On May 7, 2025 I decided to take on the Great World Race. I know exactly where I was standing when the decision was made — because it wasn’t impulsive, emotional, or driven by ego. It was clarifying.

Since my early twenties, I’ve been my mom’s primary caregiver and decision-maker. I was blessed with a great father who was steady, disciplined, faithful, and quietly strong. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t posture. He didn’t seek credit. He simply showed up, absorbed pressure, loved his family, and kept his word.

When my father suddenly passed in the days after my high school graduation, something fundamental broke in our family structure. He was the stabilizer, the anchor, the man who absorbed chaos without passing it on. His death left more than just grief. It left a leadership vacuum, and much of what followed in our family dynamics flowed from that loss.  If there was a scenario where we were going to repeat generational curses, I was holding the playbook in these early years.

My parents were public school teachers in New Jersey who worked side jobs just to keep food on the table. As one of three kids, we grew up watching financial stress, emotional fatigue, and generational patterns take root. Compounding the struggle was something harder to name, but easier to feel: a victim mindset, chronic negativity, poor health, broken relationships, and cycles that felt inevitable.

On my wife Liz’s side, the pain ran even deeper — death, divorce, isolation, families that barely spoke, and people who wanted to help, but were unequipped to do so.

From the moment Liz and I met, long before we had children, we anchored ourselves to a single prayer: that God would allow us to break generational curses and replace them with generational blessings. Isaiah 58 declares that from the ruins of the past, God can restore families if we anchor ourselves in Him. That verse became a compass for our marriage, our parenting, and our leadership.

The Moment the “Why” Became Non-Negotiable

On a warm day in May 2025, while training for the Florence Marathon, the “why” for the Great World Race crystallized.

We had just left my mom’s nursing home, a place we’ve visited nearly every Saturday for most of my kids’ lives. That day, my kids were audibly frustrated. They couldn’t reconcile why their grandmother behaved so differently than other grandparents they knew.  It was ugly, and they didn’t understand why they had to be a part of something so ugly.  They were confused, embarrassed, and sad.

And honestly — I understood.

But Scripture doesn’t give us qualifiers when it commands us to honor our parents. It doesn’t say “only when it’s easy”, or “only if they meet your subjective standards”, and it warns that dishonor carries consequences that ripple across generations.

I watched my mom dishonor her own mother. Logic would suggest I repeat that pattern, and my siblings rationalized distance for the same reason. But if the defining theme of my life is to break curses, this was the proving ground.

That day, I let my kids vent. As they did, I was reminded of a sobering truth: the body of work you build over your life determines what the later years look like. I want to be crossing finish lines in my 80s with my kids beside me. Romans 8:24 reminds us that God can use all things for good, even frustration voiced by tired kids in a nursing home parking lot.

That was the moment I committed.

A Second Calling: Leadership Beyond My Family

I once noticed something that stopped me cold: across the industry, I kept hearing the same stories. Financial advisors approaching mid-career, many facing strained marriages or health concerns they’d neglected for years. Successful professionals who’d built thriving practices but felt disconnected from their own children.

Behind the industry’s polish sits burnout, anxiety, emptiness, and regret. Good Life exists because we believe advisors deserve a better next 20 years than the last 20. As a CEO, husband of nearly 20 years, father of five, coach, and servant-leader, I wanted to show something rare: it is possible to pursue excellence without sacrificing your faith, your family, or your health.

Seven marathons. Seven continents. Seven days. And maybe an 8th a few days later in Italy if all went well!

Not to prove toughness, but to stomp out the seed of doubt that whispers, “You can’t do this.”

Training: Preparing the Body to Obey the Mind

Training was relentless.

The goal was durability. Back-to-back long runs, we’re talking four runs in a row at twenty miles. Peak weeks that ended in exhaustion, not confidence. My final push included daily mileage that looked like this: 10mi / 20mi / 20mi / 20mi / 20mi / 10mi.

I had marathon experience. I understood pacing, fueling, recovery, but this wasn’t training to race. It was training to withstand repeated impact while sleep-deprived, injured, and traveling across time zones and climates.

Then, one week before departure, everything changed.

