I built an entire SaaS product that is roughly comparable to Kajabi in less than a week using Claude Code in the terminal. It includes features Kajabi does not have that I specifically need, and it omits features Kajabi has that I do not. I finished it, ran it locally, and while reviewing it, realized I wanted a few additional features. I described them to Claude. Claude thought about it, proposed an implementation, I agreed, and it built the features. Fifteen minutes later, I was testing them. If I ask a traditional SaaS company for a feature I need, the odds of it being implemented are close to zero. The odds of it being implemented on a timeline that matters to me are effectively zero. In that model, my product has to adapt to the platform. Here, the platform adapts to my product. I do not know whether every reader could get the same results. I am not a programmer either. But I am very good at describing exactly what I want, and just as importantly, what I do not want. In this case, I gave Claude a governing document describing the business logic, followed by a nine step development plan. Each step was several pages long, and Claude was instructed to work through them one step at a time. If you can clearly describe what you want, how it will be used, and how your business logic works, this approach can produce extraordinary results. If you go to Claude and say, “Make me a website,” it will make you something. It will probably look good. But it will not necessarily be what you want. This method only works if you are good at thinking clearly and describing your intent precisely.

You see these testimonials online from parents who complain endlessly about how miserable parenting was for them. How horrible their children are. How exhausted they are. How much they suffered. How much their children now do not want kids of their own. What they are really doing is bragging about being unskilled parents. Which is a strange thing to boast about. That kind of public complaining is not honest reflection. It is terrible parenting. Just as you do not complain about your spouse in front of your children, you do not complain about being a parent in front of your children. The story you tell about parenting is the story your children absorb about family, responsibility, and the future. In our house, my wife and I always talk about our children in positive terms. Always. We do not describe them as burdens. We do not call them difficult, exhausting, or hard. We do not frame parenting that way at all. We talk about the pleasure of having children. We talk about responsibility as a privilege. About how doing hard things can be joyful. As a result, my son sees caring for his younger brothers as something honorable. He wants to do it. He enjoys it. He seeks it out. Children learn what life is supposed to feel like by watching you. If you tell them that raising children ruins your life, do not be surprised when they decide they do not want children of their own. The attitude you model about parenting is the attitude your children will carry when it comes time to decide whether to give you grandchildren.

Here's your bedtime routine game-changer: spray magnesium oil on your child's feet and legs right before bed. Gently massage it in while you read their bedtime story. Try it for 5 nights straight and watch what happens. Most parents tell me their kids fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer. Costs less than melatonin gummies and actually works.

Ending your bloodline because you hate the opposite sex is a weird flex.

Spiritual Americans There is a very small, almost negligible number of people in the world whom I would call spiritual Americans. These are people who, if they moved to the United States, would look right, act right, and fit naturally into American culture, norms, and demographics in every meaningful way. That pool is extremely small. There is no vast reservoir of Americans scattered around the world waiting to be imported in order to boost population numbers. When large numbers of people are imported, what is being imported is not Americans. It is people who bring their own cultures, their own habits, their own ways of organizing society, and their own ideas about governance and morality. Those ideas inevitably shape how they live, how they organize, and how they vote. That outcome is entirely predictable and obvious. There is only one way to make more Americans. Americans have to have more children.

