Hormones, Health, and Energy. Kevin Kuder Serving Others

Paul Pantani
Nov 24, 2025
15 min read

Helping Veterans and First Responders at Game Day Men's Health

In episode 223 of the Transition Drill Podcast, Health is more than fitness and motivation, it’s understanding why your body feels the way it does and finding real answers instead of noise. In this powerful conversation, Kevin Kuder, owenr of Game Day Men’s Health in Murrieta, CA., shares his life journey from a military household in Minnesota to teaching English in South Korea to grinding through sales and medical recruiting in California before finding purpose in helping veterans, police officers, and first responders get their health back. Hormone and TRT therapy, stress management, and personalized care have become his calling, especially for those who carry high pressure jobs and rarely talk about their fatigue or burnout. Kevin’s mission isn’t to sell a fix, it’s to serve people in uniform and civilians who want to feel strong again, think clearly again, and live with more energy and direction. If you’ve ever wondered why you feel worn down or out of balance, this story might change how you see your health.

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Minnesota Roots and a Military Homefront

Before Game Day Men’s Health existed, before the clinic in Murrieta became a lifeline for veterans and first responders across Riverside County, there was a kid growing up in St. Paul, Minnesota. Kevin grew up in a blue collar neighborhood where work ethic was currency, sports were a proving ground, and his father cast a long shadow without ever needing to say much. His dad was a Navy Command Master Chief, the kind of leader who spent his life driving across states to watch his son’s football games while still carrying the weight of recruiting, managing hundreds of sailors, and serving in uniform long after many would have retired. Kevin’s mother worked in the airline industry, which meant structure, long shifts, and a strong focus on earning that pension back when pensions still meant something. That upbringing was a collision of discipline and sacrifice, and it quietly shaped the kind of man Kevin would try to become.

He was smart in school but got bored easily. Report cards would often read too intelligent, not challenged enough. He admits he loved sports more than textbooks and chased playing time instead of letter grades. Football became his anchor, his outlet, and as high school rolled forward, he started stepping into the world his father knew so well. With military service in the family bloodline, the idea of serving was never far away. He even entered the delayed entry program for the Army, took the tests, cleared the hurdles, and was ready to ship out after graduation. But a recruiter mishandled his paperwork and the whole thing collapsed. It never happened. He took it as a sign instead of a setback.

Kevin never felt pressure from his father to serve. His dad believed in letting his kids fall on their face when needed, find their way forward, and make decisions that had real consequences. His mom was more worried than supportive about the military, especially coming off the first Gulf War era. The air was still thick with patriotism, but the risks were visible on television every day. Kevin wanted college assistance, structure, and a reset from some of the crowds he had been running with. In his words, he was intelligent and hardworking, but not always making the best choices. Military service would have given him immediate structure, but fate put him on a different road.

Graduation came in 1994, and without the Army on the horizon he stepped into college at St. Cloud State University, a medium sized school about an hour north of the Twin Cities. He was drawn to psychology, mainly because people always came to him with their problems. Everyone said he would make a good psychologist, but he wanted something more dynamic. He discovered industrial psychology, a way to use psychology inside the business world, studying hierarchy, behavior, culture, and leadership through a different lens. It felt like consulting with more humanity, a career that had potential, but also required further schooling that he never fully committed to. School gave him direction, but he still craved life experience more than academic achievement.

He worked service industry jobs through college, bartended, served in upscale restaurants, and collected business cards from professionals who offered him career opportunities when he returned from traveling. But more importantly, he learned how to read people, talk to strangers, solve problems on the fly, and build relationships quickly. Those lessons would eventually carry over into medical recruiting, sales, and later business ownership. They were also laying a hidden foundation for what he would one day do inside Game Day Men’s Health, where veterans and first responders often walk in with a list of symptoms, frustration, and confusion about why their health is declining earlier than it should.

Growing up in a military household meant seeing service in action without watching war firsthand. Kevin learned that sacrifice sometimes looks like a parent driving six hours every weekend through snowstorms just to watch a football game. His father never forced the military onto his children. He showed it through example, through attitude, through quiet resilience. That leadership and that model of service would come back years later when Kevin began working with first responders dealing with elevated cortisol levels, poor sleep, burnout, hormone issues, emotional fatigue, and lingering effects from the job. At the time, he had no idea this would be his future, but the seeds were there long before he opened his clinic’s doors.

College gave him enough knowledge to understand people, but experience made him understand purpose. He was beginning to realize that serving others did not always require a uniform, and that sometimes the most powerful change comes from someone who listens first, asks questions second, and only solves problems when trust is built. That mindset led him across the Pacific.

