The Second Worst Cigar I Ever Smoked; A Story About Cigars, Ego, and Brotherhood

We did it.
Well… some of us did.

Although it was borderline medieval torture, Shaun finished The Woody by Oscar, a 21x80 Honduran puro that takes somewhere between four and seven business days to smoke, depending on lung capacity and will to live. Patrick from Halfwheel clocked it at seven hours. Shaun looked like he’d aged seven years.

Me?

I made it twenty-five minutes.

Getting the thing lit required lungs forged in a CrossFit volcano. Someone produced a blowtorch like we were welding farm equipment. Even with all the right tools at my disposal, my head started pounding, my eyes watered, and my soul quietly whispered, “You don’t have to prove anything to these people.”

Then came the draw.

Or lack thereof.

After enough wheezing to qualify for a medical study, Shaun handed me his sacred relic: the PerfecDraw.

Now, one thing you should know about Shaun, the man loves cigars. Knows cigars. Owns cigars. Has gadgets for his gadgets. If cigars had a Costco membership program, he’d be platinum.

He calmly explains, “You gotta be careful with this thing, or you’ll punch through the wrapper and ruin the cigar.”

Naturally, I immediately ignored him.

Point. Center. Push.

Ten seconds later, my cigar turned into a flute.

A clean, glorious hole straight through the side.

Was I mad?

Nope.

I was relieved.

I tossed that log of suffering into the abyss, reached into my humidor, and lit something balanced… intentional… humane.

And I sat there smiling while everyone else committed to their bad decisions like war veterans.

I won’t lie…watching grown men suffer through a novelty cigar while I enjoyed myself was carnally refreshing.

And that’s when it hit me:

I didn’t want to smoke The Woody.

I wanted the idea of smoking it.

The story.
The photo.
The bragging rights.
The “remember when we survived this” badge.

Somewhere along the way, the experience became less about enjoyment and more about endurance.

Less about flavor…more about flexing.

Less about connection…more about completion.

It wasn’t a cigar meant to be enjoyed.

It was a cigar meant to be conquered.

And we do this with life all the time.

We romanticize things from a distance:

The job.
The title.
The relationship.
The lifestyle.
The business.
The version of ourselves we think we’re supposed to become.

We picture the highlight reel. The applause. The moment at the top of the mountain.

Nobody daydreams about:

The headaches.
The nausea.
The tools just to make it barely functional.
The quiet realization at hour three that you chose wrong.

Sometimes the dream is real.

Sometimes the dream is just a 21x80 mistake wrapped in good marketing.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth:

Quitting the wrong thing is often braver than finishing it.

Punching that hole felt like failure for three seconds.

Then it felt like freedom.


I reached into my humidor and grabbed something balanced. Something thoughtful. Something made with intention. Something that didn’t require suffering just to prove a point.


And suddenly everything was good again.

The reason I smoke cigars in the first place came back.

It’s about smoking the right thing.

The cigar that invites you to stay.

Not survive.

The kind that doesn’t dare you to endure…

but asks you to slow down.

Because there’s a difference between:

“I finished it.”

and

“I enjoyed it.”

Life’s too short to confuse the two.

Sometimes wisdom looks like grit.

Sometimes it looks like a hole in the side of a cigar, and the humility to choose better.

And here’s the truth:

There’s no medal for suffering through bad cigars.

No parade.
No sash.
No secret society whispering, “Thank you for your service.”

The real win?

Putting it down.
Lighting something better.
And rejoining your people.

Laughing while your buddies stubbornly commit to the bit.
Borrowing tools you don’t know how to use.
Roasting each other for rookie mistakes.
Watching grown men debate draw resistance like it’s constitutional law.

Not perfection.
Not endurance.
Not luxury cosplay.

Just shared smoke.
Shared stories.
Shared moments.

Preferably over something enjoyable.

And if you ever turn your cigar into a woodwind instrument along the way…

Welcome to the brotherhood.

P.S. Check out the The First Best Worst Cigar I Ever Smoked blog here.

The Slow Burn: Productive Urgency

Acting with a sense of urgency will get you further than failing to act at all.

For me, urgency isn’t about panic or chaos. It’s about movement. When I act with urgency, I learn faster. Trying and failing quickly gives feedback. Feedback creates clarity. Clarity creates momentum. Inaction, on the other hand, just creates noise in my head.

I’m no stranger to analysis paralysis.

Case in point: The Cheesecake Factory.

Some people see that menu as a culinary playground. Italian. Asian. Mexican. American classics. Steaks. Pastas. Salads pretending to be healthy. Cheesecakes stacked like holy relics behind glass. For them, it’s relaxing…options for days.

For me? It’s overwhelming.

How am I supposed to make a good decision when every page feels like a different restaurant? How do you eat healthy when you’re being tempted by dessert debauchery before the waiter even takes your drink order? I’ll sit there for what feels like an eternity, reviewing, comparing, weighing pros and cons…only to order the same thing I always do.

Sweet corn tamale cakes.

They’re technically an appetizer, but I get them as my main course every single time. No regrets. Zero growth.

That’s me in a nutshell.

I’ll research something to death. I’ll read reviews. Watch videos. Ask opinions. Build spreadsheets. All in the name of making the “right” decision. But what I’ve learned, often the hard way, is that taking the first step imperfectly is almost always better than waiting for the perfect plan.

Even when I make the wrong choice, I learn something. I eliminate a path. I gain experience. I adjust. That’s failing forward. And failing forward beats standing still every time.

There’s a trade-off here, though.

Somewhere between reckless action and paralyzing overthinking lies an intersection…a balance point between urgency and patience. Too much urgency, and you create chaos. Too much patience, and you create excuses. Wisdom lives in knowing when to move and when to wait.

That’s what I mean by productive urgency.

It’s not speed for speed’s sake. It’s not hustle culture nonsense. It’s about focusing on the right things, executing with intention, and being willing to learn from your mistakes instead of hiding from them. It’s about lighting the cigar instead of staring at it, wondering how it might smoke.

Brolo was built with that mindset.

There were plenty of moments where I didn’t have all the answers. Moments where the blend wasn’t perfect. The packaging wasn’t final. The timing wasn’t ideal. If I had waited until everything felt “ready,” Brolo would still be an idea scribbled in a notebook.

Instead, I chose productive urgency. Make the call. Take the meeting. Test the blend. Adjust. Repeat.

Cigars themselves teach this lesson if you’re paying attention. You don’t rush them, but you don’t hesitate either. You cut, you light, you commit. You stay present. You let it evolve. If something’s off, you note it for next time…but you don’t throw the whole experience away.

That’s how life works too.

Productive urgency is about respecting time without worshiping speed. It’s about movement with purpose. Action with awareness. Learning by doing.

So whether you’re staring at a menu, a decision, or the next step in your life…don’t wait forever for the perfect choice.

Order the tamale cakes if that’s what you always do.
But every now and then…try something else.

Light up.
Lean in.
Learn as you go.

That’s the slow burn.

The Slow Burn: The Year I Stopped Trying to Win

I’m a goal setter and an achiever. An Enneagram 3.

If you’re unfamiliar, Enneagram 3s are wired to win. We measure progress. We chase results. We read the room, understand the scoreboard, and figure out how to climb it efficiently. We’re builders, performers, producers. Put a finish line in front of us and we’ll find a way to cross it…often faster than expected, sometimes at our own expense.

At our best, 3s are disciplined, driven, and relentlessly productive. We know how to turn vision into execution. We can carry responsibility, inspire confidence, and create momentum out of thin air. We’re the ones people call when something needs to get done.

But there’s a shadow side.

For an Enneagram 3, worth and winning can quietly become the same thing. Success starts to feel like oxygen. Approval becomes fuel. And without realizing it, you can begin performing your life instead of living it. You don’t ask, “Is this good for my soul?” You ask, “Does this move the needle?”

Loss becomes unacceptable. Rest feels irresponsible. Slowing down feels like falling behind.

And somewhere along the way, you stop knowing where the finish line is…because you keep moving it.

A while back, some buddies and I started a residential appraisal business.

This year, that firm was nominated as one of the top three appraisal firms in the entire country. We might even take the number one spot. I’ll know in a couple of weeks. Either way, it’s a legitimate achievement. The kind you don’t accidentally stumble into.

It took vision. Long nights. Hard conversations. Systems built from scratch. Hiring the right people. Firing the wrong ones. Carrying risk when the market turned sideways. Saying no to comfort so we could say yes to growth. There were seasons where winning required everything I had.

And I don’t regret that.

But here’s the tension no one talks about.

Achievement has a way of pulling you into the future. You’re always reaching for what’s next…the next milestone, the next metric, the next accolade. And if you’re wired like me, you start living one step ahead of yourself. You’re in meetings thinking about outcomes. At dinner thinking about numbers. On vacation answering emails you told yourself you wouldn’t check.

Presence, on the other hand, lives in the now.

Achievement asks, “What does this become?”
Presence asks, “Who is here with me?”

Achievement is necessary to build something meaningful. Presence is necessary to remember why you built it in the first place.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that winning doesn’t always feel like winning when you’re never fully there to experience it. The moment passes, and instead of savoring it, you’re already calculating the next move. The scoreboard updates, and you’re already chasing a new one.

That’s when I started asking a different question.

Not “How do I win more?”
But “What am I missing while I’m winning?”


And that’s why I’m calling this The Year I Stopped Trying to Win.

Not because I stopped achieving.
Not because I stopped caring.
Not because ambition suddenly fell out of my bloodstream.

But because I finally stopped letting winning define whether a moment mattered.

For most of my life, winning was the lens. I measured seasons by outcomes. Progress by recognition. Worth by forward motion. If something didn’t move the needle, it didn’t count. If a moment wasn’t productive, it felt wasteful. Rest was something you earned after the work…never something that belonged inside it.

That mindset built businesses. It also quietly stole moments I’ll never get back.

This year, something shifted.

I still showed up. Still worked hard. Still pursued excellence. But I stopped white-knuckling every outcome. I stopped turning every interaction into a transaction and every season into a proving ground. I stopped asking, “How do I come out on top?” and started asking, “Am I actually here for this?”

Because here’s the truth I’ve been slow to learn:

You can win the year and lose the moment.
You can hit the milestone and miss the meaning.
You can achieve everything you set out to do and still feel strangely absent from your own life.

Presence doesn’t show up on a scoreboard. You don’t get awards for being fully there. No one nominates you for the way you listened, or the way you stayed a little longer, or the way you resisted the urge to rush to the next thing.

But those are the moments that stay.

They’re the ones that settle into your bones. The ones that don’t need validation because they’re complete all on their own.

That’s the slow burn.

