A Beginning, Not a Blueprint
There’s no simple way to explain a life shaped by war, faith, doubt, and the slow, stubborn pursuit of truth. I’ve spent years inside systems, some rigid, some chaotic, some deeply personal. I’ve seen what happens when structure holds, and what happens when it doesn’t. I’ve walked through deserts, both literal and spiritual, and I’ve learned that perseverance isn’t about brute strength. It’s about clarity. It’s about surrender. It’s about the kind of quiet resilience that doesn’t need to be seen to be real.
I’m a combat veteran. A follower of Christ. A writer who thinks in layers. I write to process. To wrestle. To make sense of things I’ve lived through that don’t fit neatly into words. I write because reflection is how I heal. I write to shed light on things I've been through and things I've learned.
Faith was part of my life long before I understood its weight. I grew up in a home where belief was just part of the rhythm, church on Sundays, scripture in the background, hymns that stuck with me. But faith doesn’t stay untouched. It gets tested. And mine was, over and over again.
When I joined the Army, I brought that faith with me. The discipline made sense. The structure gave me something to hold onto. But Iraq changed everything. War doesn’t just wear down your body, it shakes your soul. I saw things that made me question the God I thought I knew. I felt the silence. I felt the doubt. And it wasn’t actually all that quiet, it was loud.
Still, something held. Certainly not perfectly or cleanly. But enough. I prayed under desert skies. I opened scripture in rooms filled with dust, war raging around me. I didn’t feel strong, but I kept showing up. And slowly, my faith wasn’t restored, it was reforged. Not as a shield, but as a compass.
Coming home didn’t end the struggle. In some ways, it made it harder. Civilian life has its own kind of battles, less visible, more subtle. The search for purpose. The weight of memory. The quiet ache of disconnection. But through all of it, Christ stayed steady. Not because I held on perfectly, but because He did.
This blog is part of that journey. It’s not a portfolio. It’s not a résumé. It’s a space to think out loud. To explore what I believe, what I’ve survived, continue to survive, and what I’m still figuring out. I’ll write about faith and philosophy. About trauma and healing. About the questions that keep me up at night and the truths that help me sleep.
Some posts will be personal. Others will be abstract. Some will wrestle with scripture and my personal faith. Others with silence. And many will look outward, at the world we’re living in, the culture we’re navigating, and the philosophical tensions that shape our time.
I’ll write about what matters to me, what’s shaped me, challenged me, and continues to refine me. I won’t pretend to have all the answers. But I’ll show up with honesty, with reverence, and with a commitment to truth, even when it’s uncomfortable.
