Chapter 14

The Bottom

November 17th, 2016

I’m at a bus stop with $1.85 in my pocket, waiting to catch a bus to Target to buy some groceries with the $40 gift card my friend gave us for my daughter’s shower. I don’t know what tomorrow holds or where the next dollar will come from. I’ve pretty much given up trying to figure it out. I tell myself it all makes for a better story in the end—broke isn’t the story I wanted to tell.

Instead, I’ve been dreaming about the corporate dropout story. The one where the guy quits his job, travels the world, and makes a living by truly living. I think subconsciously no one believes it's possible. Because if it were, everyone would do it.

We’ll get to “no one” in a minute. I’ll tell you exactly who they are. In the beginning, we all start as no one. We look around, and everyone is busy struggling. Lazily struggling. Playing the same scenes over and over again, like a soap opera you already know the ending to.

The story you want to tell needs money. It needs life. So you—it's why you go to work every day. It’s why you do all the stuff you hate. To make money so you can keep living and eventually, one day, make it to that dream.

So why haven’t we gotten there yet? What’s holding us up? Is it just “bad habits”? Lack of control? Shame? Embarrassment? Pride? Why are we still battling after all this time? No one wants to admit that they don’t know how to get out of their situation—drowning in debt and obligation. I didn’t want to admit it either. But that would be surrendering my power.

When I resigned from Corporate America, I knew I was jumping into the abyss. No savings. No money. Just a thought that I could make it and a heart full of faith.

The morning after that long night of reflection, I woke up with a sense of urgency. The voice I had heard—“Take off the mask”—still echoed in my mind, reverberating through every thought. It was a call to strip away the layers of pretense I had wrapped around myself, a challenge to confront the fears and insecurities that had been quietly driving me.

I sat at my desk, staring at the blank page in front of me. The space once filled with the hum of my computer was now empty—another casualty of our financial situation. All I had left was a pen and a pad, the simplest tools, but in that moment, they felt like the most powerful instruments in the world.

As I began to write, the words flowed out of me like a flood. I didn’t hold back. I couldn’t hold back. The mask had to come off, and I had to face the truth of who I was, what I had become, and what I was truly afraid of.

Who was I behind the mask? What was I hiding from the world, and more importantly, from myself?

The reality of our situation hit me like a ton of bricks. We were teetering on the edge, with no clear path to stability. That’s when desperation kicked in, but it wasn’t just desperation—it was a fire, a drive to do whatever it took to keep my family afloat. The voice that had told me to take off the mask was now telling me something else: use what you have.

I needed $3,000—and I needed it fast. With my back against the wall, I turned to what I knew best. The cannabis startup I had consulted for in the past was my last shot. Their products were familiar, something I had once believed in. Now, they were my lifeline.

I set up on the third floor of the library, a quiet corner where the echoes of my footsteps felt almost like whispers of encouragement. The library was my refuge—a place where I could distance myself from the noise, the pressure, the despair. But even there, I couldn’t escape the pressure. I had no choice but to make this work.

I spent that entire day making calls, one after the other, my voice alternating between calm professionalism and barely restrained panic. With every unanswered call, every rejection, I felt the walls closing in. But I kept dialing, kept pushing, knowing that if I stopped, it would all be over. My family was counting on me.

The hours ticked by, the light outside dimming as the day dragged on. But I was relentless. I wouldn’t leave until I had that $3,000. By the time the sun set, my throat was raw, my head pounded, and my fingers ached from gripping the phone so tight. But I did it—I sold $3,000 worth of decarboxylators. It felt like a lifeline, a brief reprieve from the relentless pressure.

That money, arriving in my account overnight, wasn’t just a financial relief—it was proof that I could still make it happen. I had endured. I had struggled. And I had overcome. The way was made, and I walked in it.

As I boarded the bus the next morning, I noticed the solemn faces around me, each lost in their own world, on their way to work. I smiled—a broad, uncontrollable smile. It was a beautiful morning, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

Later, we arrived at the doctor’s office, where I heard Kaya’s heartbeat for the first time. More smiles. It was heavy, hard-hitting, a consistent, steady pulse—life itself.

With much to be grateful for, we walked home—a troop and a blessing. Shiloh was expressing himself more vocally now, relieving a lot of the tension that had weighed on his mother and me. We had been afraid that he might need early intervention, afraid of so many things.

But now I knew—time is all we ever need. And time is in constant supply. An open and receptive heart. A willing mind. These things create miracles.

Taking off the mask had been more than just facing my fears—it was about realizing that, despite everything, I still had the power to shape my reality. I had taken the risk, faced the fear, and come out on the other side stronger, clearer, and more determined than ever.

But I knew this wasn’t enough. It wasn’t just about survival anymore—it was about finally doing something with my story. I had been through too much, and I knew there was value in what I had to share. It was time to put that value to the test.

That’s when I decided to presell my book. I had been working on the manuscript, but it was far from complete. Still, I believed in the message, in the journey, and I knew others would too. Everyday I’d go through my Facebook contacts and reach out telling them I was preselling my book for $10 and a link to my Paypal.

For weeks thats how I got by. 1 or 2 presales a day. Each sale felt like mana from above. Enough to feed us for a day. 

As Christmas approached, we scraped by, stretching every dollar. But just days before the baby was due, a check arrived—$2,500 from an unexpected source. It felt like a true Christmas miracle.

It wasn’t just money; it was a reminder that even in our darkest moments, there was still hope, still a way forward. The journey wasn’t over, but knew we were going to be okay.