Rebuilding From Scratch
First off, it can be done, and anyone can do it.
After the trauma. After the split family. After football was gone.
After the surgery left me with a hip barely hanging on, and a mind that felt the same way.
After the addiction ended—but the shame stayed.
This was the lowest part. And this is where the real work started.
Because when you’re truly depressed, everything is hard.
Getting out of bed. Brushing your teeth. Showing up on time. Paying bills. Holding a conversation.
Even just pretending to be okay is exhausting.
Every small task feels like lifting a truck with your pinky. Like your tank is already empty, but life keeps asking for more.
And when I started working again, I felt like I was constantly drowning just beneath the surface.
Smiling on the outside. Dying on the inside.
I didn’t know how long I could keep it up.
I wasn’t using. I was completely sober.
And I was still in a fog.
Still haunted by my past.
Still ashamed of what I’d done.
Still carrying the wreckage of what I’d destroyed.
I thought about Mr. B.
About the abuse.
About the relationships I’d lost.
The ones I still had but couldn’t fix.
And I started to believe what the shame was telling me:
You don’t deserve good things.
So I took a different approach.
I started with what I could control.
My body.
If I could look in the mirror and feel strong again—maybe my mind would follow.
At the time, I was 290 pounds.
A long way from the 220 lbs at 10% body fat I was in college.
But I started. Slowly.
I walked.
Then I lifted.
Then I added in cardio.
Eventually, I worked up the courage to try CrossFit—at 34 years old.
The competitiveness sparked something in me I thought I’d lost forever.
I did local competitions. I trained hard.
I built a routine.
In about a year, I was back to 220.
But more than that—I was back to life.
I had something to direct the chaos toward.
I had something to win at again.
And it worked.
I couldn’t figure out my mind, so I started with my body.
And eventually, my mind started to catch up.
I felt proud of myself again.
I meal prepped.
I hit PRs at 37.
I ran a marathon—by myself.
Trained alone. Ran alone. But I’d never felt more connected.
And then other things lit up:
I got obsessed with quantum physics.
The cosmos.
Marketing.
I took classes.
I wanted to master everything I touched.
I hiked.
I volunteered with special needs groups.
I started becoming someone new.
Not a man who forgot his past—but one who owned it.
Who built from it.
Who took the ashes and made a foundation.
My advice?
• Go to therapy.
• Take meds if you need them—just have a plan.
• Move your body. Every damn day.
Be relentless.
The first year or two will feel like losing more than winning. But keep going.
In six months, you’ll be shocked.
In a year, you’ll be unrecognizable.
In two years, you’ll look in the mirror and think: I did this.
Everyone else may lose hope in you.
Just don’t lose hope in yourself.
You may think you’re too far gone.
That you don’t deserve a relationship. A career. Respect.
That others deserve success more than you do.
Maybe they do.
But life’s not fair.
So use that to your f***ing advantage.
You’re not done yet.
And you’re not broken beyond repair.
Start with the one thing you can do today.
And tomorrow, do it again.
That’s how you rebuild.
That’s how you rise