The Dreams I Can’t Shake

Some nights, healing doesn’t look like peace.

It looks like panic.

Like cold air and a shadow you can’t outrun.

This is one of those nights.

The first dream came years ago, but it still hasn’t left me.

I was running. Panicked. Chased.

The world around me looked like something out of the Upside Down—dark, cold, twisted.

I stumbled into a warehouse, searching for a place to hide. Found a bathroom with no lights. Locked myself inside a stall.

Then—boom.

The door ripped off its hinges.

And standing there… was something darker than the dark around it.

I couldn’t see its face, but I could feel it watching me. Breathing.

There was no way out. I was frozen.

I woke up drenched in sweat. My heart racing. My body locked in the panic of a past I thought I had escaped.

The second dream came months later. Softer. But it cut even deeper.

I was walking through a beautiful field—green pastures, soft skies. Peaceful.

Then a boy approached me.

Young.

Terrified.

He looked familiar.

Because he was me.

He stared up at me and asked, “Am I going to be okay?”

And I couldn’t answer.

I just looked at him, holding back tears.

Because I didn’t know.

He was asking me the same thing I had been asking myself for years.

And I didn’t have the words.

I’ve had a lot of therapy.

Read a lot of books.

Talked through a lot of pain.

But nothing has ever captured my inner world quite like those dreams.

The beast that reminds me of what I’ve run from.

And the boy who reminds me of what I still haven’t fully healed.

Trauma doesn’t just live in memory. It lives in muscle. In sleep. In silence.

But here’s the thing—

I’m still here.

Still building. Still healing. Still answering that question every day:

“Am I going to be okay?”

And maybe now, I’m starting to believe:

Yes.

One day at a time.

One piece at a time.

And if you’ve had dreams you can’t shake?

You’re not alone.

I get it.

I’m with you.

And I’m not running anymore.

12: What Overcoming Addiction Really Looks Like

never thought I could become addicted.

I’ve always been calculated. Cautious. Smart about what I put in my body.

But addiction doesn’t care who you are.

It’s not a moral failing.

It’s a human response to pain.

How we get there is different. But the result is the same.

You become physically, emotionally, and mentally dependent on your vice.

Drugs. Porn. Gambling. Sex. Fame. Food. Money.

Different paths—same trap.

Because the real addiction isn’t the thing.

It’s what’s underneath the thing.

It’s the craving for comfort. For validation. For escape.

So recovery isn’t just about quitting.

It’s about unraveling.

Step one? Remove the behavior.

Step two? Find out why you needed it in the first place.

That’s where the real work starts.

For me, the painkillers were never the full problem.

They were a response to pain I didn’t know how to process—

The injury. The shame. The trauma. The feeling of failure.

And the confusion of being someone who “should’ve had it all together”—but didn’t.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Talk to someone. About everything.

Even the things you don’t think matter.

Especially those things.

Sometimes your “default brain” is screaming, while your conscious mind thinks everything is fine.

Talk to someone you trust. Lay it all out.

You can’t heal what you’re still hiding.

2. Medication isn’t weakness. It’s a tool.

I tried over 10 different prescriptions across 5 years.

Some helped. Some didn’t. Some helped, then stopped helping.

That’s not failure. That’s chemistry.

Wellbutrin helped me the most. At one point, it was essential.

Then, over time, I stopped taking it.

A year later, I tried it again—and it didn’t do anything.

That was proof my brain had started to find its balance again.

The point isn’t the pill. The point is persistence.

Don’t give up because the first—or fifth—try doesn’t work.

Keep fighting for your own mind.

3. Understand this: you can be sober and still feel broken.

That’s the part no one warns you about.

You can remove the behavior. You can be clean. And still feel like you’re barely surviving.

But I promise—even that feeling fades.

And what replaces it is something you didn’t think you’d ever feel again:

Peace. Stability. Trust in yourself.

And eventually? Joy.

Addiction isn’t the end of your story.

You don’t just survive it.

