Confessions of a Cybertruck Driver

I drive a Cybertruck.

To be very clear—I don’t think I’m better than anyone because of that. It’s just a fact. One that’s relevant to the rest of this post.

Hang with me.

I got one of the first trucks off the line, so I’ve been driving it for about a year now.

Why did I buy a Cybertruck? Simple.

Because I wanted to systematically villainize myself by offending diesel truck drivers, rattling traditionalists, and triggering anyone on the far left who assumes driving one makes me both the world’s biggest Trump supporter and a Nazi sympathizer.

Kidding.

I bought it long before all that noise.

I got a Cybertruck because I thought it was cool.
Because my kids thought it was cool.
And sometimes I just like to have fun.

I’m not sorry I bought it.

Without a doubt it's the most incredible vehicle I've ever driven.

It’s a tank.
It’s fast.
It’s safe.
It drives itself.
It’s bulletproof and can cruise through three feet of water.

All highly essential for a 39-year-old dad running errands in suburban Missouri.

But there's one thing I didn’t expect.
The number of people who flip me off.

Not kidding—middle fingers everywhere. Unprovoked. Just for existing in traffic.

At first, I was confused.

Then I started paying attention.
And then I started tracking.

Over the past year, I’ve documented nearly one hundred of the middle-finger salutes I’ve received—using a few simple data points: vehicle make, gender, and even license plate numbers (don’t worry, I won’t share those).

Of the 96 interactions I’ve documented to date, here’s a breakdown of the data:

Vehicle Make:

Subaru — 33%
Volkswagen — 20%
Mercedes — 18%
Ford — 15%
Nissan — 8%
Honda — 6%

Gender:

Male — 39%
Female — 61%

Also worth noting: a statistically significant number of these vehicles had three or more bumper stickers. Which, in my experience, is usually a red flag.

And because I’m both deeply curious and slightly stubborn, I’ve turned around more than a few times to ask a calm, simple question:

“Hey, did I do something to offend you?”

The answers have ranged from honest to hostile:

• “I wasn’t flipping you off—I was flipping the truck off.”

• “I don’t like people like you.”

• “F*** you, Trump supporter.”

• “Elon Musk is a giant a**hole.”

• “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” (That one ended with a heartfelt handshake.)

Now, before you paint me into a political corner—this isn’t a post about politics.
It’s a post about projection.

Because what I’ve learned is this:

People aren’t actually mad at me.
They’re mad at what they think I represent.

Some see the Cybertruck and assume:

• Tech bro.

• Trump supporter.

• Elon fanboy.

• Poser.

Others see me behind the wheel and assume:

• Wealthy.

• Arrogant.

• Privileged.

• “One of them.”

From my perspective, the truck has become a rolling Rorschach test. A moving mirror that reflects more about others than it does about me.

And that’s where it gets interesting.

Because I believe we do this all the time.

Maybe not with Cybertrucks, but with everything else:

• What someone wears.

• Where they live.

• How they talk.

• What we think they believe.

We assume.
We judge.
We react.

And sometimes, we flip people off—literally or metaphorically—without ever asking a single question.

I’ll be the first to admit: I’m still growing here.

My wife tells me I should stop confronting people on the road.

And she’s probably right.

To be fair, there’s certainly a part of me that wants to make them feel a little uncomfortable—because I think their reaction is ridiculous. That’s a flaw. I’m working on it.

But the bigger part of me just genuinely wants to understand.

The irony is rich. A truck that’s silent, battery-powered, and engineered for sustainability has triggered both the far right and the far left—for completely different reasons.

At some point, we’ve got to step back and ask:

Are we really angry at the person in front of us?
Or are we just looking for somewhere to aim our outrage?

Because if we keep judging each other by brands, politics, or whatever echo chamber we’re sitting in, we all lose. It's a zero-sum status game. And it's a race to the bottom.

I don't know if this post will do any good. But I am pretty sure that no one ever changed their mind because someone flipped them off.

To those who flip me off because of the vehicle I drive, here’s my suggestion (said with all the love I can muster):

Take a deep breath.
Relax.
It’s just a truck.

It doesn’t mean what you think it means.
And I’m probably not who you think I am.

My genuine hope is that maybe one potential offender will read this, slightly shift their approach, and I won’t have to explain to my three-year-old why some knuckleheads choose to wave at us with just one finger. But hey—who knows?

What I do believe is this:

Empathy means making space for someone else’s story—even when it stretches your own.

You don’t have to like my truck.

But maybe—just maybe—we can still like each other.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

-----

PS — Also worth noting, not all of the reactions have been hostile.

Many have been incredibly kind—and honestly, hilarious.