The Current System Fails to Attract the People We Want in Power We have a persistent misunderstanding about political leadership that is actively worsening our problems: we imagine that competent, honest people will seek power out of moral duty, and that low pay is a virtue that keeps politics “clean.” In reality, the opposite is true. Positions of rulership carry extraordinary responsibility, risk, scrutiny, and opportunity cost. Anyone competent enough to govern a complex modern society is, almost by definition, capable of earning vastly more money, with less exposure and less reputational risk, in the private sector. When we deliberately underpay such positions, we are not signaling virtue, we are signaling that we do not value competence. It is true that a very small number of people will pursue power out of moral obligation alone. But this is a statistical anomaly, not a governing strategy. Even in a country the size of the United States, the number of individuals willing to bear immense personal cost purely out of duty is vanishingly small, a handful per generation at best. That is not enough to staff a legislature, an executive, a judiciary, regulatory bodies, and oversight institutions. And even among those few, not all will succeed, remain healthy, or avoid bad luck. Civilizations cannot be run on moral miracles. What happens under low-pay regimes is entirely predictable: Competent, honest people self-select out. Those who remain are either: - ideologues who value power over outcomes, or - opportunists who expect to be compensated indirectly through corruption, influence, or post-office rewards. Low official pay does not reduce corruption. It filters for people who plan to corrupt. Why Punishment and Transparency Alone Cannot Fix This Many people respond by saying: “Fine, then we’ll just impose stricter transparency and harsher punishments.” This sounds serious, but it misunderstands how institutions form and sustain themselves. Punishment without prior attraction creates a perverse outcome: 1) It further deters competent people, who already have better options. 2) It leaves enforcement in the hands of the incompetent, the ideological, or the corrupt. It turns transparency into a weapon rather than a tool, selectively applied, politicized, or performative. This leads to the exact failure mode we see today: rules that exist on paper but are enforced arbitrarily, by people who lack either the skill or the incentive to enforce them fairly. A crucial question is almost never asked: Who is supposed to design, implement, and enforce transparency and accountability if we have not first attracted competent people into the system? You cannot build high-quality enforcement institutions with low-quality personnel. You cannot punish corruption out of a system that has selected for corruption. Why the Order Matters The sequence of the solution is not optional. First, you must make rulership positions sufficiently rewarding to attract people who: - have real alternatives, - have reputations to protect, - and have something substantial to lose. Then, once competent people are present in sufficient numbers, you can: - build real transparency, - create auditability, - and establish credible enforcement mechanisms. Only then does punishment become effective, because it is: - competently administered, - evenly applied, - and backed by institutions that function. Reversing this order guarantees failure. Punishment-first approaches do not purify systems; they hollow them out. The Core Correction The uncomfortable truth is this: If public office does not pay enough to attract capable people, the system will be run either by fools or by criminals, and often by criminals who pretend to be fools. Compensation is not about rewarding virtue. It is about correcting selection pressure. Transparency and punishment are not substitutes for this, they are downstream tools that only work once the right people are present to wield them. None of this is easy. If it were easy, history would look very different. But difficulty does not excuse getting the order wrong. And right now, we are getting the order wrong in a way that guarantees continued institutional decay.

Write down a short list of the people whose opinions matter to you. Now rewrite that list from most important to least important. You may even want categories, because some people’s opinions matter on certain subjects and not on others. Once you have that list, treat it as definitive. Everyone who is not on it no longer gets a vote. Behave accordingly. Allocate your attention, effort, and concern only to those people. The opinions of everyone else are irrelevant, because functionally, they are.

Most people misunderstand power in government. There are only a few true positions of power. In the U.S., there are roughly 800–1,200 elite rulership positions that actually make binding decisions over law, enforcement, courts, budgets, and force. The President is only one of them, and over time, not the most powerful. Roughly 10–15% are elected, 45–55% are appointed, and 35–45% are career or institutional roles (judges, senior bureaucrats, regulators, military command). This means real power is mostly unelected, durable, and appointment-based. Elections shape legitimacy and direction, but institutions run the country. Elections alone do not change a country. Nations rise or fall based on the quality of their institutions, whether they are understood, invested in, defended from corruption, and capable of attracting competent people willing to take responsibility. If institutions decay, elections become symbolic. If institutions are healthy, elections matter. Ignore institutional competence long enough, and collapse becomes a question of when, not if.

Beware of people who say they are "highly empathetic". That sentence will offend some people, so let me be precise about what it means. Many people who describe themselves as highly empathetic are not especially skilled at understanding other people. They are emotionally permeable. Other people’s emotions flood into them, overwhelm them, and destabilize them. They then interpret that overwhelm as empathy. That experience has a name. It is emotional contagion. Empathy and emotional contagion are different capacities. Empathy is the ability to accurately perceive another person’s emotional state while remaining internally regulated. You can feel what is relevant, understand what is happening, and still think, choose, and act with clarity. Emotional contagion is the loss of that boundary. Another person’s emotional state becomes your emotional state. Agency drops. Judgment narrows. The interaction becomes about managing your own discomfort rather than helping the other person. This does not make someone bad or malicious. In most cases, it reflects a failure of training. Very few people are taught emotional containment. Very few people are taught how to regulate their nervous system under emotional load. Popular culture praises emotional openness while ignoring emotional discipline. Sensitivity is encouraged. Containment is neglected. Both are required. You can train empathy. You can train emotional regulation. You must train both if you want to be useful to others in emotionally charged situations. Unregulated sensitivity creates burnout, confusion, and manipulation risk. Regulated empathy creates clarity, proportion, and real help. So do not reject empathy. Learn to discriminate. Look for people whose presence stabilizes situations rather than amplifying them. Look for those who can understand emotion without being ruled by it. That is productive empathy.

