About me

I was born in Portland, Oregon, to a single mother and moved to Washington in early childhood. As the oldest of three brothers, I grew up in a household shaped by alcoholism. I was held back for learning deficiencies at a young age, and then moved often, which made it difficult to develop relationships with peers.   

Ultimately, I was a poor and inattentive student, and by the age of sixteen, I dropped out of high school to sell drugs. I spent several years homeless before catching my first charge—residential burglary—at eighteen. That first stint in jail straightened me out, at least for a while.

With a felony record and no education, finding work was almost impossible. Eventually, I stumbled into the restaurant and service industry. To my surprise, I found that I was good at it. I had a knack for service and an ease with people that helped me rise quickly.

I worked my way up—bartender, assistant manager, then Restaurant and Bar Manager. I went on to consult for new bar openings and even taught mixology classes at a local college. But behind the success, something darker was growing. The addiction that had been quietly trailing me since youth was beginning to take root.

From an early age, I had an affinity for alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine. By my twenties, my drug use had escalated. Working in the service industry, I was surrounded by a party culture where daily substance use was the norm. Ecstasy, LSD, mushrooms, and cocaine became routine.

In my mid-twenties, I suffered an accident that required pain management. I was prescribed heavy opioids, and with them came a new kind of high—one I hadn’t experienced before, but instantly loved. When the prescription ran out, I turned to the streets to feed the craving.

Over time, that habit evolved into heroin, fentanyl, and methamphetamine use. By then, I had lost any credibility I had built in my career. My addiction, apathy, and erratic behavior left a trail of damage. Friends, family, even my long-term partner—one by one, they cut ties with me.

Unemployed, homeless, and alone, I was barely surviving. I lived in a tent, stealing and hustling to feed my addiction. I caused harm to others in ways I still carry with me.

Eventually, it all caught up to me. I was arrested and charged with over thirty crimes involving drugs, weapons, and violence. The charges were serious—at one point, I was staring down a possible 25-year prison sentence.

During my incarceration, I lived in a constant state of fear that eventually hardened into apathy. I had no options, no family or friends to call, and—most importantly—no drugs to numb the weight of my conscience. For the first time, I was left alone with the harm I had caused, the pain I had long buried.

Because of the severity of my charges, I was placed in the maximum-security wing of the county jail. I spent 23 hours a day locked in a cell, allowed just one hour to make a phone call, take a shower, and go to "yard." Stripped of everything, I was forced to confront myself. With nowhere to run, I began to reflect on who I was, and how I’d gotten there.

"Yard" was a thirty-by-thirty concrete cube, enclosed in high wire and steel. There was no grass, no trees—just the occasional sensation of rain on my face. Sometimes, I would lie flat on the cold concrete, eyes closed, letting the rain wash over me. In spring and summer, I could hear birds in the distance, though I couldn't see them. I would whistle back. Meditation and prayer became my lifelines.

During this time, I found myself growing curious about the lives of the other men around me. Our conversations happened through thick steel doors and narrow windows, but I listened. I began to wonder: if I could understand the paths that led them here, maybe I could better understand my own.

So I started collecting their stories. I used my commissary coffee as currency—trading it for handwritten pages from fellow inmates. I wasn’t interested in the details of their crimes—that would have been seen as suspicious in that environment. Instead, I asked them to write about their lives: their childhoods, their turning points, the moments when things began to fall apart.

The response was overwhelming. Within days, packets of paper began sliding under my door. Inmates told me they felt a sense of relief just from writing things down. That experience taught me something simple but profound: people want to be heard. They want to be seen—not just for the crimes they’ve committed, but for the people they were before the fall.

Eventually, thanks to the diligence of my attorney, many of my charges were dismissed—some for lack of evidence, others due to procedural errors or because I hadn’t committed the crimes in question. On the day before trial, the state prosecutor offered me a deal: just over two years. Despite my attorney's confidence that I’d likely win in court, I took the plea. After facing the possibility of 25 years, the idea of holding my mother again someday was enough. I was ready to accept whatever came next.

I had spent thirteen long months in that jail waiting for trial. In all that time, I never saw a single blade of grass. I never felt the wind on my skin. I never saw the sun.

