Looking back now, it’s easy to connect the dots. At the time, though, it just felt like one of those subtle turns in the road that only reveals its importance years later.

Jake didn’t discover weightlifting because it was trendy or because someone pushed him into it. Like a lot of young men, it started earlier—around ninth grade—with a moment that stung a little. The classic story. A kid gets pushed around. Maybe gets sand kicked in his face—figuratively or literally—and decides something has to change.

Instead of sulking or shrinking back, Jake did something about it.

One of the first signs was a book. Not just any book, but THE book—an Arnold Schwarzenegger bodybuilding book that might as well have been scripture. He studied it. Read it. Took it seriously. It wasn’t a passing interest. Something clicked.

When I first heard Jake was interested in lifting weights, it lit something up in me too. I had been lifting most of my life. Not competitively, not obsessively—but consistently. It was familiar ground. Comfortable ground. And suddenly, it was shared ground.

So we started simple.

In the mechanical room of our house in Ham Lake, I set up a modest bench and some weights. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t Instagram-worthy. Low ceilings, exposed pipes, barely enough room to move—but it didn’t matter. Jake showed up. Day after day. It didn’t take long before that “temporary” setup was no longer enough.

We upgraded. Bought a much bigger system-a home gym. Eventually moved it right into the main basement space. The weights became permanent fixtures in the house, as normal as the couch or the TV. And that’s when things really began to change. Jake didn’t just lift—he trained.

His discipline was unlike anything I’d seen at that age. His body changed quickly. Shockingly quickly. Strength followed. Confidence followed. And before long, word spread at school.

One of my favorite stories from that time came from an otherwise innocent high school party.

I dropped Jake off at a girl’s house—someone he was interested in. Parents were home. Everything was above board. I told him I’d be back in a few hours to pick him up. When I returned, the girl’s dad answered the door. We exchanged pleasantries, and then he said, almost casually, “Oh yeah—Jake’s been arm-wrestling everyone here tonight. I even gave it a try.”

He paused.

“I finally beat him.”

That caught my attention.

Jake had been arm-wrestling everyone at school and beating them. I knew how strong he was. The story didn’t add up.

When Jake got in the car, I couldn’t help myself.

“You let him beat you?”

Jake smiled and said, “Dad… I’m interested in dating his daughter.”

Then he added, “I made it look close. Carried him for a while. Then let him win.”

That moment told me a lot—not just about his strength, but about his awareness. His humor. His maturity. He understood leverage in more ways than one.

As time went on, Jake kept pushing himself. He branched into CrossFit-style training, dragging friends into workouts in the front yard of our house. Our extra garage stall now was upgraded to include more weights and gymnastic rings. The training was hilarious—neighbors watching as kids flipped tires, sprinted, lifted, collapsed, and laughed. Jake didn’t just train; he led. He made it fun. Made it challenging. Made people want to show up.

At just 16 years old, Jake became certified as a CrossFit coach.

That alone was impressive. But what came next was something else entirely. We traveled to Las Vegas for his certification. He was surrounded by police officers, firefighters, and adults in their late 20s and 30s—people with years of physical training behind them. The course ran four straight days. At the end of each day, there were competitions.

Jake won every single one.

At the end, one of the instructors pulled us aside and said, “Your son has won all of the daily contests. He is a phenom for his age.”

At sixteen.

Beating grown men.

That’s when I realized this wasn’t just a phase.

After graduating high school, Jake went on to Georgia Institute of Technology. While there, he joined a gym and continued lifting—and that’s where he met the man who would help shape his next chapter: Travis Cooper, an accomplished weightlifter in his own right. Travis took Jake under his wing and introduced him to Olympic weightlifting.

Two lifts.

That’s it.

The snatch.

The clean and jerk.

Simple in theory. Incredibly complex in execution.

Jake took to it immediately.

Within months, he was excelling—not just improving, but dominating. He entered local competitions in Atlanta, GA and consistently cleaned house. He would wait until everyone in his weight class had used all three attempts at each lift before taking his first lift. Then came the bigger stage.

