Explore how Stoic principles complement correct biblical teachings for meaningful living.
What started this blog?
It began with a realization—one that hit me hard while spending time at my sister-in-law’s house. Her words carried a weight that I wasn’t prepared for, spoken to my wife with a sincerity and wisdom that cut through my defenses. At that moment, I was forced to confront a truth I’d been running from for years: the man I thought I was—confident, in control, and successful—was nothing more than an illusion. What I saw staring back at me was a lie I had lived so long that it felt real, and in that reflection, I saw the monster I had become. The words she shared weren’t meant to harm, but to help, and somehow they cracked open the facade I had so carefully built. There comes a time in every person’s life when they must take a hard look at the shadow they hide behind and open their eyes, no matter how painful it might be.
The hardest part of this process is unlearning the lessons our parents taught us—especially for those of us who grew up in toxic or abusive households. Our parents prepared us for the world as they knew it, but the problem is, that world no longer exists. We inherit their fears, their wounds, and their ways of coping, which often include anger, control, manipulation, or emotional detachment. These lessons served them in their time, but they become poison for us as adults navigating an entirely different world. The habits they instilled can feel like shackles—chains we didn’t ask for but carry nonetheless. Breaking free from those chains isn’t easy, and it comes with immense emotional cost. It forces us to acknowledge that the people who were supposed to love and protect us were also the ones who planted seeds of pain and dysfunction. That realization can drive some people to the brink—leading them to thoughts of suicide when the weight feels unbearable.
It’s not just about unlearning behaviors—it’s about unlearning survival mechanisms that kept us alive as children but are now tearing us apart as adults. We were taught that love meant control, that silence was safety, and that anger was the only way to be heard. But the world we live in today demands a different set of tools—vulnerability, empathy, and trust. Learning these things after years of being conditioned to do the opposite feels like trying to rewire your brain from the ground up. And it hurts. It hurts to admit that the coping mechanisms we’ve clung to for so long—rage, avoidance, addiction—are no longer serving us. But more than that, it hurts to let go of the idea that we can somehow fix the past if we just hold on to it tightly enough.
This blog is part of that painful process—of tearing down the walls I built to survive and learning how to live without them. It’s about looking back, not with anger or resentment, but with clarity and courage. It’s about forgiving where I can and setting boundaries where I can’t. And it’s about learning how to exist in a world that doesn’t require me to be the monster I thought I had to be. This process isn’t neat or easy. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and full of missteps. But it’s necessary if I want to move forward. Because the alternative—living trapped in a prison of old habits and old pain—isn’t really living at all.
All My Life I Believed I Was Never Good Enough
This Affected Everyhing I Thought I Was Supposed To Be
I've Carried This While Allowing It To Affect My Children
As Well As Every Relationship From The Age Of 15 Onward
I'm Finally Learning To Fly
I Have A Right
This journey isn’t just a mental exercise—it’s rooted in survival. For me, it led to years of homeless survival, forcing me to live on the edge of society and compromise who I was at just 15 years old. I remember sitting in a holding cell in Butler County, Kansas—angry, scared, and lost. That cell became the first step toward becoming someone I didn’t recognize. The boy I had been was buried under layers of rage and survival instincts, and the lessons I carried from home only fueled the fire.
One of the hardest truths I’ve had to face is that the man who gave me life—my biological father—didn’t earn the title of “Dad.” That was a title he lost long before I had the courage to strip it away, leaving him nothing more than a sperm donor in my eyes. There was no grand confrontation or closure—just the quiet death of what should have been a sacred relationship. His actions sealed that fate, with no distinction, no fanfare, and no need for further explanation. He became a ghost I carried with me, a constant reminder of what a father is not supposed to be.
His behavior toward my stepmother was something I’ll never forget, though part of me wishes I could. It wasn’t just toxic—it was criminal. What I witnessed should have landed him in jail or prison. The verbal tirades, the manipulation, the physical violence—it taught me a twisted version of love. In my young mind, love became synonymous with intimidation and control. If someone didn’t listen, you made them listen. If they didn’t obey, you broke them. That was the lesson my father passed down to me, not in words but through actions, and for a long time, I believed it. I carried that poison into every relationship I touched, thinking that was how you showed you cared.
Unlearning those lessons has been one of the most painful experiences of my life. It wasn’t just about changing behaviors—it was about confronting the belief that love was something to be enforced through fear and power. Every time I lashed out, every time I tried to control someone, I was following the blueprint he left for me. And breaking away from that pattern felt like tearing a piece of myself apart. But if I didn’t, I knew I’d never be free. I knew I’d never escape the monster I was becoming.
Survival isn’t just about staying alive—it’s about learning how to live without the toxic patterns that kept you breathing but destroyed your soul. For years, homelessness was my reality—a brutal, day-to-day existence where trust was dangerous, and survival meant suppressing every hint of vulnerability. But the scars I carried from home made it even harder. The man I became during those years wasn’t someone I was proud of—he was someone I created to endure. And in many ways, I’m still trying to unlearn him, piece by piece, as I navigate what it means to truly live, not just survive.
This blog is part of that process. It’s about facing the darkest parts of my past—the lessons my father passed down, the survival instincts I honed on the streets, and the pain I inflicted on others because I didn’t know any better. It’s about holding myself accountable, not for what I couldn’t control as a child, but for what I can control now. It’s about untangling love from fear, power from control, and family from intimidation. This is where I lay it all bare—not as a confession, but as a way to finally let go and move forward.