“I grew up stripping… started when I was 9.” — me at church at age 11

“Oh no — what??” — lady in line at church

“It’s fine my Grandpa was with me.” — me

“Dear Lord…” — lady

“Stripping tobacco was fun!!” — me

“Ahhh…” — same woman, now backing away slowly

Not me realizing that not everyone knows that “stripping tobacco” is a thing… (if you’re still confused, here’s a link — paragraph 3 — you’re welcome)

My dad’s father had passed away when he was young, and his mother had remarried a (then) strapping young lad named Glenn Hagen. By the time I showed up, I had three sets of grandparents — which will make more sense when you hear the story in my upcoming special.

But Grandpa Glenn? He was in a category of his own.

A one-legged, joke-cracking, classic car-collecting, crutch-wielding Norwegian legend — known around Southern Wisconsin as The Utica Farmer Who Golfed On One Leg.
(Yes, really. He played better than most people with two.)

He lost his leg in a farming accident long before I was born — an incident that would’ve killed him if my uncle hadn’t been nearby. But he made a decision early on: if I’m still here, I might as well laugh about it.

And he did. For decades.

He cracked jokes about his prosthetic, drove around the farm in golf carts, and worked a tobacco shed with more heart than most CEOs run companies. Tested every product he grew himself, too — the man chewed more tobacco than a Gen Z Zyns at Coachella. (And yes, I’m also a Zynner. No judgment.)

I have so many fond memories of Grandpa Glenn — outside of stripping, of course — and the days on the farm with my cousins. We would receive our “first driver’s license” at age 9 when we started working the farm, meaning we were taught to drive tractors and golf carts.

We ripped on those things. All 4mph horsepower baby!

My Gramps was the epitome of independence. So it tracks that he passed away on the Fourth of July, 2013 — our entire family was right there by his side — and every year around this time, I think of him. It was so him to go out in a display of fireworks muddled by all the other noise. Loud and memorable, yet no grand finale.

The Hustle

Working with gramps taught me a lot:

Show up. Work hard. Don’t be afraid to get dirty. Make people laugh. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Nothing is an excuse to stop (not even an entire LEG being gone). Leave things better than you found them. Don’t complain. Cat’s don’t live in the house (that one didn’t stick, sorry Gramps). Appreciate what you’ve got.

And maybe most importantly: you don’t need to be loud to be respected.

My grandpa wasn’t the type to make grand declarations. He just… did the damn thing. Every day. He woke up early, moved slower than he used to, but never made excuses. He cracked a joke on the way out the door and got to work.

People remembered him simply because he was memorable. Not because he tried to be.

I think about that a lot now — especially in a world where everything is so externalized. Where you’re expected to brand your hustle, narrate your journey, and post your progress — otherwise, did it even happen? Sometimes we’re made to feel like our work doesn’t count unless we’ve also made a reel about it. I feel that way too at times.

But then I remember him. How he’d quietly fix a broken tractor in the shed. Or show up to family dinner with fresh-grown chewing tobacco tucked in his lip covered in mud and farm shrapnel, with the kind of calm that comes from knowing who you are and what you’re about.

And maybe that’s what this week’s hustle is really about: not performance, but presence.

Because yeah, I’m in a season of building. I’m running businesses. Pitching projects. Working toward a new comedy special. Trying to keep all the plates spinning without breaking the ones that actually matter.

But I don’t want to lose that kind of integrity in the process. That “do the thing because it’s yours to do” energy. The kind that doesn’t beg to be seen — but when it is, people remember it.

Just because the world doesn’t know every little thing you’re up to doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

So this week, I’m bringing Glenn energy back into my hustle:

• Work like someone’s NOT watching — and that’s the point

• Show up for what matters, not necessarily what trends

• Stay focused on impact, not optics

• Make time for the parts of the work that don’t get posted

• And remember: nobody asked Glenn for a brand strategy. He still left a damn legacy.

The Chill

We lived with my grandparents a few times throughout my childhood.

The summer between Junior and Senior year, I was living in a Shasta camper on their farm — not by choice, really, but because my parents were between houses and we were all staying with my grandparents.

I couldn’t deal with the flies in the farmhouse. Like, no offense to my ancestors, but the fly-to-human ratio and lack of AC was not giving life to seventeen year old Natasha. So I packed up my teenage angst and moved into this 1960’s retro bullet of a camper parked near the cow pen. Somehow it felt like freedom.

My own apartment, sans toilet. (You haven’t truly lived until you’ve peed in the dark next to a barn)

The camper had a tiny black and white (a little green hue, if I’m being honest) TV that only played VHS tapes. The only VHS’s I had in the camper were the movies “The Mothman Prophecies” and “Seven” — yes two of the creepiest movies to fall asleep to near a cornfield alone.

That same summer, I lost my virginity. In that very camper.
Next to the cows.
To the movie Seven.

It was horrible. “Mooooo.” “What’s in the box!?!?” “Moooooo.” “WHAT’S IN THE BOX?!”

Quite poetically, it all lasted Seven seconds.

I think about that version of me sometimes. The one who didn’t know what was coming — the heartbreaks, the career pivots, the comedy ups and downs, the rejection, the losses. She didn’t have a plan, but she had a wildly bold personality, farm girl instinct, and a lot of discernment yet to discover.

I’m all for nostalgia, but it’s also nice to be reminded how many versions of yourself you’ve been — and how many more you still get to become. You’re never stuck where you once were. You’re never stuck, period.

And maybe that’s the point.

The work you’re doing now? It isn’t just about success — it’s about becoming someone you’d want to hang out with a year or five years from now.

Legacy isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a golf cart, a pack of chewing tobacco, a one-legged joke machine, and a memory that still makes you laugh on a Tuesday afternoon.

So cheers, Grandpa Glenn. Thanks for the memories, the work ethic, and the annual fireworks display that somehow still feels like a little nod to you — and, sure, America too.

Upcoming Shows

Reminder to get your tickets for Kansas City and Columbus, and follow the rest of tour drops on my website. Should have some fun announcements next week — eek! — but this week I’m chillin, writing, catching up on shit and enjoying the holiday — July 4th week is notoriously brutal for selling tickets LOL.

Love you all and cheers to the hustle + chill. We love a good tale of independence.

xx NPH