questions and genuine interest. You listen more than you speak. You learn about their story, their perspective, and their interests.

Only then do I feel like I’ve earned the right to share a little of my own.

And 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.

These random conversations have led to unprompted dinner reservations, concert tickets, introductions to interesting people and places, and even opportunities for businesses I’ve been involved with.

But that’s probably the least interesting part.

They’ve also exposed me to perspectives I wouldn’t otherwise hear and stories completely different from my own. And somewhere along the way, all those live reps have made me increasingly comfortable talking to just about anyone.

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

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.

“Boyes is down. We need you to step up and lead.”

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 circumstances, 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 ...