Korea, Teaching, and the Year That Changed Everything

South Korea started as an idea, then turned into a leap. Kevin wanted to see the world, but he did not want to do it as a tourist. He wanted to live somewhere that forced him to adapt, not just pass through. He wanted to earn his way into a new culture, not walk behind a tour guide with a camera around his neck. He had listened to adopted Korean friends in college, heard about their heritage, their challenges growing up in small American towns, and it sparked something in him. He realized the world was bigger than St. Paul and he did not want his future to be decided by inertia.

Traveling was expensive, so he asked a simple question, how can I travel and still get paid? That question led him to a teaching opportunity in Pusan, South Korea. This was before high speed internet, before translation apps, before GPS made foreign streets easy to navigate. It was a different era, and with nothing more than a few basic calls and emails, he accepted the job. He packed everything into his dad’s old Navy duffel bag, hugged his family at the gate back when goodbyes happened right next to the plane door, and stepped onto the flight with a nervous stomach and a one year commitment. There was no backup plan. There was no safety net. There was only forward motion.

Teaching English there was not in a traditional classroom. It was an afterschool academy, part of the Korean culture of constant learning. Students would attend regular school all day, then move to various academies in the evening for math, music, or language. He taught kids, teenagers, and even housewives who wanted to improve their English. He did not speak the language and had to learn quickly just to read labels in a grocery store. Every walk through town required focus and patience. Every interaction was earned. That humility taught him more about people than any textbook ever could.

At first it felt like a movie scene, loud streets, bright signs, unfamiliar food, and the feeling that every set of eyes could pick him out in a crowd. He stood out immediately and locals often assumed he was military. But he made the effort to learn Korean, even simple phrases, and it changed everything. Once he said teacher instead of soldier, the tone of conversation changed. Learning the language showed respect, and respect opened doors he never would have walked through otherwise. Over time, he found himself adapting, getting comfortable, learning local spots, and even walking into restaurants with nondescript signs that only showed what was served fish, meat, or noodles.

He made friends from Korea, Scandinavia, and across the shipping industry. He traveled to Beijing and saw China before rapid development covered it in modern glass. He visited his cousin in Japan and hiked through landscapes most tourists never see. He lived cheaply, taught during the day, explored whenever he could, and realized he was finally living on his own terms. It became more than a teaching job or a travel experience. It became proof that he could thrive in a foreign environment and navigate life with very little except grit, curiosity, and willingness to learn.

But growth always comes with contrast. When he returned to Minnesota after that year abroad, he experienced something unexpected reverse culture shock. Home suddenly felt strange. He walked into a Target for the first time in months and felt overwhelmed. The pace of life in America felt too fast. Everything looked the same as when he had left, but he was not the same person. Life appeared frozen in time and he no longer fit the same way. He did not call it maturity. It was perspective. Experience had widened the lens through which he viewed life, and now the familiar felt foreign.

That discomfort revealed something powerful about human nature. We adapt when we are pushed. We grow when we have no choice. He realized that people do not need perfect conditions to transform. They need challenge. They need unfamiliar territory. They need something that forces them to think, act, and see the world differently. Later in life, that belief would shape the way he talked to men about their health, especially veterans and first responders who often struggle with identity once the routine of service changes. When the noise stops and the uniform comes off, identity becomes a question instead of a foundation.

His time in Korea taught him that discomfort is not the enemy. It is fuel. Sometimes you have to leave everything familiar just to figure out who you really are. That lesson would eventually lead him to California, into medical recruiting, into the grind of sales, and eventually into the world of hormones, health, and leadership from the inside out.

For now, one thing was clear. He needed a new direction, and that direction was nowhere near Minnesota. He packed his car, headed west, and drove toward San Diego without a plan except to start his life on purpose. That drive eventually collided with the day everything changed, the day he walked into Game Day Health as a patient, not an owner.

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California, the Grind Years, and the Shift Toward Purpose

The move to California was not polished or strategic. It was a car packed with whatever he owned, a few connections, and a willingness to see what he was capable of. He landed in Pacific Beach with no steady income, no long term plan, but he had just enough grit to take a chance. A friend offered a couch to crash on, the ocean was close enough to hear, and the promise of a different life felt possible for the first time. He kept it respectful, kept the place clean, stocked the fridge with beer as a thank you, and started hustling for work while trying to build a life worth staying for.