You outgrow it.

And one day, you’ll look back and say:

“I don’t even recognize that version of me anymore.”

And you’ll know—you’re never going back.

11: The Life I Built- Still Building

Marriage didn’t fix me.

It wasn’t a clean ending or a magical resolution.

But it gave me something I hadn’t had in a long time—

A reason to keep becoming.

The day I married my wife, I wasn’t perfect.

I wasn’t fully healed.

But I was honest.

And that changed the way I showed up.

I started building.

From the ground up.

Not trying to go back to who I was—

But forward.

Toward who I was meant to be.

I started my own business.

Worked hard.

Made mistakes.

Learned.

I wasn’t the most talented.

But I was relentless.

Marketing became my language.

My craft.

Every campaign, every client, every late night at the desk was me

proving to myself that I could take what was broken and still build something strong.

And then—we had a baby on the way.

That changed everything again.

Because suddenly, my story wasn’t just mine.

It belonged to him.

And all the things I had carried—

the pain, the shame, the trauma—

I didn’t want to pass it on.

I wanted to be the man he could look at and say,

“That’s what strength looks like.”

Not perfection.

But presence.

Not a life without scars.

But a life where the scars meant something.

So I kept working.

Kept growing.

Kept healing.

And little by little, I stopped seeing myself as the kid who blew it.

I started seeing myself as the man who came back.

The man who chose to stay.

Who chose to feel.

Who chose to love.

The life I live now didn’t come easy.

Didn’t come quickly.

But I built it.

And for the first time in a very long time—

I know exactly who I am.

I hope this resonates with anyone who’s taken the time to read this. From here, I’ll start unpacking details on each chapter- things that deserved their own section to describe in detail.

I’ll share things I learned, things that helped, and the mental gymnastics I went through to get where I am today. It’s not pretty, but my hope is that I can help someone “skip the line” even just a little bit. It’s possible, and I think we can give you a faster track than the 10 or more years it took me.

One thing I saw a few years back that has always stuck in my head is this. “One day your story might become someone else’s survival guide.” That’s what has led me here. You’re not alone, I’m here. We can do this together.

Healing, listening.

10: The First Time I Was Truly Seen

My wife changed me.

Not in a dramatic, rom-com kind of way.

But in the way that rewires a person quietly.

Completely.

She was the first person who accepted me.

Truly accepted me.

But even then—I held things back.

I still had my struggles.

I still wore a mask.

I didn’t want her to see me any different than the man she fell in love with.

I kept things from her for years.

The shame. The past. The pills. The spiral. Mr. B.

The pain I carried but couldn’t always name.

We got engaged.

We planned a life.

But this thought kept creeping in:

She doesn’t know everything.

And she deserves to.

This was the biggest decision of her life—marrying me.

She needed to know exactly who she was saying yes to.

Even if it changed everything.

I had a handful of moments before our wedding where I broke down.

Hard.

Because I knew what I had to do.

I had to tell her.

I had to risk her seeing me differently.

Risk her walking away.

And when I finally told her?

When I finally said everything I had buried?

She didn’t flinch.

She met me with warmth.

With love.

With understanding.

She accepted me.

All of me.

The good.

The broken.

The ashamed.

The unfinished.

That changed everything.

Someone saw me.

Not just the polished version.

Not the football player. Not the hard worker. Not the guy rebuilding.

She saw the pain.

And didn’t run.

That moment—the moment I was truly seen and accepted—

That was the final push.

The one that got me out of the chaotic ocean I’d been drowning in for nearly a decade.

I wasn’t back to the old me.

I started to truly get better. I broke the silence. The person I cared most about in this world didn’t run, didn’t judge. Just loved.

I continued to get better.

I wasn’t doing it alone. I was doing it with someone I trusted whole heartedly.

09: The Rebuild

I wish I could say this chapter started clean.

That I got off the pills, found peace, and slowly got better.

But that’s not what happened.

