Most people think the hardest part of jail is the violence. It isn’t. The hardest part is the first 72 hours. The "Intake Protocol."

This is the moment your identity is stripped, your name is replaced by a number, and you have to build a mask that can keep you alive.

"I’m taking you back to the basement where I hit bottom. This isn't just a sad story; it's a breakdown of the mechanics of why I crashed."

You could smell it before you saw it.
Diesel. Wet earth. Cigarettes.
And the stale heat of a crew truck that had been lived in for 14 hours straight.

The laughter was sharp. Always at someone else’s expense.
And my laugh was the loudest.

I had to be loud. Had to cover up the fact that I didn't belong.

We love a good redemption story. The crash, the burn, the rising from the ashes. But nobody talks about the "Limbo Era."

For two years—from October 2022 to September 2024—I lived in it.

I had already lost my "dream career" at Hydro One. I had already gotten sober. But I was waiting to be sentenced. I was waiting to find out if my life was over (or so I thought at the time).

So, what did I do? I went back to work.

I took a job in high-angle construction, climbing wind turbines. I told myself I was just grinding, rebuilding, doing what men do.

But the truth? I was trying to outrun my anxiety by climbing above it.

The blueprint for professional reconstruction. How to navigate the identity crisis of job loss and rebuild a career from scratch—even when the odds are zero.

I thought strength was a shield forged in private. I was wrong. The fastest way to build your own unshakeable resilience is to focus your energy on strengthening someone else.

We're sold the myth that change is a lightning bolt. It's not. It’s about the tiny, stubborn, everyday wins, like driving past the liquor store. Here's how to stack them.

October holds my arrest and my sobriety date. For years, it was a burden. Here is the 4-step framework I used to stop being a victim of my past and turn it into a monument.