I fractured my foot and tore ligaments around my ankle.

The doctor didn’t really have many options to give me.  Deferring wasn’t an option, and unfortunately, neither was cortisone.  A shot would certainly numb the pain, but it also set up considerable risk that not feeling the injury would lead to further tearing the damaged ligament in a way that could end my running career.  So, I chose pain over shortcuts.

I boarded the plane to Africa with a brace, orthotics, red-light therapy, a massage gun, and my decision already made.

Africa: Heat, Perspective, and the First Test

Africa was first — hot, humid, and relentless. Ninety-plus degrees. The kind of heat that drains you quietly before it ever announces itself.

My foot hurt, but it held. I focused on rhythm, hydration, and patience. Late in the race, I found myself running alongside a fellow competitor’s young daughter as she completed a half-marathon while I was nearly completing my full.  I felt like God put her there for that last mile for a reason.  Speaking encouragement into a child while I was also exhausted, sore, and missing my own kids reframed everything.

Africa reminded me of why I was there.

Antarctica: Where the Voice Gets Loud

Then came Antarctica.

Race two. Lap one.
Minus thirty degrees.

My phone wouldn’t turn on. No music. No distraction. Just wind, ice, pain, and my own thoughts.  “This place is actually Hell,” I thought.  For my whole life I was taught that Hell was hot with lakes of fire and all of the other things we were told.  It’s all a lie.  Antarctica is Hell!

The excuses came violently:
You’re injured.
This is reckless.
No one would blame you.
You’ve already proven enough.

I counted later —at least fifty negative thoughts in the first thirty-five minutes. Almost nothing positive to counter them. My body was freezing in places I didn’t know could freeze.

Then one sentence took over as I began lap 2 of 10, intentionally passing the warming tent:

“I am staying out here and finishing this race, or they’re going to have to find me and cut my frozen body out of this place.”

That was the moment my ceiling moved.  I was waiting for this moment before I left for Africa and even told Liz it was something I was looking forward to.  I wasn’t sure if it was going to come in Marathon 4 or 5, but there would be a moment where you’ve got to mentally commit to recklessly (yet somehow calculated) pursuing “breakthrough” while Heisman-style stiff arming “break down”.

Perth: Heat, Injury, and Breakthrough

We went from -30 degrees to 104 degrees in Perth within 36 hours. African humidity. Antarctica ice. Australian heat. No acclimation and no mercy.

Coming off the icy sludge, my foot was actually much worse than I initially thought, leaving Antarctica. We slept on a plane for about 4 hours a night, and in the morning, when I went to stand up, I realized I could not put any weight on my foot. I made my way up to the team doctor, who told me that in the real world, I needed to be off of my foot completely for 4-6 weeks at this point.  Doctors told me to stop, but I didn’t.  Perth was my first chance to experience the weather I had trained in. Hot and humid, just like Orlando!  If the medicine gave me any chance to get some miles under my belt, I was going to go out with a bang!

Perth was supposed to be my last race.
Instead, it became a breakthrough.

I ran the race I was built for — hot, humid, grinding — and finished 7th overall.  My climb from the back half of the standings to an eventual 10th place had started, and the rest of my body was on board. This wasn’t just a mental grind; this was backed by the physiological data — my heart rate was going down as my legs were getting faster.  Most importantly, I was still standing.

Breakthrough doesn’t live on the other side of comfort.
It lives on the other side of pain.

Miami: Where the Mission Became Visible

By the time we reached Miami, my body was done negotiating.

My foot wasn’t just injured — it was failing. Pain had climbed into my knee and hip.

But Miami wasn’t about place in a race anymore.

Miami was the first time in the entire race where the people I was doing this for were physically present.

My wife.
My children.
My why.

I took a calculated risk that morning while preparing to head to the line. Trailing 9th place by 12 minutes and seeing someone I knew I could catch in a normal scenario, I took a calculated risk of taking the brace off and the orthotics out.  I wanted to feel fast again. Best case, I knew I had this. Worst case, it might give out late in the race, but the good news was that I didn’t have a race the next day. I’d find a way to get through the last few miles if I needed to. Well, less than 4 miles into the race, while turning around to start the next lap, my worst-case scenario happened. I could feel the ligament tear away from the bone and instantly felt more pain than I had ever experienced. I went to the supply table frustrated.  I put my phone and ear pods down, but my body kept moving.  

