Episode 01: Conscious cannabis: “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things.”

As I step into this next chapter of my life — a chapter rooted in rediscovering my why — my only motivation is this: to offer anyone who gives their time to my story a little bit of hope.

Because life? It hasn’t been fair.

I’ve lived some of the most beautiful moments a man could ask for. I married my high school sweetheart. We brought four healthy, incredible children into this world. I landed a dream career early on — the kind people fantasize about. I had a loving wife, supportive parents (even with the trauma they carried), and more money than I ever thought I’d earn. Life took off fast. It felt like I was in control.

But somehow, even with everything… it still wasn’t enough.

As you get to know me — through this blog, through my podcast, through the art and work I’m pouring my soul into — you’ll see that even the most “blessed” lives come with pain. Suffering doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care about your bank account or your background. It finds you. And it can live quietly inside you, for years, while you keep smiling on the outside.

Hope is a good thing. But hope can die — if we let it.

So I’m sharing my story now. The full story. All the mistakes. All the pain. All the pieces of me I used to keep buried. I never intended to be this vulnerable, but here I am — praying that maybe, through my mess, someone else will feel less alone.

Most days, I still fight to like myself. I see the age in my face — the white in my beard, the tired in my eyes. Some days, even just being me feels too heavy. But I keep getting up, hoping to bring light to someone else’s darkness.

And maybe that’s what this is really all about.

What Brought This All On?

Honestly? I’m still trying to make sense of it.

Over the last year, I’ve been grieving the loss of my wife — not to death, but to separation. She left and took our son with her.

And let me tell you… grief is brutal either way. I’ve found myself wondering which would hurt more — losing someone you love to death, or losing them while they’re still alive, still breathing, but just gone from your world. I didn’t have to face death, but the pain was just as real.

Our marriage was a ticking time bomb. We fought often. We also endured trauma that would break most couples — unimaginable things. Death. Pressure. Loss. Judgment. I was her client. She was my attorney. Her friends, who were also her coworkers, passed. Her parents disapproved of her loving a man with four kids.

And in the middle of all that noise… we fell in love.

We were engaged 30 days after our first date. It was chaos. I was building a restaurant and smoke lounge in downtown OKC — right between our homes. She was pregnant within 60 days. We were sprinting into a life together that neither of us had fully healed enough to sustain.

While launching a business, managing a dispensary, becoming a husband again, and preparing for my fifth child at 42, I never paused long enough to see the wreck coming.

And it came hard. Over the next 18 months, we lost almost everything — the restaurant, her law firm, the vision, the energy, the peace. We nearly lost our baby. We nearly lost her. And without friends or family nearby, we slowly tore each other apart.

The Truth I’m Learning to Tell

This is my story — raw and unfiltered. I’m stripping away the ego because this platform I’m building, this dream I’m chasing, isn’t about me anymore. It’s about us. The ones who’ve hit rock bottom. The ones still holding on.

My goal is to build a platform that uses cannabis culture, art, and conversation to advance mental health awareness. To reach people who feel like they’ve got nothing left.

Because I’ve been there.

When my wife left with my son, I didn’t want to live. I planned how I would end it. I told myself it would be easier for everyone if I just disappeared. Me — the motivational guy. The leader. The one with the “perfect life.”

But suicide doesn’t care who you are either.

I’m still not out of the woods. I still battle my own mind. I still struggle with anxiety, fear, and shame. But I keep waking up. I keep loving my kids. I keep creating. And I keep hoping that if I share this, someone else might hold on just a little longer.

If you’re struggling right now, please know this:

I love you. Someone else does too. Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.