It wasn’t until I left county jail that I realized just how deeply those months in that concrete box had scarred my spirit. When I was transferred to a facility near the mountains, I’ll never forget the moment I stepped barefoot onto a field of grass. I looked up and saw snow-capped peaks in the distance and an eagle soaring overhead. It was awesome, terrifying, and spiritual all at once. I was still incarcerated—but, for the first time in a long while, I felt free.

The work of collecting stories continued. By now, I had built a strong network of pen pals. I wrote to people around the world—mostly Christian individuals who had learned about me through a friend on the outside who faithfully posted prayer requests. Mail became a lifeline. I was still confined, but those letters offered connection, curiosity, and, at times, hope.

Life at the Shelton facility felt like “easy street” compared to county. The food was better, and I could actually go outside for yard. Things were looking up—until COVID-19 hit.

The Department of Corrections was completely unprepared for a crisis of that scale. Their solution was sweeping: lockdowns and overcrowding. I spent four months in a cell with two other men. The cells were built for two. The third man slept on the floor—what we called “the rug.” We were locked in for 72 hours at a time, with just 10 minutes out to use a phone, which was almost always full.

We ate in that cell, shared one small toilet, and had no access to books or writing supplies. At the time, DOC didn’t know how the virus spread, so they restricted all outside materials. We passed the time with trivia games and by listening to the radio built into the wall. During Christmas, holiday songs played on repeat. We’d sit in silence while “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” echoed through the cell—a cruel reminder of everything we’d lost.

That year, I witnessed brutal violence. I was present during a riot. The chaos and suffering were constant, but in the background, I kept collecting stories. Even when everything felt like it was falling apart, the need to be heard never went away.

After nearly a year, I was processed for release—a relatively short sentence, compared to many. When I walked out of prison, I had nothing but a pair of prison-issued sweats—and a binder filled with hundreds of pages of handwritten stories. Stories of pain, resilience, and truth from the forgotten voices I’d met behind bars. I still have that binder today.

After prison, I couldn’t return to the community I had so deeply harmed during my active addiction. Instead, an estranged but loving uncle took me in back in Portland, Oregon. I was determined to become the best version of myself. I meant it. But with no structure, few resources, and no sense of direction or purpose, I relapsed within months.

Soon, I was living in a tent beneath the Burnside Bridge in downtown Portland.

That time in my life was especially raw. I lived in constant proximity to violence—witnessing murder, gunfire, and overdoses regularly. I was held at gunpoint more than once, and had weapons cracked across my face. But even under the threat of death, I wouldn’t give up my drugs. I survived by stealing—from retail stores, other addicts, even dealers. I stole constantly, trading what I could for fentanyl and methamphetamine. In the winter, I stayed warm by burning hand sanitizer in tin cans.

It didn’t take long before I hit what should have been my final bottom. I was found unresponsive on the floor of a Walmart bathroom. I had gone in there to get high with someone I thought was a friend. When I overdosed, they didn’t try to save me. They emptied my pockets and left me to die.

It was a janitor doing routine rounds who found me. Without them, I wouldn’t be alive today.

The paramedics took twelve minutes to arrive. I had stopped breathing. Multiple doses of Naloxone were used to bring me back. I regained consciousness in the back of an ambulance, buried beneath piles of heating blankets. I had been without oxygen for nearly fifteen minutes. I still don’t know the name of the person who saved my life.

But I wasn’t ready. I walked out of the hospital the moment I arrived.

It would take several more months—and another arrest—before I finally made a change. I was picked up during a routine stop for shoplifting, and it was discovered that I had an active warrant in Washington for violating the terms of my release. I spent sixty days in custody waiting to be extradited, and then served a two-week sanction.

It was during that short stint that I finally detoxed from fentanyl and meth. It was painful, grueling, and far from graceful—but it was exactly what I needed. Because when I walked out of that jail cell, I did something different.

I checked myself into a long-term treatment program.

After completing 90 days in a treatment program in Tacoma, Washington, I had the freedom to choose where to rebuild my life. Returning to Portland was out of the question. Going back to my hometown wasn’t an option either—too many bridges burned, too much damage done. So I chose Kitsap County, almost at random. A clean and sober housing program there seemed as good a place as any. 

Looking back now, that seemingly random decision became one of the most defining moments of my life.

