“Never give up on the road. True happiness awaits.”

Years ago, Big Steve Parish legendary road manager for the Grateful Dead and Jerry Garcia’s right-hand man wrote those words in my copy of his book. Having gratefully spent plenty of time swapping stories and sharing flowers with Big Steve, those words always stuck with me.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about what “the road” means in a professional context.

At Northstar Digital Design our “road” is the creative process. It’s navigating the unknowns of technology, solving complex design problems, and building a business from the ground up. It isn’t always a straight line, and it’s rarely easy.

But Big Steve and the Dead crew taught me a vital lesson about leadership: True success belongs to the misfits and creatives who refuse to quit on each other. You look out for the family, you adapt to the breakdowns, and you keep moving forward.

As a leader, that’s my blueprint. We stay on the road, we trust the process, and we find fulfillment in the work we build together.

Love is real, Not Fade Away ❤️⚡️💙

The band New Order were officially voted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame this year, class of 2026. This induction follows previous nominations, finally marking a well-deserved milestone for an incredibly influential band that had to find its northstar when Joy Division sadly ended.

Seeing this news brought a wave of incredible gratitude over me. It made me think back to July 29, 1993, when I was just a 16-year-old kid taking a chance and making the drive from South Bend, IN, to the World Music Theatre in Tinley Park, Illinois. With 808 State and The The opening the show, I was on an unforgettable adventure with three people I still care about immensely.

I reconnected deeply with two of those individuals when I made my own journey to California in 2007 to experience life in the Golden State. Back in ‘93, we were just kids loving music, but we were unknowingly planting the seeds for how I understand, empathize with, and value people today. They taught me the true value of emotional intelligence, and they helped mine grow.

Stewart Brand, the legendary California futurist behind the Whole Earth Catalog, always preached an ethos built on “access to tools” and taking the “long view” of life. He famously noted that “to change is to lose identity; yet to change is to be alive.” My circle changed, grew, and evolved, but we never lost our baseline identity. Those two beautiful humans handed me the ultimate tools for human connection. Today, I carry their energy with me every single day when I walk into the office and lead Northstar Digital Design. The ethos of how I lead wasn’t born in a corporate boardroom; it was forged on a highway three decades ago and cultivated in California.

When I listen to New Order today, I am reminded of the beautiful, messy ups and downs of life. But if you take the long view, listen to your inner voice, and surround yourself with a crew that elevates your soul, you will always find your way.

No matter where the road takes you, listen to your inner compass, use your tools, and follow your Northstar. Everything is going to be alright. 🧭✨

🎵 Setlist

July 29, 1993 - World Music Theatre, Tinley Park, IL

• Ruined in a Day

• Regret

• Dream Attack

• Round & Round

• World

• As It Is When It Was

• Everyone Everywhere

• True Faith

• Bizarre Love Triangle

• Temptation

• The Perfect Kiss

• Fine Time

• Blue Monday

From February 2009 to May 2021, I was part of the team handling marketing, web development, design, and sysadmin work for The Rock Poster Society, including the web presence at trps.org. A community built entirely around the idea that things made with craft and intention deserve to be preserved. Posters designed to be thrown away after the show, collected and catalogued instead.

Two of the logos you’ll see in the image above were created by artists who defined that community. David Singer, legendary Fillmore poster artist, designed the TRPS mark. The other was created by Dave Hunter - Gammalyte - a friend whose work I wanted to honor here. Dave moved to San Francisco in 1985, embedded himself in the world of Fillmore and Avalon Ballroom poster art, and went on to create silkscreen posters for Metallica, Gov’t Mule, the Grateful Dead family, and dozens more. He passed on May 5, 2017, after a battle with brain cancer. His daughter Jasmine - Jaz - was there with him. Our daughters used to hang out.

So it shouldn’t surprise me that an Ezra Klein episode with Stewart Brand hit me the way it did.

Brand is one of those figures who shaped the modern internet before most people knew what the internet was. He co-created the Trips Festival with Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters. He was present at “the mother of all demos.” He built the Whole Earth Catalog - what Steve Jobs called “Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along.”