It’s choosing to sit with the cigar instead of rushing through it. Letting it evolve. Letting the conversation wander. Letting the silence breathe. It’s understanding that some of the most meaningful parts of life don’t announce themselves as important while they’re happening.

This year, I stopped trying to win every room, every conversation, every season.

And in doing so, I started noticing something better.

I wasn’t losing…I was finally living inside the moment instead of past it.

That’s what The Year I Stopped Trying to Win really means.

Not quitting ambition.
Not abandoning excellence.
But refusing to sacrifice presence on the altar of achievement.

Because the best parts of life , like the best cigars, aren’t conquered.

They’re experienced.

Light Up & Lean In.

The Slow Burn: In The Arena

I’ll probably catch a lot of flak for this, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about being even mildly visible online, it’s this:

People can be insufferable.

A few weeks back, I shared how my life had been made better, genuinely better, by something as simple as a Camacho Corojo. Not because it’s rare. Not because it’s hyped. But because it showed up for me in a season where brotherhood mattered more than brand pedigree.

You would’ve thought I declared war.

The vitriol.
The snark.
The armchair experts with “Twitter fingers” and nothing to lose.

Here’s the thing, though: online comments don’t bother me.

They never have.

They remind me of something Theodore Roosevelt said long before social media gave everyone a megaphone:


“It is not the critic who counts… The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…”


That’s always resonated with me. Because critics don’t bleed. They don’t risk. They don’t build. They don’t lose sleep over logistics, payroll, permits, production timelines, crop failures, shipping delays, or the weight of putting your name on something that could fail publicly.

They comment.

I didn’t start Brolo to win internet points.
I didn’t start it to chase luxury signaling, cocktail pairings, or velvet ropes.

Those things have their place….but they aren’t the point.

I started Brolo because I believe there’s something better than exclusivity masquerading as culture. Something better than pretending cigars are only for tailored suits, private clubs, and curated feeds.

I believe cigars can be excellent without being inaccessible.
Premium without being pretentious.
Intentional without being exclusionary.

Not overpriced.
Not hyped to death.
Just damn good cigars that move themselves…because they’re that good.

But let’s be honest about the cigar world for a moment.

Everyone’s an armchair quarterback.
Almost no one understands what it actually takes to bring cigars from the fields of Nicaragua to the hands of everyday people.

The farming.
The fermentation.
The aging.
The blending.
The rolling.
The QC.
The taxes.
The licensing.
The logistics.
The capital at risk.

Think you can do better?
Be my guest.

But beyond the tobacco itself, there’s something even harder to build:

Belonging.

Brands spend generations cultivating an “inner circle.”
A sense of you’re either in, or you’re out.

Brolo isn’t an inner circle.

Brolo is the table.

An invitation for trolls, the haters, the pessimists…the ones who think everything sucks and everyone’s wrong.


All are welcome.

Because there is something better than burning one alone in your grandma’s basement.
There is something better than cursing the dark because you can’t find your lighter.
There is something better than investing your energy in online vitriol.

Brolo is for the lonely.
Brolo is for the wanting.

Brolo is a warm embrace on a cold night.

We don’t care where you came from.
We don’t care how much you make.
Sure, it’s cool if you crushed stock options.
Drive an exotic? Rad.

But what’s cooler?

Sitting at the same table.
Breaking bread.
Building each other up.
Reaching out when the world already kicked someone down.

Don’t get me wrong…cigars are a luxury.

But those of us with time in the leaf?
We know the truth.

Cigars aren’t about status.
They’re about shared experience.

Janitor to CEO.
Blue collar to boardroom.

Under sun-grown shade, we’re equals.

Same fire.
Same smoke.
Same humanity.

I wrote this because Reddit made me “famous” for five minutes.
And Reddit also dragged me through the mud.

This is my response….not to convince the critics, but to find the people who already feel this in their bones.

I’m creating my own lane because I believe there are others out there who believe in what I do.

Good smokes.
Real community.
And the lifeline that is the fellowship of the leaf.

I’ll stay in the arena.

You’re welcome at the table.

The Slow Burn: The Gift I Didn’t Know I Needed

The excitement was killing me.

It was Christmas morning, 1992, and I was awake before anyone else. Wide-eyed. Wired. Ready.
Although my grandma and I lived alone, my uncles were in town for the holiday. Two uncles, a cousin, one girlfriend-of-the-moment… and a dog.

His name was Muffin.

A miniature poodle. White. Fluffy. Pom-poms. Bows.
The least masculine dog you’ve ever seen.

I refused to be seen in public with him, lest I get jumped for having what looked like a walking cotton ball on a leash. And yet, memory unlocked, I can still smell the time he ran through a field of cows, rolled in manure, and I had to hose him off behind my mom’s trailer while trying not to throw up.

Anyway… Christmas.

I wasn’t supposed to get out of bed until an adult came and got me. Christmas Eve rules were strict. No wandering near the living room. No peeking. No catching Santa mid-operation.

But time moved slowly. Painfully slow.

So I did what any kid would do. I crept down the hall like a church mouse. Around the corner. Holding my breath.

And there it was.

Glowing in the reflection of Christmas tree lights….a 1989 wine-red Tama Imperialstar drum kit. Full setup. Hardware. Cymbals. Throne. Ready to rock. It was a popular, affordable drum kit known for its poplar shells, offering a full, warm tone, often coming as a complete "ready-to-rock" package with hardware, Meinl cymbals, and a throne, featuring durable hardware, Omni-Sphere tom holders, and modern Accu-Tune hoops for easier tuning.

FREAKING SWEET!

It was the only thing I’d ever wanted.
And somehow… something I didn’t even know I needed.

Drums are arguably the loudest instrument on earth, and yet I was on a stealth mission. They were calling to me, “Please beat me,” but I managed to sneak back to my room unseen.

Sitting on the floor with Ninja Turtles and G.I. Joes, I staged a concert.
Splinter on vocals.
Donatello and Leonardo on guitar and bass.
And on drums?

Snake Eyes.

Holding two swords like drumsticks.

Both my uncles were musicians. My birth mom could sing. I had an aunt who would go on to play for the San Francisco Symphony. Music ran in the family, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet.

Before the drum kit, all I had was Hot Cross Buns on the recorder. But the drums weren’t a curveball. I’d already been terrorizing pots and pans outside the garage while my uncle’s band practiced. I gave that cookware hell.

Finally, my Uncle John knocked on the door.

“Josh, you awake?!”

I nearly tore the door off its hinges.

“Let’s go see what Santa brought.”

Now, I already knew…but I had to play it cool.

I walked into the living room like I’d never seen anything so glorious. Uncle John told me he’d put in a good word with Santa. And I believed him. Fully. This was the most over-the-top gift imaginable.

I hadn’t even asked for a drum set.

Yet there it was.

Everything I wanted.
Everything I didn’t know I needed.

The rest of Christmas is a blur. I don’t remember who got what. I don’t remember dinner. I don’t remember which girlfriend was there.

I do know one thing, though.

That drum set changed the trajectory of my life.

A lot of kids pick things up and put them down. I didn’t. Drums stuck. Probably helped that Grandma was half deaf, otherwise there’s no way that kit would’ve survived.

By middle school, I learned you could get girls by being a musician.
By college, I learned you could see the country.
By my twenties, I learned you could even make a living creating art.

Life revolved around music from age nine to twenty-four. Stage lights. Applause. Long nights. Cheap meals. A lot of fun.

Eventually, ambition outweighed ability. Peanut butter sandwiches got old. I came home to chase another version of the American Dream.

But those drums?
They were exactly what I needed at the time.

As a kid, I was scrappy. Detentions stacked up. I wasn’t mean…I just stood up for myself. Being the chubby kid meant catching flak. I couldn’t throw a great punch, but I learned Swiss Army triplets real fast.

Drums gave me confidence.

I beat the skins until they broke. Then did it again. I learned the fundamentals: time, groove, restraint. And later, that lesson paid off.

A drummer who plays in time is a drummer who gets paid.

Looking back, this is a long way of saying something simple:

You never know which gift will shape your life.

As Christmas approaches, many of us celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ…in my humble opinion, the greatest gift ever given.

Some gifts show up wrapped in paper.
Some show up wrapped in purpose.
And some, like that drum kit, don’t reveal their meaning until years later.

And sometimes, the things we didn’t ask for end up becoming the things that carry us through life.


What I didn’t understand at nine years old, standing barefoot in the living room, staring at that cabernet drum kit, was that the gift wasn’t the drums.

The gift was time.

Time spent alone learning how things work.
Time spent failing in private before ever succeeding in public.
Time spent listening before being heard.

At first, drums were chaos. Noise. Energy with nowhere to go. I hit everything as hard as I could, because that’s what made sense. Louder felt better. Faster felt impressive. I thought that if I could just do more, it would mean something.

But drums don’t reward brute force for very long.

They reward restraint.

You learn pretty quickly that if you don’t tune them, they fight back. If you don’t respect timing, everything falls apart. If you rush, the song suffers. And if you don’t listen to your fellow musicians, to the room, to the space between notes, you get replaced.

That lesson followed me into adulthood, long after the stages got bigger and the gear got nicer.


Somewhere between my teenage years and my twenties, I learned something that stuck:

The most important part of a groove isn’t what you hit.
It’s what you don’t.

The space. The restraint. The discipline to sit in the pocket and let the song breathe.

That’s when music stopped being about me and started being about connection. When I realized the job wasn’t to impress, but to serve the moment.

I didn’t have language for it back then, but looking back now, I see it clearly.

That drum kit taught me how to wait.

How to sit with discomfort.
How to let repetition do its work.
How to trust that showing up, day after day, rep after rep, eventually changes you.

And that lesson? It applies to far more than music.

Years later, when cigars entered my life, something felt familiar.

Not the smoke.
Not the ritual.
But the pace.

A good cigar doesn’t rush you. It demands presence. If you puff too fast, it punishes you. If you ignore it, it goes out. If you don’t respect the leaf, the whole experience unravels.

Sound familiar?

Cigars, like music, are a craft that reveals itself slowly. You don’t get the full picture in the first third. You have to earn it. You have to listen. You have to let the thing unfold in its own time.

We live in a world obsessed with shortcuts. Instant gratification. Viral success. Overnight expertise.

But the things that last…the things that shape you….rarely arrive fast.

They arrive like that drum kit did. Quietly. Unexpectedly. With more responsibility than excitement at first.

They ask you to commit before you understand the payoff.

Brolo exists in that same space.

It’s not about chasing trends or cutting corners. It’s about honoring the long road. Respecting the craft. Understanding that real connection, whether through music, cigars, or community, is built slowly.

