About
The Full Story
I’m originally from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the youngest of three. I had an outgoing, active childhood—close with my family, involved in sports, quick to make friends, and mostly well-behaved. Looking back, it was a time when life felt simple and carefree.
Around fourteen, I became much more self-aware, like most teenagers do. Looking back, I was popular and well-liked—often the class clown. It was also the age I started noticing how skinny I was. I still remember stepping under a barbell for the first time and realizing I was one of the weakest in the room, or at least that’s how it felt. Without fully realizing it, I had entered a phase of life where effort mattered more—academically, athletically, and personally. It was also the year I was introduced to weed and alcohol.
By sixteen, I had gone from occasionally smoking and drinking to making partying a priority. My friend group changed almost overnight. In class, my mind was always on the next thing—the party that weekend, smoking after school, meeting up with friends after practice. During this time, my exposure expanded to harder drugs as well, though it wasn't an everyday thing yet. More often than not, I felt on top of the world. What I didn’t recognize at the time was how avoidant I had become. I felt confident, but the things that truly challenged that confidence were left unaddressed, quietly pushed to the back burner.
Naturally, as my use progressed, the consequences followed. I began to struggle in school, and my family, teachers, and coaches started to notice the shift in my behavior. The summer after my junior year, I was expelled. In all honesty, it didn't even bother me at the time. I was excited for the change. For my senior year, I transferred to a public school in East Baton Rouge Parish. Moving from a college-prep private school to a much larger public school made it easier to blend in, stay out of the spotlight, and continue using—while doing just enough to get by, as I always had.
Just two years later, I was a two-time college dropout struggling with IV opiate addiction and a far cry feeling "on top of the world". When my family recognized the seriousness of my situation, they intervened and urged me to seek treatment. By that point, I had already lost friends to overdoses, so I agreed. What followed was a difficult and uneven path to recovery. Over the next eight years, I went to treatment again and again, learning a little more about myself and building a little more sober time each time, only to relapse in the end. I faced the deaths of friends, multiple close calls with my own life, and the pain of rebuilding everything, only to tear it down time after time.
It wasn’t until the last time that things truly clicked. I was 28, and it had been a long time since I actually enjoyed getting high. I had endured plenty of miserable moments in active addiction, but this was the lowest I had ever felt. I wasn’t using for fun or to chase a high anymore. I was using because if I didn’t, every few hours I would become violently sick. I did my best to hide it, but my life was falling apart. The only place I could truly disappear was my one-bedroom apartment — and even there, I couldn’t hide from myself. Every morning I woke up swearing I was going to stop, and I meant it. I hated every minute of it. This wasn’t about avoiding consequences or easing my parents’ worries. I needed to get sober, or I was going to die — and for the first time, I truly knew it. In the past, I understood my behavior was dangerous, but the drugs always allowed me to push that reality aside. This time, there was no escaping it.
There comes a point where the drugs or drink stops working. In the beginning, a single pill could keep you high all day. By the end, you might need fifteen in your hand just to make it through an hour. Your thoughts stop revolving around getting high and start revolving around survival — wondering how long what you have will last, when you’ll need more, and how you’ll get the money. Food, rent, bills, companionship — the real necessities — all take a back seat. For a while you tell yourself you'll prioritize all of these things once you get item one checked off the list, but I had done this long enough, I knew I couldn't follow through. No matter how badly I wanted to be an incredible son, brother, uncle, partner, or employee, it wasn’t enough. At that point, I would have settled for good — and I couldn’t even manage that. Things had progressed to a place where I believed death was inevitable. Whether it came from an overdose, a car crash, or a deal gone wrong, it felt like a matter of when, not if. I had watched too many close friends go the same way. And not the people you see passed out on the side of the road. Nobody starts there. These were some of the most intelligent, kind, loving, athletic, and generous people I’ve ever known — the kind who could have cured cancer if they’d been given the chance to stick around.
It all came to a head on June 27th of that year. I was found unresponsive in the parking lot of my apartment complex by my mother. I was behind the wheel of my running car, the doors shut and locked. She nearly broke her hand trying to smash the windshield and pull me out. This was only days after she had told me my father had been diagnosed with stage-four head and neck cancer. I was sick that morning — as I always was. I didn’t fall asleep; I passed out. I didn’t wake up; withdrawal set in, a fever followed, and eventually I came to. That was my circadian rhythm. That morning, she discovered I had relapsed. She could barely speak. When she finally told me about my dad, she begged me to go to treatment. She said there was no way she and my father could face his diagnosis while I was using fentanyl in South Baton Rouge. If they were going to fight for him, she needed me to fight for myself.