“A body in motion stays in motion, keep moving Conor… this is the mission right in front of us. 23 more miles, 96 laps on a track, we WILL find a way to get this done.”  

At mile 18, my daughter, Blake, ran beside me. She heard the pain in my breathing before I ever said a word, and with the purest love a child can offer, she gave me permission to stop:

“Dad, you have nothing to prove. We’re here. We’re proud of you. Let’s go home.”

That was the real test.

Stopping there — with good reasons, loving validation, and excuses no one would question — would have taught her the exact lesson I’ve spent my life trying to undo.

So, I looked her in the eye and told her the truth:

“If I quit now, I’m showing you the same ending that generations before us lived out. We do not quit today.  We do not give up because something hurts. We do not take the easy way.  Today, we grind. Today, we finish — even if I have to crawl.”

Ninety minutes or so later, I crossed that finish line broken, overwhelmed, and at peace.

I didn’t feel strong.
I felt aligned.

My children weren’t watching a man prove something.
They were watching a father keep a promise.

That finish line moment is sacred.
It’s not hype. It’s not branding. It’s not content.
It’s legacy captured on camera.

What the video and images communicate — instantly, without explanation:

• This was never about ego or toughness
• Pain is present, but it is not the center
• My kids aren’t props — they’re participants in the mission
• The finish line isn’t a celebration of me → it’s a transfer of belief to the next generation

There is a frame in that video that matters more than any medal.

I’m bent over.
Exhausted.
Clearly hurting.
And my children are running toward me, not away from me.

That is the opposite of generational curse behavior.
That is earned trust.

Miami was no longer just the last race of 7 across the world.
It became the moment the mission of my life became visible.

Florence: Running With the One Who Knows the Cost

I left Miami on crutches.

Halfway through the drive back to Orlando, I remembered Florence — the race that started everything — and my father, the man who taught me that your word matters most when it costs you something.

I called up from the back of the Sprinter van to Liz:

“Hey, if I am off crutches by Sunday (2 days).
Out of the boot by Tuesday (4 days).
And out of the brace by Thanksgiving (6 days).
I am running in Italy.”

I wasn’t fully walking without a limp, but I hit the milestones and aggressively treated my ankle the week I was in between races. That next Sunday, exactly a week after I ditched the crutches, I stood in the streets of Florence next to my best friend, the woman who has carried this calling with me for nearly two decades.

Florence wasn’t loud like Miami.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was faithful.

No proving.
No chasing.
Just partnership.

There were still doubts. Florence streets are cobblestone, brutal for anyone running on them, but even more concerning for someone in my physical condition. The morning of the race, I got up before the sun and went through my routine to test things out. I was running. I woke Liz up to let her know I wanted her to rest and I’d be back in a few hours. Then, she sat up and said, “You aren’t doing this alone.” Completely untrained and only a few minutes off of our normal pace, Liz joined me, and we crossed that line together — not because it was easy, but because that’s how this story has always been written.

The mission was accomplished. 336 kilometers ran, almost 50,000 miles in the air. A week of moments that I’ll have forever and some cool learnings like this thought I had leaving Italy a few days later:

The Antarctica suffering explains how I was forged. This is the blue-collar DNA that is rooted deep in my family, below the mental weakness of past generations. Florence proves I keep my word. Like my Dad, integrity meant the world to me. I made a commitment to 8 races…  7 and a “great effort Bud” wasn’t going to hit the mark.
But Miami proves why it mattered. That finish line. Those kids. The perfect scenario to show them that we don’t just talk about “laying it all out there”, we break sweats and do the work.

The formula is simpler than we often make it.

Anchor yourself in God’s calling.
Honor your commitments.
Endure when it hurts.
Lead where it’s hardest.

When you do, you don’t just finish races — you change trajectories.
You don’t just break records — you break cycles.
And you don’t just leave footprints — you leave a legacy worth following.