Six weeks before he died, my grandfather called me into his room alone. “When I'm gone… don't come to my funeral.” I thought he was testing me. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “I'm serious. No matter what they say.” The day he passed, the whole family expected me there. I never showed up. By sunset, I was the heartless grandson. My uncles called me a disgrace. My cousins blocked me. Even my mother said she no longer recognized me. I didn't explain myself. Because I was keeping the last promise I'd ever made to him. A week later, a lawyer handed me a small wooden box. Inside was a letter in his handwriting. The first line read: “If they loved you, they would've asked why you stayed away… before deciding who you were.” Then I turned the page.

Bro… I’ve now driven from the Bay Area to Santa Barbara, down to LA, over to San Diego, and just arrived in Salt Lake City, Utah. Today is day 10 of our USA trip, and I have spent the equivalent of more than an entire day behind the wheel. The craziest part is I never had to disengage FSD once. Not once. And I have the entire trip recorded to prove it. The more I think about it, the more incredible it feels. Not that long ago, a trip like this would have meant hours and hours of constant focus, hands on the wheel, eyes locked on the road, dealing with traffic, construction zones, lane changes, parking lots, and the mental fatigue that comes with long-distance driving. Now I’m watching the technology handle it ALL. You will never fully understand how big of a shift this is for the future of humanity until you live with it day after day. After 10 straight days on the road, it’s hard to imagine ever going back to driving thousands of miles manually. People can hate Tesla. People can shit about Elon. That’s fine. But anyone who genuinely wants to understand what’s happening should spend a week with FSD and experience it for themselves. Tesla FSD is one of the most important technologies I’ve ever used. The ability for software and AI to safely handle ALL of a cross-country road trip changes what travel feels like… it changes how families spend time together… it changes productivity… it changes accessibility… and eventually, it’s going to change transportation itself. And for me, this wasn’t something that happened overnight. I’ve been using FSD since the beta days back in 2020 when Tesla first launched it. I’ve also been a long term Tesla investor for more than a decade. Through all the skepticism, the missed timelines, and the endless hate, I NEVER lost sight of where this technology was headed. I knew this day would come. And now, with FSD v14.3.4, I’m living it. The future I’ve been pounding the table and talking about for years is no longer a prediction anymore… bc it’s literally driving me across America. Tesla solved autonomy.

Hi @RobertKennedyJr I'm a cardiologist. I've spent twenty years watching Medicare deny my patients things they actually need — while stories like this one go on for years. RFK Jr. says HHS loses $100 billion a year to theft. Then he described what they found in Los Angeles. Criminals were walking into poor neighborhoods and offering people a $375 flat-screen TV for their patient number. "You don't ever have to go. We're just going to enroll you." Then they billed Medicaid roughly $6,000 a month — forever. A hospice is where you go to die. The average stay is measured in days to weeks. They found people enrolled two and three years later. Still alive. Still billing. Of course they never died — they were never sick. They found a hotel where every single room was a registered hospice. Twenty-nine of them. Zero patients. Just addresses. They shut down 800 hospices. And here's the detail that tells you everything: not one congressman called. Not one owner complained that patients were on the street. Nobody protested, because they all knew exactly what they were running. Now let me tell you what this looks like from inside a practice. I fight for prior authorizations on medications that prevent heart attacks. I get denied for imaging that finds disease early. I have patients rationing insulin. Every dollar in that hotel room was a dollar that didn't go to a nurse, a scan, or a drug that keeps someone alive. Fraud isn't a budget line. It's care stolen from patients who needed it. Two things I'd say if I ever got the room: Use AI to find the outliers. This is not hard. Every claim is already digital. Flag every provider billing five or ten standard deviations above their peers for a service, then audit them. A pattern like 29 hospices at one address, or a "terminal" patient billing for 36 straight months, is something an algorithm catches in an afternoon. We are using AI to read ECGs better than cardiologists — we can absolutely use it to catch a hotel room billing Medicaid. Then talk to practicing doctors. Not consultants. Not administrators. Physicians running busy clinics, who know exactly which codes get abused and which patterns are impossible, because we live inside the billing system every day. We could point at it in an hour. Almost nobody asks us. Catching fraud isn't about cutting care. It's the only way to fund it. Every stolen dollar has a patient's name on it. We just never learn which one.

