How I became a vision coach - my personal evolution story

Roots and Resilience

“I never felt the need to be anything other than myself.”

I was incredibly fortunate to grow up in a home where being myself wasn’t just allowed—it was encouraged. My parents created an environment where authenticity was the norm. There was never pressure to fit a mold or chase anyone else’s expectations. As a result, I’ve always felt at ease in my own skin, something I would later come to realize is far rarer than it should be.

My dad was a RADAR engineer, and for most of my early life, he was away traveling for work. But my mom filled that gap so seamlessly that I hardly noticed his absence. Her love was so constant and so present that it felt like we were never missing anything. And when Dad was home, he gave us his all. He built us a camper and a small boat—without a motor, of course. “I have two boys,” he said, “why do I need a motor?” He wasn’t joking. We rowed.

Those memories are steeped in the smell of campfires and the tug of fishing lines. I didn’t realize at the time how rare that kind of presence and effort was in a father, especially one who was away so often.

The Nomadic Years

We moved every few years. Dad’s work contracts changed hands regularly, and entire teams—along with their families—would pack up and relocate together. It felt like being part of a traveling tribe. The people Dad worked with became our extended family. Their kids were our cousins, even if not by blood. Looking back, I see what a gift that was. It taught me adaptability, the ability to quickly make friends, and how to fit in anywhere.

Each sibling was born in a different state—five of us, five birthplaces. That fact alone tells you a lot about our life on the move.

The most memorable of these relocations came when I was around eight. We moved from El Paso, Texas, to Ely, Nevada—a tiny, dusty town where freedom roamed as wild as the desert jackrabbits. Ely became my kingdom. I’d leave at sunrise on Saturdays and not return until Mom was setting the dinner table. I remember rushing home one evening, caked in dirt, dried blood on my knees from some glorious adventure. Mom didn’t scold me. Instead, with love in her eyes, she simply asked, “Well, tell us about your adventure.” That single moment tells you everything you need to know about the kind of mother she was.

Ely was the last place I felt that kind of unbounded freedom. A few years later, we moved again.

Brothers and Expectations

My older brother was the golden athlete—football, basketball, baseball. He was good at everything. Me? Not so much. But the beautiful part was, I never felt pressured to follow in his footsteps. I played soccer for a few years until I aged out of the only local league and moved into high school.

I tried football—once. The comparisons to my brother were constant and grating. I quit. That was the last time I tried to fit in.

From that point on, I just did what I wanted. Oddly enough, that made me popular. I had friends in every clique, and I never felt the need to pretend. That taught me a valuable lesson I’ve carried ever since: people respond to authenticity. When you're comfortable in your own skin, it gives others permission to do the same.

Navy Life and Transformation

“Of all things, I became a RADAR technician on a warship.”

After two more family moves and the close of my high school years, I joined the Navy. I didn’t have a grand plan—I was just looking for direction, a challenge, maybe even a new version of myself. What I found was far more than I ever imagined.

I entered the Navy’s advanced electronics training program and, somewhat poetically, ended up following in my dad’s footsteps: RADAR. I became a RADAR technician aboard the USS Reid, a fast-attack frigate stationed out of San Diego. Eventually, I became the shop supervisor, responsible for a small crew and maintaining the ship’s Close-In Weapon System (CIWS)—a job that demanded technical precision, leadership, and nerves of steel.

It was the beginning of six formative years. Years that took me across oceans, into combat zones, and deep within myself.

The Stark Incident

Nothing prepared me for what happened during my second deployment to the Persian Gulf.

Our sister ship, the USS Stark, was mistakenly targeted by Iran and hit by two missiles. Both struck her port side. Thirty-seven sailors lost their lives. The ship was nearly lost.

My ship was the same model, and we were nearby. We were sent in to assist.

I was part of a small team deployed to fight fires and try to save what was left. Everything they taught us in training went out the window. There simply weren’t enough of us. We improvised at every turn, crawling through smoke-filled corridors, navigating twisted metal and collapsed decks. I remember nearly falling through a gaping hole in the floor, created by a fire raging two decks below us. We could only see the tops of 25-foot flames.

For over 40 straight hours, we battled those fires. We dewatered the ship; we kept her afloat. And in the end—and against all odds, we saved her.

That experience changed me. It's hard to describe how facing death—your own and others’—alters your view of life. I came home different. Not broken, but aware. Of fragility. Of courage. Of what it means to lead under fire.

Back to Civilian Life

In 1990, I left the Navy. Six years of intensity, service, and growth behind me. I was ready—mostly—to transition into the civilian world, though I wasn’t entirely sure what that looked like yet.