In February 2011, Jake competed in Junior Nationals in Houston, TX. He had only been Olympic lifting for a short time. Expectations were modest. He won the snatch on his last lift. I like to take some credit for this lift by yelling at the top of my lungs. Gold medal Lift. Finished third overall in the country for that age group. Bronze.

I remember how encouraging that felt—not just for him, but for me as his dad. It’s one thing to believe your kid is special. It’s another thing to watch the world confirm it.

That July, he competed in Nationals in Omaha. I flew in to watch. This time, he wasn’t competing against juniors—he was up against adults. Some of them had Olympic experience.

Jake finished sixth overall.

Won a bronze medal in the snatch.

Later that year, in December, we traveled to Cincinnati. He placed fourth nationally and took silver in the snatch—still his strongest lift.

There was another competition in Columbus with similar results and improvement with each lift, but the one that stands out most in my memory came in December 2012, in Palm Springs, California.

One Kilogram

California felt different. Jake was confident—quietly so, not cocky. He had done his homework. He knew the field. In fact, he was friends with most of the competitors. He followed their lifts, their totals, their progress. He told me ahead of time that he believed he was going to win, and there was no bravado in it—just a calm certainty born of preparation.

But competition days don’t always follow the script.

The snatch—his strongest lift—didn’t go the way he wanted. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t his best either. Clean lifts, but not enough separation. As a result, he went into the clean and jerk a little behind, needing to make up ground. And then one of those moments happened that only sport can deliver. The eventual winner—one of Jake’s peers—had the day of his life. A career-best clean and jerk. Everything clicked. Perfect timing. Perfect execution. When the dust settled, Jake had finished second.

He lost by one kilogram.

One kilogram.

Jake ended with a total of 295 kilos in the 77-kilogram weight class—a phenomenal number by any standard. A national silver medal. But when you’re that close, when it comes down to a single kilogram, it’s impossible not to feel the sting.

As a dad, I felt all of it.

I was the guy in the background yelling encouragement, probably louder than necessary, trying to squeeze out that extra ounce of adrenaline. Jake didn’t need it—he was already locked in—but that’s what dads do. We cheer. We shout. We will our kids forward, even when they’re already doing everything right. What sticks with me most isn’t the result. It’s the way Jake handled it.

No excuses. No bitterness. Just perspective. He knew he hadn’t had his best snatch. He acknowledged that the winner earned it. He understood that sometimes, sport isn’t about what you should win—it’s about what happens on that day. And that, in its own way, was a victory.

I remember sitting there, watching him walk out onto the platform to receive his medals-calm, focused, composed. And I realized something that stopped me cold.

This was no longer about lifting weights.

This was about watching your child find their calling.

Their discipline.

Their edge.

Their strength—inside and out.

As a father, there are moments when you guide.

Moments when you protect.

Moments when you teach.

And then there are moments when you simply sit back and watch—with gratitude, pride, and a little bit of awe—as your son becomes who he was meant to be. That was one of those moments.

Those years—traveling to competitions, sitting in crowded venues, watching chalked hands grip cold steel—were some of the most enjoyable seasons of my life. Not because of medals or rankings, but because I got to witness my son fully engaged in something that demanded discipline, humility, and resilience.

Something fun, at age 22, was Torque Fitness picking Jake to be in their commercial for their weight lifting equipment. You can watch it below.

Jake would go on to compete in CrossFit for a time. As he grew older he met his future wife, Talia, at the gym. She had the same drive / discipline and also competed in CrossFit. They now have two beautiful daughters, continue to prioritize their family’s health, and competition has given way to maintenance. These days, they both lift simply to stay strong, healthy, and grounded.

And that feels right.

Not every passion is meant to last forever in its competitive form. Some are meant to shape us, teach us who we are, and then quietly stay with us as habits, values, and identity.

When I look back now, I don’t think about one kilogram.

I think about a young man who found his strength.

A father who got to watch from the sidelines.

And a chapter of life that I’ll always be grateful we shared.