What followed was a long, messy, brutal stretch of life I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

I had the surgery. I got clean. I was off painkillers for good.

But then I had to face everything I’d been running from.

And I wasn’t ready.

I struggled to cope with what had happened.

Everything I had done. Everything I had become.

How could I let this happen?

I had ruined my life.

There was so much promise, and now I was in my mid-to-late twenties, watching my friends get married, have kids, launch careers.

I felt like I was a mile behind and sinking.

The shame and guilt stuck to me like oil.

Thick. Dark. Impossible to scrub off.

I was depressed. Anxious. I had trouble socializing. Trouble smiling.

Everything felt fake.

How could I go out in the world and do something positive when I didn’t even feel like I deserved life?

And the worst part? The accountability.

This was my fault.

I knew the danger of opiates.

And I still dove in.

Not just to escape the pain in my body—but the pain in my soul.

Because opioids don’t just numb injuries. They numb everything.

For the next 5–6 years, I lived in the quiet wreckage of that choice.

I got a job.

I taught myself digital marketing.

I tried to build a life.

And I had some success.

But when you’re depressed, everything feels hard.

Waking up. Getting to work. Finishing a project. Answering a text.

Just existing took effort.

I kept asking myself:

How much longer can I keep this up?

I thought about Mr. B a lot.

I thought about the abuse, the pills, my parents’ divorce, the NFL that never happened.

I felt so far behind.

So unfinished.

I went to therapy.

Tried prescriptions.

Antidepressants. Anti-anxiety meds. Mood stabilizers.

And I felt like a zombie.

So I started taking Adderall just to offset the fog.

I needed to function.

To get work done.

To stay afloat.

When prescriptions didn’t work fast enough, I got amphetamines illegally.

It was a mess.

But I had a job. I had clients. I had bills.

So I kept trying to make it all work while my brain was barely holding together.

It wasn’t until I moved to El Paso that something shifted.

I started working out.

A lot.

Every day, the gym.

Not for looks.

Not for performance.

Just for survival.

Maybe if I took care of my body, my mind would follow.

That first year, I lost hope more times than I can count.

It felt like it wasn’t working.

I was off all prescriptions, but the withdrawal from that numbness made me feel like I was living in a dark trap.

But I stayed in it.

I started sitting with the pain.

Not avoiding it. Not medicating it.

Just being in it.

It didn’t get better overnight.

But it started to get lighter.

Little moments.

Tiny flickers of happiness.

Not constant.

But just enough to keep me going.

It took 7–8 years to feel a glimpse of real hope.

And around that time—I met her.

My wife.

The beginning of something new.

Something whole.

Something finally worth holding onto.

08: When the Foundation Cracked

After I lost my scholarship at ASU, I transferred to Texas State.

I still had a shot.

Still had a leg.

Still had hope.

But I also had pain.

Real, physical, unrelenting pain that wouldn’t go away.

I started seeing doctors—but no one took X-rays.

No one looked deeper.

They just prescribed.

This was the height of the OxyContin epidemic.

Pain management clinics were more like vending machines with lab coats.

So I did what I thought I had to do:

I went to the clinics.

I got the prescriptions.

I took the pills.

Because if I didn’t? I couldn’t punt.

That’s how I made it through my junior year.

I played hurt.

Every week.

And still managed to get honorable mention or third team All-American—I honestly can’t remember which.

Because I was in survival mode.

I was managing pain.

Fighting through doubt.

Trying to hold on.

And then, right before my senior season—

Everything imploded.

My phone rang. It was my dad.

“Your mom left.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t understand. She left. She wants a divorce.”

I was crushed.

This wasn’t just a breakup.

This was the end of the only thing that ever gave me structure.

My family was everything to me.

And now it was gone.

My dad was a wreck.

My mom wanted a new life. A freer life. The life she deserved.

I didn’t know how to process it.

I just knew that something in my soul broke that day—and never fully came back.

The divorce changed everything.

Family dynamics. Trust. Holidays.

