My check engine light has been on since June. (IRL, even longer tbh.)

At first, it was an emergency. I made time on my schedule, watched seventeen YouTube videos, and convinced myself I could fix it with a code reader I bought at 11 PM on Amazon because I somehow couldn’t find the one I thought was in my toolbox. The light came back on before I made it out of my driveway.

Then it was a problem. I needed it to be fixed before I could take it in to get its emissions test. I had time, so it was something I ignored, but knew I needed to deal with eventually. I can feel the metaphors piling up as I type this.

Now? It's just Thursday.

And I think that's the most honest thing I can say about where I'm at in life right now.

Last year, I was in meetings about meetings. Creating content with a team of people who were continually discounted by less knowledgeable (but much louder) folks. Crafting narratives about all the trends and buzzwords that sound great in a deck but mean nothing when your dashboard (both literal and metaphorical) looks like a Christmas tree.

The layoff wasn't a surprise. Twenty-plus years in corporate content creation teaches you to read the signs. The surprise was the relief I felt sitting in my garage surrounded by years of procrastination stuffed in boxes. The check engine light was glowing at the top of my newly prioritized to-do list, like it was saying, "join the club."

My 1992 Acura Integra GS-R is sitting in Colorado. Hasn't run in nearly a decade. I keep telling myself I'm going to fly out there, rent a U-Haul, and bring it home. It's become this symbol of all the things I'm going to do "when I have time." The funny part is, I have time now. I’ve had time. More time than I know what to do with. But that Integra is still in Colorado, and I'm still here, writing about check engine lights at 2 AM.

Denial was beautiful while it lasted. "It's probably just a sensor." "Sometimes they reset themselves." "So and so from the forums had their light on for three years, and it was fine." I became an expert at lying to myself with enough technical knowledge to make it sound reasonable.

Anger hit around week four. Why now? Why this? I just replaced the VTEC solenoid, the battery, and, come to think of it, the starter just six months or so before that. The universe owed me at least a few months of automotive peace. The universe, apparently, doesn't acknowledge receipts from AutoZone.

Bargaining looked like me under the hood with a wrench I wasn't qualified to use, making deals with a machine. "If you just make it through the smog testing, I promise I'll change your oil on time. Every time. Premium oil. The good stuff." The car and I both knew I was lying. The “promise pile” of parts I still have waiting to install is proof of that.

Depression was accepting that I've become the kind of person who drives around with a check engine light on. The kind of person who turns the music up when there's a new noise. The kind of person whose relationship with their car is basically Stockholm syndrome with monthly insurance payments.

Acceptance is where I live now. The check engine light is part of my car's personality. It's basically a co-pilot at this point. Some people have fuzzy dice. I have a glowing amber reminder that nothing is permanent except automotive anxiety.

So I am starting Pursuit of Something. P.O.S. Yes, I know what it spells. No, I'm not changing it.

Because here's what twenty years of making things look perfect taught me: Nobody relates to perfect. Nobody sees themselves in the success story that leaves out the check engine lights.

Every morning, millions of us start cars that probably shouldn't start. We drive to jobs with warning lights on—again, both literal and metaphorical. We're all just out here, pursuing... something. Not perfection. Not excellence. Just something. And that ambiguity? That's the whole point.

In my previous corporate roles at places like Complex, StockX, and Stadium Goods, we were selling the dream. The perfect sneaker. The perfect authentication. The perfect resale platform. Now I'm in my garage at midnight, tinkering on things to better understand them, designing hoodies about the imperfect reality of actually living with the things we love. There's something beautifully honest about accepting that your car (like your life) is held together by good intentions and zip ties.

My brother's Honda CRX hasn't run in years. It sits next to my Element like a monument to good intentions. Every week, we talk about fixing it. Every weekend, we don't. But the conversation about fixing it? That's become more important than the fixing itself.

That's what Pursuit of Something is really about. It's not about having the perfect car or the perfect life or even a functioning dashboard. It's about the pursuit itself. The Saturday morning optimism. The mid-afternoon acceptance of the “Sunday scaries” returns each week like clockwork. The Monday morning miracle when everything somehow still works out.

The people who get it, like really get it, are the ones who've named their cars. Who apologize to them after hitting potholes. Who know exactly which angle to hold the key to make the ignition work. Who've developed a relationship with a machine that's 30% transportation and 70% therapy.

I'm building a brand for everyone who's ever googled "car making weird noise but still driving fine." For everyone who's had a mechanic look at them with that specific mixture of pity and respect. For everyone who's calculated whether they can make it to payday before addressing that sound.

This isn't anti-success or anti-ambition. It's pro-reality. It's understanding that most of us are out here running on empty (literally and figuratively), and there's something beautiful about admitting that.

If you're reading this with a dashboard lit up like a control panel from a Knight Rider, know that you're my people. If you've ever used the phrase "it's supposed to make that noise," you understand. If you've developed a ranking system for which warnings you can ignore, welcome home.

Pursuit of Something isn't just another streetwear brand with automotive references. It's a philosophy wrapped in a comfy new hoodie that you know you shouldn’t be wearing to work on your car, but you’re going to do it anyway. It's accepting that the warning lights—in our cars and our lives—aren't bugs. They're features.

This is just the beginning. We're building something for everyone who's ever been personally victimized by their own vehicle. For everyone who's established a complex emotional relationship with a machine that doesn't care about them (but on the best of days, it sure feels like it does!). For everyone pursuing something, even if that something is just making it to Friday.

My Integra is still in Colorado. My brother's CRX still doesn't run. My Element's check engine light is still on.

And somehow, that's exactly where this story needed to start.

Keep running (rough but running),

Nick,
Founder, PURSUIT OF SOMETHING
Currently at: 233,892 miles and counting

P.S. - Reply with your current check engine light status. Currently accepting submissions for the Check Engine Hall of Fame.