I grew up in small town rural South Dakota. In a tiny town where drinking wasn’t just normal, it was expected. House parties, gravel roads, coolers in the backseat… that was the rhythm & vibe of life. I’m one of five siblings, and like many families in rural America, addiction didn’t just touch our home — it ran through it. Six out of the seven of us have battled some form of substance abuse. It was the environment we grew up in before we even understood what addiction was.
I started drinking at 15. At the same time, I was excelling in sports. Basketball and football were my identity, my escape, my future. My senior year, I was named Quarterback of the Year for our class in South Dakota and earned Honorable Mention All‑American. People saw talent, potential, leadership. What they didn’t see was the quiet storm already forming underneath.
I went to South Dakota State University to play football, but I quit shortly after the season started. Fear of failure, intimidation, and a summer of heavy partying caught up with me. I didn’t know how to ask for help. I didn’t know how to face myself. So I walked away.
College became the place where alcohol turned into experimentation, and experimentation turned into patterns. Still, I managed to build a life that looked successful from the outside. I worked in accounting, moved into medical device sales, and eventually became a financial advisor. I built a career, a reputation, and a life that looked stable. I got married. I became a dad to three beautiful daughters — one of whom has Down syndrome and has taught me more about love and perspective than anything else in my life.
But addiction doesn’t care about résumés or accomplishments. It waits. It grows. And when life hits hard, it takes over.
In 2020, my mom passed away from COPD and dementia. She wasn’t just my mother — she was my best friend, my biggest supporter, and the person who believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Losing her shattered something inside me. It felt like the ground disappeared. My drinking escalated fast — faster than I could admit, faster than I could control. What had been a weekend habit became a daily battle.
In 2023, after a fight with my ex‑wife about drinking, I got my first DUI. Instead of taking responsibility, I ran. I flew to Mexico alone, blaming her for the consequences of my choices. I promised everyone I would stop drinking — and realized I couldn’t. So I hid it. I drove around to drink. I lied. I spiraled.
Over the next three years, my life completely fell apart.
I was arrested multiple times.
I received four more DUIs.
I was charged with aggravated assault (later reduced to resisting arrest) after tackling a police officer.
I faced possession charges and a domestic simple assault charge.
In April 2025, my wife filed for divorce. The state issued a no‑contact order. I couldn’t see my daughters — the three people who meant everything to me. I lost my career as a financial advisor. I received a felony DUI. And suddenly, everything I had built was gone.
The shame, guilt, anxiety, and depression became overwhelming. I didn’t want to live anymore. I attempted suicide twice — once by vehicle and once by pills. I survived both. I believe God kept me here for a reason.
And so I fought.
I went to in‑patient treatment six times and out‑patient treatment twice. I was accepted into the Minnehaha DUI Court program, which allowed me to avoid five years in prison. Recovery wasn’t clean or pretty. It was painful, humbling, and full of loss. But it was also the beginning of something new.
The silver lining — the part I hold onto — is what came after:
the growth,
the clarity,
the recovery community,
the education,
and the understanding I gained about anxiety, depression, trauma, addiction, and healing.
Today, recovery is part of my daily life. I’m actively involved in AA, I have a sponsor, and I stay connected with peers who walk this same road. Those conversations, those meetings, those relationships — they’re a lifeline. They remind me that healing happens one honest day at a time.
I’ve lived the consequences.
I’ve lived the pain.
And I’ve lived the rebuilding.
Now, I’m slowly piecing together a long‑term plan for my life — one built on honesty, service, and purpose. Live Right Today is part of that plan. It exists because I believe people deserve clarity, compassion, and a place to start. A place where they can learn, feel understood, and take one step forward — even if everything around them feels like it’s falling apart.
My story isn’t perfect. It’s real. And it’s the reason I’m committed to helping others find understanding, stability, and hope — one day at a time.