For most of my life, I believed my father when he said the world was ending.

Not someday. Now. Every decision was about survival: where to live, whether to go to college, whether relationships mattered when we were all going to die anyway.

We moved 16 times in one year. I learned to build a stable inner life while everything outside stayed in chaos. I learned that fear is masterful at disguising itself as wisdom—sounding protective, logical, like the only sensible choice.

The question that has shaped me: How do you tell the difference?

When the voice in your head says “don’t risk it,” is that discernment or avoidance? When it counsels safety, is that wisdom or fear guiding you toward a smaller life?

I’ve spent years learning to distinguish between them. Through college choices my father called suicidal. Through faith when everything I’d been taught said religion was brainwashing. Through marriage when I’d watched my parents’ relationship disintegrate. Through love when every instinct said to guard and keep score.

Each time, fear sounded wise. My heart knew better.

That’s what I write about.

I write for people who are tired of fear making decisions for them. Who want to see the difference between surviving and living. Who are ready to choose differently but don’t know how to start.

My essays won’t give you formulas. They’ll give you recognition—the “me too” moment. They’ll give you language for what you’ve felt but couldn’t name. And they’ll give you companionship from someone who’s been through it.

Not prescriptions. Not answers. Just witness to what choosing life actually requires.

I live in New York with my wife. I read the Bible every morning. I’m learning to trust despite uncertainty.

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