The beginning of a year often carries pressure—to define goals, set direction, and speak with certainty about what’s next. I’ve never been especially drawn to that approach. What feels more honest, especially right now, is paying attention to what’s already taking shape.

As 2026 begins, I’m noticing less of a pivot and more of a continuation. The same themes that surfaced throughout last year—story, voice, place, and connection—are still present. What’s changed is the clarity around how and where those themes want to live.

Over time, I’ve also come to understand how easily the past can become both an anchor and a boundary. Experience matters. History matters. But if we’re not careful, they can quietly define the limits of what we believe is possible.

I’ve felt this personally. A colorful, successful past can carry just as many potholes and distractions as it does momentum. Detours shape us, but they don’t get to decide where we stop. I don’t want to forget where I’ve been—but I’m no longer interested in letting past versions of myself set artificial boundaries around what comes next.

I see this same tension playing out across mountain communities and legacy businesses throughout the West. Many are deeply shaped by who they’ve been—and rightly so. Their history gives them texture, credibility, and meaning. But the future doesn’t automatically reward legacy. It responds to relevance, clarity, and a willingness to evolve.

The challenge isn’t erasing the past. It’s refusing to let it become the thing that prevents forward motion. Standing out today often requires letting go of the assumption that what worked once will always work again. It requires finding new ways to matter to changing audiences, new generations, and shifting landscapes—without losing the core of who you are.

That understanding sits at the heart of what’s drawing me forward now. I’m increasingly interested in stories rooted in real places and lived experience—not polished narratives designed to impress, but grounded stories shaped by people who are building, adapting, and finding their way forward within their own communities.

That’s where Authentic Mountains Network began to take form—not as a brand launch or content play, but as a framework for telling stories that already exist across the western mountain regions. Stories shaped by geography, resilience, work ethic, and a strong sense of place. Stories that don’t need exaggeration to matter.

What excites me about this direction isn’t scale or speed. It’s momentum with intention. The opportunity to work alongside people and communities who understand that progress doesn’t arrive perfectly packaged—it’s built while moving. You go now. You change along the way. You land where you land because of intentional effort, not because you stayed inside boundaries that no longer fit.

This work still lives in the same posture I’ve always trusted: listen closely, move thoughtfully, and let story serve as orientation rather than ornament. I don’t feel the need to define outcomes yet. I’m more interested in staying present with the work, the relationships, and the places that continue to shape it.

If 2025 was about recognizing alignment, 2026 feels like the year to follow it—not perfectly, not cautiously, but honestly. With respect for where we’ve been, and enough courage to keep moving forward anyway.

That feels like the right place to begin.