I'm an attorney with roughly two decades of experience — time spent as a law firm partner and as a General Counsel inside companies — which means I've spent most of my adult life being paid to think carefully, ask better questions, and figure out what actually matters in a dispute. A few years ago, I started turning that same lens on the parts of life that don't show up in a contract: identity, parenting, grief, grievance, the quiet weight of holding onto things we've outgrown.

I'm an attorney with roughly two decades of experience — time spent as a law firm partner and as a General Counsel inside companies — which means I've spent most of my adult life being paid to think carefully, ask better questions, and figure out what actually matters in a dispute. A few years ago, I started turning that same lens on the parts of life that don't show up in a contract: identity, parenting, grief, grievance, the quiet weight of holding onto things we've outgrown.

That became The Case for Letting Go, my book releasing May 15th. It's structured like a legal proceeding — opening statement, evidence, closing argument — because that's how my brain works, but the subject matter is deeply human: what we carry, why we carry it, and how to tell the difference between what's worth keeping and what's quietly costing us. It's also the foundation of my podcast, The Case For, where I apply the same approach to everything from being the same person in every room, to teaching your kids to disagree with you, to defending someone you don't agree with.

Offstage, I'm a dad to three (Luca, Gemma, and Bella) and a work-in-progress on most of the topics I write about. I train for races with my brothers, take my health seriously in ways that probably border on obsessive, and try — imperfectly — to practice what I preach. My voice tends toward confession before prescription: I'd rather tell you what I got wrong than pretend I've got it figured out.

If there's a through-line to my work, it's this: the law taught me that the right question is almost always more valuable than the right answer. Most of what I write, record, and say out loud is just me asking better questions — about the roles we've outgrown, the grievances we've rehearsed, and the life that's waiting on the other side of letting some of it go.