I took my sons up into the Serra de Sintra today. We went because the land was alive after weeks of rain, and because the day was cold and crisp, and the air was fresh. We went because it felt good to move in a place like that, to feel the wind, to walk, to be awake inside our bodies. The Atlantic wind was moving fast, shouldering the clouds across the ridge, breaking light open and sealing it again. Everything was green in that deep, saturated way that only comes after weeks of rain. The stone was dark. The air was sharp. It demanded attention. Everywhere along the path, small transient streams were forming, draining away the rain from the weeks before. Water ran quickly over stone, clear and cold, cutting narrow channels before disappearing downslope. Despite all that rain, the ground was not muddy. We were high enough that the water never sat. It moved on, as it should. We climbed toward the Ermida de São Saturnino, above the Santuário da Peninha, with the weather changing minute by minute. Cold enough to feel in the fingers. Clean enough to wake the lungs. The kind of day that reminds a boy, without words, that the world is bigger than comfort. Along the way we passed trees that had been taken down by the wind. Some were so large it would have taken four of me, arm to arm, to circle the trunk. They lay where they fell, roots torn from the ground. It was good for the boys to see the force that had done that, and the aftermath it leaves behind. Not far off the path, two small wild horses grazed on the mountainside. We watched them for a while and wondered aloud what it would have been like to live that way, exposed to the wind and rain, needing to find shelter and food through attentiveness and cunning. Survival was no longer an idea. It was standing in front of us. At the top we entered the Ermida de São Saturnino, a small mountain church close to a thousand years old by local reckoning. We walked through it slowly. Its condition had worsened since the last time I had been there. What had once shown traces of plaster and painted walls had peeled away, leaving stone and decay behind. I spoke with my sons about the care required to preserve beautiful things, and about what is lost when a people forget where they came from and allow their inheritance to crumble. When we stepped back outside, the views opened wide in every direction. Massive rounded boulders lay scattered across the mountainside, some the size of a car, others as large as a small house. I pointed them out and explained how they had been carried and shaped tens of thousands of years ago by enormous ice sheets that once pushed across Europe, grinding stone smooth and depositing it here near the edge of their advance. I asked my oldest to imagine a wall of ice thirty or forty meters high, moving slowly but relentlessly toward us. To imagine standing in front of it as a Stone Age human, watching the world you knew disappear under cold and silence. For the people who lived through that time, it would have felt like the end of the world. In many ways, it nearly was. Most life was wiped away. Much of Europe was emptied. And yet we survived. Humanity endured generations of winter, ice, and scarcity. Standing there, above the forests and stone, that fact carried weight. If our ancestors could endure that, we can endure the ordinary difficulties that meet us in our own lives. That matters. Why places like this matter to children Children do not primarily learn from what we explain. They learn from what we show them. Before a principle can be understood, it has to be lived. A child needs to feel the wind, the distance, the effort, the weight of the world pressing back. Only after that does the mind open to the deeper questions of why things are the way they are. You demonstrate first. You let them experience it. Then, later, words can land. A dramatic landscape teaches proportion. Wind teaches resistance. Cold teaches presence. Distance teaches effort. None of this is abstract to a child. It enters through the body first, and only afterward settles into understanding. A principle offered without experience has nothing to attach to. It remains hollow. We are not built to understand what we have not encountered. When a boy walks uphill in weather that does not bend for him, something aligns. He learns that the world is real, that his father is competent inside it, and that effort has meaning. You do not need a lecture for that. You need to go. Fatherhood is lived out in the world Modern fatherhood has become dangerously compressed. Too much time inside. Too much talking. Too much management of feelings detached from reality. Men sense that something is missing, but often cannot put their finger on it. What is missing is shared exposure to the real world, terrain that cannot be negotiated, weather that cannot be reasoned with, paths that must simply be walked. When a father takes his children into real places, he is doing more than spending time with them. He is saying, without announcing it: “This is the world. I am at home in it. You will be too. ” That message lands deeper than reassurance ever could. Why I build memory, not entertainment I am not trying to entertain my sons. I am trying to form them into men. Years from now, they will not remember every conversation we had, but they will remember days like this. They hiked the entire way, up and down, across loose, fist-sized rock, without complaint. They sang. They smiled. They enjoyed the cold air and the wide views. Halfway up we stopped briefly for a simple snack: bread, butter, and water. Food meant to answer hunger on a long walk, nothing more. They will remember who they were when they were with me. Cold hands. Fast clouds. Stone walls. A steady pace. A father who knew where he was going. Those memories become internal landmarks. They are recalled later, often unconsciously, when life becomes uncertain. A man who has been led well through real terrain carries that map inside himself. This is where 52 Letters to My Son comes from Experiences like this are not separate from my work. They are the source of it. 52 Letters to My Son exists because fatherhood deserves structure, not improvisation. Most men love their children deeply. Few men have been given a clear framework for translating that love into long-term formation. The program does not replace moments like this. It anchors them. Each week, fathers slow down long enough to ask: What did this mean? What did my child see in me? What do I want them to understand later, when I am no longer beside them on the path? Then they write. One letter at a time. Calm. Deliberate. Grounded in lived experience, not theory. Over time, those letters become something powerful: a written map of a father’s mind, values, and steady presence. An invitation You do not need to hike in Sintra. You do not need ancient stone or Atlantic wind. What matters is leaving the house and living with your children. Life is not formed by sitting indoors all day. Children do not grow strong, capable, or grounded through screens and simulated worlds. They grow by moving, by going somewhere real, by sharing experience with a father who is present and engaged. Your children are forming whether you are deliberate or not. The only question is whether you are willing to father on purpose. That is what 52 Letters to My Son is for. Not to make you perfect or a uniform clone of some ideal of fatherhood. But to help you become the kind of father whose presence your children will carry with them, long after the walk is over. Find 52 Letters to My Son at

