I Thought I Had to Be Perfect Until My Friend Died

For years, I believed that if I could just be tough enough, if I could just hold it together, nothing bad would happen to me. I was the guy who didn't cry. I was the guy who kept moving forward even when everything was falling apart. I thought that was what strength looked like.

But the reality hit me in waves, and it didn't stop.

I realized that my worth isn't something I have to earn through performance or perfection. It is an inside job, something I own regardless of what happens to me.

It started with the game. I was cut from the Seahawks in 2008. Then, in the following three years, I was cut from three different teams. I had played arena football while under the influence in 2009, trying to force a comeback that wasn't meant to be. I ruptured my Achilles twice, requiring surgery and risking amputation, because I was too hard-headed to listen to my body. I felt lost. I felt like I wasn't good enough. I felt like my life was over multiple times.

Then came the silence. My friend committed suicide on a July 4th weekend. I had spoken to him before he died. I couldn't shake the guilt. I questioned if I could have helped him differently. I realized that the mental toughness I prided myself on wasn't always what we show. Sometimes, it's just a mask.

The grief did not stop there. I also lost my father, my mother, and my grandmother. I remember a phone call at 4 a.m. and holding my mother’s hand. I cried more than I ever had in my life. For me, grief reflects deep love, and the reality of loss returns in waves.

I felt like a fraud. I felt miserable. I lost my friends. I pulled back my emotions to be a rock for my loved ones, but I was crumbling inside. I didn't care if I lived during those dark moments.

The turning point didn't come from a grand speech or a sudden epiphany. It came from my son. He was 13 years old. I saw a tattoo on him that made me choose to give tomorrow a chance. I realized that I couldn't keep trying to be everything for everyone. I was burning out. I was trying to fix problems for my wife and kids, trying to force my children down paths that weren't theirs. I felt selfish when I tried to control their lives.

I decided to stop. I decided to be transparent about my struggles. I started making videos on Facebook within four months of that decision. I wrote a spoken word piece called 'Your Life Isn't Over'. I realized that worth is an inside job. It's something you own, not something you earn.

I learned that broken crayons still color the same. You are a choice away from a new beginning. Strength isn't just holding on; it's letting go. I had to let my son make his own decisions to control the relationship. I had to let people touch the hot stove to learn, even if it hurt. I stopped trying to fix everyone's problems.

Now, I believe that perfection inspires, but purpose transforms. I believe that the greatest version of yourself is a moving target. I still question my worth every day. I still struggle to separate my coaching role from my father role. I still don't know the plan God has for my children. But I know that I have to let people touch the hot stove to learn.

I realized that every soul must finish their race. I received the baton from my mother. I will keep giving my message until God says it's done. I want to ensure others have a lead on life.

I used to think I had to be perfect. Now I know that I just have to be real. I know that people want the best version of me, not just 85%. I know that God uses everyone, even when they don't identify it. I know that there is no retirement for motivating humans. I know that I am the problem and the solution.

I still struggle with the balance. But I am here. I am giving my gift to strangers rather than close family because they normalize me. I trust God over the people around me who doubted me. I am learning that I am a choice away from a new beginning.

I don't know if societal pressure to be tough is real. I don't know if sustaining the 'be the man' concept is possible. But I know that I have to keep going. I know that I have to let go. I know that I am enough.