He went back to what he knew, bartending and serving. In fine dining restaurants he learned how professionals talked business over dinner, how deals were made between drinks, and how reading people was just as valuable as reading a spreadsheet. Those skills helped him step into his first real career opportunity in California medical staffing. A friend knew someone opening a nurse staffing franchise in Carlsbad and got him an interview. He said yes before knowing exactly what he was getting into, but he knew it was a step forward and that was all that mattered.

The job was not glamorous. It was cold calls, long hours, meetings with families needing home health care, coordinating staffing schedules, managing nurses, and learning the medical world from the ground up. But he found meaning in it. He saw people who needed help. He talked to families who were worn down by health issues and stress. He learned that taking care of people is not always complicated, but it has to be personal. Sometimes service meant listening when no one else would. That realization planted something important in his mind that he would not fully understand until years later.

Medical staffing gave him a foothold, but he still needed more. He eventually pivoted into medical equipment sales and rode that industry for nearly a decade. The work demanded long days and relentless effort. Sales quotas, driving all over Southern California, navigating corporate expectations, and trying to grow professionally at the same time. He saw hospitals from the inside, watched nurses struggle with resources, and started to realize that health care was often missing the personal connection people actually needed. His psychology background quietly helped him navigate the human side of the job, but there was also an unspoken reality the grind was wearing on him.

Meanwhile, California shaped his life in ways he never expected. He met his future wife. He began to build roots. He pulled away from the plan of returning to Minnesota. San Diego was no longer an experiment. It had become home. But work was taking a toll. Around two or three o’clock each day his energy crashed. Eyes got heavy, brain got foggy, and no amount of coffee could keep him sharp. He was still young enough to keep pushing, but something felt off. He was putting in the effort, living a healthy lifestyle, and still felt worn down. He didn’t talk about it much. He did what most do he stuffed it down and tried to power through it.

The longer he worked in sales and medical equipment, the more clearly he saw the difference between traditional medicine and what people actually needed. Corporations want metrics. Patients want answers. Doctors are rushed, systems are overloaded, and symptoms get bundled into a quick diagnosis instead of being understood. He saw it happening over and over. He also started noticing what chronic stress does to the body, especially for people working in high pressure roles. Later he would learn more about cortisol, hormone decline, burnout, and endocrine health. At the time, he only knew one thing something inside him was slipping and he did not know why.

When fatigue began affecting his performance, he started researching on his own. TRT entered his lens through articles and scattered information online. Even before the explosion of content on men’s health, he sensed this might be something worth learning about, but stigma and confusion made it hard to trust. So he carried his questions quietly and tested the waters with caution. That curiosity eventually led him to Game Day Men’s Health as a patient.

It felt personal, not clinical. He met a real person, not a clipboard. He saw his blood panels in real time, talked through the results, and discovered his testosterone levels were low enough to explain what he had been feeling. It took courage to admit something was off. It took more courage to do something about it. That decision became a hinge point in his life one that would eventually redirect his purpose completely.

He spent years building a career, grinding through California traffic, working in medical sales, trying to stay sharp and present as a husband and father. But that moment inside Game Day felt like someone lifting a veil. Something was finally clear. If health could decline quietly, then solutions had to be personal, monitored, and built around the individual, not just numbers on a lab sheet.

He began TRT. It took time to feel changes, but when they came, they were real. Energy returned. Focus improved. Sleep stabilized. He did not feel younger, he felt like himself again. That shift opened a door he could not ignore. He started paying attention to hormone health, metabolic function, and the patterns he had seen in others for years. Especially men who grind for a living first responders, cops, military veterans, and anyone else who carries stress like a second skin. TRT wasn’t a finish line. It was the starting point. He began seeing a path he never expected. Health could be service. Medicine could be personal. Listening could bring change. He stopped being just a patient. He became part of the mission.

Game Day Men’s Health and a Mission That Found Him

Walking into Game Day Men’s Health as a patient turned into something far deeper than a medical appointment. It forced Kevin to ask questions about his own health, his own habits, and the direction of his life. It was the first time he experienced care that felt personal, not procedural. When he saw his labs, talked face to face with someone who cared, and felt his body begin to respond, he understood something that echoed from his childhood all the way through his time in Korea and the grind years in California health has to be human, not transactional.

It did not take long before he realized this was bigger than his own experience. Men were walking around exhausted, unhealthy, confused, and frustrated. Many did not even understand why their bodies felt different than they used to. Some were ashamed to ask for help. Others waited to collapse before talking to anyone. Hormones were rarely discussed openly unless it was tied to bodybuilding or performance enhancement. There was stigma, misinformation, and fear. Yet every day, men walked into the clinic and stayed for longer conversations than they expected. They needed guidance, not judgment. Answers, not lectures. Someone to listen before trying to fix anything.

