There’s something powerful about being honest. Not the filtered kind of honesty that fits neatly in an Instagram caption, but raw, unfiltered truth—the kind that exposes your scars and shakes your soul just to speak aloud. This is that kind of honesty.
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever shared. But if it helps even one person, it’s worth it.
The Storm I Hid From Everyone
There was a time in my life when I was angry at the world. Not frustrated or annoyed—angry. The kind of anger that simmers just beneath the surface of everything. I drank too much and too often. I numbed the pain in all the ways the world makes easy. I was bitter, cynical, and burned out. I’d look in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back at me.
I was a terrible husband—short-tempered, emotionally unavailable, and closed off. I was a distant father—physically present but mentally and emotionally somewhere else. I wore a mask when I left the house: a fake smile, a half-hearted laugh, the kind of facade we men get really good at crafting. Underneath that mask was a soul unraveling. I carried a storm inside my chest, and every day I told myself the same lie: “I’m fine.”
Like a lot of men—especially veterans—I buried the pain. I told myself to “man up.” I convinced myself that asking for help was weakness. But the truth was that I was breaking, piece by piece, in silence. And the silence was suffocating.
The Day It Almost Ended
It all came to a head on a day I will never forget.
I had reached the end of my rope. I had nothing left in the tank. No more lies to tell myself. No more strength to pretend. I loaded a gun. I sat on the edge of the bed. And I made the decision that it was over.
I don’t remember all the thoughts that went through my mind, but I remember the weight of despair. It felt like the whole world was crushing me from the inside out. My hands shook. My heart raced. I couldn’t breathe.
And then something happened.
The gun didn’t fire.
And when I looked to my side—right there on the nightstand, as if it had been waiting for years—was a Bible. Covered in dust. Untouched. Forgotten.
But on that day, that Bible might as well have been a megaphone in the silence. I felt God’s presence in a way I never had before. Not loud. Not dramatic. But deep. Soul-level deep.
And I heard Him—not with my ears, but with every fiber of my brokenness:
“You’re not alone. I still have plans for you.”
That moment—rock bottom—became the turning point.
From Darkness to Purpose
Since that day, everything has changed.
Not all at once. Not perfectly. But radically.
I made a commitment to heal. To stop pretending. To stop hiding. I turned back to my faith, not because I suddenly had it all figured out, but because I finally realized I couldn’t carry it all on my own. I stopped striving to be perfect and instead focused on being better. Just better.
Better husband.
Better father.
Better brother.
Better man.
Out of that journey, I started something close to my heart: Honor and Ash Cigar Club. Not just because I love cigars, though I do. But because I needed to build something real—for men like me. For veterans. For first responders. For the ones who wear the mask. For the ones who carry wounds no one else sees. For the ones fighting silent battles in their own homes and minds.
I built it for the man sitting in his garage, wondering if his life still matters.
Because it does.
Mental Health Matters—Full Stop
There’s a lie that too many men believe—that we have to be tough, stoic, unbreakable. That vulnerability is weakness. That tears are shameful. That talking is complaining.
That silence is strength.
But here’s the truth: Silence kills.
I’ve lived it.
I survived it.
And now, I’m doing everything I can to make sure my brothers don’t go down the same dark road.
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling, please—talk to someone. Don’t let your pride keep you in a prison. Reach out. Text a friend. Message your pastor. DM me if you don’t know where else to turn.
There is no shame in struggling.
There is only shame in suffering alone when help exists.
You matter.
Your life matters.
Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now, God cares deeply about you.
I’m living proof of that.
I shouldn’t be here. But by His grace—I am.
The Truth That Saved Me
That verse I read on the nightstand that day?
I’ve carried it with me ever since:
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
I was broken. I was crushed. But I wasn’t alone.
And neither are you.
From One Brother to Another
If any part of this speaks to your heart, I hope you’ll share it. Not for me. But for someone else. Maybe your friend. Maybe your brother. Maybe a stranger who sees your post at just the right time.
You never know whose life you could help save just by letting them know they’re not alone.
And if you ever need someone to talk to—I’m here. No judgment. No preaching. Just brotherhood. Just honesty. Just hope.
If you’re still breathing, there’s still purpose.
God’s not done with you yet.
He wasn’t done with me.
And because of that, I get to live.
And now—I get to help others do the same.
You matter.
You’re not alone.
Let’s walk this road together.