I regularly have kids ask for rides, parents ask for tours, and strangers stop me in parking lots just to talk. I’m always happy to oblige.

But my favorite moment?

A gentleman once walked up and said, “Hey, my 92-year-old grandma is too nervous to ask, but she really wants to see your truck.”

I said, “Absolutely!”

She got out—with her walker—and slowly circled the vehicle.

Then she looked me dead in the eyes and said:
“You wouldn’t give an old lady a ride, would ya?”

We took a few laps around the Sam’s Club parking lot together.

There’s still a lot of good in the world.
We just have to make space for it.

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High Agency

Hey guys, it’s me again. The guy with too many opinions and not enough margin.

I’ve got a little advice I’d like to share. It’s unsolicited. But it’s also 100% free.

I literally won’t charge you anything if you keep reading. Could be the deal of a lifetime. Could also be a complete waste of time. Let’s find out together.

I recently came across a concept that gave language to something I’ve quietly tried to live by for as long as I can remember:

High Agency.

At its core, High Agency is the belief that you are responsible for your outcomes.

Not your boss. Not your upbringing. Not the algorithm. Not the economy. Not your personality type, your parents, or your current limitations.

You.

It’s not about pretending you control everything. It’s about refusing to be passive. It’s about choosing action over blame. Ownership over excuses. Progress over perfection.

It’s the mindset that says: “This might not be my fault, but it is my responsibility.”

I believe this mindset changes everything.

High Agency isn’t about being bold for the sake of being bold. It’s not about pretending life is easy or ignoring struggle. It’s about moving forward—even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because here’s what I’ve seen: the people who grow, lead, and build aren’t always the smartest, most talented, or best resourced.

They’re the ones who keep showing up. The ones who take responsibility—even when they have every reason not to. The ones who choose to act instead of wait.

Now—I know this kind of thinking can sound overly simplified.

You might be thinking, “That’s easy for you to say, Josh—you’ve had some wins.”

Maybe. But I’ve also had a front-row seat to every failure, false start, and detour along the way. High Agency wasn’t born from success—it was born from a healthy combination of making mistakes and maintaining a bias toward action.

I’ll elaborate.

My high school GPA had way more to do with charm than discipline. My primary reason for going to college was to play basketball where I ultimately tore my meniscus during the last game of my freshmen season. After transferring and going to another college for four years (FIVE YEARS TOTAL), I ultimately dropped out. No degree. I then spent way too much time chasing a music dream that never quite found its legs. I paid for my wife’s engagement ring with student loan money. My professional career started with designing graphics for a burrito company and running funerals at a church.

If there’s a scenic route to success, I’ve taken it—complete with wrong turns, dead ends, and several roadside breakdowns along the way. Most of what I’ve learned came slower than I’d like and cost more than I expected.

What I do have is a stubborn refusal to stay stuck. That’s it.

I don’t wait for perfect plans. I just move.

Even if it’s clumsy. Even if it’s slow. Even if I fail.

High Agency doesn’t mean you never fall. It means you don’t stay down.

You recalibrate. You re-engage. You take the next small step.

And if you’re raising kids like I am, this mindset matters even more.

High Agency is caught, not taught.

Our kids don’t need lectures about grit or resilience. They need to see it.

They need to watch us wrestle with hard things—and refuse to quit.

They need to hear us say, “That’s on me,” and then watch us do something about it.

Because one day, they’ll face adversity.

And when they do, I want them to believe—deep in their bones—that they’re not helpless.

Now let me add this:

I’ve spent a lot of time around people who consistently choose low agency. The ones who shut down, give up, blame others, get loud, complain, gossip, and spiral when life doesn’t go their way.

And listen—I’ve had compassion. I’ve extended patience. I’ve offered help (I’ve even been made out to be the bad guy while doing so). But I’ve ultimately learned that I don’t have the space to build, create, or grow alongside people who think life is just happening to them. I’ve also seen, firsthand, how life exponentially improves when the wrong people no longer have a seat at the table.

At some point, we all face a choice: Keep circling the same frustrations—or step into something better. It doesn’t happen all at once. But it can start right now.

So here’s the invitation—for you and for me:

• If something’s broken, fix it.

• If you’re tired of how things are, make a change.

• If you’ve been waiting for the right time—this is it.

• If you’re stuck, take the next right step. Even a small one counts.

No one is coming to rescue you.

But the good news?
You already have what it takes to get unstuck.

That’s High Agency.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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The Art of the Apology

I’ve become really good at sharing highlights on here.

Today I’d like to share a low‑light.

I’ll start with this: one of my biggest strengths is my ability to apologize.

Like most things I’m “good” at, it wasn’t a super‑power I was born with, rather a muscle built through painful reps. A lot of reps.

