​I’ve struggled with depression nearly my entire life.  For long stretches of time— days, weeks, even months, I wanted to die.  I would smile on occasion around my family, laugh with my teammates as we talked trash on the basketball court.  But mostly, I felt numb.
 
Depression is downright fucking scary. It can grab hold of you. It doesn't want to leave. It creeps through your life, invasive and malignant, taking root in everything you care about. Daily tasks become burdensome. Getting out of bed takes so much energy that the thought of getting up is exhausting.
 
Without intervention, depressive thoughts can snowball.  My first major depressive episode began when I started to get zits in eighth grade. My classmates would tease me about my pubescent acne and I internalized the criticism, allowing it to rot and fester in my brain until I created a mantra in my head: “you’re ugly, you’re gross, you’re disgusting”. I was starting to notice the girls in my class, deep down I wished I could approach them and start a conversation, but the mantra held me back.  “You’re ugly, you’re gross, you’re disgusting”.
 
After school I would go home to my bedroom and turn on my music as loud as I could to drown out the negativity in my head.  Shooting hoops in my driveway became the only way I could escape the pain I felt inside, but it always returned. “You’re ugly, you’re gross, you’re disgusting”.
 
These thoughts followed me for years, from eighth grade to my sophomore year in high school. I never told anyone what I was feeling inside.  I didn’t think I could articulate the mixture of hopelessness, rage and loneliness that haunted me every day. I began to smoke weed almost on a whim one evening before a school dance, accepting the offered joint because I wanted the approval of my peers. Before long, I discovered that I preferred being the “bad kid” version of myself who rebelled and smoked weed to being the kid that no one cared to know.  The drugs didn’t relieve my inner turmoil. I didn't care about anything except the thought that I wanted to die. I felt nothing. School sucked, life sucked, my life was over, I was over it.
 
My thirty-eight-year-old heart breaks for the helpless teenager I used to be.  I wish someone had seen through my bravado to the pain and misery I kept bottled inside and intervened.  If I had access then to the tools I use today to manage my depression, my life may have taken a different, much smoother course. 
 
I continue to battle my depression every day, but I will not let it beat me. Finding the right tools to add to my arsenal has been critical to keeping this monster at bay.  I’ve learned that my strongest ammunition is my willingness to talk about it.  Vulnerability and openness is my ally; I’m no longer afraid to discuss my struggle with mental health.  I have a counselor because I know I need one. I'm not afraid or embarrassed and neither should you be. 
 
If you are dealing with depression, social anxiety, mood or eating disorders, a gaming addiction, substance use issues, I plead with you to reach out, to seek help. Do not be afraid to talk to about it! 
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​Many speakers fail. The bulk give up after a year or so, lacking the resiliency to continuously chase the gigs in this industry. For all those that make the decision to stand on stage and speak to audiences, finding consistent bookings is an uphill battle. Chances are, if you're not a celebrity, politician, professional athlete, or author with some book that has caught fire, the climb uphill is even steeper, with a greater path of resistance.
 
I’m not a professional athlete, celebrity, politician or author (yet). I’m none of the above. My anonymity has made this full-time speaking career immensely challenging. In the beginning, my “career” consisted of me volunteering to speak at schools— mainly small classrooms of 20-30 students and basketball teams whose coaches saw through my inexperience to the value I could provide to their players. Back then, I didn’t fully understand what being a professional speaker was about. I was doing it just because people asked me to. That changed April 1, 2014 when I decided to go all in.
 
In the few short years I’ve been a full-time speaker, I’ve come to realize just how unprepared I was to face the reality of this surprisingly brutal business. Frankly, I was completely blindsided by the amount of effort it takes to find an audience. Typically, only about one percent of the thousands of people I contact for an opportunity to speak will even respond to my phone calls and emails.  Even though I know it’s not personal, those unreturned overtures eat away at my enthusiasm, each representing a tiny failure.  The constant rejection is demoralizing.  It’s probably what causes most aspiring speakers to pack it in after a few months. I’m not most speakers, though.  I won’t give up, even though it has crossed my mind countless times.
 
I’ve faced months without a speaking opportunity lined up, not knowing where my next check is coming in. I routinely work twelve hour days, sometimes more, trying book the next speech. Not being a celebrity or sports figure, I’ll often hear some variation of, “why would you get paid to speak, who are you?” Comments like these leave a painful ache in my stomach, sometimes causing me to second-guess this career path that’s receiving every extra resource I have to give, every ounce of energy.
 
But always, inevitably, as if the universe knows that I’m on the edge and need a signal to keep me pursuing this life’s work, an email will arrive in my inbox carrying a message that reminds me of my mission. Students and teachers will reach out, writing to share the impact my speech has had on them or someone they know.  “You saved a kid's life,” “I took keys from a friend who had been drinking at a party”.
 
Sometimes the messages are bittersweet.  Students’ words echo with the fragility of their maturing psyches, their struggles to negotiate today’s social media-driven society evident in their stories.  Some tell me they contemplated dying by suicide until they saw me speak and my speech reminded them how much they love their family and friends. Though they are heartbreaking to read, the words from these students keep me motivated.  They are the reason I spend hours alone in my office trying to get one gig, trying to get one opportunity to speak. They give me purpose.
 
My career is growing. I’ve experienced some amazing months on the road, speaking two to three times per week in multiple states, spending weeks without sleeping in my own bed. In the four years since I’ve started, I’ve spoken over 250 times in over 27 states and to over 55,000 students. Sometimes I sit alone in my hotel room after an event, drained and exhausted, and think back to those free speeches I gave in classrooms at the beginning of my career. It’s a weird feeling. I have a sense of accomplishment from the countless hours I spent in pursuit of the next gig. In these moments, I feel like I have all the momentum I need to keep moving forward.
 
Every speech for me is psychologically draining. I lay myself bare in front of my audience, exposing all my wrong choices that ultimately led to someone’s death.  Reliving the fact that I was responsible for taking a life is unfathomable agony, but it is necessary in order for me to communicate the gravity of life’s consequences for bad actions. I don’t expect forgiveness from my audience.  I share my failures as an act of accountability for the pain I’ve caused. I do it knowing I’m helping at least one listener, changing at least one life, because they can learn from my mistakes.  
 
Sometimes I think about the other paths my life could have taken.  It would be much easier to move to a beach city, coach basketball and get an average nine to five job.  I imagine that I could disappear into a normal life and spare myself from the grueling harshness of this business.  But I reread those emails from students who saw my speech and thought they found a lifeline, who reached out to me for help or friendship, and I know I couldn’t possibly do anything else.  These students keep me pushing through every rejection, every unread email or unreturned call.  They let me know I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do in life.