This woman is my rock — my best friend. And this wasn’t my father’s first battle with cancer. During his initial treatment, I stayed at my parents’ home three days a week. On my days off, I sat at his bedside. I helped with medications, water, and tube feedings because he couldn’t eat or drink on his own. That was during a previous stretch of recovery. I could administer opiate medication to him multiple times a day without a single thought of using it myself. Sadly, that loving, supportive version of me — the one who would have done anything for his parents — had been buried beneath the shame, guilt, pressure, and mental chaos of active addiction. He was still in there, but neither of us had seen him in a very long time. At that point, I don’t even remember having a single thought about helping. That simply wasn’t how my mind worked anymore. I only knew that I was sick, and that I needed to get well before I could begin to process any of it. To most people, this may not make sense at all. If one day it does, I hope it’s because you’ve learned enough to make a difference in the life of someone you love — or in the world at large. And if it makes sense because you’ve lived it yourself, or you’re watching someone you care about burn their life to the ground, I see you.
When she broke the news, my addiction had progressed so far that I couldn’t even fully comprehend it. I was deep in withdrawal. The idea of holding my mother, showing up for my father, getting sober — or doing anything a rational person might do — was completely out of reach. The only thing I could think about was quieting the noise between my ears as quickly as possible. So I did. I told her I was willing to go to treatment, but that I needed to stop by the house to grab my seizure medication and a few other things first. That was true — but it was also an excuse to use one last time. She agreed, but made it clear she wouldn’t let me go anywhere alone, so she followed me home.That was the last time I used. In my car, in traffic, with my mother a car length behind me. It’s a miracle I made it into my parking spot on Corporate Boulevard. She was already having the worst day of her life. I can’t imagine what that drive was like for her. And this was nearly thirty minutes before the overdose. I would give anything to erase that image from her memory. But I believe the pain she endured that day — alongside my father’s fight for his own life — laid the foundation for the work I’ve done to be where I am today.
About a week into my stay, the team identified Choice House in Boulder, Colorado as a treatment center that felt like a strong fit. I knew a change in geography wouldn’t fix everything, but I also knew it wouldn’t hurt my chances. By then my head had begun to clear, and I was faced with a difficult choice: leave my family while my father was undergoing cancer treatment, or commit fully to the environment that offered me the best chance at regaining my stability and sanity. Wanting desperately to be there for my family, but understanding what was truly at stake, I reluctantly agreed to go. In hindsight, agreeing to leave was the first of many hard, uncomfortable choices that ultimately led me toward lasting recovery, clarity, and a life I’m proud to live—a decision-making approach that now shapes both how I manage my own life and how I coach clients to build structure, accountability, and forward momentum when things feel overwhelming.
When I arrived at Choice House, I set a clear intention to give the process everything I had. The way my substance use had escalated over the years, I knew this could very well be my last real opportunity—and I wasn’t willing to take it for granted. I committed to continuing to make difficult choices, the kind that sacrifice comfort in the moment in exchange for long-term growth, fulfillment, and self-respect. I began asking myself a question I didn’t want to avoid anymore—not one I asked once, but one I would return to on good days and bad, a question I still ask myself today. For a long time, I may have avoided it because I didn’t want to confront the work required to answer it, or because I feared I couldn’t live up to what it demanded. Growing up, it felt like everyone around me knew exactly where they were headed—what school they’d attend, what they’d study, what their career would be—while I had no clear direction. It was there that I finally allowed myself to ask the question that changed everything: What kind of man do I want to be?
On the surface, the question sounds simple—something everyone asks themselves at some point. It doesn’t feel like a dramatic revelation, but for me, it was. Once I defined the kind of son, brother, uncle, partner, employee—and, someday, the kind of father, grandfather, and business owner—I wanted to be, it demanded honesty. It required a hard look at who I was then and who I am now. That clarity led to a second line of questioning: Are the choices I make today, the way I carry myself, the habits I’ve built, my priorities, and my overall outlook on life congruent with the man I want to become? And if they aren’t, am I willing to change them?
That same framework now sits at the center of my work with others. Whether I’m supporting someone in recovery, mentoring clients navigating depression, anxiety, or executive functioning challenges, or coaching individuals through sustainable training and nutrition habits, the process is fundamentally the same: identifying the patterns, behaviors, and coping strategies that no longer serve their long-term well-being. My passion lies in helping people build awareness and practical structure so their daily choices align with the lives they want to create—in their sobriety, in school, in their careers, in their relationships, in the mirror, and in how they move through the world.
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