Like learning to play in time.
Like learning when not to hit.
Like learning to sit in the silence and trust that something meaningful is forming.

I didn’t know it then, but that Christmas morning gave me a framework for life.


Be patient.
Respect the process.
Listen more than you speak.
And trust that the things worth keeping take time to reveal themselves.

That’s the slow burn.

The Slow Burn: Shared Suffering & the Camacho Corojo

Sometime during the afternoon of June 12th, 2017, I called my wife at her brand-new job and pleaded with her to come home. I didn’t have the words to explain it, but I knew if I didn’t interrupt the pattern right then, I wasn’t going to make it.

Within hours, I was in a treatment facility.
Within hours, her reality collapsed into something she never asked for.
Her husband had become a drug addict….and we were about to walk through hell together.

People don’t tell you this part:
Meeting Jesus doesn’t mean everything becomes easy.
Sometimes it gets messier before it gets redeemed.

Rewind the the tape to July 5th, 2015.

Two weeks earlier, a colleague invited me to church. No expectation, no spiritual hunger…but for whatever reason, I said yes. So that Sunday, my wife and I grabbed coffee and walked in.

The music started.
I sipped my latte and tried not to look uncomfortable.
Then the pastor opened his mouth… and it was like he had secretly read my diary.

Every word cut deeper than the one before.
Not in shame but in truth.

I felt exposed. Seen.
Convicted in ways I hadn’t felt in years.

Because the truth?
I wasn’t the man I pretended to be.
Not to my wife, not to my friends, not to myself.

Behind the baller job, baller loft, baller dinners…
Behind the European vacations and Executive Platinum status…
I was a slave. Bound to nose candy. Drowning in lies.

I was a whitewashed tomb, polished on the outside, rotting on the inside.

So when the pastor offered an invitation to accept Jesus, I took it.
And immediately, something shifted.

Without telling a soul, I got clean. For a while.
Then I relapsed.
And six months later, I walked into rehab.

No one sets out to become an addict.
But you become the things you do….one small decision at a time.

Thirty days in treatment, then straight into an Oxford House for another 90.
New job.
No friends.
Living away from my wife.
Attending meetings multiple times a day.
Working the steps.
Finding a sponsor.
Eventually becoming one.

And then, the week I was released from treatment…we got kicked out of the church that originally embraced us.
So I became a barista.
A stranger in a strange land, trying to rebuild a life from ashes.

And in the middle of all of it… one moment changed everything.


One of my recovery brothers knew I loved cigars. For Christmas, he handed me a box of Camacho Corojos…bold, peppery, leathery, Honduran puro goodness.

Looking back, the cigars weren’t the gift.
He was.

He met me when I had nothing…no money, no status, no identity, no credibility.
I was a ghost of myself.

And still, he leaned in.
He took me to lunch.
Sat with me on patios.
Let me be broken and rebuilding without judgment.
Our wives became best friends.
Our families became intertwined in ways I never saw coming.

They even showed up, surprising me at my 40th birthday in Big Bend with a handmade piñata stuffed full of tubos.
Brother… I’ve never felt more seen in my life.

To this day, when I see a Camacho Corojo, something stirs inside me.
Not because it’s the greatest cigar ever made.
But because it represents what saved my life:

Brotherhood. Shared suffering.
People choosing each other when everything else was falling apart.


Here’s the truth most people never learn:

Brotherhood isn’t forged on mountaintops.
It’s forged in the valleys.

It’s forged in the nights when you’re detoxing, while the fellowship watches over you.
In the afternoons when you’re embarrassed to look your wife in the eye.
In the circles of folding chairs where you tell strangers your secrets.
In the small, steady moments when someone chooses to sit beside you when you have nothing to offer.

That’s what cigars have always represented to me…not status, not luxury, not pretense.

Connection.
Companionship.
A slow burn in a fast, brutal world.

We share cigars the way soldiers share stories…
between breaths, between wounds, between old ghosts that still rattle their chains.

When we light up together, it’s our way of saying:

“I see you.
You’re not alone.
We’re in this together.”

Because brotherhood isn’t about the easy seasons…it’s about enduring the hard ones side by side. If I’ve learned anything through addiction, recovery, faith, and fire…it’s that shared suffering becomes shared strength. The right people will meet you in the ashes, sit with you, and help you rebuild piece by piece.


Not because you’ve earned it, but because that’s what real brothers do.

And every time I smell that peppery Honduran aroma…every time I see a Camacho Corojo tucked in a humidor…
I remember:

I didn’t make it here alone.
None of us do.
And the journey is sweeter when you’ve got a brother lighting up beside you.


Light Up & Lean In.
- Joshua
————————————————————————————————————————-

P.S. If You’re Struggling, Please Don’t Do It Alone

If any part of my story hits a nerve, if you’re fighting addiction, depression, or the kind of darkness that convinces you you’re better off alone…I want you to hear me clearly:

You are not a burden.
You are not beyond help.
And you are not supposed to carry this by yourself.

Real strength isn’t white-knuckling your way through the storm.
Real strength is reaching out.

For national substance abuse support in the U.S., you can get free, confidential help here:

SAMHSA National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
Text your ZIP code to 435748 (HELP4U)
FindTreatment.gov — search for local options
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: call or text 988 anytime

If you need help, reach out.
You deserve support.
You deserve recovery.
You deserve life.

And if no one has told you this yet…
I’m rooting for you.

The Slow Burn: the Gift of Right Now

Back in 2004, I was chasing stagelights through backroads, little white lines, and dive bars. Running the west coast, cutting through the south, loading into venues where the floors stuck to your shoes and the speakers hummed like they were barely holding the electricity.

We were musical nomads, broke, hungry, determined, but somehow “arriving.”

Growing up in the Dallas music scene of the 2000s was magic: Blacktie Dynasty, Midlake, Flickerstick, Kessler, The Feds, Mermaid Purse, SouthFM, Forever The Sickest Kids, Ryan Cabrera, 7 Channels / The Vanished, 40Percent, Barefoot, Artist Vs. Poet, The Secret Handshake…

If you know, you know.

Then the labels started calling:
MCA. Universal Motown. Fearless. Idol. Epic. Virgin.

Suddenly, everyone's getting “deals.”
Some of us landed on VH1’s Bands on the Run.
A few performed on SNL.
My old roommates toured with Kid Rock and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Friends were in Rolling Stone.
Ashley Simpson appearances.
Tour buses.
Backstage bracelets.
All of it.

So when my favorite local band, the soundtrack of my twenties, announced a reunion show this year, I felt like someone tossed a match onto old film reels in my brain.
Flashbacks.
Sweat.
Youth.
Everything.

These guys were family.
We played stages together.
Stood in each other’s weddings.
Broke bread, bones, and band rules.
We fought other bands together (listen, the early 2000s were wild).

But my buddy wasn’t as enthusiastic.

“It won’t be the same. He can’t sing that high anymore. The lineup’s different. Bet they use tracks.”

And honestly… I sorta felt it, too.
But we did what good friends do: we showed up.

We met at our old stomping grounds, Angry Dog, ordered the same junk food we used to inhale at 2 am, and reminisced. My buddy kept bringing up all the things that could ruin the magic, so I finally looked him dead in the eye and said:

“Why are we here?
Why’d we drive an hour?
Why pay $40 for parking and $20 to get in?
We’re chasing a feeling, man.
That’s all.
But we’re not the same guys anymore, and that’s the point.


We aren’t the same people we were. We've grown into respectable men with an entirely different value system. The way in which we view the world is much wiser, less ideal, and quite a bit more honest. Although our memories feel as close as our wallets, we will never be able to experience what "was." And that’s the beauty of it. We can watch it for what it is now, not for what it used to be.”

We weren’t there to recreate what was.
We were there to honor what is.
Different men. Different priorities.
But the same heartbeat.

And being there reminded me of the quiet, overlooked gift of presence.


After scarfing down our old Angry Dog orders and talking trash like we were still in our twenties, we stepped outside before the band went on. The night air hit just right, that mix of downtown concrete and nostalgia, and my buddy pulled an H99 Papas Fritas out of his pocket like he was revealing state secrets (btw, his old band The Secret State was legit).

We lit up and instantly time-traveled.

There we were, two washed-up former “cool guys,” standing in an alley behind a venue, smoking a damn good cigar and remembering when we could get into any club in Dallas without waiting in line.

We talked about how we used to get stopped on the street.
How promoters once begged us to play.
How bartenders knew our names.
How we thought we’d live forever under stage lights.

Then we looked at each other and laughed, hard.

We weren’t those guys anymore.
But that little stick of leaf and fire gave us permission to revisit them… just for a moment.

And man… that cigar?
It’s a banger.
Complex, spicy, sweet, full of depth….like the perfect soundtrack for revisiting old versions of yourself without letting those ghosts rent space in your head.

It was a moment only the brotherhood of the leaf can create: halfway between memory and reality, halfway between the men we were and the men we’ve grown into.

And it anchored the truth I was about to learn inside that venue…

Like many of us, I’ve spent a lot of years re-tracing old conversations, replaying old jokes, and trying to resurrect my grandmother’s recipes with no success.

I wonder sometimes what 13-year-old me would think of 42-year-old me:
Would he be proud?
Embarrassed?
Would he think I peaked too early?
Would he still want to be my friend?
Would I be pinned at the top of his text thread?

The holidays bring nostalgia straight to your doorstep.
The crazy uncle with the cheesedip.
The cousin who suddenly becomes a political analyst after two White Claws.
Moms hovering over turkey like it's a newborn baby.

We revisit the same rituals every year, replay the same stories, but rarely sit still long enough to appreciate the sacred weirdness of the moment we’re actually in.

We’re somewhere between who we were and who we’ll become.

My mind?
Prone to wander.
It takes a good deal of focus to be present. It takes discipline to accept life on life's terms, to not get too caught up in "future-tripping" (the mental habit of getting lost in anxious thoughts and worst-case scenarios about the future, often due to fear and a desire to control the uncontrollable) or spending too much time on memory lane….to let life be what it is instead of what it was or what it could be.

But at that show?
We were present.
Beautifully, imperfectly present.

We screamed lyrics with strangers who once filled our MySpace Top 8.
We celebrated the fact that, somehow, the music still hit.
Maybe not the same way…
But in a way we needed right now.

That’s the beauty of music, it collapses time.
It stitches the past to the present, and if you’re lucky, it hands you hope for the future.


Presence is a currency.
And most of us spend it like we’re broke.

We waste today trying to resurrect yesterday or outrun tomorrow, forgetting that the only place life actually happens is right where your feet are.

But here’s the wild thing:
The more you practice being present, the richer your life becomes, and the returns multiply with compound interest.

