I wasn’t a confident young man when I left for the Marine Corps. Truth be told, I was barely a man at all. I was a broken kid from Michigan, running from the wreckage of a life that had already taken its shots at me.
When I was sixteen, my parents divorced. A few months later, I nearly died in a car accident that left over a third of my body burned. That year, I lost almost everything I cared about—sports, school, the comfort of a whole family, and the milestones that shape a teenage boy’s sense of self. I didn’t just fall behind. I fell into something darker. I was angry—at the world, at my circumstances, and at myself. And that anger didn’t quietly smolder. It erupted. I became a 190-pound storm of resentment and pain, living under my single mom’s roof, barely making it through high school. She endured it with patience I didn’t yet understand. And then the day finally came: I got on a plane for boot camp.
I didn’t join the Marines with confidence. I joined in desperation. I didn’t enlist because I had it all figured out—I enlisted because I had nothing figured out. It wasn’t a noble, patriotic call. It was survival. A last-ditch effort to escape the person I feared I was becoming. A cry for purpose. A shot at redemption. A way to shed the skin of the boy who had been hurt too many times and didn’t know what to do with all that pain.
But even at my lowest, something in me still pointed north.
I’ve always had that—an inner voice that pulls me forward. A compass buried deep in my spirit that refuses to let me drift too far off course. At that moment, the Marines became my North Star. I believed it was my one chance to become someone different. Someone better. And I gave myself fully to it.
At first, I just put my head down and followed orders. “Sir, yes sir.” Run harder. Get stronger. Stay sharp. I wasn’t confident—I was just committed. I wasn’t leading—I was surviving. Like most of the young men beside me, I was trying to keep up. But then something changed.
There was one Marine in our platoon—just a few years older than the rest of us—but light-years ahead in confidence. He didn’t flinch under pressure. He didn’t just follow—he led. Naturally. Seamlessly. The way he carried himself, the way others responded to him—it was magnetic. He wasn’t trying to prove anything. He just was.
And man, did I envy him.
But instead of letting that envy sour, I turned it into fuel. I watched him like a hawk. Every movement. Every interaction. Every decision. I started asking myself questions I’d never considered before: What makes someone a leader? What creates presence? Why do people follow?
That curiosity became obsession. I read everything I could get my hands on—leadership books, biographies, philosophy. I studied great leaders and terrible ones. I paid attention. I started to build the man I wanted to become.
I buried that angry kid from Michigan. Not with shame—but with gratitude. He got me to the starting line. But I swore I’d never be him again. I promised myself: never again will I be afraid of who I am, never again will I lack the confidence to lead, and never again will I let life dictate the terms of my existence.
That promise became a foundation. Not just for my time in the Marines—but for my entire life.
Years later, that drive to become has never left me. It shaped how I led my business, how I show up as a father, and how I respond when life throws the next unexpected curve. I don’t claim to have it all figured out—not even close—but I know this: becoming the person you admire isn’t a matter of fate. It’s a matter of choice.
So if you’re someone who looks at others and thinks, “I wish I had what they have. I wish I could move through the world like that,” let me tell you something:
You can.
What you’re admiring in others is almost never natural. It’s earned. Built. Forged in quiet moments of doubt, refined through pain, and sharpened with effort. Confidence is not a gift. It’s a result. Leadership is not bestowed. It’s practiced.
You can become whoever you want to become. It starts by deciding. Then comes the work.
You don’t have to stay where you are. And you sure as hell don’t have to be who you were.
You just have to want it badly enough to begin—and never stop.
If you’re standing at a crossroads right now—or even just quietly wondering if change is possible—let me tell you: it is. Who you are today is not who you have to be tomorrow. The decision to evolve is yours. The work is yours. But the life on the other side? It’s worth every step.
If this message resonated with you, please take a second to follow or subscribe on Substack, Apple Podcasts or Spotify, and send it to someone who needs a reminder that becoming isn’t a fantasy—it’s a decision.
I’ll be back soon with more. Until then—believe in yourself, do the work, and keep building the life you were meant to live.
Until next time.
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