How TRT Changed My Life as a Founder

The Wake-Up Call I Didn’t See Coming

Picture this: I’m a founder, grinding away at my startup, fueled by coffee, ambition, and sheer stubbornness. I’m used to the hustle—late nights, endless pitch decks, the thrill of chasing the next big win. But somewhere along the way, I stopped sleeping. My meals turned into whatever I could grab between Zoom calls—think stale protein bars and takeout that’d been sitting out too long. Working out? Ha. My gym membership was just a monthly donation to Equinox at that point. I figured this was just the price of building something from scratch. Founders don’t get to rest, right?

Then I started fundraising. Investors are sharks—they can smell blood in the water from a mile away. And man, I was bleeding. I’d walk into meetings feeling like a zombie, stumbling over my words, forgetting key stats I’d rehearsed a hundred times. My confidence was shot, and they could tell. I wasn’t just losing deals—I was losing myself.

This wasn’t depression. I’ve been down that road before, and I know its shadows. This was different. I’d collapse on the couch after a 14-hour day, staring at the ceiling, wanting to move but feeling like my body was glued there. Exhaustion doesn’t even cover it—it was like someone had unplugged me from the wall. My libido? Nonexistent. My focus? I couldn’t string together five minutes without zoning out. And my memory? I’d forget why I walked into a room half the time. I was a mess, and it was bleeding into every corner of my life—my business, my relationships, my sense of who I was.

The Stereotype That Held Me Back

I’d always been curious about testosterone. You hear whispers about it—guys swearing it’s the secret sauce to feeling alive again. But in my head, testosterone replacement therapy (TRT) was for juiced-up gym bros with spray tans and biceps the size of my head. You know the type—blasting Metallica, chugging pre-workout, and flexing in the mirror. That wasn’t me. I’m a founder, not a bodybuilder. So I shrugged it off, convincing myself I could power through the fog on my own. Spoiler: I couldn’t.

Then one night, over a couple of beers, a co-founder friend I’ve always respected dropped a bomb. He’d been on TRT for months while scaling his own company. He laid it out raw: the burnout, the brain fog, the way he felt like a shell of himself—my exact story. Suddenly, I felt seen. Heard. Like I’d been handed permission to stop suffering in silence. Here was this guy I admired, sharp as hell, running a killer business, telling me TRT wasn’t just for meatheads—it was his playbook for beating the grind. That was the push I needed.

My TRT Journey Begins

I started digging. I wasn’t about to mess around with sketchy clinics or random online forums, so I found Henry Meds—a legit telehealth platform that made the process stupidly simple. I signed up for a consult, got my blood work done (turns out a quick prick can tell you a lot), and the results hit me like a freight train: my testosterone levels were in the basement. We’re talking way below the normal range for a guy my age. It wasn’t just in my head—I had hard data proving why I felt like garbage.

The whole process was empowering as hell. No pushy sales pitch, no judgment—just a doctor walking me through my options. A few days later, a discreet little package showed up in my mailbox: my TRT kit, complete with everything I’d need to get started. I’ll admit, I stared at that first vial of testosterone like it was a magic potion. Then I manned up, followed the instructions, and gave myself the shot. Off to the races.

From Surviving to Thriving

Here’s the wild part: I felt a spark within the first week. It wasn’t like I turned into Superman overnight, but there was this hum of energy I hadn’t felt in years. My libido? Back with a vengeance—my girlfriend noticed that one fast. I’d wake up and actually want to get off the couch instead of melting into it. It was like someone flipped a switch.

But it didn’t happen in a vacuum. That energy lit a fire under me—I started hitting the gym again, nothing crazy, just 30 minutes of lifting or a run to clear my head. I swapped the greasy takeout for real food—grilled chicken, veggies, stuff that didn’t make me feel like I’d been hit by a truck. Part of it was the TRT giving me the juice to care; part of it was me realizing I couldn’t half-ass this if I wanted results.

By month one, I saw my body changing—less softness around the middle, more definition in my shoulders. But the real win was in my head. I felt sharper, more confident, like I could walk into a room (or a pitch meeting) and own it. My memory stopped failing me mid-sentence. I wasn’t just surviving anymore—I was thriving. It was a feeling I’d almost forgotten existed.

Health Is Your Edge

Here’s what I’ve learned, guys: health isn’t some side quest you can ignore. As a founder, I thought pushing my body to the brink was a badge of honor. Turns out, it was a one-way ticket to burnout. Investors don’t back wrecks—they back winners. And you can’t win if you’re running on empty.

TRT isn’t a magic bullet, but for me, it was the spark that got me moving. A small tweak to my hormones, paired with some basic lifestyle shifts, flipped the script on my life. I’m not here to preach or sell you on anything—health is personal as hell, and what works for me might not be your jam. But if you’re dragging through your days, feeling like a shadow of the man you used to be, don’t shy away from exploring this. Talk to a doc, get your levels checked, see what’s up. You’d be amazed how much a little change can shift the outcomes of your life—your business, your relationships, your confidence.

Final Thoughts

I’m not the juiced-up gym bro I used to picture when I thought of TRT. I’m just a founder who got tired of bleeding in the water. Now, I’m back in the game—stronger, sharper, and damn glad I took the leap. What about you? Ever thought about checking your levels? Drop a comment—I’d love to hear your story or answer any questions. And hey, if this hit home, share it with a buddy who might need the nudge.

(P.S. I’m not a doctor—talk to one before you do anything. This is just my story.)