Every moment you truly inhale…
every conversation you fully show up to…
every memory you allow to become what it is instead of what you wish it were…
those moments stack.
They build.
They grow.

Presence doesn’t stay small.
It compounds into connection, clarity, gratitude, and stories you’ll tell long after the lights come up.

At the reunion show, I realized something simple but profound:

Nostalgia is sweet.
But presence?
Presence is sacred.

And cigars, like concerts, teach us this every time.

You light up.
You slow down.
You breathe deep.
You absorb the moment….not for what it used to be, but for what it is right now.

You savor it before it slips away.

Because one day, even the ordinary moments will become the stories we chase.

P.S. CHECK OUT A CLIP FROM THE CONCERT BELOW:

Kirk Baxley sings “Slow Down,” at Trees 11.29.25

The Slowburn: The Best Worst Cigar I Ever Had

Many years ago, I spent a week under the Mexican sun at Haven Riviera Cancun with friends and family…the kind of trip where everyone’s vibing, everyone’s sipping, and everyone’s on island time…except the lone cigar guy in the group.

Ya boy.

Relegated to the smokers’ area like a feral cat wandering the resort grounds looking for a patch of shade and a moment of peace.

Mexico used to be a cigar paradise, back when cigar lounges were tucked inside every resort like little sanctuaries for the leaf. Dark wood, leather chairs, humidors humming like a choir. But over the last few years, the country tightened its smoking laws with the type of precision only government bureaucrats and angry HOA board members possess.

As a sober smoker, the crackdown hits different.


While everyone else is throwing back Scooby snacks and pounding mini-beers like they’re being timed, I’m over here trying to find a quiet spot to light up and lean in.

Not easy when the government decides smoking is basically sorcery.

In 2023, Mexico rolled out what might be the strictest tobacco laws on earth, no smoking in public. No beaches. No hotel patios. No nothing. Add a total ban on advertising, promotion, or sponsorship, and suddenly those once-romantic cigar lounges get repurposed into juice bars or yoga studios where Chad and Brittany can realign their chakras.

But the trip I’m talking about happened before the purge, back when you could still catch a faint waft of something glorious drifting across a pool deck.

So… back to the beach.

Traveling with a group always turns into a weird sociological experiment.
Everyone’s got their own ideas of paradise:

• someone wants adventure

• someone wants to shop

• someone wants to sit in a chair for seven hours

• someone inevitably tries to schedule a group activity at 7:00am

Eventually, we agreed on one shared quest:

Take a catamaran to Isla Mujeres.

We rented golf carts, zipping around the island like a broke version of Mario Kart, and eventually headed toward Tortugranja, a sea turtle sanctuary we’d read about. Educational. Wholesome. Instagrammable. A great story for later.

Except…

It was not what I thought it was.

What we walked into wasn’t a sanctuary.
It was turtle jail.
Different Yards. Different levels of security.
A full-on reptilian penitentiary dressed up as an “animal experience.”

"Clink."

That was the sound, the unmistakable prison-door clank, that echoed behind us as we stepped into Tortugranja. Not the soothing, ocean-sanctuary vibes I had pictured in my head. Nah. This wasn’t “Finding Nemo.” This was Shawshank Redemption.

Instead of a peaceful conservation refuge, it felt like we walked into Turtle County Jail, complete with different Yards.

1 Yard?
That was minimum security. The turtles there looked like white-collar criminals…accountants who fudged a few too many tax documents. They were pacing slowly, staring out into the distance like:
"If I ever get outta here, I’m goin’ straight."

2 Yard?
That was mid-security; the turtles who might have gotten into a bar fight or sold some questionable seaweed. They gave us that slow, squinty side-eye…like they were sizing us up:
"Yeah, you ain’t from around here, are ya, turista?"

And then…

3 Yard.
Maximum security.
Where the hard cases were. The repeat offenders. The turtles who’d seen some things. Their shells were cracked like they’d been through a few prison riots. These dudes were posted up in the corners like:
"What you lookin’ at, bro? You want the smoke? Didn’t think so."

There was one big-boy turtle, had to be like eighty years old, just staring at a patch of algae on the wall like Red from Shawshank. I swear if he could talk, he would've said,
"Been here since ’74… ain’t leavin’ till they fix the filtration system."

Meanwhile, the juvenile turtles were in another little holding cell, a daycare/solitary confinement combo, splashing around like they were plotting the next great escape.
One tiny turtle kept ramming the side of the tank with the kind of energy that said,
"I may be 4 inches long, but I WILL taste freedom."

I looked around and thought:
This is what happens when Pixar lies to us.
These turtles aren’t out here riding East Australian Currents hanging loose with Crush.
They're serving time.
Hard time.

If there had been a commissary window where you could buy shrimp with turtle stamps, I would not have been surprised.

Our time at Turtle Jail eventually came to an end, and we headed back downtown to do some shopping. You know how it goes…split up, wander, let the sights and sounds tell you what you “need” even though you don’t actually need a thing.

But me?
I did what any brother of the leaf does in a foreign land:
I went hunting for fellowship.

Near the docks, I found a little shop selling all kinds of alleged “Cubans.”
You could practically smell the counterfeits from the doorway.

But I still walked in, like a hopeful romantic.

I gave the boxes a once-over, the way only seasoned smokers do:

• Factory codes?

• Date codes?

• Does the Garantia seal have the QR hologram or does it look like someone printed it off an old Dell inkjet?

• Are the bands embossed or flat like kindergarten craft paper?

• Are the colors slightly off, like a bootleg DVD cover from 2009?

After bartering over a box of “Siglo IVs,” I walked away.
Seal broken.
Vibes off.
Desperate sales pitch.

Everything inside me screamed, “These ain’t it, brother.”

As we made our way back toward the boat, my wife offered sweet condolences over the missed Cuban opportunity. Before I could respond, my friend, who I didn’t realize had been shadowing me like a cheerful golden retriever, chimed in:

“Bro, don’t even trip. I got you!”

He reaches into his bag and proudly whips out a humidified 5-pack of Cohibas.

“I got these for $30, bro! Absolute steal!”


Someone definitely got robbed…


Still, he was so proud. So genuinely excited to bless me with what he thought was a treasure that I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d purchased the cigar equivalent of a knockoff Gucci belt in Times Square.

“Let’s smoke these when we get back to the beach,” he said.

Brother…that sounds like a plan.

A few hours later, the sun is dropping behind the shoreline, the breeze is perfect, and he hands me a cigar with the kind of grin that tells you his heart is 100% in the right place.

Within moments, moments, my cigar explodes Yosemite Sam style, unraveling like a cheap party streamer. But I’m committed. I’m trying to cherish his excitement even as this thing tries to fall apart in my lap.

Then I glance over… and he’s staring at his, examining the large canoe forming like he’s witnessing a crime scene. He looks up at me with the most deadpan expression I’ve ever seen him pull off.

“These aren’t real Cubans, are they?”

We both LOST IT.

I’m talking full-on belly laughter…the kind where your lungs tap out and your eyes leak and strangers start checking on you. Two grown men, dying laughing on a beach in Mexico, smoking absolute dog-turds and loving every second of it.

And honestly?

It was the best worst cigar I ever had.


I used to spend so much time with him.
Before sobriety reshaped my life.
Before fatherhood reshaped his.
Before the heaviness crept in and made joy feel suspicious to him.

We’re different now.
Older. Busier.
Weathered by life.

He carries battles he’s not ready to say out loud. Depression and addiction lie; they tell you everyone is against you when, in truth, the people who love you are cheering the loudest.

But when I think of him, I rarely think of the hard stuff.
I think of us on that beach.
Two dudes, sunburned, sand-covered, laughing like kids….smoking terrible fake cigars and not caring one bit.


Just living.
Just being.
Just together.

It didn’t matter that the cigars sucked.
It mattered that the moment didn’t.

And here’s the thing we don’t talk about enough:

You never know when you’re living a “last” moment with someone.
The last time they’re light and free.
The last time they laugh that hard.
The last time life hasn’t yet buried them under a weight they don’t know how to carry.

Sometimes the worst cigars make the best memories.
Sometimes the cheap counterfeits mark the richest moments.
And sometimes the last thing you want to savor becomes the thing you wish you could go back to…one more time.

So when the moment comes…linger.
Laugh.
Lean in.
Savor the slow burn.

Because you might not realize the ember is fading until the ash hits the sand.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
P.S.

If you’re reading this and something in here hits a little too close to home…if you feel hopeless, isolated, overwhelmed, or like the darkness is closing in, please don’t try to carry that alone.

There is no shame in reaching out.
There is no weakness in asking for help.
And there is always someone who wants you here tomorrow.

If you are in crisis or having thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out immediately:

988 — National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
(Available 24/7)

If you’re outside the U.S., contact your local suicide prevention hotline or emergency services.

Lean in.
Get help.
You matter more than you think, and the world is better with you in it.

The Slowburn: What Your Favorite Smokes Say About You

Here’s a hot take: when someone asks, “What are some of your favorite smokes?” the answer reveals much more about the person than it does their preferences.

You can tell a lot about a smoker by the names that roll off their tongue. It’s not about showing off knowledge or flexing your humidor. It’s a snapshot of where they are on their cigar journey…their tastes, their values, and maybe even what they’re chasing when they light up.

The Heritage Peeps

If a smoker lists classics like Montecristo, Arturo Fuente, or Padron, they’re paying homage to the roots…to legacy, consistency, and lineage. These are the “heritage guys,” the ones who romanticize tradition. They probably remember their first cigar at a wedding or on a golf course, something given to them by an older uncle who always wore cufflinks. There’s nothing wrong with that; these brands built the foundation of cigar culture. They’re the entryway to respect, and often, nostalgia.

The New World Crowd

Then there’s the smoker who rattles off names like AJ Fernandez, My Father, or Oliva. These are the “New World” devotees….blending innovation with respect for old-school craftsmanship. They’re curious, hungry for complexity, and appreciate the fusion of Nicaraguan power with modern flavor. They’re the ones who probably started smoking post-2010, when cigars became a hobby as much as a ritual.

The Boutique Brotherhood

Drop names like Foundation, Black Label Trading Co., Crowned Heads, Tatuaje, or Warped, and you’re signaling something deeper. Boutique smokers tend to see cigars as art. They’re not just consuming; they’re participating in a movement. These smokers know their reps, the blenders, their farms. They care about storytelling, limited runs, and creative expression. They see cigars as a medium for connection, something more spiritual than habitual.

Other boutique brands worth checking out are Room101, Dissident, Illusione, Stolen Thrones, Patina, Jake Wyatt, Viva La Vida, West Tampa, Rojas, Casdagli, and the list goes on….

