In my early 20s, I began seeking.
I committed myself to personal and spiritual development, searching for purpose and clarity, yet struggling under the weight of cPTSD, treatment-resistant depression, and severe anxiety. For years, I was trapped in cycles of isolation, self-doubt, and a profound disconnection from life itself. Despite the achievements of my past—serving as a U.S. Marine combat veteran, intelligence officer, diplomat, and organizational leader—I remained lost. I carried shame, anger, and loneliness, navigating the world with a hardened exterior, yet internally feeling empty.
Something within me refused to stay silent—a quiet but insistent pull to look inward, to question, to remember. My path instilled a discipline for excellence, and for a time, I believed it would lead to happiness—but I came to realize that achievement without inner alignment only deepened the emptiness I was trying to outrun.
These years brought a reckoning with childhood shame, moral confusion, and the early effects of trauma from combat and the mental strain of espionage. I began confronting paternal wounds, reconnecting with my inner child, and learning how to self-reflect, self-direct, and self-manage through confusion and pressure. In the later part of this decade, I experienced the onset of an identity and existential crisis—a growing dissonance between who I had become and who I sensed I was called to be.
The pain I carried became one of the most important teachers I began to slow down and listen to. These years laid the foundation for something more honest and enduring.
By my 30s, I could no longer outrun my pain.
Instead of resisting, I turned toward it. I became an avid psychonaut, immersing myself in guided psychedelic practice to unravel my conditioning, heal from the inside out, and explore the deeper truths of existence. I spent thousands of hours meditating, immersed myself in the wilderness, and surrendered to practices that required me to confront my deepest fears and dissolve long-held illusions.
This decade became a crucible of growth—shaped by mentorship, apprenticeship, and the steady mirror of peer accountability. I wasn’t just learning anymore; I was applying, testing, and integrating. The insights that once lived in ceremony were now being walked into my relationships, leadership, and service.
Behind the scenes, I faced some of my darkest nights. I experienced homelessness, spiraled through mental illness, and watched my marriage unravel following an affair. I endured the pain of divorce, the pressure of overwork as an organizational leader, and the financial collapse that came from desperately trying to escape a life I no longer aligned with. The paranoia from years in diplomacy overseas and the emotional remnants of combat trauma followed me into civilian life.
I lived the victim until I learned to reclaim my agency. The identity crisis that had emerged years before deepened before it began to transform, guiding me to rediscover my values and rebuild my moral compass from within.
And yet, through it all, something deeper was being revealed. What once felt like unbearable suffering became my greatest teacher, shaping the way I now see the world—with reverence, curiosity, and an unwavering appreciation for the resilience of the human spirit. I discovered that just as the world itself is in a constant state of tension and harmony, so too are we—navigating the interplay between structure and surrender, effort and ease, knowing and mystery.
Healing doesn’t come from escaping the past—it comes from making peace with it, transforming it, and realizing that our deepest suffering often shapes the most unique gifts we’re here to give.
Now, in my 40s, I serve.
I stand fully in my purpose, answering a calling that has grown louder with each passing year. But the path has been far from linear—it's been marked by uncertainty, change, and an ever-deepening invitation to surrender. To walk this path has meant refining my integrity, facing my unconscious patterns, and learning to trust something deeper than logic alone.
This phase of life hasn’t brought resolution, but a more honest relationship with the unknown. Answering a calling isn’t a single decision—it’s a lifelong commitment to showing up. I’ve had to learn how to listen when it’s easier to speak, to stay grounded when it's tempting to run, and to lead with heart in a world that often rewards avoidance.
Each day asks me to be more grounded, more real, and more present. I continue to cultivate presence—not as performance, but as devotion—and to show up with humility in every space I’m invited into.
The real work isn’t about knowing more—it’s about loving better. The struggles of my earlier years—forgetting I’m enough, falling into habital automatic thinking—have not disappeared. But I meet them now with clarity and compassion, waking up repeatedly, no longer as obstacles, but as allies in my continued becoming.