52 Letters to My Son — A Year of Intentional Fatherhood

One letter each week for a year. Written with purpose, delivered with care. A fatherhood program by Noah Revoy.

When I was about ten years old, my dad bought an antique motorboat. It was not a big boat, maybe eighteen feet long, wooden, with a decrepit old Johnson outboard motor. I do not think there was anything fundamentally wrong with the motor, but those old engines are finicky. One of the first days we took it out, the weather was perfect. Sunny, warm, almost no wind. We were out exploring islands in Georgian Bay. On the way back, the engine suddenly stalled for no apparent reason. We still had plenty of fuel, well over half a tank. My dad could not get it started. We stopped for a moment to think about what to do. We had paddles and could paddle back, but it would have taken hours. As we were thinking, we noticed a massive storm brewing in the distance. It looked far away, like it was still hours off. Unfortunately, it was not. Within half an hour, the rain started. Around that time, we saw a newer motorboat heading toward us, coming from the direction of the storm. If you kept going the way they were headed, you would reach the docks where we were going. If I remember correctly, it was someone we knew. They slowed down beside us and said we had two seconds to decide. Either jump in with them and abandon our boat, or stay behind. A terrible storm was coming. My dad thought about it and said no. He believed he could get the motor restarted. The other boat took off at full speed toward shore, and we went back to trying to start the engine. Pull after pull, it would not start. It was not flooded. It had fuel. Everything looked right. We had no idea why it refused to run. Then a massive waterspout formed behind us, right at the edge of the storm. It was maybe five or six hundred feet away, about two football fields. It made a horrible sound as it sucked water up from the lake. It looked like something out of a movie. Then the rain came hard. It was not just water. Small fish were coming down in the rain, sucked up from the lake and falling back down on us. Finally, my dad got the engine started. The boat was not fast to begin with, but he pushed it as hard as it would go, partly because higher throttle made it less likely to stall again. We headed straight for shore. As we ran for the docks, the storm and the waterspout followed behind us, getting closer and closer. We came into the docks at full speed, which you are not supposed to do. We jumped out, tied the boat, and ran. By the time we reached the docks, the waterspout was maybe a hundred feet behind us. I had a lot of adventures as a kid. Many of the most dangerous ones were on the water. Freshwater lakes, especially Canadian lakes, are incredibly treacherous. They are cold. You can have a beautiful sunny day and an hour later face a storm of the century. When the waves come, they do not roll like ocean waves. They come close together and relentlessly pound whatever they hit. At the same time, it is some of the most beautiful country God ever made. Clear water. That day, the water was so clear we saw a massive bass, the biggest I have ever seen, about thirty feet down. You could see every scale on its body at that depth. The water was as clear as glass. I suppose the point of the story is this. I take risks in order to enjoy life. And when you take enough real risks as a child, you become more resistant to unnecessary fear responses as an adult. (The boat in the image is very close to what we had.)

Do you ever feel like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far? Do you ever feel overworked and lazy at the same time? Do you find yourself exhausted, yet still judging yourself for not doing enough? If so, there’s a good chance you’re a high‑conscientiousness person. View article →

One of the clearest indicators of a dysfunctional marriage is not the presence of conflict, but the absence of a workable method for resolving it. Conflict is inevitable in any marriage. What determines stability is whether disagreements can be processed productively rather than allowed to accumulate. Couples with even very serious problems, money, sex, extended family, parenting, can remain highly stable if they have a reliable way to resolve conflict. Over time, issues get addressed, renegotiated, or adapted to, and alignment is restored. By contrast, couples who begin highly aligned but lack conflict-resolution capacity tend to deteriorate. Each unresolved disagreement adds friction; resentment accumulates; communication degrades; and eventually the couple deviates so far from one another that the marriage breaks down. This is why, in practice, no substantive marital issue can be solved before conflict resolution is solved. Chores, finances, and life logistics are unsolvable if a couple cannot even have a structured disagreement without escalation or withdrawal. Until conflict becomes productive, every problem threatens the relationship itself rather than contributing to its improvement.

