My Journey

From the outside, my childhood looked good. I had the toys, the holidays, the material comfort. But inside the walls of that house, I was starving—for presence, for connection, for safety.

My father was never around. He was always working, chasing safety, lost in stress. I learned early on that men sacrifice family for provision—that this was honorable. But now I see it for what it really was: avoidance. He was running from himself, and we, his children, carried the weight of his unprocessed pain.

My mother? Always overwhelmed. Living a life to please others, disconnected from her own truth. I grew up emotionally abandoned.

I was bullied through my school years. The environments I was left in for “care” became spaces of abuse—mentally, physically, emotionally. I was constantly told something was wrong with me, dragged from specialist to specialist, medicated, misunderstood. But the truth was simple—my nervous system was shot, my environment toxic, and my soul was crying out for love.

I was praised for what I did, not for who I was. So I became a master of performance. I lied. I manipulated. I became what people wanted to see so I could feel worthy.

I chased strength in the gym, not to grow—but to be seen, respected, and feared. But none of it made me happy.

I destroyed friendships. I ruined relationships. My inner world was chaos—filled with darkness, shame, and a voice that told me I’d never be enough.

Then she walked into my life. My wife.

She held up a mirror so sharp I couldn’t look away. If I didn’t face myself—I would lose her. I would lose everything real.

And so began the real work. The painful path. The rising.