During training for a 100-mile race, I kept hitting the same wall. Every time I ran 38 miles, I’d stop. That was my limit. Thirty-eight miles. Not bad, I thought. Then I heard a podcast with a former Navy SEAL named Chad Wright. He said he once took a man who had never run more than five miles and helped him finish a hundred-mile race—simply by repeating one phrase: I will not quit.

I didn’t believe it, but I wanted that kind of mental strength. So I cold-called him. I told him my problem. He said, “I can fix this in two days.” A week later, he was sitting at my breakfast table. Chad’s a big Southern guy—long beard, tattoos everywhere, intimidating presence. He barely spoke for a full day. Finally, over dinner, he said, “Tomorrow, we start at 0500. Meet me in the kitchen at 4:45. We’ll go over our mission.”

The next morning, he laid out three rules that would change everything for me.

Rule one: Never give your pain a voice.
Chad said, “It’s going to hurt. You’ll think, I don’t have what it takes. I’m tired. This is miserable. We all think that. But you never say it out loud. Because once you speak it, you give it power.” During the run, no matter how bad it got, my only answer to ‘How do you feel?’ was, I feel outstanding.

Rule two: Never die in the chair.
“There are only two acceptable outcomes,” Chad said. “We hit the goal, or we exhaust every possible option trying. But quitting? Quitting’s off the table.”

Rule three: Be grateful.
“Every lap, when we stop for a break,” he told me, “we’ll name something we’re grateful for.” Even when it’s tough, even when life feels unfair—gratitude keeps you moving forward.

That day, I did all three. And for the first time, I blew past 38 miles. I ran over 50.

Thirty days later, I was at the starting line of the Hennepin 100-mile race, with Chad running beside me. By mile 74, I was broken—freezing, hypothermic, toenails floating in my shoes. Chad could sense it. He said, “Jess, I’m gonna tell you something about me no one knows. It’s a miracle—I never get tired.”

I couldn’t even respond. He said, “Say it.”
I whispered, “I never get tired.”
He said, “Say it like you mean it.”
“I never get tired.”

We reached the aid station. Chad said, “Now tell everyone the miracle of Jesse and Chad—we don’t get tired.” I walked in, barely standing, and told the volunteer, “Sir, thank you for the soup. This is gonna sound crazy, but Chad and I—we don’t get tired.” The volunteer just stared. Chad grinned and said, “Let’s go.”

Seventy-seven miles. Eighty. Ninety. Ninety-five. Every time he asked, “How do you feel?” I said, “Outstanding.” And all the way to the finish line, a hundred miles later, we kept saying it: We don’t get tired.

Because the words you speak have power.

That lesson stuck with me everywhere—business, parenting, life. My son is dyslexic. His teacher once told me, “Your son is really struggling.” I said, “Are you telling me he’s working hard but hasn’t grasped the concept yet?” Words matter. The way you frame something shapes how people see it—and how they see themselves.

When I had nothing—sleeping on 18 couches, broke, building my first business—I used to walk into the office every morning and tell my partner, “We’re millionaires. They just haven’t paid us yet.”

Never give your pain a voice. Never die in the chair. Be grateful.
The words you speak will always define your reality.