The Ultra-Premium Seekers

Finally, some chase Opus X, Davidoff, Atabey, Byron, Padron, Cohiba, Bolivar, and more. These are the brands that treat every stick like a ritual object, meticulous aging, rare tobaccos, opulent presentation, and a price point that often starts where others top out.. These smokers are about refinement…about curating moments that feel elevated. They may not smoke daily, but when they do, it’s an occasion. They appreciate rarity, presentation, and precision. Their answers reveal not snobbery, but intention, the pursuit of the perfect experience. Yes, some gravitate towards these smokes as a status symbol. However, don’t let a few bad seeds ruin the perception of these exceptional cigars.

Our “favorite smokes” evolve as we do. Each cigar phase…heritage, new world, boutique, ultra-premium…mirrors a chapter in our story. Some of us bounce between them depending on the day, the crowd, or the mood. At Brolo, we don’t judge the list. We celebrate it. Because what matters isn’t the label on the band…it’s the light in your story. So next time someone asks you, “What are your favorite smokes?” take a second before you answer. You might just learn something about yourself.

There’s something beautiful about cigar culture….how it dissolves titles, bank accounts, and egos the moment the flame touches the leaf. Around the table, a CEO and a janitor become equals. The leaf doesn’t care about résumés or last names; it just asks for your attention and respect.

Every puff slows the pace of the world just long enough for honesty to surface. You talk, you listen, you laugh…not because you have to, but because the space between draws and invites it. Cigars remind us that connection doesn’t require polish, just presence.

Whether you’re smoking a fifty-year-old brand or a garage-rolled boutique blend, you’re part of something ancient and communal. A conversation that’s been burning for centuries, one story at a time, one ember at a time. That’s the beauty of it all: cigars are the great equalizer.

They strip life down to its essentials…smoke, story, and soul.

The Slow Burn: The Gospel According to Tony Stark

Now, I’ve never really been into Marvel movies or comics. Sure, I had friends who collected them. We’d hit the arcade next door, burn through quarters, and then wander over to the comic shop to kill time before the next round of Street Fighter. It wasn’t the stories that hooked me…it was the camaraderie.

That said, there was one game I couldn’t stay away from at the arcade: Marvel Super Heroes. You’d drop in a quarter, grab the joystick, and pick your champion. There were plenty of options…Hulk, Spider-Man, Captain America, but every time, I chose Tony Stark. Iron Man.

At first, it was superficial. I liked the suit. I liked the sound of those plasma bursts. I liked how clean the animations looked as his repulsors fired from his hands. But over time, I realized something deeper. Tony Stark wasn’t just a superhero. He was human. And his humanity, his pride, his arrogance, and his flaws were what made him relatable.

He wasn’t born special. He wasn’t injected with super serum. He didn’t fall into a vat of radioactive waste or get bitten by a spider. He was a man…smart, broken, and self-assured enough to think he could fix the world by his own power.

Sound familiar?


If you strip away the suit, Tony Stark is a mirror. He’s every man who’s ever believed that if he just works hard enough, grinds long enough, innovates big enough, he can save himself, maybe even save others along the way.

That’s the American dream, right? Be your own man. Build your empire. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.

But here’s the catch: the same self-reliance that makes us strong can also make us brittle.

In Iron Man 1, Tony builds the first suit out of desperation. He’s trapped in a cave, wounded, forced to reckon with the sins of his own creation, weapons made by his hands that have caused untold suffering. So he builds something to protect himself.

It’s noble, in a way. Resourceful. Ingenious.
But it’s also the beginning of his prison.

Because after the cave, Tony never stops building. He doesn’t build out of inspiration; he builds out of fear. Fear of losing control. Fear of failure. Fear of needing anyone else.

And brother, that’s the same lie the enemy sells us every day:
“You’ve got this. You don’t need anyone else.”


For years, I believed that lie.

I thought if I worked hard enough, that if I grinded enough, it would somehow fill the void. But success doesn’t heal the soul. It just gives you fancier distractions.

Tony’s story is the same. He tries to control the chaos around him. He builds armies of suits. He creates Ultron to “protect humanity.” He even signs his name on the Sokovia Accords, thinking he can legislate morality. But behind all that invention is insecurity.

That’s what sin does. Our flesh feels powerful, but our spirit feels painfully alone.

In Proverbs 27:17, it says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”

The truth is, Tony Stark doesn’t have iron sharpening him. He is iron…blunt, unrefined, constantly grinding against himself. No accountability. No surrender. No brotherhood.

And when a man isolates himself in the name of “strength,” he becomes his own god.


One of the most haunting lines from Avengers: Age of Ultron is when Tony says, “I don’t want to hear the ‘man who died for nothing’ speech.”

He’s talking about sacrifice. He’s talking about avoiding failure. But what he’s really doing is confessing his fear, the fear of death, the fear of insignificance, the fear that all his striving is for nothing.

We’ve all been there.

There’s a Tony Stark in every man…the version of us that wants to control everything because surrender feels like death.

But here’s the paradox:
In Christ, surrender is life.

When Jesus said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23), He wasn’t talking about martyrdom; He was talking about dying to the illusion of control.

Tony builds armor to save himself.
Jesus removes it to save the world.


I think about this a lot when I sit down to smoke.

The brotherhood of the leaf has a rhythm to it, one that’s slow, intentional, reflective. It’s not just about cigars; it’s about connection. You learn pretty quickly that no smoke is the same when you share it with brothers who sharpen you.

Tony Stark never had that.
And when he finally found it, in the Avengers, it was messy. Loud. Full of ego clashes and trust issues.
Sound familiar?

That’s the church, man.

Community isn’t clean. Accountability isn’t comfortable. But it’s where growth happens. It’s where the rough edges are refined, where the iron starts to shine.

The Apostle Paul writes in Galatians 6:2, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

If Tony Stark had understood that verse, Ultron would’ve never been born.

When we carry our burdens alone, they crush us. When we share them, we find strength, not in self-sufficiency, but in surrender.


Here’s the thing about iron…it’s strong, but it’s not invincible. When exposed to enough heat, it melts.

That’s what happens to Tony. Over time, the fire of his own ambition softens him. You see it in Endgame. The armor’s still there, but the man inside is different. Humbled. Tired. A little wiser.

That’s sanctification, brother.

It’s the process of being refined by fire. Of realizing that strength isn’t found in resistance, but in obedience.

When Tony lays down his life at the end, snapping his fingers to save everyone else, it’s poetic. It’s the first time he does something completely selfless. It’s his version of “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

That’s the beauty of redemption: even the most stubborn hearts can be reshaped in the fire.


In the same way Tony built armor to protect himself, we all do it…emotional armor, spiritual armor, relational armor. We use humor, success, pride, or intellect as shields.

But Ephesians 6 tells us there’s a better kind of armor:

“Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.”

That armor doesn’t come from self-manufactured metal. It comes from truth, righteousness, faith, salvation, and the Spirit.

The key difference?
Tony’s armor isolates him.
God’s armor equips us to connect, to fight together.

When I look at the Brolo community, the fellowship of the leaf, the brothers and sisters leaning in over smoke and story, I see the opposite of Tony’s cave. I see people stepping into light. Accountability isn’t glamorous. It’s not Instagram-worthy. It’s usually uncomfortable, awkward, and raw. But that’s where the transformation happens.

When I was at my lowest, I had brothers who didn’t let me stay there. They called me out. They prayed with me. They checked on me. They loved me enough to hold me accountable.

It’s easy to admire Iron Man’s genius, but I’m more interested in his redemption, in the slow burn that turned ego into empathy.

That’s the same fire I feel when I light a cigar with a brother who knows my story, the kind of connection that doesn’t require armor.

Because in the end, iron doesn’t stay iron forever. It gets shaped. It gets sharpened. It gets stronger in the fire.

And so do we.

We all have our suits.
We all have our caves.
We all have moments where we try to play god with our lives.

But thank God for grace.

Grace doesn’t demand perfection; it invites honesty. It asks us to take off the helmet, to be seen, to admit that we can’t save ourselves.

Tony Stark died saving others.
Jesus Christ rose so we could live.

That’s the difference between redemption through self and salvation through surrender.

At Brolo, we Light Up & Lean In because it’s not about the armor. It’s about the fire that refines us, the fellowship that keeps us grounded, accountable, and human.

So, here’s to the brothers who keep you honest.
The ones who tell you when your pride is showing.
The ones who sit in the ashes with you until the smoke clears.

Because iron sharpens iron, and together, we burn brighter.

The Slowburn: The Color of Connection

Without knowing her intent, my wife once asked me, “What’s your favorite color?”
Like many men, my response was dull: “Black. Beige. Earth tones.”

She didn’t buy it.
“Oh yeah?” she clapped back. “Go look in your closet and let me know your findings.”

Challenge accepted.

I know me.
I’m masculine. I track my protein. I work out. I stay ready. I smoke cigars. I like vintage. I like muscle cars. I keep the coffee black. My inner circle? Business owners. Ex-cons. Pastors. I can tell you which wild plants give you hell in the woods and which ones keep you alive on a survival hike.

So when I opened the closet door and stared at the rows of jackets, tees, boots, then caught sight of yellow, I paused.
There it was, bright, legitimate yellow, among all the natural, earthy tones.

Yellow?

Now, I’ve never been the Golden Arches type. I didn’t want people asking, “Wanna know how I know you’re gay?” when I rolled up in a Big Bird colored puffer jacket. Let’s be honest, most of my friends give me plenty of heat about my fashion choices. But here’s the thing: if yellow shows up in the closet, maybe I’m happier in yellow than I thought.

Turns out, yellow has a bad rap. Ever heard that McDonald’s uses yellow in its branding to keep people moving? According to color-psychology experts, yellow is “the most visible color in daylight,” and when paired with red, it triggers hunger, action, and quick turns. The fast-food world says: see the yellow, feel the urge, move on. Linger not.

But what if hang-time is exactly what you need?


People drawn to yellow are often energetic, positive, and forward-looking. They tend to see possibility everywhere, the type who chase new experiences and ideas. Yellow reflects curiosity, creativity, and enthusiasm for life. It’s the color of sunlight, and those who love it often have a warmth that naturally draws others in.


Yellow is tied to the left (analytical) side of the brain. It’s associated with clear thinking, learning, and sharing ideas. People who favor it often crave mental stimulation, they enjoy conversation, wit, and insight. They’re lifelong learners and quick thinkers, but can also overanalyze or become restless when confined.


Lovers of yellow often stand out without meaning to. It’s the color of visibility and confidence. They may not seek attention, but they tend to have a strong sense of individuality. They’re expressive, often the “light” in a group, the one who can shift a room’s mood just by being there.


