What would you do with an extra five or six hours a day? Seriously, stop and think about it for a second. Because I had that time—more than 33,000 extra hours before I turned 18—and I squandered it.

Let me explain. When I was nine, my parents had a strict nine o’clock lights-out rule. As the middle child, I was the dutiful one. I went to my room. I turned off the light. I tried to sleep. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t even close. My body doesn’t need the same amount of sleep as most people. I’m what’s called a short sleeper. It’s a rare genetic mutation that means I can function perfectly on three or four hours of sleep a night.

Sounds like a gift, right? People hear that and say, “Wow, I’d kill for all that extra time!” But here’s what no one tells you: extra time can be dangerous if you don’t know what to do with it. And at nine years old, I didn’t. So, instead of sleeping, I spent those hours wandering the streets, sneaking into all-night movie theaters, or just pacing the neighborhood in the dark. No supervision, no direction—just me and my restless mind.

For years, I filled that time with activity—reading, starting businesses, working part-time jobs, and getting into whatever trouble I could find. From the outside, it might’ve looked like I was ambitious, like I was this driven kid who couldn’t sit still. But the truth? I wasn’t building anything. I was just running. Running from boredom. Running from myself. Running because I didn’t know what else to do.

And all that time? It wasn’t just wasted. It became a burden—not just to me but to the people around me. I was that kid—the one full of potential but impossible to pin down. The one who couldn’t focus. The one who thought rules were for other people. By the time I hit my twenties, I had burned through countless opportunities, alienated people who believed in me, and turned what should’ve been a blessing into a curse.

My wake-up call came at 20 years old, upside down in a crumpled two-seater on the side of a New York interstate. I was trapped, bleeding, and barely conscious, and one thought kept echoing in my mind: What have I done with my life?Thirty-seven thousand extra hours. And what did I have to show for it? Nothing. No direction. No purpose. Just a trail of regret and wasted chances.

Here’s the thing, though: even that moment didn’t flip a switch for me. Change wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t easy. It was slow and ugly and full of setbacks because I didn’t just need to change my actions—I needed to change my mindset. I had spent years believing that life was about managing time, about squeezing more into every day. But I was wrong. Time isn’t the problem. Time keeps moving whether you use it wisely or not. The real challenge is managing yourself—your priorities, your focus, your choices.

That’s why I wrote The GRIP Factor: How Dreamers Become Doers. Because I know what it feels like to have potential but no direction. To want more from life but not know where to start. To be so overwhelmed by your own mess that you don’t even know how to take the first step. I wrote this book for people who are tired of spinning their wheels and ready to do the hard, messy, uncomfortable work of real growth.

This isn’t some “follow these five easy steps” kind of guide. It’s not a quick fix. It’s raw. It’s real. And it’s rooted in the truth that no matter how much time you have, it’s meaningless if you don’t know how to use it. I want you to know that it’s not too late. No matter how many hours you’ve wasted, no matter how far off track you’ve wandered, there’s still time to turn things around.

I don’t know your story, but I do know this: if you’re willing to face yourself—your excuses, your distractions, your fears—and do the work, your life can change. You don’t have to settle for just dreaming about what could be. You can dosomething about it. And when you do, you’ll realize that those hours, those days, those years you thought were wasted? They were all part of your story. The question is, how will you write the next chapter? Let’s get to work.