
Guys Trip
Why is This So Important? Read More and Find Out.
“Never Above, Never Below…Always Next To” - Verron Williams
What is Guys Trip?
The Guys Trip-Guide Book
Brotherhood. Beer. No Bullshit.
A Field Manual for the Men Who Carry It All.
You’re Not Done Yet
There’s a point in every man’s life where the weight gets real. You’ve spent years building, grinding, protecting, providing. You’ve been the one people count on, the one who doesn’t flinch, the one who figures it out when shit goes sideways.
But somewhere in that climb… you lose pieces of yourself.
Not all at once. Not in some dramatic breakdown. But slowly—buried beneath expectations, swallowed by stress, smothered by routine. You stop laughing like you used to. You stop breathing deep. You stop fucking living.
That’s why we go.
Guys Trip isn’t about a break from responsibility. It’s about remembering who the hell you were before the pressure. It’s about firewood and bourbon, whiskey and war stories, and the kind of silence that heals more than therapy ever could.
It’s not kumbaya. It’s not some soft self-help bullshit.
It’s real men, doing real life, the only way we know how—shoulder to shoulder, beer in hand, saying the hard stuff out loud without saying a damn word. It’s about getting so drunk you forget your problems, then so real you remember why you matter.
This isn’t just a vacation.
This is a fucking reset.
Guys Trip Rules
Let’s keep this simple.
There are only five rules to Guys Trip:
Don’t die. (We don’t do hospital visits on vacation)
Don’t kill anyone. (Even if he’s snoring like a dying bear.)
No women. This isn’t about disrespect. It’s about reconnection. Your wife is your queen—but she doesn’t belong here. This is sacred ground for the men who hold the line for everyone else all year long.
No drama. No arguments over politics, who paid for dinner, or whose idea it was. Check your ego at the door. We’re here to disconnect from the bullshit.
No holds barred. You can talk as much shit as you want, just refer back to rule 1 and 2.
Everything else? Fair fucking game.
You want to rage? Rage.
You want to trip your face off and stare at a tree for four hours? Have at it.
You want to open up around a fire and admit you’re fucking tired? Now you’re doing it right.
Because this trip? It’s the one time a year where nothing is off-limits—except the masks we wear everywhere else.

“A guys trip is more than a getaway—it’s a reset. It’s where men drop the weight, speak truth, and remember who the hell they are. No pressure, no roles, just brotherhood, laughter, and clarity. Every man needs that fire once a year.”
WHAT GUYS TRIP IS REALLY FOR
This isn’t about the getaway. It’s about the return.
From the outside, it looks like chaos—coolers overflowing with beer, music too loud, bad decisions getting made in real time. But look a little closer. Look past the bottles. Past the jokes. Past the half-cooked meat and the dust-covered boots. What you’ll see is something more ancient than any religion, more sacred than any stage: a fire, surrounded by men who finally feel safe enough to let go.
It’s for the man who forgot how to be still.
We live in a world that’s full throttle all the time—texts, deadlines, bills, screaming kids, expectations, and pressure that never lets up. We go so hard for so long we forget how to stop. We forget what silence feels like. What it means to stare into firelight without a single obligation. What it means to let your mind settle, your shoulders drop, and your breath come back.
That’s what this is. One weekend where you don’t owe anyone a goddamn thing.
It’s for the man who’s winning on paper but losing himself.
You’ve got the house. The job. The title. The people who look up to you. But you’re drained. Quietly. Deeply. Daily. Success has started to feel more like a cage than a reward. You’ve become the one who’s always got the answers—so you stopped asking your own questions.
But out here? Out at Guys Trip? Nobody needs anything from you. And that’s when you finally start feeling again.
It’s for the man who’s lost everything and doesn’t know where to start.
We don’t talk about the guys who’ve fallen. The ones who tried. Built. Believed. And then watched it all go to hell. We don’t make space for men like that—not in society. But here? That man gets a chair by the fire. A beer. A cigar. A place to speak. And even if he doesn’t speak… he gets to be seen.
Not as a failure. But as a fucking fighter.
“This isn’t about pretending to be okay. This is about sitting in the wreckage with other men who know exactly what that feels like—and choosing not to go it alone this time.”