His new book is Maintenance: Of Everything, Part One. And his argument is quietly radical: in a culture that worships novelty and disposability, maintenance - caring for things over time - might be the most important and undervalued act.

That resonates with me. Still.

Books I’m adding to my reading list from the episode:

• The Beginning of Infinity by David Deutsch

• The Perfectionists by Simon Winchester

• The Scottish Enlightenment by Arthur Herman

If you’re interested in technology, culture, and what it means to build something that actually lasts, this episode of The Ezra Klein Show is worth your time.

We spent 12 years building a community around events that mattered - and the things people kept that were never meant to be kept. I think about Dave when I think about that. Maintenance isn't just a philosophy. It's what you do when something matters enough to keep.

I was one of the first to leave home after high school. My acceptance to the University of Dayton in Ohio was conditional, based on the grades I earned while taking two college-level courses. I never really did well in school. When people ask why, I usually say ADHD. But there was something much darker I was also trying to hide.

Before I begin, I want to say this clearly: my mother and brother are still alive. Out of respect for them, I will keep my story rooted in facts that can be verified through public records. My intention is not to reopen wounds for the living, nor to disrespect those who have passed.

My reason for sharing this story can best be explained through Return of the Jedi (1983). There’s a moment when Luke Skywalker returns to Dagobah to complete his Jedi training, only to find a dying Yoda. After Yoda passes, Obi-Wan’s spirit appears and tells Luke that to complete his journey, he must face Darth Vader - not only to defeat him, but to redeem his father.

As a kid, I saw an uncanny similarity between Darth Vader and my own father.

I don’t know exactly when my story begins. I was young and don’t remember how old I was when I first experienced family counseling related to my parents’ unhappy marriage. But I do remember meeting Sister Joy at Saint Mary’s College one day. She was kind and genuinely interested in how my mother and father spoke to one another. She asked about my thoughts. My feelings.

When I later tried to understand the origin of the darkness that had taken hold of my father, I learned that his mother, my grandmother, Helen Cernak passed away at age 51 from colon cancer. My father was only 24 years old at the time. I still struggle to imagine the impact that loss had on her six children. I often wonder what it meant for my dad, as the oldest son, and how that responsibility may have added another layer of weight during an already devastating time.

That darkness eventually consumed my grandfather as well. He passed away just fourteen days after my fifth birthday, on January 4, 1989. At the time, I was a cheerleader - and having a smile was part of the uniform, regardless of what I felt inside.

Not long after my grandfather Walter’s death, my father made the decision to return to school and pursue a Master of Fine Arts in Visual Communication at the Art Institute of Chicago.

Several times a week, he took the South Shore train from South Bend to Chicago, leaving early in the morning and returning late in the evening. Even as a child, I could sense the noise in his head by looking at the artwork he was producing. He graduated sometime in 1991. I was in eighth grade, hopeful that this achievement might stop the downward spiral and that it might give his life renewed purpose and meaning.

High school was an awkward time for me. One moment that stands out occurred in 1993, when my mother - unbeknownst to me - reached out to my girlfriend’s father to ask for advice about a divorce lawyer. My girlfriend tried her best to keep that information from me. But the truth has a way of surfacing. I didn’t have a serious relationship during my junior or senior year after that.

Recently, as part of my own effort to face my father’s legacy, I looked up the court records and learned that my mother filed for divorce on May 17, 1995, in St. Joseph County - just three weeks before graduation on June 7, 1995, a moment typically marked by joy, celebration, and possibility.

This wasn’t the story I once imagined growing up. But it is my story and it’s part of what makes me who I am.

Looking back now, I can see that love carried me through those years of darkness and brought me back toward the light. I’m still learning what it means to face the past honestly - not to erase it, but to understand it. My hope, someday, is to be a light for others, and to help end the darkness that so many of us carry quietly through life.

All my friends played basketball, but I never identified as a basketball player. I was a soccer and hockey kid. Cheerleading wasn’t something I had ever considered, until one afternoon after school at my friend Beth Heck’s house. A bunch of us were hanging out on her playground, swinging and talking, when someone mentioned there were cheerleading tryouts this week. Someone else suggested I should go.

