New Season, New Perspective

This summer was unlike anything I’ve experienced since high school. The difference? I had a job. A real, big-boy job. Millions on the line, dozens of crew members on set all day grinding toward one singular goal.

The days were long enough to warp time and space like an episode of The Twilight Zone. The studio had zero windows, meaning zero sunlight. My mornings started at 5:00 AM: shower, shave, and behind the wheel before 6:00 to make the soul-crushing drive out to Van Nuys.

The work beat the hell out of me mentally and physically. By the time I walked through the door at night, all I could do was collapse onto the floor. My voice was shredded—barking like a dog left out in the yard too long. There wasn’t much left of me except a shell of a body and the messy hair on my head. I looked like Hunter, but the raging fire in my chest had dwindled down to embers and ash. I was so wiped out that my only remaining motor skill was mindlessly scrolling on my phone.

And that’s where the real problem started.

Every night, I’d lie there scrolling like the rest of the world, but something felt deeply off. Hollow. It took two weeks on that soundstage to finally see the mirror clearly: I had nothing to post.

My life had suddenly become normal. Routine. I was working my ass off every single day, but the wild-man Hunter McIntyre was nowhere to be found. Usually, I’m running up mountains, hauling ass in trucks, or boarding a flight to hunt down some challenge most people wouldn't dare touch. That’s been my reality since I was twenty—leaving home to shoot photos around the world, moving fast enough that the bills and consequences could never catch me. A wild horse with no fence.

Now, instead of living in the world, I was watching it through a screen.

The silence was deafening. Day after day, I had nothing to show. My routine was locked into a loop: wake up, hit the studio, drag myself home, force down enough spoonfuls of yogurt to keep my stomach quiet, and pass out. I hadn't felt that brand of fatigue since J Robinson wrestling camp.

Then the anxiety crept in. My engagement plummeted from tens of millions to single digits. As a competitor who runs multiple businesses, that stung. My brain started barking: You're losing.

Then came the weirdest part: the silence in my inbox. My phone is usually radioactive—a relentless flood of hundreds of DMs, texts, and calls a day. Sitting up in my house on the mountain, the quiet was heavy. Where did everyone go?

As pathetic as it felt to admit, I was lonely. Even the dumb messages I used to dread—people asking how I lace my shoes or why a PB&J before a workout wrecked their stomach—started to vanish. And I actually missed them. No likes. No comments. No noise. The silence was harrowing.

Was this my new drug? An obsession that had been dripping into my system for years without my permission? There were no needles or white powders like in my past, but this drug was just as lethal, hiding in plain sight. If you're reading this in public right now, look up. You'll see a room full of crooked necks staring down into the glow. We are hopelessly tethered.

My issue wasn’t just consumption; it was realizing that this little device had become my personal validation meter. We build these neat square grids, screaming: Look at me! Validate me! LIKE ME! A steady dopamine drip delivered through likes, comments, and DMs.

The wild thing is, I actually live the life I project. I’m loud, I’m built, and I don’t fake the chaos—it’s why people watch. But even living that reality, I’d lost the plot on what the tool was actually doing to my brain. Be honest: have you ever posted a story and immediately refreshed the view count just to see who was watching? We act like we’re above it, but we aren't.

Stripping away the noise stripped away the illusion. Without my usual circus to broadcast, I realized I was just a dog chasing its own tail. How much of my waking energy was spent hunting approval from strangers on the internet? A bunch of people I’ve never met and never will were keeping my self-worth afloat. What an absurd realization to hit you at 37.

I’m not quitting social media. I love the platform, I love connecting, and I know the work I put out brings real value and good laughs to a lot of people. It doesn't have to be a Pulitzer piece or some sterile billionaire-mindset post—the world has enough of that garbage. I just say it like it is.

The honest point here is acknowledging the trap. Calling it "business networking" or "staying in touch" was pure bullshit. Deep down, I just loved the damn attention.

A few months back, I was hiking through the Dolomites—literally some of the most breathtaking terrain on planet Earth. I stopped, looked over, and half my crew was heads-down, scrolling through someone else's life on a six-inch glass screen. It made me want to throw up then, and it makes me want to throw up now. We’ve traded raw experience for instant validation.

So how do we fix it?

Start with ruthless boundaries. Use the blocker apps. Make yourself drop and do push-ups just to unlock the screen. But more than that, get some damn perspective.

If today were your last twenty-four hours on Earth, you wouldn't spend six of them staring into an algorithm. You’d get out there. You’d run it red-line. You’d ask out the girl, ride the bike too fast, and jump into the fire just for the story.

Life is too short, too vibrant, and too wild to be watched through a keyhole. Don't let the tech giants steal your pulse.

Put the phone down, go do something epic today—and have the guts not to post about it.

In closing, here is a quote by Hunter S. Thompson that might help you. 

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”