It’s for the man who carries everyone else.
The guy who’s the rock. The foundation. The fixer. He’s the one that people call when shit goes sideways. He’s the one that shows up, pays for dinner, organizes the funeral, makes sure nobody falls apart. But he’s tired. And no one ever asks if he’s okay. On Guys Trip?
That guy finally gets poured into. Not by force. Not by pity. Just by being surrounded by people who see him. And maybe, for the first time in a long time—he lets go.
It’s not therapy. It’s not a men’s retreat. It’s something older.
It’s men being men the way we used to be—before cubicles, before filters, before we were told to tone it down and “act right.” It’s primal. Grounding. Dangerous in the best fucking way.
You remember how to be wild. How to be alive. How to laugh until you fall out of your chair and cry without ever saying you’re crying. You remember what it feels like to be you. And when it ends… you’re not the same.
You go back home changed. Not fixed. Not perfect. But realigned. You’re lighter. Louder. More present. Your wife notices it. Your kids notice it. And more importantly—you notice it. You get your edge back. Your perspective. Your purpose. You remember this truth:
“You were never meant to do life alone. Brotherhood isn’t optional. It’s fucking essential.”
J.S. Williams
They Didn’t Rescue Me -They Reminded Me
I stared at my bag for an hour. Packed it. Unpacked it. Put it by the door. Then shoved it back in the closet. I wasn’t just deciding whether to go. I was deciding whether to let anyone see what was left of me.
The bag wasn’t the hard part. Walking into a room full of men who used to look up to me? That was my fear. What if they looked at me differently? What if I didn’t belong anymore? But maybe I needed their peace to pull me out of my pain.
Another year had come and gone, and it was time for our annual Guys Trip. It’s a tradition I’ve held sacred for years. A release valve from the weight of the world, a pause from the chaos that seemed to follow me like a shadow.
These trips weren’t about rest. They were about reset. About reminding ourselves that underneath the weight, the fight, the job titles—we’re still men. Still brothers. A raw, unfiltered, deeply rooted connection with men I had fought beside in the Marines, and others that have joined us over the years—more importantly, men who had fought beside me in life. But this year? I almost didn’t go. Money was tight, nonexistent. My pride had taken such a hit I didn’t know if I could face anyone. How do you show up to the people who’ve always known you as strong, capable, and confident when you feel like a shell of the man they used to see? I didn’t want to be the topic of whispers or anybody’s fucking pity. The awkward silences or the sidelong glances that said, “Damn, I didn’t think he’d fall this far.”
But I went. And what happened changed everything.
Our Guys Trip isn’t about escaping responsibility. It’s about coming home to a part of ourselves we often forget. Every year, we head somewhere remote. We build fires, crack open beers, tell the same stupid stories we’ve told a hundred times, and we laugh until our faces hurt. But more than anything, we strip away the titles, the roles, the expectations—and we just are. No judgment. No pressure. Just men, being men, in the most human way.
Normally, I’m the one holding space for others. The guy people come to when they’re falling apart. The solid one. The steady one. But this year, they saw it.
They saw it in my silence. The heaviness in my eyes. In the way I wasn’t fully there, no matter how hard I tried to fake it. And one by one, without me asking, these men came to me. Not with questions. Not with lectures. With love. With reminders. With truth. They didn’t need an explanation. They already knew.
They had felt the weight of failure before too. And instead of standing over me, they stood beside me. They reminded me of who I am—not as a business owner or provider or leader—but as a man. As a brother. As someone who had once lifted them up when they were in their own wreckage. And now it was my turn to be lifted.
One night, we sat around the fire, and someone threw on an old song that took us back twenty years. Nobody said a word. Just silence, crackling wood, and memories hanging in the air like smoke. I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. And for the first time in months, it didn’t feel like survival. It felt like presence. I closed my eyes and, breathed. And that breath?
That was everything. It didn’t solve the problems waiting for me back home. But it gave me a sense of peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I didn’t need to be fixed. I just needed to be seen.





































































































