I grew up in a household that subtly villainized masculinity.
My creativity and emotional sensitivity were welcomed—while my aggression, competitiveness, and assertiveness were quietly shamed.

I learned early that being nice was safe. That softness was loveable.
But the parts of me that wanted to push, to penetrate life, to win—were exiled.

So I became the “good man.” The sensitive one. The one who tried to do everything right.
I learned to listen, to understand, to please.
And beneath it all, I carried an invisible wound—an unspoken belief that something was wrong with me.

For years, I chased the feeling of being enough.
Through relationships. Through achievement. Through spiritual practice.
If I could just fix myself, prove myself, perfect myself… maybe then I’d finally be free.

But no matter how much I did, it was never enough.
Because the deeper truth was this: I wasn’t broken. I was disowned.
I had turned against my own masculine nature in order to survive.

It took me decades—and countless initiations—to see it clearly.
To realize that what I’d been calling healing was often just another way to stay safe.
That the path back to wholeness required a descent, not an ascent.

The real work began when I stopped trying to transcend my humanity and started inhabiting it.
When I learned to breathe through the chaos instead of fix it.
When I faced the rage and grief I’d buried for years and found, at the bottom of it all, a wild and unwavering love for life.

That descent stripped me down to something simple and real.
It taught me that presence isn’t a technique—it’s a way of being.
That leadership isn’t control—it’s attunement.
That masculinity, in its mature form, isn’t domination or suppression—it’s containment, clarity, and devotion.

I didn’t learn this from a textbook or a weekend workshop.
I learned it through the body. Through failure. Through heartbreak. Through the long, slow work of remembering how to stand in my own center without apology.

Over the past two decades, that path has evolved into my life’s work—guiding men through their own initiations.
I’ve walked with men through divorce, addiction, loss, rage, numbness, and rebirth.
I’ve sat in sweat lodges, led wilderness rites, held ceremony with psilocybin, and built communities of men devoted to truth and brotherhood.

My approach weaves together everything that’s shaped me—meditation and somatic practice, shadow work and shamanism, breath and ritual, myth and embodiment.
It’s not a method. It’s a way of living.

Today, my work is simple:
To help men remember who they are beneath the conditioning.
To restore integrity to their relationships, their bodies, and their presence.
To return them to the elemental truth of being a man fully alive—grounded, awake, and in service to something greater than themselves.

Because when a man reclaims his power—not the performative kind, but the quiet, embodied strength that moves from love—he becomes a force of stability in a world starving for it.

That’s the work. That’s the path.
And it’s an honor to walk it with you.