Getting vulnerable here….every color carries a shadow. With yellow, it’s anxiety, impatience, and self-criticism. Because yellow-minded people are often idealists and visionaries, they can be easily frustrated when reality doesn’t match their vision. They’re often harder on themselves than anyone else could be.


I realized I wasn’t just wearing yellow for flair. I was wearing it because I’m done hiding in the shadows. I’m done blending in. The closet mirrored the leaf: earth tones, predictable, safe. But the yellow, bold, visible, said: I’m here. I choose to be.

In the cigar world, looks matter, but identity matters more. The wrapper, the band, the box, they all speak. But what they say depends on who you are. If you’re always hiding in beige, the story feels half-told. If you step into the yellow, maybe the full story demands to be told.


If yellow is your color, you’re the guy (or gal) who lights the cigar for everyone else. You bring the spark. You’re not content just sitting in the corner, you want to create connection. You’re not afraid to show joy, even in a world that rewards cynicism. You’re the sunlight through the smoke, the reminder that life, at its best, is meant to be shared.


So yeah, my closet shouted yellow. And I’m listening. Because clothes aren’t vanity, they’re context. They speak before you talk. They tell what your story holds.

For the brothers and sisters of the leaf: don’t just pick what blends in. Pick what rings true. Pick what matches your story.
Pick the cigar that makes you linger.
Light it. Let the flavor show. Let the color flash. Let your voice be seen.

And maybe, just maybe, the yellow wasn’t what you thought it was.
It was what you needed it to be.

Light up & Lean in. Brolo forever.

The Slowburn: Signing off, MTV

Seemingly, like every other summer night in 1996, I was at my friend Bobby’s house. Bobby was the kind of kid who could ace an AP exam, quote Kurt Cobain, and land a kick-flip before lunch. His parents had just upgraded from a modest three-bedroom house to what we all jokingly called a “McMansion,” complete with a pool and a pantry full of Gushers. With them working late most days, his house became our headquarters for mischief and music.

The rhythm of those days was predictable but perfect. Swim until the Texas sun made the water feel like bathwater. Ransack the pantry on a snack safari, piecing together a meal from off-brand cereal and leftover pizza. Lace up the Airwalks, grab our boards, and hit the pavement. The air shimmered with heat and freedom, and even though the new neighborhood was “fancier,” it didn’t matter. We were still the same kids, chasing the same feeling. Sometimes we'd catch a lift on someone’s handle bars, maybe tag behind on the bunny pegs or ride sketch. Between power slides and bunny hops, we’d skate until dusk, then rally the crew back to Bobby’s pool.

Someone always had a boombox nearby, MTV playing in the background through open windows. That was the soundtrack of our lives: The Smashing Pumpkins bleeding into Rage Against the Machine, followed by a flash of Mariah or Manson. We mocked the Spice Girls but knew every word.

Eventually, the grownups came home and sent half of us packing. But on the lucky nights, the sleepover nights, the real magic began. The glow of the TV, the hum of PlayStation loading screens, the laughter as Sweet Tooth torched us all in Twisted Metal. When the controller wars ended, we’d collapse into the glow of late-night MTV, Beavis and Butt-Head, Daria, maybe Loveline if we could stay awake.

And somewhere around 3AM, as “The Macarena” came on for the thousandth time, we’d lose it, tossing pillows, groaning, laughing, and eventually drifting off. Chlorine in our hair, static on the TV, and that faint hum of adolescence buzzing in the air.

Those were the nights that built us.

MTV wasn’t just a channel, it was a compass. It pointed us toward whatever was next. The bands, the clothes, the slang, the attitude. Sure, you could find an issue of Rolling Stone or Creem, but MTV showed you cool. It didn’t explain it. It didn’t hand it over in a feed. You had to tune in. Wait for it. Earn it. It birthed the “Golden Age of Cool.”

You couldn’t just pull up your favorite video, you had to catch it when it aired. You had to stay up late for the good stuff. You had to listen for what your friends said they saw. And that work, that anticipation, made it mean something. The first time you saw a video by Rage or Nirvana, it wasn’t background noise. It was an event. You felt like you discovered it before the world did.

Today, cool is infinite, and disposable. Algorithms spoon-feed us what we’re already supposed to like. We scroll through more culture in ten minutes than we could consume in a summer. Everything’s accessible, but nothing’s earned. There’s no more mystery in the hunt. No waiting for 120 Minutes. No staying up to catch that one song that defined your summer. No chlorine-scented sleepovers with the TV glow flickering across your friends’ faces.

The exploratory feeling, that anticipation, from digging through crates or catching an upcoming artist video at 2AM has been usurped by doom-scrolling. With zero intent and mindlessly, I consume media as if I were bored snacking. Don’t get me wrong, there are massive plusses to having never-ending accessibility. But the sheer quantity forces us to consume quicker.

When I had a Walkman, I was limited to one tape or one CD at a time. Often, the same one stayed in rotation for weeks. Like the back of my hand, I became well acquainted with an artist’s direction across an entire album…the lyrics, liner notes, artwork, the transitions between tracks, the rise and fall of each song.

It forced me to nurse my musings. Because there were so few of them, I had prolonged exposure to things I loved. We didn’t have streaming services in middle school. A CD in 1996 cost around $17, more than three times my $5 weekly allowance.


Now, with a tablet in hand and the help of AI, you can listen to your favorite artist instantly. If you’re good at prompts, you can even hear what your favorite artist would sound like through the lens of another decade. Fast-food entertainment.

Nearly forty years ago, MTV paved the way for how we discovered the music we craved. On December 31, 2025, MTV will conclude the broadcasts of its music-focused channels; MTV Music, MTV 80s, MTV 90s, Club MTV, and MTV Live. The decision, announced by Paramount Global, signifies the end of an era that began in 1981 when MTV revolutionized television by airing music videos 24/7.


This feels like the death of my youth. No longer an adolescent, MTV’s rebellion lives on in my heart. Before art was commoditized by streams, influencer crossovers, and brand deals, MTV showcased artistry and storytelling. There’s no way in hell you’d have seen Korn promoting a new SKIMS drop or Liam Gallagher touting “Wonderwall” flavored pasties from Greggs.

Yet, here we are.

McDonald’s in Canada released a “Bestie Bundle” in Taylor Swift’s honor, complete with friendship bracelets inspired by her concerts.

“Cool” isn’t about the algorithm. It’s about the feeling. It’s about gathering around the glow, whether it’s a TV screen, a fire pit, or the cherry of a good cigar, and knowing that something special is happening in real time. And maybe that’s the lesson MTV leaves behind: cool was never about access. It was about experience. About being there. About the mix of sound, smoke, and friendship that made you feel alive.

So here’s to the static, the soundtracks, and the summers that made us.

Signing off,
MTV.
And signing on,
Brolo.

The Slow Burn: If Brolo was an animal

Someone once asked me, “If Brolo Cigars was an animal, what animal would it be?”
Not an easy question to answer, by any means.

First, I thought about my beloved dachshunds.
Nope, definitely not weenie dog approved.

Then, I thought about my love for elephants, which have always been my favorite animal. Probably because they grieve their dead and have a social hierarchy similar to ours. They build lifelong bonds with one another and have remarkable memories, they can remember other elephants, watering holes, and migration routes even after decades. They’ve even been known to stand vigil over fallen members of their herd, returning years later to touch the bones with their trunks. They mourn, they remember, and they stay connected, even when the herd moves on.

That’s powerful stuff.

And although I love them, majestic, intelligent, emotional, they don’t quite fit the Brolo mold.

Enter the Wolf

After a bit, a wolf came to mind.

Now, as someone with a faith background, we don’t typically align ourselves with wolves. “Beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing,” the Scripture warns, people who present themselves one way but harbor darker motives.

But I had to think long and hard about this.
Why does the wolf get all the bad publicity?

Some incredibly redeeming traits about this mammal deserve attention.

“Like wolves, Brolo values the pack, strong individuals moving as one, bound by shared experience instead of hierarchy.”

Instead of a pride like lions, wolves run in a pack.

Brolo thrives on brotherhood. Every cigar, every story, every burn is about connection, that sense of belonging to something wild, loyal, and unspoken.

Ritual & Reverence

This may be a stretch, but wolves have rhythm and ritual. They live by the cycles of the hunt, the moon, and the firelight. Wolves communicate through howls that aren’t random noise; each tone and pitch carries meaning: a call home, a warning, a roll call for the pack.

Brolo is the same way.
There’s ritual in cutting, lighting, and passing a cigar. It’s primal and deliberate, slow and soulful. That mirrors the wolf’s quiet reverence for its environment; it doesn’t take more than it needs, and it respects the balance of nature.

A wolf howls not to boast, but to connect.

That’s Brolo, not shouting to be seen, but sending a signal to those who understand the meaning behind the smoke.

The Brolo spirit feels like late-night laughter, records spinning, smoke curling through amber light. The wolf embodies that mood, a creature of dusk and mystery, thriving in the glow of a half-lit world. They’re intelligent, cunning, and deeply intuitive, just like how Brolo blends craftsmanship with emotion, memory, and story.
A wolf knows when to lead, when to follow, and when to rest. It knows its place within the pack and honors it.

When I think of wolves, my mind still wanders back to Scripture, the warning about wolves in sheep’s clothing. But what if we’ve misjudged them? What if the wolf isn’t the enemy, but the misunderstood symbol of strength, loyalty, and balance?

Wolves aren’t loners by nature; that’s a myth. They’re fiercely communal. They mate for life. They share responsibility for raising the young, hunting, and protecting their own. And when a member of the pack dies, wolves have been observed howling in mourning, a sound as haunting as it is holy.

Maybe the wolf isn’t the villain after all.
Maybe it’s the reminder that loyalty, purpose, and community are worth fighting for.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Brolo is too.

If Brolo were an animal, it wouldn’t be the loudest, the biggest, or the flashiest. It would be the wolf at the campfire, steady, loyal, reflective, and alive in the ritual of connection.

Light up & Lean In. Linger awhile….

The Slow Burn: The People Business

Recently, I got interviewed for a potential role on a television show about entrepreneurship.
They asked me what the most impactful story from my entrepreneurial journey was, and honestly, it’s not about the balance sheets, logos, or the number of staff under my leadership.

It’s about transformation.

There was a time I weighed over 350 pounds, flying 40+ weeks a year, hiding my shame behind tray tables and tight seatbelts. I was exhausted. My health was shot. My spirit was fading. But that season forged something in me that no MBA could teach: grit.

And that same grit, the kind you earn through pain and perseverance, is what I’ve poured into every venture since. I’ve helped scale multiple startups into thriving multimillion-dollar companies. I’ve helped grow a residential appraisal firm into one of the largest in the country, launched an affiliated AMC, and built a boutique cigar brand from the ground up.