Even the sidelines of my football games.

Who do I talk to after the game?

Who do I walk over to first?

Do they even show up?

The sport that had once made me feel whole started to feel like a sideshow.

I was getting looks from NFL scouts.

I had hype.

I had potential.

But all I could think about was the hollow space in the stands.

Football didn’t feel important anymore.

Not when the one thing I thought would never break had already fallen apart.

Still, I finished strong.

My senior year was my best.

I led the nation in punting average.

I was a unanimous First Team All-American.

And I had a real shot at the pros.

Right before the season, I stopped going to pain management clinics.

I experienced some withdrawal—but it wasn’t too bad.

At that time, I’d been taking pills mostly as prescribed, with breaks to keep addiction from taking hold.

I felt like I had control.

I was invited to rookie camp with the Detroit Lions.

I did okay. Nothing crazy.

They told me I was first on their list.

Said they’d call.

They didn’t.

So I started bartending.

I needed to make money, train during the day, work at night.

The next year, I got a tryout with the Seattle Seahawks.

During the physical, the doctor paused.

Checked something in my hip.

Asked more questions.

Then he took X-rays.

That’s when I finally got the truth.

Impingement. Bone spurs. A piece of floating bone jamming into my hip socket. Torn labrum.

“You need surgery,” he said.

Twenty-four hours later, I was on a flight back to Austin.

Sleeping on my mom’s couch.

I was crushed.

But also—relieved.

I wasn’t crazy. Something had been wrong.

Still, I was angry. Why hadn’t the team doctors believed me? Why didn’t I get a second opinion?

Football had been the only thing keeping me together.

Now, I had one goal:

Make money. Save up. Get the surgery.

I went back to bartending. But my hip kept getting worse.

Carrying kegs and liquor up and down stairs all night? It destroyed me.

I went back to pain management clinics.

Then I started taking more than I should.

Then I started getting pills illegally.

Oxy. Vicodin. Whatever I could get.

I spiraled.

I became unreliable.

Burned bridges.

Ran myself out of the bar scene.

I was broke.

Alone.

Out of options.

I moved back to New Mexico.

Within six months, my dad cornered me.

He wouldn’t let me go until I told him the truth.

And I did.

He saved my life that day.

He helped me detox.

Got me into recovery.

And a few months later, he helped me get the surgery I needed.

A five-hour hip surgery.

The surgeon said there was almost no cartilage left.

But I could walk again.

Sit without wincing.

Get up without locking up.

I never touched another painkiller again.

But that’s when the real pain started.

Because now I was clean.

And everything I’d been running from for years?

It was still there.

And now, I had no way to escape it.

07: It’s in Your Head

I Wasn’t Free

Going into my sophomore year, everything was lining up.

I was up for the Ray Guy Award.

I was one of the top punters in the country.

And I was ready to prove that freshman year hadn’t been a fluke.

Then, during offseason workouts—something popped.

A tendon ripped off my pelvic bone in my groin area.

I felt it.

Sharp. Sudden. Wrong.

The trainers told me it wasn’t a big deal.

No surgery required.

Just rest. Physical therapy. Maybe some rehab exercises.

I was relentless. I did everything they told me.

I had one goal:

Get back on the field.

And I did.

But something wasn’t right.

There’s a big difference between punting and kicking.

Punting is more of a vertical motion—drop the ball and strike upward.

Kicking, on the other hand, is a swinging motion.

You have to open up your hips completely.

It requires full rotation and follow-through.

And I couldn’t do it.

Every time I tried, my leg would get caught mid-swing.

Like it was stuck. Like my hip was locking itself in place.

And when it caught, it hurt.

It didn’t make sense.

I went back to the doctors.

Told them something was wrong.

They told me to stretch.

It was a mobility issue.

So I stretched.

And stretched.

And stretched.

Nothing changed.

Then they told me it was in my head.

“You’re a head case.”

That one stuck with me.

Because now I wasn’t just in pain—I was crazy.

