C.J. Richards: Finding the Right Pace
- facethyfear
- Jan 3
- 5 min read
My sobriety didn’t cancel my friendships.
They can drink. I don’t. I’m the one with the allergy.
“Some people meet you before you change, and still recognize you after.”
Pace is how you move when nobody’s watching—when there’s no applause, no rush, and no reason to perform.
Editor’s note
CJ Richards is one of my closest friends. I don’t rush his stories, and I don’t rush moments that matter. When something stays with him long enough to be shared, I listen. This is one of those moments.
Who CJ Is
CJ isn’t chasing moments. He notices them.
He moves through the world without trying to dominate it—comfortable in silence, attentive to detail, grounded in his body and his choices. He doesn’t perform curiosity; he practices it.
When he travels, it’s not to collect photos or bragging rights. It’s to understand how places work, how people move, and what changes when you slow down enough to pay attention.
That’s why his stories are worth telling.
Not because they’re extreme—because they’re intentional.
How CJ and I Met
I met CJ during a season when I was drinking heavy and my body was starting to shut down.
We were work buddies in the mobile canning industry, crossing paths through Iron Heart Canning. Long days. Physical work. Evenings that usually ended with whiskey drinks and a bomb dinner. That was the rhythm of my life back then.
I didn’t realize it yet, but my body was already rejecting liquor. I could feel it—even if I wasn’t ready to listen.
CJ was there during that time.
Not as a savior. Not as somebody trying to fix me.
Just present.
The job ended for me. CJ continued to grow within the company. The friendship didn’t change.
I didn’t know it then, but I was watching how a steady person moves through the world.
The People Who Didn’t Hold Me Back
Around that same season, I had a conversation that changed the direction of my life.
I spoke with B.J. Solomon, President of Field Operations at Iron Heart Canning. I was honest about where I was at—mentally, physically, spiritually. I told him I needed to step away.
He supported my decision to resign.
No guilt. No pressure. No “stick it out.”
Just understanding.
Not everyone tries to save you.
Some people just make room for you to choose.
To this day, B.J. stays in contact. He’s checked in on me and motivated me throughout my sobriety journey—not with speeches, but with respect—and with belief that choosing myself was the right move.
Now when I tell people stories about what I used to do—the miles, the breweries, the work—they’re amazed. I tell them I still know guys out there doing it. Some of them are lifelong friends.
And I still recommend beer too.
Not because I drink—I don’t—but because I saw craftsmanship up close. Different beers. Different regions. People building something they cared about with their hands.
That chapter didn’t end in bitterness.
It ended in respect.
CJ in Japan
CJ told me straight up:
“I’ll be honest—when I landed in Japan, I didn’t really know what I was walking into.”
He’d traveled before—Mexico, Canada—but Japan was different. He’d never been somewhere he couldn’t read anything. Signs. Menus. Nothing. He did his research, but once he got there, none of that mattered.
He had to slow down and actually pay attention.
The first thing that hit him was the quiet.
Trains full of people—dead silent. At first, it felt cold.
Then it clicked: it wasn’t cold. It was respectful.
The quiet wasn’t fear—it was discipline. Like the competition got left at home.
And then the second you sit down somewhere, it flips.
Restaurants. Bars. Tiny spots. People are warm. Open. Even if you don’t speak Japanese, they try. You can have whole conversations with hand gestures and energy. No phones. No rushing off.
Just being there.
And the food—man.
CJ said he ate better meals at a 7-Eleven than he has at some restaurants back home. Rice balls with salmon, tuna, pollock, minced chicken. Full ramen bowls with poached eggs they heat up for you. It didn’t leave him bloated or greasy.
It felt clean—like it was made for people, not profit margins.
They traveled up and down the coast for a festival and stayed at a hot spring hotel too. CJ’s from New Hampshire—he knows mountains—but Japan humbled him. Mountains stacked on mountains. Winding roads. Coastline everywhere you look.
What stood out wasn’t even the beauty.
It was that nobody seemed stressed.
One night they ate at a ramen shop with six seats. That’s it—six. If someone new came in, everybody slid closer to make room. No complaints. No entitlement.
Six seats will teach you more about community than a hundred rules ever could.
Even the bathrooms made him laugh—because they told the truth.
One day you’re squatting over a hole in the ground.
Next day you’re on a heated seat with music playing and adjustable water pressure.
It’s funny, but it says something:
Care is built into everything.
Even the stuff nobody posts about.
Japan didn’t overwhelm him. It didn’t flex.
It slowed him down.
It showed him you don’t have to take up all the space in the room to exist.
Where This Story Sits
By the time CJ finished telling me about Japan, I kept thinking about the last place I wrote him into a story:
A glacier in Oregon—one of those “wrong turn” moments where momentum takes over and you just ride it out.
That version of CJ was moving fast—laughing, sliding, reacting in real time.
Japan showed me the same person, just at a different speed.
Same awareness.
Same calm under motion.
Same ability to read a situation without forcing it.
The glacier was about committing to movement.
Japan was about learning when not to rush it.
That’s the throughline.
CJ didn’t go to Japan to reinvent himself. He went there already practicing the kind of attention most people never slow down enough to develop.
Now he’s in New Zealand for six months, carrying both of those lessons forward.
Some stories are about the place.
Others are about how a person moves through places.
This one sits in the middle.
FTF Made It to Japan
Before he even knew what I’d do with this story, CJ took an FTF sticker to Japan and tagged it out there like it was normal.
That’s a different kind of support—the quiet kind that doesn’t need an announcement.
Just love, loyalty, and presence.
From ZN.4 to the other side of the world… stamped.
FTF Gang — Faith First, Fear Last!
© 2026 Malcolm Pannell
FaceThyFear™, FTF™, FTF Proof™, ZN.4™, FTF Gang™, and all related names and works are trademarks of Malcolm Pannell. All rights reserved.
Published at ftfnow.net
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