At the time, the only exposure I had to cheerleading came from watching games at the University of Notre Dame - my favorite school, the Fighting Irish. I was also at the age where I was becoming curious about girls. I was outgoing, but suddenly there were butterflies. And after spending the summer of 1985 immersed in Paris - watching street performers, musicians, and artists, I had started to understand something new: performance is a form of expression. Cheering, I realized, wasn’t that different.

Trying out felt like challenging the status quo - especially at a Catholic school with strong traditions. But I was surrounded by a caring, supportive community. I was allowed to try out, and I made the squad. What meant a great deal to me was that the school added an additional spot rather than cutting someone else. I never wanted to take an experience away from anyone.

Some people may have questioned how seriously I took cheerleading. But whatever I do, I give my best. The values of Father Theodore Hesburgh - faith, excellence, and service - were already part of my foundation. I decided that if I was going to do this, I owed it to my teammates to do it well. These girls were my friends. They believed in me. The last thing I wanted was to be the weakest link.

That summer, I attended two cheerleading camps - one at Marian High School, and another at Saint Mary’s College (the same school where my wife would later earn her undergraduate degree). Apparently, this was noteworthy enough to land me in the South Bend Tribune on June 17, 1988, in an article titled “Camp Trains Cheerleader To Be Hip-Hip.”

The following summer, I returned to camp at Saint Mary’s. This time, I was old enough to stay in the dorms, now fully immersed, eating every meal alongside 134 girls from across Northern Indiana. That week became unforgettable when a reporter and photographer showed up, and suddenly I found myself on the front page of the South Bend Tribune again. The headline read: “His Slam Dunks Are ‘Awesome’ Toe Touches,” published June 22, 1989. I was 12 years old.

All that work paid off. When the University of Notre Dame hosted the Blue-Gold Game, I had the opportunity to walk out onto the field at halftime ready and confident to give it my best and cheer on my favorite school on the field of their stadium. I even met the Notre Dame cheerleaders and sat in on pre-season practices, seeing firsthand what discipline and excellence looked like at the highest level.

Even in something as unexpected as cheerleading, giving your best matters. Striving for excellence, respecting the craft, and honoring the trust of those around you is a lesson I carry into every part of my life.

It’s been an emotional week. Not the first, and probably not the last. We all struggle in our own way, but for me, living with ADHD has always been the hardest part.

And unlike, say, a heroin addict (not to compare pain, but stay with me), people joke about ADHD. We don’t joke about the gambler who lost his home betting everything on the Cubs. But we throw around “ADHD” like it’s a quirky personality trait. “Oh, I’m so ADHD today” - like forgetting your car keys is the same as living inside a mental hurricane.

ADHD is a mental health condition. It’s often labeled a psychiatric or neurological disorder, but whatever the terminology, it’s a lifelong difference in how your brain is wired. A difference that often comes with stigma, misunderstanding, and a quiet but constant undertone of: you are not like us.

And the truth is, I’ve always known I was different.

Maybe it started in fifth grade, when Miss Dargis asked me in front of the entire class if I knew I had “diarrhea mouth.” (Which, fair. But also, rude.)

By the time I hit high school in the mid-90s, the DSM-IV had just come out, and my parents finally had enough when they saw I pulled a D in Math third quarter junior year. Their solution? Therapy.

So every week, I started seeing Dr. David Botkin, PhD - clinical psychologist, soft-spoken guy, vaguely resembled a hippie in his old high school photo. I decided to be honest with him, because that’s usually how I roll. I told him everything. About my struggles. My restlessness. My frustration. The way my brain worked like 23 radio stations playing at once.

Dr. Botkin introduced me to two life-changing facts:

1. There’s something called ADHD.

2. Every year, there’s a weed festival at the University of Michigan called Hash Bash where you can legally smoke cannabis on the Diag.

This man got me.

He also mentioned the head shop in Ann Arbor called Stairway to Heaven - which I would, purely coincidentally, visit every summer during hockey camp.

By 4th quarter, I was on Ritalin. I had a name for what I was dealing with: ADHD. And for the first time, I felt something close to relief. A reason. A diagnosis. A way to understand why I felt like I was living a few seconds out of sync with the rest of the world. And I pulled off an A in Math fourth quarter.

