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Man, man, oh man—where do I even begin?

It’s been... checks calendar... two weeks? Shit. So much for that “I’m doing my best to keep up with this weekly blog” talk. (Picture me rolling my eyes at myself.)

But here I am. No excuses. It’s late. Everyone’s asleep. The house is quiet in that sacred, soft kind of way, and I told myself, “Eric, just write anything. Start the damn conversation again.”

So that’s what I’m doing.

Where were we?

Nineteen-year-old Eric. Naive. Kind (still am). And somehow, already full of drive. That restless, something-bigger’s-out-there itch. A little lightbulb flickered on: I had a hustle in me. A glimmer of business instinct. A street-smart math class that never showed up in school.

I was breaking down ounces into eighths. Then building back up to ounces. Then stretching into pounds. A constant rhythm—back and forth, grind and re-up. The phone always buzzing. Friends asking if I was coming out. Nah, man. I had to be the guy who had it. Always. That’s rule number one. You can’t sell what you don’t have. Even when someone hit me for 5 pounds—I didn’t flinch. I had it.

And if I didn’t? I’d find a way.

I built connections like a spider builds its web—quiet, intentional, never rushed. And just like the spider, if I played my position right, the web would work for me. That’s how I started to see the deeper rules of the game—rules that never made it to textbooks or TED Talks.

Back then, there weren’t dispensaries. No QR-coded packaging. No terpenes-in-bold-type branding. Just risk and word-of-mouth trust. The plant was sacred. The business? Dicey as hell. But the culture—the culture—that’s what grabbed me and never let go.

Cannabis has always been about people. About passing something around and being seen. And while I loved the high, I loved the human connection even more. But still, business was in my blood. The hustle wasn’t just about money—it was how I expressed myself. How I created. How I moved through the world.

And yeah—I got caught up in the party, too.

At 20, I was hitting clubs, throwing around a few thousand like I had it and always would. Flying from city to city. Flashing in VIP sections like I belonged there. And for a minute, maybe I did.

Looking back, I was what we call “redneck rich.” I had money, but no guidance. No one sat me down to talk investing. Or saving. Or how to flip that hustle into something with roots. So, I did what a lot of us did—I lived fast, spent faster, and hoped the well didn’t run dry.

Still, I loved it. Even the chaos.

Because every time you level up, it costs you something. Sleep. Time. Trust. Friendships. There’s always a trade. My next step? It came when I jumped from ounces to pounds. And that wasn’t just a weight increase—it was a shift in scale. In connections. In risk.

Ounces stay local.
Pounds? They come with passports.

That’s how I met the country boys.

Now, if you’ve never done business with backwoods Kentucky boys, let me set the stage: tractors parked next to lifted trucks, Walmart runs in Carhartt, muddy boots, and accents thicker than the syrup they pour on their biscuits. These dudes weren’t hobbyists—they were growers. Big plots. Bigger harvests. The real deal.

I got introduced through a customer. “I know a guy,” he said.

One day, we made the trip—four hours west, four hours back. Just to grab three pounds. A test run. And then we did it again. And again. Always the same route, same exchange, same quiet head nods.

After a few rounds, I got the real plug.
No middleman. Just me and the farm. The source. The root of it all.

And let me tell you—that moment hits different.

Standing in a field, knowing you just unlocked a new level. It’s like finally beating that boss fight in a game you’ve been stuck on for weeks. You find the right rhythm, and everything clicks.

You don’t forget that feeling.

So yeah—this blog ran a little long. Double what I said I’d aim for. But I had to catch you up. Had to keep this journey moving.

Because every week I show up, it’s me investing in the bigger picture—of who I am, who Drop of Sunshine is, and why any of this matters.

Thanks for reading, truly. The next one’s coming sooner than you think.

And remember: Leveling up always comes with a cost.
But if you’re willing to pay it?
The view keeps getting better.

Until next time,