The Light from the Keyhole

Just to give you an idea of some of the ups and downs in my life:

I have been left in a trash can—left for dead.

I have been surrounded by a loving family.

I have been homeless under a bridge, with stolen blankets to keep warm, scraping mold off a pot of beans I cooked on a fire.

I have pulled up to a $500,000 house with my beautiful wife after a three-course meal at a five-star restaurant, in my $120,000 truck, to sleep in a giant bed in a place we built together.

I have been surrounded by true friends and family who wanted the absolute best for me and cheered me on every step of the way.

I have been fooled by fake friends who surrounded me with false love, with envy in their hearts—friends who, when the opportunity arose, jumped me and left me on the side of the road, unrecognizable, hoping I would die.

I have seen pain.

I have seen happiness.

I have known love and heartache.

I have stolen things, and I have been robbed.

I have wanted to die—but today, the difference is, I want to live.

Let me rewind.

I was born at the end of the ‘80s to a heroin addict who would later tell me the horrors of my birth and her desire to be rid of me—the only one of six that was put out.

Needless to say, I was born into a world of negative energy that would have killed me if it were up to her and the closest trash can.

Lucky for me, my grandmother interceded on my behalf, rescued me, and asked for one of the greatest blessings in my life: a new family. Her sister, my great-aunt, came to my rescue. When I refer to my "mother," I mean the woman who raised me and gave all she had to be my mother. When I refer to the addict who gave birth to me, I will say "birth mother."

Before I can remember anything bad, one of the greatest and earliest memories I have is my mother singing to me as an infant. I can’t remember the room or what we had—only the embrace of my mother and the song Somewhere Over the Rainbow—a song I later requested to be played at her funeral.

Sadly, even as an infant, I had to endure abuse from a man named Larry, who didn’t understand the world the way most of us see it. In his fits of anger, he would become very abusive toward me. As my mother struggled with life, it became harder for her to make sound choices. As her relationship with Larry failed, a so-called friend planted seeds of doubt in her mind.

Listening to this "friend," my mother eventually took me to this woman’s house. These next memories are my first experiences of despair, loss, anguish, and shame.

When we pulled up to the woman’s trailer, I remember being excited to see a trampoline. I begged, "Could I please jump?" They said yes. I jumped my heart out, so full of joy—completely unaware that I wasn’t leaving with my mother.

I remember lying down sideways on the trampoline, tired but happy, admiring my Pluto high-top shoes, thinking life couldn’t get any better.

Soon after, I was invited inside to watch cartoons and eat. Distracted by the euphoria of toys and cartoons, I didn’t notice my mother slipping away. She told me I was staying "for a while."

I wouldn’t meet the other children until after she left—and what I found was a very dark, twisted place. That woman shouldn’t have been trusted with a pet, much less a child. Looking back, I feel terrible for those other children. Today, she would be facing hard prison time.

Thankfully, my sister Mary hadn’t seen me around and kept asking about me. After several weeks, my mother finally confessed where I was. By the grace of God, Mary rescued me.

Credit where it’s due:

My sister Mary was just fourteen, fully involved with a boy. How many fourteen-year-old girls would fight to save a toddler addicted to heroin from birth—who wasn’t even truly their family?

Fast forward a little.

I returned to my mother’s care but soon ended up playing "house" with Mary and her soon-to-be husband. They initially won my trust—but later, their actions deeply scarred my ability to trust others.

For years, I was reminded that I was just an "experiment"—not real family. I was expected to be grateful for the debt they believed I owed them.

What toxic ideas are you faithful to? How far have you allowed them to lead you down roads never meant for you? How often have you been blinded by, "Well, I did this for you," rather than recognizing, "I did this to you"?

Words can destroy a person more deeply than fists.

Your body tries to heal naturally, but your mind must be taught how to heal.

I moved back in with my mother and began to rebuild the best relationship I have ever had—even though it took years - decades - to believe I was worthy of her love.