But here’s the truth …I never set out to be an entrepreneur.

I just really love people.

I’m crazy about them. I lay awake some nights replaying conversations, wondering what drives each person I meet. I trace the red thread between our interactions, and more often than not, it leads to something beautiful…hearts that care deeply.

There’s my buddy raising his grandson full-time, giving that kid the kind of life many never get. Another friend who spends his weekends teaching kids to fish and hunt, passing on lessons of patience and respect. One brother shepherds broken men through recovery, while another has turned his pain into purpose, building businesses that bless other families.

One friend smokes cigars like a theologian studies scripture, quoting C.S. Lewis between tasting notes and bourbon pours. Another, an ex-con, turned lemons into legacy…rebuilding his life with faith, fight, and family. There’s the pastor I used to play music with in our rebellion years, now preaching about the same grace that saved us both. And then there’s “Glitter Pickle,” my go-to when I need laughter more than advice. But man oh man, his advice is good too.

One of my dawg’s just celebrated an anniversary in recovery. He completely rebuilt his life in the five years we’ve been kicking it.

These are my people. My tribe. My church outside the church.

Cigars brought us together, not as status symbols, but as a shared language of connection. The leaf is just the medium. The real art is in the conversation, the laughter, the quiet nods of understanding between puffs of smoke.

Life is fragile. We don’t know when our story ends…maybe you leave the house for creamer and never come home. So why not open yourself up to others now? Why not lean in while you can?

When we allow people in, we find purpose. We find connection. We find the kind of brotherhood that can only be forged in the fire.

That’s what Brolo is about, real stories, real people, and the slow burn that happens when you choose connection over isolation.

So, light up something new this week.
Pull your chair a little closer.
Lean in.

And if you haven’t already, grab one of the Brolo Founders Club Trucker Caps while you can. Only 50 were made, and they’re selling fast. Like everything at Brolo, they were made for connection: one story, one conversation, one believer at a time.

Light up. Lean in. The Founders Club rides first.

25 Green, 25 Gold. One they’re gone, they’re gone forever.

The Slow Burn: Do Your Tastes Change or Do They Change You?

At my heaviest, I weighed 357 pounds. Maybe more. I remember stepping on the scale one morning, watching the number flash up, and deciding right then and there the scale was no longer a friend of mine. So I stopped stepping on it. No accountability, no reminder, just more spiraling.

Traveling constantly for work, I was on planes more than 40 weeks a year…San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, LA, New York, Chicago, Madrid, Frankfurt, you name it. Each time I boarded, I saw the fear in fellow passengers’ eyes, praying I wasn’t the one to sit next to them. Sometimes the seatbelt wouldn’t click, but in my shame, I’d tuck it under my stomach and pretend. I would rather die than ask for an extender.

My mental health unraveled.

Desperate, I paid $10,000 out of pocket for gastric sleeve surgery in 2014. They cut out a piece of me, and in a few months, I dropped 60 pounds. But here’s the thing about quick fixes: they don’t change the root. My addiction shifted, from food to booger sugar. Sure, I lost more weight, but I also lost a 401k and nearly lost my life.

I thought I was outsmarting my demons, but really, my best thinking had gotten me into rehab. And it was there that a street-wise theologian cut through my delusions with a single line:
“Look where you’re at, moth#rfu#cker, you don’t know sh*t.”

He was right.

Sobriety wasn’t linear for me. I relapsed. I got sober. I relapsed again. Over time, I got some runway under me. But with the runway came the weight back. I ballooned. My spirit was alive, but my body was failing me again. One day in prayer, I realized God gave me a temple, and I had spray-painted it in graffiti. My joints hurt, my confidence waned, and I wasn’t performing at work.

So I started again…this time slower. Tracking calories. Cycling. Hiking. Even pickleball for a minute (don’t worry, that cult didn’t keep me long). Step by step, choice by choice, I began to build. Last week, I weighed 192 pounds. Although I am not a proponent of a numer on a scale equaling “health,” I was proud. It took 9 years. Countless failures, small wins stacked up over time. I’ve learned: there are no shortcuts.

Where you put your focus reveals what you worship.

What you feed yourself…physically, mentally, spiritually….is what you become.

And cigars? They taught me that lesson too.

For years, I had an everyday stick. Smoked over a thousand of them. My daily driver. Then the price jumped by $85 a box, so I stopped. Out of necessity, I explored. I smoked boutique brands, factory specials, heritage names I’d overlooked, blends I’d never touched. It was like being a new smoker again.

And when I came back to my old faithful, it wasn’t the same. My palate had changed. The depth I’d discovered made my old go-to taste flat. What once comforted me now reminded me of scarfing down two McDonald’s combo meals in secret shame. It didn’t sit right anymore….because I had changed.

That’s the beauty of cigars. They evolve with you. They challenge your palate. They reward you when you step outside of routine.

For my brothers and sisters of the leaf: don’t just smoke what you know. Chase new horizons. Go hunt down that boutique blend you’ve never heard of. Trade with a friend. Buy something out of your comfort zone.

Because sometimes the best thing you can do for your palate, and for yourself, is to step into the unknown. That’s where the adventure lives. That’s where connection lives.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s where you’ll find the cigar that makes you linger just a little bit longer.

The Slow Burn: Closing the Gap

Ira Glas says that, “It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap [between taste and skill], and your work will be as good as your ambitions.”

If being a musician for 32 years has taught me anything, it’s this: to learn, you must do.

Like playing drums night after night in a half-empty bar, rehearsing licks until your fingers bleed, or figuring out how to play in time but stay on the back of the “one” deep in the pocket. There are no shortcuts in developing skill. No textbooks for instinct.

You have to put in the reps. Trial and error. Pain as a motivator. Experience as the teacher.

Cigars are no different.

Blending cigars is about the grind. You don’t get it right the first time. You don’t always get it right the tenth time. But you keep at it, because your taste, your vision, demands that you close the gap.

That’s the fight. The tension between what you imagine and what you can execute. And while I do not come from a lineage of master blenders, buncheros, or torcederos, I understand what it’s like to put yourself in the arena, knowing your work won’t live up to your own taste...yet. However, I understand that the only way forward is to keep doing the work.

Brolo is my fight through the gap. It’s the art of honoring tradition without being enslaved to it. It’s heritage rewritten for people who love the craft but aren’t interested in shortcuts, gimmicks, or hollow status.

The beauty of creative work, whether it’s music or cigars, is that it creates connection. Songs move people. Cigars bring them together. Both are slow burns, meant to be savored, meant to reveal layers.

And just like Ira Glass said...most people quit before their work has a chance to catch up with their taste. But those who stay? Those who fight through? They build something that matters.

That’s what Brolo is about. Not instant gratification. Not fast fashion for the humidor. Brolo is the slow burn. The long road. The gap between vision and execution, fought one cigar at a time.

Brolo are conversational cigars.

The kind that keep you engaged and grow more complex with each passing moment. The type of cigars you nurse because you just don’t want the experience to end. The ones that make you linger a little longer...maybe even light up another one.

Imagine this, you’re in a dimly lit lounge, tucked into the back booth with two old friends you haven’t seen in years. What started as a quick catch-up turns into a two-hour dive into life…kids, careers, regrets, dreams. The ashtray’s full, the server’s ready to close your tab, but nobody moves. The cigar keeps the conversation alive. You light another not because you need it, but because you don’t want the connection to end.

It’s late on a Friday night. The week’s been heavy, and you step out on the porch with a stick. One puff in, the stress loosens its grip. Then your neighbor wanders over, libations in hand. Before you know it, you’re swapping stories under the glow of the porchlight, laughing, listening, learning. The cigar stretches the night, and neither of you is in a rush to head back inside.

Or better yet, you get talked into attending a Saturday night service at the local place of worship. You walk in with zero expectations, just showing up to check the box. But then, something the preacher says stirs your heart. The words cut through the noise of your week and you can’t shake them. As you lean in, it’s as if he’s reading straight from your diary. Every sentence lands heavier, more personal, until you realize he’s speaking right to you.. Then comes the invitation. To receive the Good Lord as Savior. To repent. To make Him King of your life. Overwhelmed by unmerited grace, tears stream down your face. For the first time in a long time, you don’t want to leave His presence. The longer you stay, the more He reveals.

That’s the same heartbeat as a Brolo moment…it lingers, it grows deeper the longer you lean in, and it calls you into something greater than yourself.

The gap between taste and skill is a brutal place to live. You know what you want, you can see it in your mind’s eye, but your hands aren’t there yet. The riffs fall flat, the blends don’t hit, the stories feel unfinished. Most people quit here. They let the frustration win.

But if you press on, if you keep putting in the reps, something shifts. Slowly, your work begins to line up with your vision. Slowly, you start closing the gap.

And in between? That’s where the magic happens.

The lingering conversations in the back booth.
The porchlight reflections with a neighbor.
The sacred moment when grace hits and you don’t want to leave His presence.

Those are the markers along the way, the proof that the struggle is worth it. Because cigars, like music and faith, aren’t just about the product…they’re about the process, the community, the way they make us stay a little longer and go a little deeper.

That’s Brolo. Conversational cigars. Slow burns that honor tradition, celebrate craftsmanship, and invite you to linger in the moments that matter most.

The gap will always be there….but so will the people, the stories, and the slow burns that make the journey worth it.

Light Up & Lean In…linger a little while longer.

The Slow Burn: Heritage, Hurt, and the Brotherhood of the Leaf

Cigar culture makes you think a lot about heritage. Whether it’s genealogy, family traditions, historical knowledge, or even the connection to identity, heritage is how we get cigars.

The modern cigar’s roots trace back to indigenous peoples of the Caribbean and Mesoamerica, like the Maya and Aztecs, who used rolled tobacco in rituals, medicine, and social customs. Tobacco’s spiritual and social importance in these ancient cultures laid the foundation for the premium cigar culture that later flourished.

Eventually, Cubans would refine cigars and pass down their traditions for generations. After the Cuban embargo, many Cuban manufacturers and farmers left the island, establishing brands and continuing their traditions in other countries such as the Dominican Republic and Nicaragua in the 1960s.

Fast forward quite a few years, and I was born.

Zero Latin heritage.

Born to a teenage mother and without a father, I struggled with connection to family. Shortly after I arrived, the state seized me, and I bounced through the foster care system.

A lot of shit happened. The type of shit that breaks people…the type that turns you cold and callous and makes you turn inward.

