Oʻahu roots · Dallas now

My wound became the scaffolding.

Stories, songs, coaching, and speaking for people determined not to pass their damage forward.

Combat Marine Veteran. Memoirist. Songwriter. Coach. Speaker. Retired escape artist. Mostly.

In 2015, I did 5,862 pull-ups in Times Square in twenty-four hours. People asked how. Nobody asked why. Fair enough. The how was easier to count.

I got very good at doing hard things while avoiding harder ones. I know what it looks like to build something impressive on top of something broken. Record on the wall. House on fire.

Maybe your version is not pull-ups. Maybe it is the promotion. The marathon. The business. The spotless garage. The marriage everybody thinks is fine. Maybe it is simply being fine. You are always fine. Ask anybody.

I wore that costume for years. Mine came with a flag on it.

I grew up in Waiʻanae. I fought in Ramadi. I stood in a pulpit. I owned a gym. I broke things I meant to protect. I still lift. Iron does not flatter, and I have had enough flattery for one lifetime.

The memoir, the songs, the coaching, and the talks are one conversation carried into different rooms: What did we inherit? What did we build to survive it? What did survival eventually cost us?

And what happens when somebody finally decides:

This goes no further.

If something in you just shifted its weight, good.

Start there.