Becoming a pilot nearly killed me, twice. It also saved my life. Fifteen years ago, my world was upside down. I was in founder mode building a company, raising three young kids, navigating a struggling relationship, leaving my religion, inflamed, sleep deprived, fatigued, and fighting chronic depression. Driving home from work one day, I saw a sign inviting prospective students to take a discovery flight. I thought this flight might occupy my mind, giving me an hour of desperately needed relief. Thirty minutes after arriving at the airfield, the instructor and I were seated in a Cessna 172. The instructor told me to take the controls and explained the departure procedure. Caught off guard, I suggested it would be better if I just observed. He insisted I take the controls, reassuring me that his hands would be on the dual controls at all times so not to worry. Reluctantly, I took the controls. We radioed our departure to the local airspace, lined up, and accelerated down the runway. At 63 mph, I pulled back the controls to raise the nose, and up we went. All of my life’s pain disappeared as I became absorbed in managing the throttle, pitch, heading, radio, traffic surveillance, and my instrument panel. I was mesmerized. I earned my pilot’s license two months later and bought my first airplane, a Bonanza A36. It could fly faster, further and have more passengers than my trainer airplane. I made myself a promise to never fly alone, and hired a full-time co-pilot. General aviation accident rates are nearly 10x higher than commercial airlines. I began flying myself everywhere across the country. For business: Austin, NYC, and Omaha. For family trips: Niagara Falls, Mount Rushmore, Bahamas, and later, with a longer range airplane, we flew to Europe via Canada, Greenland, Iceland, Scotland, London, Paris and Rome. In my first year of flying, I nearly died twice. I had hired a co-pilot for my safety, and ironically both incidents resulted from his errors. However, the worst mistake was my failure to recognize the bigger pattern: despite my co-pilot having logged over 1,000 flying hours, nearly all of the hours were “in the pattern”, meaning instruction time around the airport and not “in the wild” (out in high stress, cross country operations with severe weather). Lesson learned. After these two near-death experiences, I decided that I’d need to either stop flying or get a jet. A jet would give me engine redundancy and the capability to cruise above weather systems rather than through them. The Bonanza had a ceiling of 14,000 (before I needed to supplement oxygen), where a jet could fly in the 30,000’s and 40,000s, above weather. A jet would also allow us to always fly with the assistance of air traffic control in controlled airspace versus in un-cleared VFR (visual flight rules) flight. I purchased a small jet, a Citation Mustang, and completed my type rating (licensed to fly the airplane). It was a steep learning curve. Jet speed is different from small airplane speed. Everything happened faster, the airplane was more complicated, and multi-engine dynamics were a big step up. It was exhilarating. Part II In an unexpected twist, learning to fly brought me back from the depressive dead. When I started flight instruction, my personal life was a mess. The most irritating part of my existence was that every day, around 7pm, just after putting the kids down, I’d overeat. I tried everything to stop myself but nothing would work. My willpower at that time of day from the stress and strain of life was zero and I was powerless against the chemicals in my body that demanded this daily self-destruction ritual. My pants were too tight and I couldn’t button the top button. It drove me insane. But I refused to concede and buy a bigger pair. I turned to my pilot training to help me design a solution: I needed structured operations for my food consumption and self control. Aviation is substantially more safe than driving because it operates on structured protocols, checklists, and active risk management. Safety and performance are a system. You don’t just get into an airplane and wing it. Before every flight, there is a pre-check routine where you thoroughly inspect the airplane, ensuring everything is in flight-ready condition. There are other checklists for starting the airplane, taxing, taking off, cruise, descent and landing. There is a manual beneath your seat with a written protocol for anything that could go wrong with the airplane. You are required to memorize and execute procedures flawlessly under pressure. Aviation culture assumes human fallibility and designs systems to overcome those limitations and liabilities. As I was learning this new way of thinking and operating, I wondered if these new autonomous systems would map to my personal life. I was in desperate need of help and nothing I had tried was working. It was clear that Evening Bryan, the version of me who took control of my body at 7 pm, was no match for the stress and weight of the day. He wasn’t a bad guy, he just wasn’t equal to the responsibility of withstanding that tension. It was a system error to ask him to operate Evening Bryan under his duress. I put Morning Bryan in charge instead and he made an operational guide for all other Bryans to follow. Morning Bryan is my best Bryan. He’s responsible, motivated, high on will power, and thinks long term. He created a checklist that required all Bryan’s to be finished eating by 5 pm. No matter what, no more food after 5 pm. That was when the danger zone started. There wouldn’t be any exceptions, ever. This worked. It was challenging for the first few days but it quickly generated it’s own momentum. I started sleeping better, losing weight, and feeling less fatigued. That simple trick fixed years of mayhem that had been unfixable. With that success behind me, I expanded the protocols to include food types, amounts and timing. In retrospect, after a few months of this new system, it seemed weird that I previously winged it daily, stumbling from meal to meal. I felt like I got back 40% of my total energy capacity that was being spent thinking about, planning, debating, and regretting my food consumption. My life today basically runs like an airplane. Part III Aviation culture then jumped into other areas of my life. I’d started a new company, Kernel, to build a non-invasive brain interface to merge human cognition with AI. I’d been thinking about what mathematician Alfred North Whitehead observed: "Civilization advances by extending the number of important operations which we can perform without thinking about them." Society is on a continuous curve of increased automation. We solve one layer and step up on the next. This is how we scaffold progress. Clean water infrastructure, power grids, washing machines, dishwashers, and are examples of automating tasks that previously took hours. It was the mashup of aviation culture, Kernel, AI and automation that got me imagining building my Autonomous Self. An automated system that keeps me in pristine physical condition, youthful vibrancy and peak performance. A system that would allow me to not die. Don’t Die was born. For the past five years, I’ve been engineering the v1 human prototype for Don’t Die: an autonomous system built to preserve and protect life. It accounts for biological fallibility, offloading human limits to deterministic protocols. As we integrate deeply with AI, stepping up through layer by layer physiological automation will allow us to navigate frontiers previously unimagined. Immortalism is the corresponding philosophy that honors existence as our species' highest value and pursues that objective through quantitative and mathematical means. I never would have guessed that a discovery flight would have flown me in this direction.