Every time I stepped on the field, I didn’t know what was going to happen.

Would my leg lock up mid-swing?

Would it be fine?

There was no pattern.

No predictability.

And so my performance became just like my injury—unpredictable.

My sophomore season was up and down.

I started strong.

Then struggled.

Then got benched.

By spring, my coach called me into his office.

Sat me down.

Looked me in the eye.

And told me he was taking me off scholarship.

I was devastated.

Not just because I lost my spot.

But because I knew something was wrong—and no one believed me.

And in a world that only values results?

That makes you feel like you’re the problem.

This wasn’t just an injury.

It was the start of a new kind of spiral.

One slower.

More subtle.

Harder to name.

But just as dark.

06: Becoming Someone Again

After everything fell apart, I didn’t think I’d ever feel whole again.

But then—something started to shift.

My mom went into remission. The cancer was still a shadow over our family, but it wasn’t taking her anymore. For the first time in a long time, we could breathe.

And football—football started to give me back pieces of myself.

I got good. Really good.

I’d always gotten straight A’s. Even at my lowest, academics were my anchor. Found structure. Routine. Purpose. And a sense of control in a world that had taken so much from me.

By the time I was a senior, my high school team was the best in Arizona.

5A.

Back-to-back state champions.

I was a part of something.

I was contributing.

I was seen—not for what I’d survived, but for what I could do.

That meant something.

Even though I had only started punting in my senior year, I was invited to walk on at Arizona State.

I redshirted that first year.

Lived in the weight room.

Put my head down and worked.

By the end of the year, I earned a scholarship.

And the next season, I was the starting punter.

That year, the Pac-10 was stacked.

USC had Matt Leinart, Reggie Bush, LenDale White, Clay Matthews.

Cal had Aaron Rodgers, DeSean Jackson, Marshawn Lynch.

UCLA had Maurice Jones-Drew.

Sharing the field with them was an honor.

And being at the top of my position in the country felt even better.

There was nothing like running out onto that field in Sun Devil Stadium to the opening riffs of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.”

That electricity? That roar? That was home.

I even got to contribute more than just my leg.

I threw two fake punts that year—one against USC and one against Washington State.

I got to tackle Reggie Bush, forcing him out of bounds.

That moment?

That was for me.

It was a solid season as a redshirt freshman. That year we won the Sun Bowl against Kyle Orton and Purdue. A bowl ring. I was proud.

And that year, I was named First Team Freshman All-American.

My parents had moved back to New Mexico after that season, but they still came out a lot.

We spent a lot of time together that offseason.

Things were lining up.

For a little while, I felt like everything I’d been through had led to this. Like I’d made it out. Like I was building something new—something solid.

I was happy.

I was proud.

I felt whole.

Not because the past didn’t exist, but because I’d finally outrun it.

Or so I thought.

05: The Year Everything Fell Apart

When we moved to Phoenix, everything changed.

The warmth I had back home—the friendships, the family rhythm, the comfort of being known—disappeared. I stepped into a new school, a new city, and almost immediately, into the crosshairs of a bully who would make the next year a living nightmare.

It started over a girl who asked me to be her boyfriend.

Her name was Kelly.

The bully asked me if I was her boyfriend. I had heard he liked her, so I said yes—but added that I didn’t think it would last. He ran back and told her.

I panicked.

I denied his story. I was terrified that if Kelly knew what I’d said, she’d ruin me. She was popular. So was he. They had power, and I had nothing.

I eventually came clean, and I tried to break it off with her in a softer way, like maybe this was a sign, like maybe we shouldn’t keep going. I should have never lied in the first place. You do dumb things when you’re scared.

But the damage was done.

I had pissed him off. His crew. The entire popular crowd you didn’t mess with.

And I had pissed her off—and her network shut me out.

No one wanted anything to do with me.

The first month of school, I got jumped. No words. No warning. Just fists.

Two months later, I got jumped again—this time by his friends, in front of a grocery store.

