AFF Module 4- questions 1/2
The hardest stretch of my childhood was leaving Omaha, Nebraska at thirteen for the ranch in Oregon. I'd had a tight, close group of friends. I arrived with to this new home with years of hype, expecting warmth, and found the opposite—bullying, isolation, and a version of masculinity so narrow it had no room for who I actually was. The men in that community were farmers, athletes, cavemen. Anything else wasn't encouraged. Misogny, Racism, and Homophobia were often subtle and normalized. I felt like I didn't belong, and I didn't really settle in until senior year, right as everyone was leaving.
When I look at my ancestors now, I see that I inherited two kinds of strength. My dad's paternal lineage—stoic, competitive, high-achieving, resilient, but it came at the cost of tenderness and a rigid idea of what a man could be. My dads mother- Barbara - gave me something different. She lived that same hard ranch life in devotion to her partner and raised her kids.
She taught me something by what it cost her. I don't want to repeat that. She suffered from seasonal affective disorder and post partum depression and depletion from having 5 kids in a 7-8 year period, Choosing that life cut her off from the people who nourished her—her father tragically passed away unexpectedly the first time they visited the ranch, pouring salt in the wound. Her family lineage to this day has energy that feels lighter and more whole. As a grandmother she regained her warmth, her hospitality, her personality. Her wisdom tells me that a father can be strong and stay connected, can work hard and still keep the tender relationships that feed him. I want to inherit my grandmother's warmth, not the narrow toughness I was handed at thirteen. I'd want my grandmother standing behind me as I become a father.
The wound I'd point to isn't a single injury—it's a pattern from high school. Freshman year, a bigger senior teammate choked me unconscious in the hallway for standing up to him, and a teacher walked past and did nothing. Later, after I scored a clean touchdown in practice, a classmate speared me in the back—a cheap shot—and the whole team high-fived him for it. The pain wasn't really the physical hits. It was being surrounded by people who rewarded dishonor and mediocrity, who didn't have my back, and by adults who enabled it.
What I learned in those moments was twofold, and it's exactly what I want to give my son. Sometimes you plant your feet and stand your ground even when you can't win—I told that guy to go fuck himself, and I don't regret it. And sometimes the stronger move is to walk: I quit that team and poured myself into a different path, and disciplined my body and mind toward goals that were actually mine. I refuse to let a crowd define what's good. My son will need both of those—knowing when to fight and when to build somewhere better.
The transformation wasn't something I planned; it's the shape my whole adult life took. I coached young men from nineteen to twenty-nine, high school through Division I, building up the kind of comprehensive young man that I needed at that time. That closed the loop and healed a lot of my own story. From there I moved into men's work, and now I'm often the younger man in the room offering what I've already metabolized. And my bodywork evolved from chasing performance into offering presence—using my hands to give people safety, ease, and care. Every one of those paths is me becoming the opposite of that hallway experience.
Through all of it I'm learning to be the father who carries my grandmother's love, tenderness, humor, and hospitality, rather than the narrow toughness I was handed. My son won't just inherit my struggles. He'll inherit the strength that came from turning them into a way of caring for other people.
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AFF Module 4- questions 1/2
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