50 Years: The Life I Almost Didn’t See (March 13, 2026)

March 13, 1994.

That was the day I began telling the people around me that I was going to end my life. I remember the weight of those words and the hollow certainty behind them. Nearly three months later, following a suicide attempt, I found myself in a psychiatric ward.

At the time, I thought that was the end of my story. In reality, it was the first day of the rest of my life.

The Radical Shift

I don’t share this to shock you or to lead with a tragedy. I share it because of the "radical change" that followed. For the last 32 years, my life has been a series of introductions—to people, places, and versions of myself—that were truly beyond my wildest imagination.

In that hospital bed in 1994, I couldn’t have envisioned the laughter I’d share decades later, the hands I would hold, or the wisdom I would gain from the people who have walked in and out of my life.

A History of Becoming

Recovery isn’t a straight line; it’s a long, winding road of evolution. Over the past three decades, I have learned that:

• Presence is a Victory: Just being here is an achievement worth celebrating.

• People are the Map: Every person I’ve met since that day has been a thread in the tapestry of my survival.

• The Story Continues: No matter how dark the chapter, it is rarely the final page.

Celebrating 50

Today, I am celebrating 50 years of life. Thirty-two of those years were "bonus years"—years I fought for, years I almost traded away, and years that have proven to be more beautiful and complex than I ever thought possible. This blog is a space to honor that history. It’s a place to talk about where I’ve been, but more importantly, to celebrate the fact that I am still here to tell the tale.

To anyone standing in their own "March 13, 1994" right now: Please stay. The versions of you that exist at 50 are waiting to meet you, and they are more incredible than you can imagine.

As I reach this milestone, there are a few people who represent the foundation of these 50 years. My wife, Charlene, whose love, patience, and partnership remind me every day how fortunate I am to share this journey with her. My mom, Wilma, whose strength and unwavering support have been a constant through every chapter of my life. My brother, John, who has been both family and friend through the years. And my late dad, Eldon, whose influence and lessons continue to guide me even though he is no longer here to see this milestone. Their presence—past and present—has shaped the life I am grateful to celebrate today.
Thirty-two years ago I nearly ended my story—today, at 50, I’m grateful I chose to keep turning the pages.