About My Mug Shot

I have a mug shot.

Maybe you’re here because you’ve found it. Or, maybe its news to you. I managed nearly three years avoiding it myself, but I’ve seen it. I hate it, obviously.

I haven’t yet created the kind of emotional distance that would let me laugh at the fact there’s an actual mug shot of me online. Of all the aspirations my childhood imagination could reach for, this was not on the list.

So what happened?

Before I tell you, let me add some irony. When I was finishing my PhD, my research focused on men who had been to prison and were trying to reenter society. One of the biggest findings was that all of them felt the system had failed them: police who didn’t believe or care, a corrupt plea process, the weight of parole. Story after story of injustice filled my data.

And I didn’t believe them.

My dissertation chair had to call me out for biasing the results with my skepticism. I went back to the data several times to remove my bias, but even then, deep down, I still didn’t believe them.

Okay, hold that thought.

Fast forward a decade. I’m driving my then five year old son to a doctor’s appointment when a driver behind me loses his mind. To this day, I don’t know what I did that offended him. He was in a classic road rage fit: tailgating, swerving, aggressive posturing. Eventually, he pulled up to my truck at a stoplight—on the same side my son was sitting—and started acting too aggressively for a father’s patience to tolerate.

Words were exchanged. We both called the police.

He claimed I pointed a gun at him. I didn’t. But here’s the kicker: because I was legally carrying a pistol, the police believed him and charged me with assault with a deadly weapon. What started as a misdemeanor matured quickly to a full-blown felony assault by the time I got to jail.

That was a fun little bonus.

Felony assault is the kind of charge that makes headlines. The kind you can go to prison for. The kind that changes your life forever. I was charged as a violent felon even though I did everything right. I openly cooperated with police—answered questions, let them search my truck, willingly told the truth. I was even writing a statement when they arrested me before I could finish.

The system failed. Just like it failed the men in my study.

And as I sat there in my cozy cell with nothing to do but contemplate my very unfortunate existence, I thought about my failure to believe them. Then I remembered one harrowing quote from my research:

“We don’t lock up prisoners. We make them.”

Fortunately, my stay at Austin’s finest temporary incarceration facility was short-lived. I was released, and over the next year, I worked to prove I wasn’t the aggressor and never pulled a weapon. The other driver’s refusal to cooperate further with the district attorney—combined with his own criminal record of fraud—closed the case. The charges were dismissed.

The mugshot was not.

Why am I writing this?

Sometimes you face adversity. Sometimes you create it. In this case, for me, it was both.

I’ve been a healer my whole life, but not the kind who has lived perfectly and can lead by spotless example. I’ve wrestled with demons. I’ve got scars. I’ve faced hells others created for me, and I’ve created some myself.

If you work with me or know me long enough, you’ll find that I’m the same person everywhere. The me you’d meet at happy hour is the me you’d meet if you hired me. Authenticity is a pillar of my character. Sometimes I fail at it, but most of the time, I lead with it.

I’m leading with this story because my calling, if I have one, is to be available to people who’ve faced adversity—or created it—and been crushed by it.

Radical self-ownership is the only true path up whatever mountain you’re climbing. I’ve lived inauthentically and paid the price. I’ve lived with courageous openness and paid the price.

But for me, there’s no other way to live. And that’s why I’m writing this story. Not to hide behind a hideous mug shot, but to stand in front of it—so you know exactly who you’re working with.

Few paths are more worthy than the one that leads to redemption and healing. But to walk it, you have to start with truth.

This is a part of mine.

Let me know if you need help with yours.

How I Lost Everything - and Why I'm Still Here

If you’ve ever felt like your life looked fine on the outside while quietly falling apart on the inside, this story is for you.

The Rise

Before I turned 30, I had earned a PhD from a top-tier program in marriage and family therapy. Within a few years, I had climbed quickly in my field—recognized across Texas as a gifted clinician and emerging industry leader. I led initiatives at both the state and national levels that shaped how therapists did their work.

Before I could help others rebuild, I had to face what I’d destroyed in my own life.

The Cracks Beneath the Surface

I was building two businesses and fine tuning a quickly developing expertise helping couples save their marriages.

But behind the scenes, I was quietly unraveling.

Many of my clients have told me that it wasn’t failure, but success, that brought their inner demons to the surface. That was my experience, too.

While I was helping others build stronger marriages and more meaningful lives, I was making private choices that violated my own principles. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself no one would find out. I told myself I could fix it on my own.

When it All Fell Apart

Over the next five years, the very businesses I built collapsed under the weight of my distracted mismanagement.

My personal life followed. I gave up the professional license I had spent years earning.

I lost the respect of my peers. My marriage teetered on the brink. My addictions and unresolved trauma didn’t just catch up with me—they handcuffed me -

literally and figuratively.

The Lie We Tell Ourselves

People expect the healer to have it all together. We’re supposed to be the calm in the storm.

And in many ways, I was.

But I was also the healer sitting on a concrete curb outside of a closed office in the wreckage of a failed dream, wondering how the hell I’d gotten there.

Starting over wasn’t part of the plan.

But I was finally willing to admit to myself that the control I thought was just arrogance disguised as competence.

The Truth About Redemption

What I’ve learned is this: none of us outrun our pain. If we try, we just end up becoming someone else’s.

I don’t have a clean record. I’ve made mistakes—some of them public, all of them painful. I’ve hurt people I loved and cared for. I will never be the guy who lives without regret. I have already accumulated too many.

But I haven’t quit.

If You’re in it Now..

If your life, your marriage, or your world has been brought to its knees—whether by your own doing or someone else’s—I want to say this:

Welcome.

Welcome to the long road back. Welcome to the work of rebuilding. Welcome to real, earned nonjudgment—not the kind taught in graduate school, but the kind that comes from wrestling with your shadow and making peace with it.

You’re not too far gone. You’re not beyond redemption. Maybe things aren’t going your way right now. Maybe you’ve lost something, or someone. Maybe you don’t even know where to begin.

Start here.

I don’t have all the answers. But I know the road. And I’m still walking it.