My dad came from coal dust and anxiety. My dad was born in a poor mining town in northeastern Pennsylvania. No water heater. Bathtub in the kitchen. Seven kids bathing before school while my grandmother heated water on the stove. That was normal. That was life. Go back far enough in my family tree, and it’s day laborers, feudal farmers — people tied to the land with nothing to spare. My grandfather mined coal. My father ran a crane. No wealth. Just work. And when the work slowed down, the stress filled the house. So you learn early how fragile things are. Expenses versus revenues. Overtime means relief. A recession means fear. At 11 or 12, I got a paper route. By ’76, I was making fifty-five bucks a week. I gave most of it to my mom. Kept a little for myself. That’s where the edge comes from. When you grow up like that, you don’t romanticize struggle — you plan your escape. You get educated. You aim for a white-collar job. You decide the story doesn’t end where it started. That hustle isn’t optional. It’s inherited. Loved this conversation with @KevinWSHPod