Third time? A group of different friends—same bully, different fists. This time in front of a pizza place near my house.

Every time I got jumped, I did the same thing.

I froze.

Not because I was scared to fight.

Not because I didn’t feel strong.

But because something inside me had already learned: fighting wouldn’t save me.

So I stood there.

I let them hit me.

I let them knock me down.

And every time, I stood back up.

I would just look at them. Not with defiance. Not with hate. Just with a kind of quiet hope.

Please like me.

Please be my friend.

I didn’t want revenge.

I wanted connection.

I didn’t cry in front of them.

The crying came later.

Behind closed doors. Alone.

04: Where the silence began

When people hear about abuse, they think it starts with fear.
It doesn’t.

It starts with feeling seen.
With being told you’re special.
With ice-cold Dr. Peppers and long drives and someone older saying,
“I can help you become something.”

I was twelve when I flew out to Georgia to spend a week with Mr. B.
He had told my parents he was going to help me become a model.
He’d shoot a portfolio. He had connections. This was a big opportunity.

And to be honest? I believed it.

The first few days were exciting.
We went around Atlanta taking photos—Stone Mountain, Olympic Park.
We drove with the windows down.
We ate nice lunches and dinners.
He made me feel like I was going somewhere.

He also handed me a cigar and offered me a drink.

I was 12.
But I did it.
He laughed, said something like “see, you’re already a grown-up.”
I didn’t want to disappoint him.
He was cool. Powerful. And now I had something to hide.

That was the first lock on the cage.

The photos started to change.

At the pool, he watched me while I changed.
He told me to do shots with my shirt off.
Told me to lower my shorts just a little.
Told me boxer briefs looked better—more marketable.

Then asked me to do outfit changes… while he stood nearby with the camera.

He’d ask for more.
A little lower.
A little tighter.
Just one more pose.

And I froze.
I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even speak.

He offered me massages. I agreed, even though I knew it was weird. He was a touchy, feely, emotional person. I

I thought maybe this was his way of showing people he cared about them. But then I started to fall asleep.

As I started to doze off, I felt my shorts lift up. I would see him in the reflection of a cabinet glass his TV stood on.

He was looking down my shorts, feeling. I would move pretending as though I was waking up, and then he’d stop.

But as I laid still for long enough, the abuse would start again. Each time a little worse. I froze.

I finally got he courage to act like I was softly waking up. Just enough to not alarm him.

Just enough so he wouldn’t think I caught on to what he was doing. I got up and went to bed. I didn’t sleep that night. I was terrified. I started to disconnect.

The next day we went on like nothing happened. Eating good food, taking the same awkward photos.

A few days in, he showed me a video game on his computer.
Something goofy—Pac-Man style but with political figures.

Later, when he wasn’t around, I went to the computer to play it again.
But I clicked the wrong file.

What I saw still haunts me.

Photos. Of boys. Young. Undressed.
It was real.
I knew instantly what it was.
My body locked up.

He walked in.

Saw what I was looking at.

Without hesitation, he took the mouse, clicked out, and said:

“Ugh, you know these viruses and pop-ups. They just show up sometimes, you can never get rid of them.”

I just nodded.
Like I believed him.
Like that made sense.

Then I started playing the game.
Because what else was I supposed to do?

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I kept thinking: Is that what I’m a part of?
Is that why he keeps asking for those photos?
Is that why he tells me to change behind a tree and still stands there watching?

But he was so kind.
He made me feel seen.
The Dr. Peppers. The lunches. The compliments.
He called me “movie star.”
He made me feel like I had a future.

So I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t call my parents.
I didn’t ask to go home.

Because somehow, I already knew:

If I said something… he’d say everything was my fault.
That I drank. That I smoked. That I let it happen.

And who would believe me then?

That’s where the silence began.
Not with violence.
Not with fear.
But with confusion.
And charm.
And shame.

He didn’t need to tell me to keep it a secret.
He made sure I would choose to.