In the heart of the recovery community, I became involved in a 12-step fellowship that would go on to transform me. With the guidance of a sponsor, I was introduced to the principles of honesty, humility, courage, and integrity—values I had never truly lived by. It took me two years to complete my first round of steps, a moral reckoning that forced me to confront who I had been and who I wanted to become.

When I finished, I began sponsoring other men—guiding them through the same process that had changed my life. Through that service, I discovered a kind of purpose I had never known. Helping others break free from the grip of addiction became both duty and privilege.

It was in that same fellowship that I met a beautiful woman who became my partner. Together, we experienced joy, love, heartache, and loss as we tried—unsuccessfully—to start a family. Through it all, the principles of recovery held us together. Even in grief, we grew stronger. I had never been able to face emotions like that without reaching for drugs—but this time, I stayed present. We endured.

My commitment to service didn’t stop with the recovery program. I was eventually offered a role as the Reentry Coordinator for Kitsap County through my housing program. Over the next few years, I helped more than a hundred formerly incarcerated individuals return to the community. My own experience—my time incarcerated, my years collecting stories—gave me a unique ability to connect. I understood what they were facing because I had been there myself.

That role grew into something larger. I developed new programs rooted in recovery and reintegration. Eventually, I was asked to oversee reentry efforts across the entire western half of Washington State—a responsibility I continue to carry today.

Recovery, for me, is far more than abstaining from drugs. It's a lifelong journey of restoration. The 12 steps remain at the center of my life, and I stay actively involved in my own growth and in helping others grow. The amends process is ongoing—there are some wounds I’ll never have the chance to heal, and others that may take a lifetime. But every day, I strive to give back to the society I once took so much from.

Recovery isn’t just about getting clean. It’s about rebuilding. It's about reconnection—to self, to others, and to something greater than myself. Through that journey, I’ve found something I never thought possible.

I’ve found a life of purpose.

 During my incarceration, I read voraciously. I devoured books on addiction, spirituality, esotericism, and anything else that might help me make sense of my life. In the quiet isolation of my cell, books became both mirror and map.

Among the many titles I encountered, one small and unassuming book changed everything: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. It was a slim volume, written in the aftermath of World War II by a Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist. Within its pages, Frankl recounted the unimaginable suffering of the Nazi concentration camps—not just the physical horrors, but the slow erosion of the human spirit. What struck me most was his observation of a specific phenomenon: the death of hope.

Frankl wrote that those who clung too tightly to a particular hope—release by a certain date, reunion with family, or escape—often collapsed when those hopes were shattered. But those who could root themselves in a deeper sense of purpose, even in the midst of unbearable suffering, became far more resilient. From this insight, Frankl developed what he called Logotherapy—the idea that meaning, not pleasure or power, is the primary motivator in human life. That if we can find a reason to endure, we can survive almost anything.

This concept pierced through the fog of my own despair. For the first time, I saw my suffering not just as punishment, but as preparation. The pain I had endured wasn’t meaningless—it could be useful. It could be shared. It could help someone else.

That understanding changed me. Through the lens of Logotherapy, I began to make sense of my past. I could now see my lived experience—my homelessness, my addiction, my incarceration—as a kind of education. A hard-earned, blood-and-bone knowledge of life on life’s terms. And with that knowledge came responsibility.

The desire to be of service to others grew stronger. It deepened my commitment to make myself available, to show up, to share what I had learned—not out of guilt, but out of purpose. That desire has since taken form in the early creation of this organization, one which is rooted in recovery, peer mentorship, and reentry support.

It is still in its infancy, but the vision is clear: to create a space where those impacted by incarceration, addiction, and homelessness can find the same kind of support that once helped me stand back up. 

It’s in that same spirit of purpose that I now share my story through public speaking and presentations. Whether in quiet rooms with a handful of people or larger gatherings filled with strangers, I show up to connect—with the still suffering, the hopeful, the inspired, and even the despairing.

Each time I speak, I’m reaching for those who are walking the path I once knew so well. I don’t offer solutions wrapped in perfection—I offer lived experience, hard-won truth, and the possibility of change. My aim is simple: to let someone know they’re not alone, and that even the darkest roads can lead somewhere worth going.

Because I believe now, with everything in me, that suffering is not the end of the story.

It can be the beginning of something far greater.