From Hazy Days to Clear Ways: My Journey of Rebirth

My Story

I was born in 1974 in Burbank, California—back when banana seat bikes ruled the streets, cassette tapes played the soundtrack of our lives, and front lawns were for football, not landscaping.

My parents were young—just 17 and 20—and in many ways, we all grew up together.

Our family was wild and free. My dad was establishing his career as a meat cutter, while my mom worked at a family sewing machine shop alongside her brother, learning the ins and outs of the trade. They were still figuring out their own lives, even as they tried to raise two boys in a fast-changing world.

Our home was always full—of laughter, of chaos, of friends. It was normal for kids—boys and girls—to stay the night. No big deal. They were “just friends.” But looking back, some of those girls left imprints on me that I wouldn’t understand until much later. Their presence, their energy, their attention—it shaped me more than I could have imagined.

And I loved it all. I *loved* my childhood. There was nothing better. It’s why I’ve always struggled with change. If I could go back to being 13, I would. Back to a world where my biggest worries were whiffle ball stats, chili cheese burritos, and whether we had enough batteries for the Nintendo controller. We’d sit around keeping track of video game scores the old-school way—with pen and paper—arguing about who had the best batting average in *Bases Loaded*. Who would want to grow up and leave that behind?

Baseball was my heartbeat. It gave me structure, identity, and a reason to strive. I wasn’t dreaming of a career—I was dreaming of the next home run, the next stolen base, the next chance to prove myself. I was always chasing something: motion, noise, adrenaline. I didn’t yet know how to sit still, or why that even mattered.

Now, looking back, I see that those early years didn’t just shape me—they scripted me. They gave me discipline and drive, but they also instilled the belief that performance equals worth. That love is earned. That stillness is something to outrun. I followed that script into adulthood without ever questioning who wrote it.

Life Lesson:

Our childhood doesn’t just form us—it quietly writes the script we end up performing. Until we examine it, we may keep acting out roles that no longer fit the people we’ve become.

What I’m Doing Differently Now:

• Reflecting on the stories I internalized as a kid—and rewriting the ones that no longer serve me
• Making peace with the past instead of trying to out-hustle it
• Creating quiet space each morning to just be—no performance, no proving, just presence

This isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about remembering where I came from so I can *consciously* decide where I’m going. And it’s about honoring the boy I once was—free, wild, and full of dreams—even as I finally grow into the man I was meant to be.