And yet, I still had hope. I heard him on the phone with people. He was connected. I saw photos all around his house of him with famous people. Maybe I just had to weather the storm to get to the dream that I was sold. Maybe I was special. I wanted to believe that.

If you’ve ever frozen when you wish you’d spoken—
If you’ve ever carried shame that wasn’t yours to hold—
I see you.
I was you.
You’re not alone.

03: The Day I Was “Discovered”

When I was 12 years old, I was attending a small Christian school in New Mexico.

I loved it.
My sister went to the same school, and she was old enough to drive—so every morning, we’d ride together in her forest green Isuzu Rodeo, windows down, music on.
Sometimes we’d stop for breakfast burritos.
It made me feel cool. Older. Safe.

She always had my back.
She still does.

Every year, the school held a “Spirit Week.”
They’d bring in speakers from all over to lead us in chapel, devotionals, worship.
It was a big deal. You dressed a little nicer. You sat up straighter.
It felt special.

That’s the week I met Mr. B.

He had this presence—big personality, big voice, big stories.
He spoke all over the country at churches, events, schools.
He talked about celebrities he knew. Big brands. Opportunities.
The guy felt like a star.

And on the very first day he spoke, with the entire school gathered in the auditorium, he said my name.

He used me as an example—nothing major, just a passing mention.
But in a school that size? That meant something.
Heads turned.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just another sixth grader.
I was seen.

After lunch, I was walking through the hallway when I heard it:

“There’s the movie star.”

It was Mr. B.

He walked over, full of charisma, and told me he hoped he hadn’t embarrassed me during chapel.
Then he leaned in a little and said something I still remember clearly:

“I noticed something about you. You’re different. Special.”

I didn’t say much—I was still shy back then.
But I smiled. I listened.
And when he asked if we could eat lunch together tomorrow, I said yes.

That’s how it started.

Lunch conversations about famous people he knew.
Stories about traveling. Speaking. Meeting celebrities.
He was magnetic.
He told me I could be a model.
That he had real connections. That I had the look. The presence. The potential.

He asked if my parents would be open to meeting him.
He said he could help me put together a professional portfolio.
That he knew someone high up at a well-known brand with a kids and adult modeling division.

My mom had always joked about getting me into modeling.
Now someone with real experience was saying it could happen.

So I told my parents.

We met for lunch later that week.

Mr. B was charming. Confident. Charismatic.
He was everything a parent would want in someone who “discovered” their kid.
He talked about connections. He offered to pay for everything.
He said I could make it.
That he’d mentor me. Guide me. Build the portfolio.

My parents were impressed.
Honestly? So was I.

Why wouldn’t we believe him?

This was a man of God.
A speaker.
A leader.
And now he was offering to change our lives—my life.

That’s when we started planning my first trip out to Georgia.

Looking back, I see how it happened.
How a moment of admiration turned into a slow unraveling.
How trust was built.
How silence began.

But at the time?
It just felt like the start of something big.

And I couldn’t wait.

If someone ever made you feel special just to take advantage of your trust—
You’re not weak. You were targeted.
And you’re not alone.

02: The Light Before the Silence

I loved my childhood.

I mean really loved it.

I had one of those rare, golden starts in life—the kind you don’t even realize is golden until much later, when everything feels different.

We lived in a small town in New Mexico. It was warm. Safe. Familiar.
I rode my bike through neighborhoods where I knew every house.
I played sports year-round.
I had a crew of best friends. We had sleepovers, snuck snacks, talked about girls, played too many video games, and laughed ourselves sick.
And when the sun came up, we’d go out and do it again.

I was good at sports. Like really good.
Our soccer team was one of the best in the state.
I played baseball, basketball, football.
I was the kid who wanted the ball when the game was on the line.
Not because I needed to win—but because I loved the moment.
That quiet before the play. That pressure. That clarity.

And when I wasn’t playing sports, I was skateboarding, bike riding, or making music.