A lot of what we are calling 'mental health issues' are immaturity issues that society has pathologized for profit.

Far too many men end up as servants in their own household. Life is far too short to spend it being your wife's houseboy.

My wife and I went out to dinner. We came home, sent the babysitter off, and my youngest boy, Henry, walks up to me: “Daddy!” He hugs me and presses his face so hard against mine to kiss me. He confuses the strength of his hug and kiss with how intensely he feels about you, so he presses so hard it hurts, because he is just so happy we returned. He is clapping his hands, jumping up and down, absolutely thrilled. His brother, on the other hand, did not say much, he has a flu, half-awake and half-asleep. But Henry always makes you feel so happy to come home.

Almost every marriage that's on the rocks could be saved if the couple would just have more and better sex. As little as 2x or 3x a week would restore the relationship.

“I feel like I never get a break. The cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the kids needing something every minute, it never ends. I am always on duty, and no one sees how constant it is.” “I am tired of carrying everything for the family. Working long hours, paying every bill, fixing what breaks, keeping the house and yard in shape, handling the decisions and the pressure, it is relentless. I wake up knowing there is always another task waiting.” Women often express frustration about the repetitive nature of child care and domestic work, just as some men express frustration about the constant demands of providing, protecting, and leading. Both sets of complaints treat the cyclical nature of these roles as if repetition itself were a flaw. A healthier framing is that these responsibilities are privileges, not burdens. They are the core expressions of being a wife, a husband, a mother, or a father. Parenting is not endless. The period in which children need us daily is brief. They grow, they become independent, and the direct responsibilities fade far sooner than most people expect. The very tasks that feel monotonous are part of a short, irreplaceable window in which parents have maximum influence. To resent that window is to misunderstand its value. Far better to treasure it while it exists. Similarly, the care spouses provide to one another is not unilateral sacrifice. It is reciprocal exchange based on comparative strengths. Each person gives what he or she is naturally better at giving and receives what is needed in return. When understood properly, that exchange is not a drain but a source of stability, intimacy, and cooperation. The problem is not the work itself but the framing. Treating repeating duties as “endless drudgery” blinds people to the meaning embedded in them. Seeing those duties as privileges clarifies their purpose: a chance to build a family, support a spouse, shape children, and create continuity. The work repeats, but it does not imprison; it enriches us.

"Why can groups of masculine men cooperate and form effective teams far easier than effeminate men, women or mixed groups?" - Question from a reader. Revoy’s Law: “Given sufficient time, truthful feedback from reality, and personal responsibility for consequences, honest masculine men will tend to converge on the same general conclusions about reality and the institutional conditions for sustainable human cooperation, regardless of their initial beliefs.” Revoy’s Corollary: “Under survival pressure, disparate men converge rapidly on masculine norms of hierarchy, enforcement, and direct coordination, because these are the only strategies that minimize death and maximize group success.” Short version: “Under threat, reality and responsibility, honest men converge.”

I was seventeen. At a dance. I met a girl with very short hair. Otherwise she was stunning. Black hair. Crystal blue eyes. Very light skin. French. I asked her to dance. Half way through the song I asked why her hair was so short. She said, I am going to die in six months or so. It did not click at first. She looked healthy. I did not understand what that had to do with her hair. We kept dancing. Over and over. I think two thirds of my dances that night were with her. I enjoyed her company. She was charming. Soft. Gentle. Beautiful. Kind. Sweet. French Canadian. There was a small language barrier. It did not matter. Her warmth came through. I met a few of her friends that night. I kept in touch with them for a couple of years. She had told the truth. She died a little over a year later. Cancer. Her hair was short because she had been through chemo. She was in that in-between period. Recovering. A little hair had grown back. I think about her from time to time, grateful for the few moments we enjoyed together. As hard as life can feel, we are still alive. She could have sat in sorrow complaining about her life. Instead, she chose a night with friends. A fancy dress party. Dancing. Being sweet. Being herself. She faced death with a stoic calm that puts many men to shame. She spoke of it as if it were nothing. No big deal. There is a lesson in that. It is hard to enjoy life if you focus on complaints. No matter how bad it gets, choose time with loved ones. Choose small joys. Choose what matters. Do that, and you will not only enjoy your life. However short it is, it will mean something.