My Story

My story starts like many who join the military, with good old-fashioned childhood trauma. It wasn't all terrible, but it certainly didn't set me up with the best tools for emotional regulation or a healthy sense of self-worth. So, like many in my position, when I turned 18, I joined the Marine Corps and specifically requested the infantry.

At the time, I had plenty of reasons to justify my decision. There was a war raging, and someone had to fight it—if not me, then who? I didn't want to rack up college debt for a piece of paper. I wanted to make a difference in the world. So off I went to Parris Island, SC, to earn the title of U.S. Marine.

I vividly remember my first night on the recruit depot, lying in my rack after lights out and wondering what in the hell I had gotten myself into. The next six months were a blur of training, with few moments I remember clearly. It all culminated with my assignment to 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines, in June of 2010. I thought, "Man, I made it. I'll finally get respect when I meet my platoon." Clearly, I didn't yet understand the culture of the infantry. Within moments of meeting my senior Marines, I had a dip bottle thrown at my head for the sin of responding to a Corporal with "Yes, Lance Corporal."

The next six months were more of the same—intense training (good training, if you know, you know), fleeting moments of respite, a lot of regret, and the beginnings of lifelong friendships with men I now call brothers.

In January 2011, we deployed to Helmand Province, just outside of Marjah. Let me tell you, it was a hell of a time. As some say, it was the best worst time of my life. I look back fondly on some of it, but the deeper scars remain. We didn’t escape without a fight. Friends were gravely injured. One lost his life—a man I think about often.

When we returned in August 2011, I struggled with survivor’s guilt, though I didn’t recognize it at the time. I didn’t process it in a healthy way; instead, I developed an anger problem and turned to alcohol. Some friends left the Corps, and we got a new batch of Marines. We began training for the next deployment.

In 2013 (I think—my timeline is foggy), we deployed again to Helmand Province. This time, the mission was more about demilitarizing bases and reducing our presence. We tore down bases and conducted limited operations. I have a lot to say about this deployment and its leadership—most of it not good—but that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say, this deployment left its own scars.

After returning, I transferred to the battalion’s operations section, an office job I hated. My Staff Sergeant and I would look out the window at the infantry squads training, longing to get back out there.

In January 2015 (again, I think), I deployed to Europe as a Javelin team leader. We were prepositioned for a mission that never came, so I tell people it was a European vacation on Uncle Sam’s dime. But it was during this time that my psychological struggles from earlier deployments began surfacing. I didn’t know how to manage it, so I turned to alcohol and repression. It worked—until it didn’t.

After that deployment, I reenlisted and got orders to the School of Infantry West as a combat instructor. Those were some of the hardest-working years of my life—100-hour weeks weren’t unusual, and 80-hour weeks felt short. I loved it. Training the next generation of infantry Marines felt like leaving a legacy. I poured my entire self into their training.

But I gave too much. Slowly at first, then all at once, I fell apart. I sought help, but things only got worse. Eventually, my mental health team determined I couldn’t perform my duties. I was pulled from training students, which devastated me. The next 18 months were a mix of intensive treatment and mismanagement by my command. I wanted to finish my contract, to lead a platoon on one final deployment. But that wasn’t in the cards.

So I made a new plan: I’d become a paramedic and eventually a surgeon. But life had other plans. My friend Noah Bratcher took his life in front of me, shattering what little stability I had regained.

I was officially retired on April 29, 2019. The first few weeks were great. I slept in, stayed up late, smoked weed, and just kicked it. I was free, baby—civilian life was awesome. Until it wasn’t. It didn’t take long for the darkness to creep in. The reality was, I was lost without a purpose, still drowning in trauma I hadn’t dealt with. On top of that, I lost the daily camaraderie with my closest friends, and Starbucks—of all places—told me I was an inspiration but not cut out to sling their coffee. Add untreated depression to the mix, and I was in a bad place.

Things spiraled. I tried to get a service dog—hell, even my VA-appointed psychologist agreed it would help. But the VA denied my request, claiming there was "no evidence" that service dogs alleviate PTSD. Unsurprised but undeterred, I turned to nonprofits. There are plenty doing incredible work, but I wasn’t in a place where I could navigate their systems or wait out their timelines. A 24-to-36-month wait just wasn’t an option—I was in crisis. So I endured, without a dog, for months.

Then one day, I hung out with my buddy John. He had just adopted a Border Collie to train as his service dog and convinced me to do the same. The next day, I adopted Venus.

The following months? A total shitshow. I had no idea what I was doing. Thankfully, I found Veteran Canine Intelligence Academy and its founder, Andy McTigue. With the help of some amazing volunteers, they taught me how to train Venus. That was the turning point.

At that time, just going to the grocery store was a battle. I had isolated myself in my apartment, which only made things worse—no surprise there. But Venus wouldn’t let me stay stuck. She deserved better. She had already given me so much, and I owed it to her to get out, take her on adventures, and face the world. It forced me to grow, and I’m convinced she played a huge role in my healing.

But that wasn’t all she did. Venus has this uncanny ability to know exactly what I need. I don’t know how she does it—I never taught her to respond to my anxiety—but she just knows. She became my rock, a safe place in the middle of the storm. She grounded me and created the space I needed to start doing the hard, internal work that true healing requires.

In 2022, inspired by what Venus had done for me, I wanted to find a way to make service dogs more accessible to veterans. I figured if my Border Collie could save my life, then other dogs could save other veterans. And from that thought, Honorguard Coffee was born—a business built to take on the veteran suicide crisis. The only problem? I had no idea what I was doing when it came to business.

Then, by sheer coincidence, I crossed paths with Diego, a facilitator for Heroic Hearts Project, a nonprofit that provides psychedelic-assisted therapy for veterans. I can’t sing their praises—both Diego and Heroic Hearts—loud enough. They took care of everything, making it possible for me to travel to Peru and sit with Ayahuasca under the guidance of an indigenous healer.

The experience was transformational. It was empowering. It was healing. It was challenging. It was terrifying. And it was the final piece of my recovery.

Which brings me to today. I’ve grown. I’ve gained wisdom. I’ve refined my mission and my plan to get there. I am healed. And I will stop at nothing to end the veteran suicide crisis.

To that end, I’m still building Honorguard Coffee to fund the fight, while freely sharing my hard-won lessons in organizational development with nonprofits that are taking up the mission alongside me.