But here’s the hard truth: life with ADHD isn’t magically solved with medication.

It’s a constant, daily battle. I often feel like I’m wrestling myself just to complete a task that seems simple to most people - send an email, clean the kitchen, pay a bill on time. Meanwhile, my mind is dragging me through 300 open browser tabs, a parade of half-finished thoughts, and the emotional equivalent of a trampoline park run by toddlers on espresso.

To cope, I lean on a toolkit that includes diet, exercise, sleep, medication, little to no alcohol, and continuous learning. My guiding stars right now include:

• Jessica McCabe, whose TED Talk Failing at Normal hit me like a brick wrapped in validation.

• ADDitude Magazine, with its ADHD webinars and articles that remind me I’m not alone.

• LDA Minnesota’s ADHD support group, which meets every other Thursday morning to discuss topics like “ADHD and Change” (this week’s theme).

I sometimes ask myself: if human beings evolved to dominate the planet because of our brains… where does that leave someone with a neurodivergent brain?

The stats aren’t encouraging. Higher rates of anxiety and depression. Increased suicide risk. Emotional dysregulation. Lower life expectancy on average, seven years shorter. Roughly twice the healthcare costs of a neurotypical person.

And for me, the hardest part? Not finding full-time employment after five years of looking. I used to feel like I didn’t fit in - now I feel like I don’t belong.

ADHD affects executive functioning - planning, prioritization, regulation. In this world, that’s not just inconvenient - it can feel like a death sentence for your dreams.

And yet… there are gifts in ADHD.

They don’t always get talked about enough, especially on the dark days. But they’re real.

We have hyperfocus. Creativity. Resilience. Humor. Empathy. Spontaneity. Courage. An ability to connect dots others miss. And yeah - sometimes we have “diarrhea mouth” and talk too much. But if you need someone to turn a Zoom call into a therapy session with jokes? We got you.

So I’m writing this not because I want sympathy - or to be told I’m “so inspiring.”

I’m writing it because I know I’m not the only one who wakes up feeling like a clown.

And if you’ve ever felt like the joke’s on you - I see you.

You’re not broken.

You’re not lazy.

You’re not alone.

You’re just wired differently.

And there’s beauty in that - even if it’s hard to see some days.

Constellations are human inventions - patterns we project onto the stars to help us navigate, understand, and tell stories. The stars in a constellation may be light-years apart, entirely unrelated in space and time, but from our perspective here on Earth, they form something recognizable. That’s exactly what this column is about.

Each week in Nick Cernak’s Constellations, I’m mapping the ideas, people, and moments that - while unrelated on the surface - connect in my own life to create clarity. These “stars” help me see where I’m going as I build Northstar Digital Design, and maybe they can help guide you, too.

In this first edition, I’m spotlighting two brilliant thinkers from very different worlds:

🌟 Scott Galloway, who offers sharp, provocative insight into business, culture, and tech

🌟 Chris Do, who teaches the mindset and mechanics behind creative success with radical honesty

Different disciplines, different styles - but both show up this week as part of the same constellation of thought that’s helping me navigate what’s next.

⭐ Star 1: Scott Galloway – The Prof G Pod

If you don’t know Scott Galloway yet, you should. He’s a marketing professor at NYU’s Stern School of Business, a father of two, a serial entrepreneur, and someone who manages to blend brutal honesty with business brilliance - plus a steady stream of dick jokes.

The Prof G Pod is part business breakdown, part life coaching, part cultural commentary - all delivered with the sharp, unapologetic edge Galloway is known for. He’s not afraid to challenge tech giants, call out BS in corporate leadership, or question sacred cows in business and politics. And as someone building a brand that also aims to defy convention, I find that incredibly refreshing.

What makes this podcast worth your time? It’s the rare mix of data-driven insight and emotional intelligence. One minute he’s walking you through a nuanced breakdown of the markets or a brand strategy, the next he’s talking about fatherhood, mortality, or mental health with disarming vulnerability. It’s smart. It’s human. It’s real.

In a world full of sugar-coated content and polished personas, Galloway’s voice cuts through. If you’re trying to build anything that lasts - in business or in life - this podcast will both challenge and clarify your thinking.