That mindset aligned perfectly with Kevin’s own personality and life experience. He knew what it felt like to serve people quietly, whether that meant teaching kids in Korea, staffing nurses for families in need, or talking with men at a bar about fatigue and stress. His psychology background gave him tools to ask the right questions. His sales background gave him the ability to communicate clearly and adapt. His lived experience gave him credibility. It was no longer about spreadsheets or quotas. It was about people.

Game Day was founded by Evan Miller, a doctor of psychology who originally envisioned a men’s club that felt like a man cave not a clinic. A place where men could talk honestly without feeling judged. Over time, it evolved into a medical model that still preserved that intimate atmosphere. It focused on hormone health, individualized treatment, blood panels that went deeper than standard checkups, and a commitment to understanding symptoms through conversation, not just lab ranges. That approach aligned with something Kevin believed deeply men do not need to be told what their problems are, they already know. They need someone to listen, someone to help them understand their options, and someone who cares about outcomes instead of just numbers.

When Kevin transitioned from patient to franchise owner in Murrieta, California, he did not enter as an outsider. He entered as someone who had sat in the chair, experienced the process, and felt the difference in his own life. His clinic quickly became more than a service point. It became a lifeline for military veterans, police officers, firefighters, paramedics, and anyone living under pressure. Over forty percent of his patients are first responders. Many walk in carrying elevated cortisol, broken sleep patterns, weight fluctuation, irritability, loss of libido, anxiety, or creeping depression. Some know the term operator syndrome. Others just call it feeling burned out. Either way, the endocrine system does not lie. Stress shows up somewhere. If it’s ignored, it compounds.

At Game Day, each visit begins with conversation. A real one. Not five minutes in a lobby and a quick exit. They talk about sleep, family dynamics, job stress, alcohol use, exercise patterns, nutrition, and energy levels. Lab panels follow, but they aren’t the driver. They’re a tool. The mission is centered on maximizing the individual’s potential, not pushing everyone toward a generic normal. Science matters. People matter more. TRT is never presented as a cheat code. It’s a spark plug. The body still needs effort, discipline, and consistency to thrive. Hormones can restore balance, but they require action from the individual. As Kevin puts it, reading glasses aren’t cheating. Neither is using the right fuel when your body stops making it.

That perspective resonates heavily with military members and first responders. They have spent years sacrificing their bodies, starving their sleep, carrying heavy mental loads, and running high stress rhythms that eventually push the endocrine system into dysfunction. Many of them come into Game Day exhausted but ready to reclaim control. They want to get back to who they used to be, not chase youth, but reclaim strength, presence, and resilience. Kevin sees it every day and makes sure each visit honors the service they have given. His father’s example taught him that service is more than uniform. It’s leadership. It’s sacrifice. It’s care.

Owning Game Day Men’s Health in Murrieta is not just business ownership for Kevin. It’s service in a new form. His clinic offers personalized hormone therapy, education, guidance, and honest conversation. It helps men and women understand their health from the inside out. It gives first responders and military veterans a place to step out of the noise and look at their health with clarity. It creates accountability without shame. It shows that strength does not mean silence. Health does not require perfection. Healing begins when someone feels heard.

Today, the mission is simple but powerful. Help people feel better. Help them understand their bodies. Give them tools and knowledge instead of confusion. Listen before prescribing anything. Show them that aging is not surrender and that poor health is not destiny. Whether it’s a firefighter walking in after night shift or a veteran dealing with a decade of exhaustion or a civilian parent who just wants more energy to be present with their kids the goal is always the same. Help them get back to feeling human.

For Kevin, this chapter is not the conclusion of his story. It’s the first time it all made sense. Every experience, every risk, every lesson, every struggle they all pointed to this path. A path of service. A path of purpose. Game Day Men’s Health is more than a clinic. It’s a place where people walk in carrying weight and leave carrying hope.

Closing Thoughts

Kevin’s journey proves that health is never just physical, it’s tied to identity, purpose, and the pressure we carry in silence. Veterans, first responders, and hardworking professionals often accept exhaustion as normal, but Game Day Men’s Health shows that feeling better is possible when someone takes the time to listen. Hormones, stress, sleep, and mindset all matter, especially when the job demands everything you’ve got. Kevin isn’t offering shortcuts, he’s helping people reclaim clarity, strength, and direction one honest conversation at a time. If you’ve been feeling worn down or stuck, his story is a reminder you don’t have to stay there.

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