When you grow up without a clear heritage to cling to, you start looking for it anywhere you can. I tried to find it in sports, in bands, in church pews, in the bottom of bottles, even in things that nearly destroyed me. I wanted to belong. I wanted to know who I was. But identity doesn’t come easy when your foundation feels broken.

And yet, through all the chaos, there were flickers of light. My grandma did her best, even while tethered to oxygen machines. My uncles gave me laughter in the wild. They didn’t give me “heritage” in the Cuban sense…but they gave me humanity.

They gave me grit.

Later, I realized heritage doesn’t always come from bloodlines. Sometimes it comes from the brotherhood you choose.

The first time I lit up a cigar, I wasn’t thinking about heritage. I wasn’t thinking about Mayans, Spaniards, or Cuban exiles. I was just looking for a moment. But the more I smoked, the more I noticed something bigger happening.

Cigars weren’t just indulgences, they were bridges. In lounges, on patios, and around fire pits, cigars connected people who otherwise had nothing in common. Blue collar and white collar. Young bucks and old heads. Saints and sinners. Doctors, mechanics, pastors, musicians, all sharing space, bound by rolled-up leaves of tobacco.

That became my heritage. The brotherhood of the leaf.

Heritage, I realized, doesn’t always mean family lineage. Sometimes it means stepping into a tradition, adopting it, honoring it, and carrying it forward in your own way. For me, cigars became that inheritance.

So where does Brolo fit into all this?

Brolo isn’t just about cigars. It’s about connection. It’s about creating a new kind of heritage….one rooted in brotherly love, storytelling, and intentional craft. I may not come from a Cuban family of tobacco farmers, but I know what it means to grind, to build, and to dream. I know what it means to take ashes and make something new.

Brolo is for people who appreciate fine craftsmanship, not just in the leaf, but in life. It’s for the guy who’s worked with his hands all week and wants to savor a slow burn on Friday night. It’s for the woman who just closed a big deal and lights up to celebrate. It’s for the groups of friends who gather, week after week, to laugh, cry, debate, and pray together.

Our cigars are luxury, yes, but not the velvet rope kind. They’re not about exclusivity or status. They’re about craftsmanship with soul. Small batches, aged leaves, intentional blends, and designs that tell stories. Cigars that feel like home, even if your home doesn’t look like everyone else’s.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I grew up without much of a heritage, but I found it in the very thing that connects people across generations and geographies. And now, I get to create something that I hope will outlast me.

I’ve said before that Brolo is “luxury without pretense.” That’s still true. But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s my way of leaving behind a heritage where there wasn’t one before. A heritage of connection. A heritage of brotherhood. A heritage of slowing down, lighting up, and leaning in.

Because if cigars taught me anything, it’s this: sometimes heritage isn’t given to you…it’s built, one slow burn at a time.

Smoking a Brolo in the hills of Nicaragua, August 27th, 9:17am.

The Slow Burn: The Art in the Ashes

So… you want to turn your hobby into “art?” Somehow bottle all the lightning that drew you to it in the first place and create a passion project? Take decades of experience on the sidelines and finally… get in the game?

Unlike Uncle Rico, I haven’t spent time wondering if “Coach woulda put me in fourth quarter, we would’ve been state champions. No doubt.”

No, I mused. I enjoyed. I beheld. I stood in awe of what cigars do for connection.

How do cigars connect people of all backgrounds, socioeconomic statuses, genders, or occupations? How does aged and fermented, rolled-up, dead tobacco leaves make people come alive?

Is it the camaraderie?
A shared focus?
Time spent with one another?
A deep, introspective, philosophical discussion?
The luxury of time and intention?

Surely it’s all of that…but also something more.

Because cigars became a bridge for me.

My childhood wasn’t picture-perfect. I had a kickass grandma and some crazy uncles who tried their best. They took me camping, gave me glimpses of joy, and I’m forever grateful. But the house was lonely, my grandma’s health kept her from walking like everyone else, and I was left with too much rebellion and too much energy to sit still.

I searched for connection in sports, in music, in church, even in the rooms of anonymous programs. After getting kicked out of a church and told not to ever return, I thought maybe that was it for me. But by God’s grace, and through the community of the leaf, I found belonging again.

Cigars became more than smoke; they were communion.

And yet, it can’t stop there.

“Okay Joshua, we get it. Cigars provided an outlet. But that’s pretty ethereal too. How do you put legs on how cigars become a place of connection?”

Let’s talk about the craft.

A great cigar affords conversation, which leads to community. And a really great cigar is designed to accomplish this on purpose. Premium brands consider everything: color palettes, surface treatments, typography, finishing effects, hinges, hardware, and interior design. Layer on top Grade A tobacco in the hands of a master blender who believes in your vision, and you’ve got something worth sharing.

But getting there? It’s no small thing. You need a factory. You need time for blends to come alive. Lawyers for trademarks. Designers for labels and boxes. Permits for distribution. And then, if you’re lucky enough to make it that far, you still have to sell.

That’s where Brolo comes in.

BroLo (Brotherly Love) is rooted in story, but not just mine. The real stories are the ones shared when smoking a Brolo…over coffee, at a car show, out on a patio, or tucked away in the back booth of a dimly lit lounge.

It’s a brand for people who appreciate fine craftsmanship…not just in the leaf, but in every detail. From the branding to the blending to the burn, Brolo is intentional. Luxury without pretense. Complex and sophisticated, but made for the real ones….the brothers and sisters of the leaf who light up to connect, reflect, and belong.

That’s not just art. That’s Brolo.

The Slow Burn: What I Learned the First Time I Visited Nicaragua

The road in Nicaragua is a holy place. Not polished, not pristine, holy because it’s alive. It’s where barbecue smoke mixes with the diesel of buses, where families pull out lawn chairs at dusk and post up roadside (yes, on the highway) to eat, drink, and be merry. The road is a drying rack for peppers and cacao, a cattle path, a marketplace, a gathering place. It’s life happening in the open.

Driving there is like playing a game I call “Is this a road?” Potholes aren’t just potholes, they’re axle-snapping craters that could swallow a sedan. Luckily, Waze has been baptized by the locals, complete with alerts for “potholes” (Grand Canyon size), police, and “sketchy bridges.” Dirt paths masquerade as highways, but the road is the spine of the country, with communities branching out like veins, each one with its own vibe.

It's worth noting, the national speed limit is 50 km/h (31 mph) for cars, trucks, and SUVs, and 40 km/h (25 mph) for motorcycles. Looking at a map, you’d have zero clue how far things are from one another that appear so close. God forbid, you get stuck behind an 18-wheeler. With “No Adelantar” posted every few miles, passing them is risking getting stopped by the policia…which also seem to be posted up every few miles.

Heading south to San Juan Del Sur, the landscape reminded me of backwoods Arkansas….beautiful, but scarred with trash and rusting cars. SJDS is a laid back, pure surf town. North toward Estelí, it’s another story: rolling green hills, volcanoes, and a sense of adventure that makes you want to disappear into it.. Granada carries scars of the revolution; colonial buildings pockmarked with bullet holes and a kind of desperation in the air, especially in low season. Estelí, though? Alive. Streets jammed with vendors, kids calling me “puta” (I fired back with my best Spanish roast and had them rolling in laughter). It was gritty, real, unforgettable.

And then there were the factories.

This is where I learned how little most consumers really know, or care, about how cigars are made. Behind the romance, there are shortcuts. Some factories “cook” leaves in pizza ovens to rush the process, others dye wrappers for better shelf appeal, or front-load the first third of a cigar with the best leaf so casual smokers think it’s “quality.” Many spray mineral oil on the tobacco to produce a “blue” tinted smoke. The color of the smoke we’ve come to love, may be anything but natural. Meanwhile, some of the brands you and I love? They’re paying their employees pennies while charging premiums for their brands.

It hit me hardest when I posted a pic on Reddit of puros I was smoking…real puros, meaning made from a single part of the plant in a specific region. Ligero from Estelí. Seco from Jalapa. True single-origin tobacco. Most people thought I was wasting money or didn’t know what I was talking about. Armchair quarterbacks, missing the point. Consumers don’t always want nuance, they want confirmation of what they already believe.

So what does that mean for Brolo?

It means I don’t play for the armchairs. I play for the brothers and sisters around the table. For the people who light up not just to taste, but to connect. For the ones who understand that cigars are more than smoke, they’re story, craft, communion.

My first time in Nicaragua taught me that the road is alive, the people are resilient, and the industry is messy. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Like a good cigar, it’s not meant to be perfect….it’s meant to be honest.

No shortcuts.

No clout chasing.

No coattails.

Just good, old fashioned, well aged, premium hand rolled, Grade A tobacco.

Brolo is for authentic conversations. Brolo is for the early mornings and late nights. Brolo is an honest reprieve in a world focused on the “fastlane.”

So Light Up & Lean In. Smoke one by yourself or with a friend. Either way, savor the moment and the journey that brought you to it.

The Slow Burn: Living to Light Up.

I was chopping it up over cigars with my friend, Micah Edwards (aka Mr. Texas Soul), when he dropped something simple but profound: “Ya just gotta live your life, man.”

As a former professional drummer, that hit me square in the chest. Too often, creatives sit around waiting for lightning to strike. Inspiration doesn’t always come like that. Sometimes it takes hundreds of bad songs to stumble into a good one. Sometimes it’s scraps and riffs pieced together into something raw and honest. Sometimes it’s a melody you can’t shake until it consumes you.

But at the root, what Micah said rings true. You can’t pull depth out of thin air. You have to live. You have to celebrate wins, mourn losses, wrestle with injustice, embrace joy, face grief. You have to stack chapters…good, bad, messy, glorious, to tell a story worth reading.

And isn’t that what cigars are? The stories they hold and the stories they spark.

By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be in Nicaragua. Most likely drinking strong coffee, cigar in hand, staring at the Pacific in San Juan Del Sur, prepping notes for Estelí. Soon, I’ll be sitting across from master blenders, smoking the first cigars that might one day carry the Brolo name. Running numbers in my head about foil and embossing, cut dies and packaging costs. Asking myself the same question over and over: will consumers care about this story?

I’m 41 years old, and I’ve done some L-I-V-I-N. This chapter feels exciting, but I know it won’t always stay this way. There are countless hurdles between here and the day someone lights up a Porchlight, Church, or Back Booth. It’ll be a while before Halfwheel reviews a Brolo blend, or Tim at Cigars Daily raves about the brand.

But when that day comes….these are the cigars I want you to reach for when your kid graduates, when you land that job you’ve been chasing, when you reconnect with an old friend. The stick you light after a long week or the one you share after a steak dinner that makes you feel like a king.

Because to be worthy of a good story, you have to have great chapters. And Brolo? Brolo was made for the moments that write them.

Light Up & Lean In.