Prof G Media Podcast

⭐ Star 2: Chris Do – The Futur Podcast

If you’re in design, marketing, or branding - and you’re not listening to The Futur - you’re missing one of the most valuable sources of creative and business insight available today.

Hosted by Chris Do, The Futur is a masterclass in the mindset, mechanics, and meaning behind successful creative work. With over 350 episodes (and counting), it’s one of the most in-depth, knowledge-rich podcasts in the space. I’ve already listened to nearly every episode released in 2025 - and once I finish, I plan to go back and listen to the rest.

What keeps me coming back is Chris’s honesty. He’s not here to hype you up with vague inspiration or empty buzzwords. He’s here to teach - plain and simple. Whether he’s talking about pricing strategy, client psychology, storytelling, personal growth, or how to lead a creative business with integrity, Chris delivers real value every time.

For me, The Futur has become essential listening. Chris’s guidance has shaped how I think about design not just as a craft, but as a business - one built on trust, clarity, and communication. His advice has had such a lasting impact that I’ve already made a promise to myself: when I land my first big client job through Northstar, I’m putting a portion of that revenue toward joining Futur Pro, the $5,000/year membership community Chris leads. That’s how much I believe in the value he’s created for creative professionals. (I bookmarked it here: thefutur.com/pro-group)

The Futur Podcast

These two voices - Scott Galloway and Chris Do - couldn’t be more different in tone, but both are part of my daily creative practice. When a new episode drops from either The Prof G Pod or The Futur, it’s the first thing I listen to that morning. Before I open my laptop or start designing, I tune in, not just to be informed - but to be grounded. Their perspectives challenge me, reframe how I see the world, and give me tools I can apply in real time as I build Northstar Digital Design. That’s what this column is really about: paying attention to the light that helps you move forward.

That’s the inspiration behind Nick Cernak’s Constellations - a new weekly column where I’ll share the people, ideas, and moments that give me clarity and momentum as I build , my new creative agency.

We’re still living in the Attention Economy, but the landscape has changed. In a post-COVID, post-chatGPT world, we’ve entered a strange and fast-moving chapter in human history. AI is accelerating everything. Certainty is rare. But storytelling - sharing what’s real, honest, and makes me me - still cuts through the noise.

That’s why I’m building Northstar slowly, intentionally, and transparently. After 15 years in San Francisco moving fast and breaking things, I’m now more interested in moving smart and building things that last. I believe that when you respect others’ time and space, they’re more likely to respect yours. As a father of two amazing kids, I often say: “You get back what you put out. If you lead with respect, it comes back around.” In yoga, this principle is called Asteya (non-stealing). I see it as a guide not just for living, but for branding, marketing, and building anything worth trusting.

So while Nick Cernak will be the raw, behind-the-scenes look at my process - with all its experiments, stumbles, and learning curves - Northstar will launch polished, intentional, and built for my target audience. It’s not a testing ground, it’s where the lessons work.

⸻

Why This Column? Why Now?

Because people buy into people first - then into brands.

My personal credibility is the foundation of Northstar’s reputation.

Because my story matters.

How I got into design and marketing. The lessons I’ve learned. The values that shape how I work. These aren’t side notes - they’re the difference between generic and genuine.

Because I’m not new - I’m newly branded.

And the process of rebranding yourself, especially after years behind the scenes, is as vulnerable as it is powerful. I want to share that process with you, openly.

⸻

What to Expect from Nick’s Constellations

Each week, I’ll highlight two “stars” - ideas, tools, people, books, or conversations—that helped me gain clarity or creative momentum. Think of it like a map made from light: small signals that help me find my direction - and might help you find yours, too.

This is the way. This is Northstar Digital Design.

The recent news about the closing of Big River Pizza in Saint Paul hit me harder than I expected. I didn’t realize how personal it would feel—until I read what owner Steve Lott wrote in his farewell:

“The storyteller makes no choice, soon you will not hear his voice.

His job is to shed light, and not to master…

Since the end is never told, we pay the teller off in gold,

In hopes he will come back, but he cannot be bought or sold.”

— Grateful Dead, “Terrapin Station”

Those lyrics brought a wave of emotion - because they reminded me of a day that changed everything for me.

