I grew up around church culture, preacher’s kids, fireworks, bad decisions, addiction, and grace. Somewhere along the way, all of it found its way into a cigar called Confessional.

We believe great cigars shouldn’t need coattails or credentials to matter. That’s why we don’t share which factory produces our cigars. Which is what everyone told us not to do…but here we are.

What makes a cigar you can come back to….again and again in the same night? For me, that answer was forged on a porch, in recovery, surrounded by brotherhood and hard conversations. Porchlight isn’t just a blend, it’s an homage to the place where connection took root.

At PCA, surrounded by some of the biggest names in cigars, I expected the moments I’d remember most to be the ones I captured. Turns out, it was the ones I didn’t. This is about building something real, staying present, and learning when to put the camera down and just live in it.

Ahead of PCA, I was so nervous. As a novice cigar smoker (let’s be honest, only because we’re starting the business), I felt an immense amount of imposter syndrome begin to settle into my spirit. Over dinner a few days before I said to Joshua, “I don’t want to be seen as a fraud… I don’t know anything about blends or tasting notes and I always forget the order of viso vs. ligero. What business do I have in this industry?” 

We don’t just consume content anymore… it consumes us. The question is…who are you becoming because of it?

Less discounts. More connection. We’re doubling down on lounges, community, and the culture that built this thing.

You don’t find your rhythm before you start; you find it because you start. The problem is, most people never get out of the audience long enough to try.

In 1997, I thought baggy jeans, bleached hair, and blasting Korn made me cool. Nobody else agreed. But looking back, I see something different…someone who didn’t wait for permission to be himself.

High in the Guadalupe Mountains, with darkness closing in and 40-mph winds pushing against a narrow ridge, one of our brothers could no longer walk. What followed wasn’t heroic in the traditional sense…just men quietly carrying more weight so another could keep climbing. A reflection on hardship, Stoicism, and the kind of brotherhood that only reveals itself on the hard miles.

Five years. One empty desk. A friendship forged in folding chairs and cigar smoke. Here’s what I learned about endings, seasons, and why the ride is always the point.

A care package from Louisiana showed up on my doorstep with a handwritten note that stopped me in my tracks. Inside were cigars… but what I really received was something deeper…proof that connection can travel across state lines, across loss, and across shared struggles. This isn’t a recovery story, it’s a cigar story. One about brotherhood, belonging, and why Brolo exists in the first place.

Another mile down. The road stretches west while doubt rides shotgun. The butterflies are loud, the future uncertain…but this isn’t fear, it’s motion. Out West is about standing at the edge of something new, lighting up anyway, and choosing to lean in when the horizon feels far away.

What started as a regular HERF turned into something rare: people from around the world, bundled up and battling the cold, using cigars as common ground to talk about life, loss, faith, failure, and purpose. A reminder that sometimes warmth has nothing to do with temperature.

I came to cigars carrying addiction, loneliness, and a lifetime of rough edges. I stayed because somewhere between the first light and the final ash, strangers became brothers. The leaf didn’t save me…but it gave me a table to sit at while I figured out how to live again.

I didn’t want to smoke The Woody. I wanted the story of smoking it. The photo. The bragging rights. Somewhere along the way, the experience became less about enjoyment and more about endurance. Less about flavor and more about flexing. And when I accidentally punched a hole straight through the side of that monster cigar, it felt like failure for three seconds… then freedom. Turns out, life’s too short to confuse “I finished it” with “I enjoyed it.”

I’ll spend forever researching the “right” decision, only to order the same thing every time. Productive urgency is what pulled me out of analysis paralysis…and into action, mistakes and all.

This was the year I stopped trying to win and started paying attention. To people. To moments. To the kind of things that don’t show up on a scoreboard…but last a lifetime.

I didn’t start Brolo to win internet points or chase luxury signaling. I started it because I believe cigars should be excellent without being inaccessible…premium without being pretentious. In an industry obsessed with inner circles and exclusivity, Brolo isn’t the gate. We’re the table. An open invitation to anyone who values good smokes, real connection, and the shared experience that makes the leaf matter

That Christmas morning in 1992, I thought I was waking up to a drum kit. What I didn’t know was I was being handed a lifetime of lessons—about patience, repetition, and learning to listen before being heard. From pots and pans in the garage to stage lights years later, those drums taught me that the best things unfold slowly. Years down the road, cigars would teach me the same thing: slow down, stay present, and let the moment breathe. That’s the slow burn…how gifts we didn’t ask for end up shaping who we become.