Music was a family thing.
My mom was a music teacher.
My siblings and I all learned to play—because in our house, you participated in beauty.
You didn’t just listen.
You joined in.

I loved my family.
I knew—even as a little kid—that I had something special.
We weren’t rich. But we were together.

My mom had the kind of warmth that made people feel safe.
She was kind, present, patient.
She believed in creativity.
She made room for art and noise and motion.

My dad was intense.
East Coast through and through. Born in Philly. Raised in Jersey. A former cop who found his way into the car business.
He had rules. He had standards.
He was tough—but he was also hilarious.
Nobody could make my mom laugh like he could.
And when she laughed—really laughed—the whole room lit up.

I loved watching them together.
It felt like love that had history. Love that had weight.
And even when things were hard, I believed they’d always come out the other side.

I had an older sister.
She was smart, strong, rebellious in ways I didn’t fully understand yet.
She got in trouble sometimes—which, if I’m being honest, made my job easier.
Because I watched. I learned.

Be the good kid.
Stay under the radar.
Get good grades.
Perform well.
Don’t cause problems.

It was transactional, in a way.
But it worked.
You got praise. You stayed safe. You didn’t get the belt.

So I became the golden boy.
Not just good—I went above and beyond.
Star athlete. Straight-A student. Yes sir, no ma’am.
I lived to make my parents proud.
And I loved the way it felt when I did.

I had no reason to believe anything would ever change.
No reason to think this good life—this tight family, this safe home, this love—could unravel.

Everything was right.
Everything made sense.

This was before the move.
Before the silence.
Before the sickness, the shame, the shadows.

This was when I still believed life was fair.
When I still believed I could protect the people I loved by being good enough.

Sometimes, I still see him.
That kid.
Running across a soccer field with the sun going down behind him.
Skinned knees, loud laugh, full heart.
Not yet broken. Not yet afraid.

And I wonder if he’d recognize me now.

01: I kept quiet, and it almost killed me

For a long time, I was the guy who had it together.

On paper? I looked solid.

Former college athlete, division 1 All American who had a shot at the pros, straight A student. Successful. Focused. Disciplined.

But underneath? I was a slow-motion collapse.

One that started when I was a kid—and got buried under years of silence, shame, and pretending.

I was groomed when I was twelve years old.

By a man who was trusted, admired, and convincing.

It started with compliments. With attention. With “you’re special.” With promises I would make it big.

Then came the manipulation.

The pressure.

The things I still don’t like saying out loud.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not then. Not for years.

I thought it was my fault.

I thought I had something to protect—my family, my image, my own sanity.

So I shut it down.

I built a life around silence.

Performed well. Played hard. Smiled big.

And underneath that performance, I carried everything.

Football gave me structure, purpose, and identity until my body gave out.

An undiagnosed hip injury spiraled into painkillers.

Painkillers turned into addiction.

Addiction turned into shame.

And shame kept telling me:

“Don’t tell anyone. You’ve already ruined everything.”

Even after I got clean, the silence wasn’t gone.

It was just quieter.

It looked like overworking. Like isolation. Like pretending I was okay.

But I wasn’t.

It took years—years—for me to understand something simple:

You can’t heal what you keep hidden.

I didn’t get better overnight. I don’t have all the answers.

But I know what it’s like to lose yourself and slowly find your way back.

That’s what this space is for.

Not to lecture. Not to perform.

Just to tell the truth.

About healing. About addiction. About abuse. About shame. About identity.

And about how it’s possible to build something better after the quiet ends.

If you’re here, and you’re carrying something you’ve never said out loud—

I get it.

If you’re trying to rebuild while no one’s watching—

I get that too.

You don’t have to be fixed to show up.

You don’t need to have the right words.

You just have to keep going.

I’ll be here doing the same.

If life broke you wide open, you can build something better from the pieces. I promise.

If this resonated with you, I’d be honored if you shared it—or just told someone you trust.
That’s how the silence breaks.