April 7, 2020

The day John Prine died was also the day I lost my father. I was living in San Rafael, California at the time - just 1.5 miles from Terrapin Crossroads, the beloved venue and community space founded by Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead.

Because of COVID, I couldn’t fly home. I couldn’t sit at his bedside. I couldn’t help with arrangements. I couldn’t be the son I wanted to be.

That kind of helplessness does something to you. You feel like your body’s still here, but a part of you is locked in a room you can’t enter.

I kept pushing forward - like always. I’ve never been one to slow down. For years, my idea of success was simple: keep my head down, work hard, build a future for my wife and two amazing kids. I thought if I could just buy a house in Northern California, it would all mean something. I could tell my dad I made it. I could say: “You were a good father - and because of you, I became one too.”

But grief rewires your soul. It makes you question everything you thought you knew about what matters.

Losing Terrapin

When Terrapin Crossroads announced its closure on November 5, 2021, it felt like losing a second home.

For those unfamiliar, Terrapin wasn’t just a venue. It was a living, breathing symbol of what makes the Grateful Dead community so unique: improvisation, storytelling, human connection, and a little bit of cosmic weirdness.

I’d been living in the Bay Area since 2007. In 2015, after eight years in Oakland, my family and I relocated to San Rafael. Terrapin Crossroads was part of what drew us there. It felt like the universe placed us close to something sacred.

So when it closed, I was devastated—not just because of the loss, but because I didn’t understand how it could happen.

As someone with a business degree and a career in branding, marketing, and user experience, it just didn’t compute. How could Phil Lesh—a founding member of the Grateful Dead, with a cult-like fanbase and decades of goodwill—fail in the heart of Deadhead country?

And if Phil Lesh couldn’t make it…

How could I?

The Bigger Question

Before I was a designer and developer, I was a waiter. I worked at Emeril’s in Atlanta while earning my business degree at Georgia State. I learned how to read people, serve them with empathy, and make something ordinary feel extraordinary.

I also met icons—Janet Jackson, Paul Stanley, and André 3000 (a week before OutKast dropped Speakerboxxx/The Love Below). I’ve seen up close how creative legends operate—and how fragile even the biggest empires can be.

The restaurant industry is brutal. Most places don’t last. Buzz fades. Loyalty is fickle. But Terrapin felt different. It had heart. It had legacy. It had Phil. So when it failed, I felt something crack inside me.

Coming Home to Myself

I launched my first site, nickcernak.com, on November 7, 2006. WordPress was still in its infancy. I chose it because I believed in open-source tools, in freedom, in building things with intention.

Fifteen years later, I looked up and realized I was swimming in a sea of Squarespace templates, AI builders, and cookie-cutter brands. I started asking myself: How do I stay relevant in a world that rewards speed over soul?

I don’t have venture capital. I’m not backed by celebrity. I’m just a guy from South Bend who believes in making the world a more beautiful place and being the best father I can be everyday. That’s my why.

So I’ve redefined success.

Not in dollars. Not in square footage. But in impact.

If I can help one person tell their story more clearly -

If I can help one business connect with their people more meaningfully -

If I can make something that gives someone else hope -

Then I’m doing what I came here to do.

Like the storyteller in the Grateful Dead song, maybe I’m not here to master. Maybe I’m here to shed light. ⚡️❤️

💬 Thanks for reading.

If this story resonates, I’d love to hear from you. Let’s connect, or feel free to reply to this post and share your story.

Over the years, it’s become clear that many of California’s most persistent challenges - housing shortages, rising costs, homelessness, and infrastructure failures - have continued under long-standing one-party leadership.

While the Democratic Party has held power with the intent to create a more equitable and progressive state, the outcomes haven’t always aligned with those ideals.

There’s growing frustration among everyday families who feel left behind by policies that, despite good intentions, haven’t delivered practical solutions. It’s a reminder that accountability, balance, and results should matter more than party lines.

In sum California, best of luck charting your future. May you someday find the political courage to say yes to housing without a 12-year environmental review… and maybe even finish that high-speed rail before traffic on the 101 gets any better.

☮️ ❤️ 💡