Precision in Progress
Somewhere between midnight and morning, the line blurs between exhaustion and purpose.
It’s after 3 a.m. again. The rest of the world has shut down for the night, but I’m still here, in this little corner of our home that’s somehow become the heartbeat of a dream.
There are rulers and scraps of transfer film scattered everywhere. Too many “almost right” shirts. I think I’m on practice garment number twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine. I’ve lost count. Sticky notes line the wall in sections and grids. My to-dos, ideas, orders, and reminders in various colors marking how far I’ve come and how far I still have to go. The label printer sits on standby, the Coke can beside me is half-empty and my Cheerios are kind of stale, but I’ll eat them anyway.
It’s wild how something that looks so simple, like pressing a two-inch logo onto a shirt, can feel like learning an instrument. Every type of garment reacts differently. The tank tops want one thing, the long sleeves want another. The tiniest shift in temperature or pressure can scorch the shirt or fail to transfer the logo completely. I’m taking note after note of what worked, and what didn’t.
Every shirt I touch feels like a small battle between science and instinct. The press opens, I wait a couple seconds and lift the film as I’m holding my breath. It’s crooked... Again. That little Hog logo has a mind of its own, tilting just a millimeter to the left or right no matter how precise I measure. I can see it even if no one else can.
I’ve sent pictures and videos to friends to ask if they notice it. They all say it looks great, but I can’t help wondering if they’re just being nice, because I see it. I always see it. And I want it perfect. People deserve to wear something that feels as intentional as the heart behind it.
Ryan keeps calling the crooked ones practice pigs. He wears them to the gym like badges of progress. Oliver wears his hoodie to school every day - he actually helped press it himself. He lint-rolled, waited for the timer, and peeled the film like a pro. Seeing my son wear something we made together is such a neat feeling. It still has that tiny tilt though…
I’ve tried to math my way out of it, but the thing is, I can’t use a spreadsheet for this problem. I’ve drawn center lines and measured seams. I’ve tried rulers and alignment guides. But each shirt is cut a little differently, stitched just enough off to mess up the math. But what I’ve learned (and maybe this is the whole point) is that some things you can’t calculate. You have to just “feel” them, I guess. That’s not comforting - I like equations, systems, processes that are concrete and if followed correctly, produce a predictable result. You have to trust your eye, your gut, your intuition. Aligning, pressing, peeling, adjusting, repeating. I have to stop thinking like an analyst and start thinking like an artist. Oh boy.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent thirteen years in federal service, analyzing systems, solving enterprise-level problems, building frameworks and aligning architectures that make sense. Now I’m standing in front of a heat press at 4 a.m., realizing that sense doesn’t matter. Sometimes the answer lives in your hands, not your head. There’s beauty in the imperfection. But like, come on now, I should be able to perfect this.
Ryan texts me: “Are you coming to bed?”
I smile, take a picture of the latest shirt, and text back: “Almost.”
But I’m never really almost. I just can’t stop. I’ve been living in this rhythm since July 3rd, the day the lightbulb went off - the day The Identity Outpost became more than an idea. Between long days in my government job and late nights chasing this dream, I’ve learned to live on caffeine, momentum, and purpose.
Henry woke up crying earlier around one. It’s routine by now. I drop the lint roller, grab his milk, climb the stairs, and lie next to him while the galaxy light swirls across the ceiling. His little hand finds mine and he sighs. That sound alone could make me stay and rest next to him. But I don’t. Once he’s asleep, I slip out quietly, head back downstairs, and try to find the same mental thread I was in before. Sometimes it takes minutes, sometimes an hour. But I always come back.
Because I can’t not.
When the government shutdown hit, a lot of people were worried - and I get it. It’s uncertain and it’s scary. But for me, it was also this unexpected gift: uninterrupted time to pour myself fully into something that feels bigger than me. Every ounce of me has gone into this. Into learning, testing, failing, and figuring it out one crooked Hog at a time.
I’m tired, but not in a way that sleep can fix. I know I should rest more, but this doesn’t feel like work. It feels like creation. Like something I was supposed to be doing all along.
Most nights, I look out the window when the sky starts to shift. Our neighbor works night shift across the street. Their headlights pull into the driveway just as I realize it’s almost six in the morning. The light outside feels strange after ten straight hours of working. It always shocks me how time just disappears when I’m in this flow.
And yet, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Because I know what this all leads to - the moment when the first Hog gear finally leaves my hands and lands in someone else’s. I picture seeing someone I don’t know wearing one. A stranger walking by. It’ll be like seeing a celebrity! That will be a moment I will never forget.
This brand, this dream, it’s not just about gear. It’s about connection. Every piece that leaves this space helps build a community around something good - around giving back, around belonging. It builds something tangible out of the invisible threads between us. It shows that we’re all part of something much bigger than ourselves.
That’s what keeps me here, night after night. That’s what this whole thing is about.
So I’ll keep pressing. Keep learning. Keep chasing that perfect alignment.
And maybe perfection isn’t even the point. Maybe the tilt, that imperfection, is what makes it human. We’ll see.
Somewhere out there, someone’s about to put on a Hog shirt for the first time, and when they do, a small part of this dream goes with them.
See you in the next Note,
Lyndsie
Founder, The Identity Outpost