THINGS MY PATIENTS TAUGHT ME — No. 1 She was ninety-one, and she'd driven herself to the appointment. That was the first thing that got me—the valet ticket still in her hand, her keys in a little coin purse with a broken clasp she kept snapping shut. Her heart was failing. Ejection fraction of twenty percent. I'd seen the echo before I walked in, so I came in the way I always do—fast, already talking. Medications. A possible device. The numbers, the odds, the plan. She let me get about thirty seconds in. Then she put her hand flat on the exam table and said, "Doctor. Sit down." I sat. "You people always come in like the building is on fire," she said. "I've had four cardiologists. Every one of you talks to the chart." She looked me up and down. "You're the youngest. And the fastest. I don't know if that's good or bad." I told her I'd take it as a compliment. "Take it however you need to," she said. "At my age I've stopped explaining myself." Then she got serious. "I'm not here to be fixed today. I know where this is going. I came so somebody would look at me while I said it out loud." So I put the folder down and I looked at her. She told me she was born in Poland. That she'd buried a husband and a son. That she still made her own soup, and that the soup was better than anything I'd ever eaten, and she was sorry but that was simply a fact. That she didn't want to die in a hospital with a tube down her throat. It took maybe eleven minutes. I didn't write a single note. I've spent thirty years learning to repair the human heart—the stents, the rhythm, the medications, the mechanics of it. Nobody taught me the harder skill, which is how to sit still next to a heart you cannot fix and not reach for a pen. She died about three weeks later, at home, the way she wanted. I wasn't her doctor that afternoon in my office. I was the person who finally stopped talking. And I've come to think that was the more important job. We assume the holy work is the fixing. A lot of the time, the holy work is just staying in the chair. Somebody in your life right now isn't asking you to solve them. They're asking you to look up. Blessings, P.S. She was right about the soup. I never got the recipe. I think about that more than I should. (Things My Patients Taught Me — No. 1. There will be more. They taught me more than I ever taught them.)

.@RealTomHoman: I'll NEVER give up until the day I die to make sure we find every one of these missing kids. Every day, ICE is out there arresting criminals. 60% of 800k is A LOT of criminal threats we've removed. We're making this country safe again one criminal alien at a time.