I wasn’t born into privilege, comfort, or even peace. I was born into a religious organization that, by every definition I know now, was a cult. From as early as I can remember, I felt out of place. I knew—deep in my gut—that this wasn’t the life I wanted. But wanting out and getting out are two very different things.
The environment I grew up in was steeped in control, manipulation, and fear. There was no age too young to be pulled into the psychological games. The leaders preached against wealth, comfort, and joy—all while quietly manipulating their way into the lives and wallets of the people who trusted them most.
Being one of seven kids in a low-income home built on obedience and guilt, I knew early that if I wanted a different life, I would have to go get it myself.
I was also born with what some call an intense personality (ask my wife, and she will confirm). What I now see as my greatest asset—an unwavering will—clashed violently with the expectations of my upbringing. That tension boiled over in my early teens. By the time I finished my stint in juvenile detention and a year in a boys ’home in Houston, I was 16 years old, stepping off a Greyhound bus in Austin, Texas with nothing but the clothes I had and a will to make something better of myself.
It was within 24 hours of getting off that Greyhound Bus, I started working in the water, fire, and mold industry at 16. I wasn’t fueled by ambition at the time—I was
fueled by survival, desperation, and the burning need to prove that I could make it out.
I was hungry, and I worked harder than anyone I knew. I answered every phone call, chased every lead, and poured every ounce of myself into commission-based work. When the money started coming in, I didn’t save it. I spent it—on watches, motorcycles, dinners, cars, vacations. I wasn’t trying to show off. I was trying to experience the life I had been denied.
But like most unsustainable lifestyles, it all came crashing down.
After about four years, the company I worked for suddenly filed bankruptcy.
Just like that, everything I had built vanished overnight. And I realized something: I had no control. Someone else’s decision could erase years of my effort. I vowed never to let that happen again.
At 18, I started All Nation Restoration in Austin, Texas. But first, I had to make a choice. I sold everything I owned and bought a 26-foot Jayco bumper-pull camper. I moved into a campground in East Austin with two others—a former coworker and a sober-house graduate from California. That camper became our headquarters and our home.
I went all-in. I traded luxury for longevity, flash for foundation.
And then, the critics came.
People from my past—some of whom had preached humility and sacrifice—suddenly mocked me. “See? I knew it was fake,” they said. “Now you’re living in a camper.” Some implied I was on drugs. Others told me I was a failure and should go back to working for someone else.
And the saddest part? Some of these people were my own family.
They weren’t just doubting me—they were rooting for my downfall.
But here’s the truth I discovered:
The people who want you to fail are often the ones who’ve failed themselves.
They’re scared. Not of your failure—but of your success. Because your success shines a light on their complacency.
To those people: your arrows missed. They bounced off. And some of them landed back in you. I’m not angry—just honest.
Why I’m Sharing This?
I’m writing this for anyone who feels like they’re climbing uphill with critics on their back. If you’ve ever had people try to poke holes in your dream or drag you down when you needed lifting up, this is for you.
Don’t listen to those voices. Don’t believe the people who tell you you can’t.
Because they never could. And they never did.
Instead, listen to the few who do believe in you. The ones who encourage, support, and challenge you because they’ve been there. They’ve sacrificed, they’ve failed, and they want you to succeed—sometimes more than you do.
My Advice:
The path is narrow. The nights are long. But the life you want is on the other side of sacrifice—and you are capable of building it.
