A little more backstory so you can better understand the intensity that was hiding beneath my addiction to tobacco.
I was an extremely curious and adventurous kid growing up.
I was born in Colorado. My mother was a homemaker, and my father was a horticulturalist specializing in fruit trees. He owned and later managed massive orchards for large fruit companies in both Oregon and Washington.
Honestly… my childhood was epic.
We lived on orchards surrounded by endless rows of trees and fruit we could eat right off the branches. In Oregon, the orchard sat right next to the forest and near Mount Hood National Forest, so I spent my childhood running wild through the woods pretending to be Robin Hood, fighting imaginary enemies, building forts, and exploring nature like some rampant redheaded maniac.
I’ve always had this larger-than-life energy and humor to back it up — often a little too wild for my stoic father, but endlessly encouraged by my incredibly open and loving mother.
Fast forward to high school after we moved to Lake Chelan, Washington, where my father had taken a position managing another orchard company.
Being the new kid was rough.
I got made fun of for my red hair, my lisp, and just struggling to fit in while everyone else already knew each other. Sports became my way into friendship and acceptance. I played basketball, football, and track & field, and performance quickly became tied to my sense of worth and belonging.
My wild personality also got me invited to parties with upperclassmen, where I started experimenting with drugs and alcohol.
And I discovered something dangerous:
People loved me when I acted insane.
I could make people laugh. I could become the center of attention. I could take risks, do reckless things, and never back down from a challenge — even when some of those choices caused real physical harm.
But in my mind, the important thing was this:
I was becoming popular.
Loved.
Accepted.
…or at least I thought I was.
At the time, I was proud of being known as the class clown all four years of high school. Despite being a wild kid, I somehow also became class president during my freshman and junior years. I had girlfriends. Friends. Parties. From the outside, it probably looked like I had the perfect life.
But underneath all of it, things were already starting to crack.
As senior year approached, the partying intensified. Sometimes I would disappear for several days without checking in with my parents. My mom would panic, calling friends and their parents trying to figure out where I was and whether I was okay.
And after those party binges came something much darker:
Guilt.
Depression.
Regret.
Deep down, I often knew I didn’t even want to be partying like that. I was doing it because it made me feel wanted. Popular. Loved.
By my senior year, I decided I wanted to join the military.
Academically, I struggled, and college didn’t feel realistic for me. But I loved adventure. I also wanted to prove something — not just to myself, but to everyone around me.
I wanted people to know I was tough. Capable. Fearless.
Originally, I wanted to join the Army as airborne infantry, but eventually I was persuaded into joining the United States Marine Corps as a rifleman.
My mom was terrified.
My dad was proud… but worried too.
Neither of them truly saw me becoming a warfighter.
The Marines provided some of the most intense training imaginable. They broke us down into nothing and rebuilt us into highly trained killers capable of operating without hesitation, suppressing emotion, and functioning under extreme pressure.
Back home, people started viewing me differently.
Hero.
Brave.
Dependable.
Badass.
But my family also started noticing a major shift in my identity.
I began hardening.
I became extremely proficient at storing emotions away instead of processing them. My tobacco and alcohol use intensified. And once again, I built a reputation for being the wild man who would do anything and take on any challenge.
My drinking got bad.
Most nights I drank to the point of blacking out. I went on reckless adventures in foreign countries. During deployment in Thailand, I got snatched up by Shore Patrol after refusing to give them my ID. They quickly realized I was underage, drunk, and more than a little unruly.
That earned me an NJP — non-judicial punishment — which delayed my promotion and left me confined to base for the rest of the Thailand deployment.
Then came 9/11.
Suddenly everything became real.
We shifted into intense desert and combat training, preparing for deployment to the Middle East.
Finally, around the beginning of 2003, we deployed.
I signed power of attorney over to my parents, spent time with my family, and could feel the fear hanging over all of us as we faced the unknown reality of war.
By March 2003, we arrived at the border between Kuwait and Iraq.
We sat in long lines of military vehicles and Marines waiting for the order to advance and invade another country.
That night is burned into my memory forever.
The horizon ahead of us lit up from bombs exploding in the distance, creating silhouettes of thousands of service members and vehicles preparing for war.
And standing there in that moment, I made a mental and emotional decision:
I was ready to die.
Ready to die for my country.
For my family.
For the Marines beside me.
And I fully accepted that possibility.
What I didn’t realize then was that moment would mark the beginning of some of the deepest trauma of my life…
…but also the beginning of unimaginable healing, growth, understanding, and eventually the long journey back to myself.