This past weekend, I was a jerk.

I’m running with less margin than I’d like right now—work is busy, kid‑sport logistics are no joke, a nagging shoulder injury is keeping me up at night, and a few behind‑the‑scenes curveballs have crashed the party all at once. None of that excuses my behavior, but it does explain the cocktail of frustration swirling inside me.

Here's the real problem: I let it spill onto the people I love most.

I snapped at my kids over small things. I was short with Bre, mostly communicating through sarcasm and half‑hearted grunts. I camped out in my own irritation and invited everyone else to feel it. By Sunday night (Easter Sunday to top it off) I looked around at a house full of hurt faces and thought, “Congrats, Captain Encouragement—you steered the ship right into the rocks.”

So I did the only redemptive thing I could think of:

I got down on each kid’s level—eye to eye. I named exactly what I’d done: impatience, harsh words, a short fuse. I explained the “why” without turning it into an excuse.

And then I said the three words every kid deserves to hear from their dad: “I was wrong.”

No surprise, each of my incredible children forgave me way faster than I deserved. They always do. My kids are almost reckless with grace.

Ruby squeezed my neck like nothing even happened. Lila cracked a shy smile and allowed me to kiss her forehead. Jude slapped my shoulder (the good one) and said, “It’s all right, Dad.” Gwyn gave me a hug and asked if I wanted to play Street Fighter on the Super Nintendo later.

I don’t deserve them.

Here’s what I’m learning (and re‑learning):

• Pressure reveals what’s inside—apology reveals what you value. I can’t always control the stressors, but I can control whether my family sees humility or pride when I blow it.

• Leadership at home isn’t about being flawless; it’s about being quick to own your flaws. My kids don’t need a perfect dad. They need a dad who shows them how to course‑correct.

• Apology is fertilizer for trust. Every honest “I’m sorry” breaks up the hard ground and makes room for deeper roots of connection.

• Grace is a two‑way street. The same grace I receive from a nail‑scarred Savior is the grace I’m asked to extend—and, sometimes, receive from a sticky‑handed toddler.

I don’t share this to earn virtual pats on the back. I share because highlight reels without the bloopers are just propaganda.

If you’re scrolling today feeling like everyone else has it together, please remember: the Stewart house has tear‑stained moments, too. We just try to redeem them quickly.

Maybe you don’t have a shoulder injury or a looming deadline, but you do have relationships. And chances are, at some point this week, frustration will leak out sideways. When it does, remember:

Own it fast. Name it clearly. Apologize specifically. Receive grace gratefully.

Final piece of unsolicited advice from me to you:
If you owe someone an “I’m sorry,” don’t wait.

That's all for today.

Godspeed.

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What Ruby Taught Me

What you’re looking at here is a real-life image of power.
This is Ruby Jane, age 3, absolutely thriving.

Wrapped in her favorite blanket.
Fresh from the bath and glowing.
New mani/pedi from her older sister, Lila.
Cucumbers on her eyes.
Hydrating mask in place.

Not a care in the world.

She wasn’t performing rest. She wasn’t trying to prove anything.
She just let the moment hold her.

As funny and adorable as it was to witness, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was teaching me something.

I think that’s sort of the gig as a dad—if you’re paying attention, you catch these little flashes of something bigger and let them work on you a bit.

I’ve never been great at rest.

I like building. Creating. Solving problems. Moving things forward.

Rest has often felt like a pause I had to earn.
If I’m honest, I’ve spent a lot of my adult life confusing rest with laziness.

Somewhere along the way, I bought into the lie that movement equals value.
That my worth was tied to how much I could carry, how quickly I could move, or how well I could hold it all together without flinching.

And while that drive has served me in a lot of ways—built things I’m proud of, pushed me through hard seasons—I’m learning it’s not the whole story.

I don’t want to lose my bias toward action. That’s in my bones.

But I am learning to quiet the voice that says I have to earn rest.
I’m learning to trust that being still doesn’t mean I’m falling behind.

It’s a heavy way to live—always proving, always pushing.

But the older I get, the more I realize:
Sometimes, forward looks like stopping.
Sometimes, growth looks like stillness.

And every now and then, something interrupts that pattern—quietly, beautifully—and reminds me of a better way.

So maybe this is just a post about a 3-year-old with cucumbers on her eyes.
Or maybe it’s about something deeper.

Maybe it’s about remembering that rest isn’t weakness.
That stillness isn’t laziness.
That sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is stop striving long enough to remember we’re already loved.

Ruby wasn’t trying to earn anything in that moment—she was just receiving what was offered.

And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us.

To slow down.
To be fully where we are.
To let the moment hold us.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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