Author: stuart mitchell

Cut weight, move freight.

We move freight for a living. We lift crates, we dodge forklifts, and we eat like hell when the day’s done. You’d think that’d keep us in shape—but the truth is, it doesn’t. At least not anymore.

So this is Week 1.

And this one’s personal.

I’m not starting this journey to impress anyone. I’m doing it because my health has been the lowest thing on my priority list for too long. And I’ve got four mouths at home that count on me being around—not just working, but present. I’ve got an entire branch that rides on my energy, decisions, and stamina. And some weeks, that weight feels heavier than anything we load on a dock.

The truth is, weekends aren’t rest days for guys like me. They’re just more chaos, more catch-up, more caffeine. I haven’t had a Saturday morning sleep-in since Obama was in office. Being in leadership doesn’t mean a bigger office—it means your whole family sacrifices. It’s missed meals, calls from the show floor at dinner, and trying to be Superman when you’re running on fumes.

That’s why I’m taking this seriously.

I’ve started training at a boxing gym. Not because I think I’m gonna go pro, but because I need to fight something that won’t call me at midnight. I need a space where it’s just me and the work. I’m not worried about six-packs or macros. I’m just trying to outlast the guy I was last week.

Diet? It’s hard. Real hard. Fast food wrappers in the floorboard and 12-hour show days don’t leave room for kale. But I’m starting small: more water, less Zaxby’s, and making sure at least one thing on the plate didn’t come out of a deep fryer.

We’ve got a gym at HQ, and that’s in play too. But the fight gym—that’s where the soul work happens.

Now listen—I was once ready to jump in Rough N’ Rowdy just for fun. I thought I’d get in, piece up an enemy or two, and put on a show for charity. My guy Large at Barstool even said he’d help set it up. But these days, I’m not chasing that. This ain’t about clout. It’s about survival. It’s about longevity. It’s about being here for the long haul—for my people, for my family, and for myself.

This blog is about accountability. Writing it down. Posting it publicly. Holding my own feet to the fire.

This isn’t some fitspo fantasy. This is for freight men, tired dads, road dogs, and anyone carrying too much but still showing up.

See you in Week 2. I’ll either be lighter, meaner, or more sore than before. But I’ll be here. Btw check out the biscuit blog.

We’re not Adam. We’re not Eve.

We didn’t eat the fruit. We were born after the bite.

Didn’t walk the garden path, didn’t talk to no serpent, didn’t defy the Creator.

But we carry the cravings anyway. The shame. The constant ache of not knowing why it’s so damn hard to be human.

None of us got a clean slate. We were born into a system that was already cracked down the middle—then told to be perfect or else.

You ever feel like you showed up late to a fight but still left bleeding?

That’s this life.

We inherit addiction, bills, bitterness, trauma, and theology—all secondhand, and none of it gently used.

We’re told to color inside the lines, but the page was ripped and waterlogged before we ever picked up a crayon.

So when someone talks to me about mercy—about grace—I don’t hear a loophole.

I hear a damn miracle.

Because maybe it’s not about escaping judgment—it’s about surviving the weight of what we never chose.

Most of us were born into chaos with our backs already against the wall.

Some of us learned to fight young. Others got quiet. Real quiet.

But all of us? We’re doing our best to patch holes in a boat we didn’t build.

And here’s the thing: grace ain’t cheap. It costs pride. It costs the illusion of control.

But it also frees you from the lie that you broke something you were simply born into.

Jesus didn’t hang on that cross because people made bad weekend choices.

He did it because the world was already groaning. Already broken.

And we needed someone to show up in the mess and say,

“I see you. You didn’t start this—but you’re still worth saving.”

I’m not here to preach. That shit is for the birds.

But I’ll say this: if you’re out there trying to be a father, or a man, or just not collapse under everything you inherited—

you’re not weak. You’re not lost.

You’re just born after the bite.

And mercy? That’s not a handout. That’s your only shot at breathing in this rigged system.

Keep showing up.

Keep building.

Keep hauling your weight.

Grace ain’t a loophole. It’s a feature.

And it’s yours whether you think you deserve it or not.

SMM.

The Why Behind the Freight

A birthday reflection on legacy, fatherhood, and the miles between where we’re from and who we become.

Cutler turns 10 today.

Ten years of being a dad. Ten years of learning what really matters. I’ve built a career in freight — the kind of work most folks never see, but can’t live without. We move the things that make the world tick, behind the scenes, under pressure, and on time. I’ve earned my stripes running freight through tough cities — solving problems on the fly, managing chaos with a clipboard and a forklift crew. I’ve built something I’m proud of.

But none of it compares to what I’ve built at home.

Cutler is my heart. My reason. My life.

And he didn’t just change me — he saved me. More than once.

I grew up in Atlanta. The real Atlanta. A city that’ll either make you or break you, and sometimes both in the same day. My father was one of the solid ones. A man’s man. No shortcuts. No excuses. I watched him navigate tough jobs, tougher people, and even tougher moments without flinching. He led with calm, stayed late without complaint, and still managed to show up for his family every day. That was my blueprint.

Now I’m the one leading. Not just a team — but a family.

When I moved to Nashville, it wasn’t to escape. It was to carve out space. Room to breathe. Room to raise my son. Nashville’s changed since we got here — more noise, more concrete. But somehow, our family’s grown tighter through it all.

I’ve moved further north for a reason. There’s more opportunity up there — and if I’m not home by dark, you can bet I’m out building something in the Northeast. Not for ego. For legacy. I want to be king of that corridor — not for the crown, but for the kid who’ll inherit the castle.

Cutler’s always loved New York. There’s something in him that feels connected to the skyline, the sound, the size of it all. And one day, I want to give it to him — all of it. I want to build something big enough that when he’s ready, he won’t have to ask for permission to dream.

Shaboozey said it best —

“Horses and Hellcats, riding on gold paths.”

That line hits hard. That’s what I’m trying to build — horsepower and heritage. Accept my Horses, are 8k pounds of Steel and soul. Something that roars when it moves and means something when it stops.

Some days I feel like Jason Isbell’s Last of My Kind — walking into rooms I never thought I’d be in, holding onto my roots like armor. Freight can feel that way. So can fatherhood. Trying to be the one who remembers how it used to be, while building what comes next.

So here’s to Cutler — 10 years old today. My son. My anchor. My future.

Every dock I run, every deal I close, every late-night haul I take on — it’s all for you. I may be the one laying the bricks, but the kingdom’s got your name on it.

This is what legacy looks like.

Not freight totals. Not fancy titles.

Just a father, a son, and a promise to show up — even when the road leads uphill.

#RunTheDamnDock

#FatherhoodFirst #BlueCollarLegacy #FreightLife #CityRaised #AtlantaToNYC #HorsesAndHellcats #LastOfMyKind #SouthernRootsNorthernDreams #MyWhy #BuildTheKingdom