Chris Schultz smiling in a wood-paneled cabin surrounded by art

What are you building all this for?

I’ve spent much of my life starting things. Companies. Communities. A music festival.

I knew I wanted my hands on the wheel. I was still figuring out where I wanted to go.

My hands on the wheel.

Starting a business was a way to choose what I worked on and how I spent my days. I liked seeing a possibility and figuring out how to make it happen.

Some things worked. Plenty didn’t.

We can be working hard, doing all the things we’ve committed to, and still feel pulled in a dozen directions. I’ve had plenty of those days.

Having more say over my life mattered. But it didn’t answer the bigger question: what was I working toward?

The life we’re working toward.

My dad had a picture of his.

We rebuilt a beach cottage together in North Carolina. Years later, he started a suite with views of the bay and ocean—the place he imagined spending his retirement.

Chris and his dad smiling together in work aprons inside the cottage they were rebuilding. — Dad and me, rebuilding the cottage in Wrightsville Beach.

I think of my life as an analog of my dad’s. Not the same life, but something of his carried forward in mine.

His work had given his life tremendous meaning. There were also things he was looking forward to having more time for.

Around then, he was diagnosed with cancer. Finishing the work became a race against the clock.

We completed the suite, but he never got to live his retirement dream there.

— from Analog

Don’t wait.

Losing my dad changed how I thought about the future. Not all at once. Grief came first. Understanding took longer.

I made myself two promises: build a life I loved sooner rather than later, and help others build lives and companies they would love.

I still wanted to build things. I still had ambitions.

I just didn’t want to put living on the other side of finishing them.

Living the analog life.

When Anne and I were fixing up our cabin, we borrowed a ritual from my dad. At the end of a day’s work, we’d stop and admire what we’d done.

There was still plenty left to do. There always is.

We put records on. Friends came over. We made a home.

We didn’t have to finish everything to enjoy being there.

Chris holding a record beside a silver stereo in a wood-paneled room — At home in the cabin.

Chris and Anne onstage with other performers and a dog at Cosmico — Anne and me, onstage at Cosmico. Photo: Marielle V. Chua.

Later, after two years without live music during the pandemic, we decided to create a gathering of our own. A music-producer friend pointed out that we could buy a lot of VIP tickets for what a festival would cost.

Fair point.

Anne and I made Cosmico anyway.

I want to be involved in the things I love and the things that are meaningful.

— from Analog

Your version won’t look like ours. What have you been wanting to make room for?

First believers matter.

I wanted to build a life I loved. Much of what has made it meaningful is helping other people build theirs.

My dad spent his life helping people. I found my own way into that work by being a first believer.

When someone wants to start something—a business, a gathering, a change in direction—it’s easy to see why it might not work.

Trouble is, criticism is easy to find, first believers are not.

— from Analog

I like being the person who says, “Let’s make this happen”—then helps figure out what comes next.

Maybe something you’ve been wanting to try came to mind as you read this.

I hope you find a little encouragement here. And remember: you don’t need everything figured out to be a first believer for someone else.

The race marked out for us.

On the drive home from a fishing trip, I asked my dad which Bible verse meant the most to him.

“And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

— Hebrews 12:1, NIV

I took those words to heart. Years later, editing Analog with Anne, she challenged me: plenty of people persevere. But are they happy?

Chris and Anne walking hand in hand outdoors.

Like many of us, I’d focused on working hard—not where I was headed.

The path you choose to run is as critical as perseverance on your path.

— from Analog

The good life is now.

For me, it comes back to agency, joy, and meaning.

A hand in shaping my life. Making room for what I love. Helping other people along the way.

Writing Analog gave me a chance to understand what I’d carried forward from my dad—and what I wanted to pass on.

Not a path to follow. Something to draw on while finding yours.

Chris Schultz speaking during a recorded conversation about Analog.

A conversation about Analog.

A message to HarperWhat I hope to pass on. Taking stock of your own lifeA place to begin.

You don’t have to change everything at once.

Start by taking small steps. Get your hands back on the wheel.

— from Analog

What’s your through line?

What do you want to carry forward—and what do you want to make your own?

A few ways in.

Read Analog

I wrote Analog to share what I tried, what I got wrong, and what I learned.

Explore Analog

Original cover of Analog by Chris Schultz

Reconnect

Anne and I created Analog Reunion to help people reconnect—with themselves, with each other, and with nature.

Explore Analog Reunion

Enjoy the good life

Anne and I create spaces where we want to spend time—and welcome other people into them.

Explore Analog Properties Visit Casa del Arte

Spark change

Through Launch Pad Foundation, we help creators turn their passions into lasting impact—strengthening communities through real-world connection.

Explore Launch Pad Foundation

Build what’s next

Through Voodoo Ventures, I help founders build software, lasting companies, and lives they want to lead.

Explore Voodoo Ventures

Compare notes

Our writing and podcasts are where we share what we’re trying, learning, and changing our minds about.

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