The road wasn’t easy. Feelings of worthlessness led me to addiction, loss, self-harm, suicide attempts, jail, and prison—twice. Five years later, I was released, but not before my mother died in a house fire while I was still locked away.

In my final years of prison, I redeemed myself so she could be proud. I worked hard, focused, and rebuilt myself.

After my release, life bloomed:

I worked my way up from $13 an hour to plant manager making $100,000 a year.

I married a beautiful woman.

I lived the life many inmates dream of—a nice home, a nice truck, a bright future.

No addiction. No pull from my past life.

I thought I was invincible.

But life teaches humility.

My relationship faltered. My wife said I wasn’t a "real man."

We suffered a miscarriage.

My world collapsed.

I spiraled.

I stopped showing up for work.

I stopped coming home.

I cut off the people who loved me.

I slept in my truck.

I became a ghost of the man I had fought to become.

I stopped answering the people who loved me — their calls, their texts, their hearts reaching out.

My wife found me a few times, but no matter what she did, I kept spiraling. She couldn’t pull me back.

My path got darker.

My wife disappeared because I pushed her away.

She gave it everything she had, but I was too far gone.

I chose homelessness. I fell in with the wrong people, got pulled into their dark world. I was addicted again, destroying everything good in my life.

I had it all once — and I lost it all.

Fast forward to today.

This is the last time I will be here — this place with no freedom, no privacy — only bars, a cot, and a toilet. My own personal Groundhog Day. My third and final time.

I never expected to be back. I had made it to the top once, and now I’m back at the bottom.

Fifteen years. That’s my sentence. Maybe six if I’m lucky.

But here’s the truth: there’s no villain in my story except me.

Every path we walk is a choice — acceptance or rejection, belief or doubt — and we live in the results of those choices.

The bad in our lives is like a villain in a video game.

Every time we level up, the villain gets harder to fight — sometimes harder to even see.

We get confident. We think we're good. We let our guard down.

And that’s when we fall.

Confidence is a gift — it carries us into places where the timid never go — but when it turns into delusion, it breeds destruction.

Just when the black curtains began to close on my life, I reconnected with my ex-girlfriend.

The girl I had pushed away years ago — the one who had always seen more in me than I could see in myself.

She told me I had worth. That I was lovable. That I mattered.

When we reconnected, an idea was born:

A book. A purpose. A future.

With her by my side, I feel invincible.

Honestly, I shouldn’t even be alive. You wouldn’t believe the stories I could tell you.

But I’m still here for a reason.

God has a purpose for me: to help others find their worth, to know they are loved.

God doesn’t want me to wait until tomorrow.

He wants me to start today.

To help the ones locked up — the ones who feel forgotten — find their self-worth and their hope before they go home.

That is my goal.

That is my purpose.

That is why I walked this long, painful journey.

One day soon, I will step out of these locked gates — a truly healed man.

It’s because of the mighty pen — the only tool I had to fight despair.

Through writing, I poured out my anguish, my heartache, and ultimately, my happiness and inner peace.

I believe — no matter who we are or where we come from — that we all have a purpose.

Some people say no.

But I believe that hopelessness comes from forgetting we are meant for something more.

Something is missing.

We might not have the words for it, but it’s missing all the same.

The pessimist in me used to believe change, growth, or success was impossible.

I had conditioned myself to expect failure, to wait for the other shoe to drop — so much that I learned to untie the shoe myself, throw it down, and stomp on it.

Maybe you’ve perfected this too.

It’s called self-sabotage.

And it has to stop.

You’re not stuck. You’re not broken.

You’re just wearing blinders you don’t even realize are there.

Reflections can be good or bad — it’s your choice — but either way, the ball is back in your court.

You have to choose to open yourself to victory.

For so long, I refused to hope.

I told myself, If I don’t hope, I can’t be disappointed.

But the fear of pain is suffocating if you let it be.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

True hope has no limits.

It cannot be boxed in, measured, or controlled.

Hope exists.

Worthiness exists.

You exist — for a reason.

We just have to accept it.

When we open our hands to receive it, we can find wholeness, joy, and a happiness no one can steal from us.