I landed a job at a medical device company in Temecula, California, supporting the manufacturing floor. I repaired equipment, solved problems, kept systems running. It was a great fit for my Navy training and my problem-solving instincts.

I soon moved up—first as a team lead, then as the department supervisor. I found I had a knack for improving systems and making meaningful change. What started as a technical role quickly turned into something more. I wasn’t just fixing machines—I was helping people work better together.

And without realizing it, the seeds of leadership were being planted.

Leadership, Mentorship, and the Corporate Journey

“If I get the people part right, the rest just happens naturally.”

The transition from Navy life to the corporate world wasn’t seamless, but I found my footing in the familiar rhythm of solving problems, fixing what was broken, and building what didn’t yet exist. The medical device company in Temecula became more than a job—it became the training ground for a new kind of service.

At first, I was fixing machines. Then I was leading teams. Eventually, I found myself reshaping the way departments worked, building new systems, and guiding people through change. I didn’t have a formal roadmap—I just followed the instincts honed from years of high-pressure, high-stakes teamwork.

The turning point came when I pivoted completely out of equipment support and into leading a part of the manufacturing organization. I had no experience. I was completely out of my element. A fish out of water.

But that discomfort was the beginning of something extraordinary.

Learning to Lead People, Not Just Processes

Leading a diverse team stretched me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Unlike machines, people don’t come with manuals. They need trust, empathy, challenge, and care. They need to be seen.

And I was lucky—I had mentors who showed me how it could be done.

One of the most pivotal figures in my journey was Damian, our Operations Vice President. He asked me to support a global change initiative aimed at shifting the behaviors of 25,000 employees. I had no idea how to influence behavior on that scale. But Damian believed I could help. That belief alone was a gift.

Together, over two years, we built a movement—one that encouraged people to speak up, challenge the status quo, and engage openly with their leaders. It was powerful. And it worked. Even now, nearly 20 years later, those behaviors are deeply woven into the fabric of the company’s culture.

Meeting John: Redefining Leadership

Then came John —the leader who completely reshaped my understanding of what leadership could be.

John was my director for six years. He modeled a way of leading that was rooted in trust, presence, and deep respect for his people. I watched him create psychological safety without ever using the term. He led with integrity, steadiness, and quiet strength.

And under his guidance, I saw something clearly: leadership isn’t about control. It’s about connection.

I shaped my entire leadership style around what I learned from John. I stopped trying to fix people the way I fixed machines. I started building relationships. I started listening more than talking. I focused on building trust—and everything else followed.

This was the foundation of the coach I would one day become.

Becoming the Coach (Without Realizing It)

After my time with John, I pitched an idea for a leadership development program. To my surprise, the company said yes. The first year, it was just seven managers in my division. By the second year, word had spread. We had five divisions involved, 35 participants, and 10 vice presidents acting as sponsors.

That program lit a fire in me.

As the facilitator, I wasn’t just leading meetings. I was mentoring. I was coaching. I was watching young leaders find their voice, build confidence, and step into bigger versions of themselves. Many of them went on to lead departments, some even became executives.

And though I didn’t call it “coaching” at the time, that’s exactly what it was.

I had stumbled into the most fulfilling part of my career.

From Complaints to Calling

Around this time, I also moved into a formal training role. I had complained that our training systems needed improvement—so I was given the opportunity to fix them.

Be careful what you complain about.

I went back to work for John, as the training manager. Over the next decade, we transformed training across nine manufacturing sites and two divisions. I also became an instructor, teaching several programs—my favorite being The Influencer: The Power to Change Anything. That course focused on behavior change, implemented with the people it actually impacted.

It became my personal mission to empower teams—not just to work more efficiently, but to truly change the way they showed up. Across the world, I witnessed teams take ownership, speak up, and rise to challenges they didn’t know they could overcome.

That’s the beauty of real change: it doesn’t come from a policy. It comes from a person.

Rock Bottom, Redemption, and Love

“I woke up to a soft knock on the truck window.”

My first marriage ended over thirty years ago. The aftermath left me adrift—emotionally, mentally, and, for a short while, physically. I found myself without an anchor, and without a home.

There was a stretch of time when I was literally homeless. I slept in my truck, parked by the beach, trying to gather the pieces of a life that had unraveled. It was humbling. Quiet. Lonely.

One morning, I was jolted awake by a soft knock on my truck window. I blinked my eyes open and was startled to see what looked like a man-bear hybrid standing there. He was huge—rugged, wild—but there was something profoundly gentle in his face.

“You okay?” he asked.

We talked for a moment. Then he invited me to join his friends—other unhoused folks—around a fire. They shared hot dogs with me, which I later learned had been salvaged from a nearby grocery store dumpster.

That memory is burned into me—not because of the poverty, but because of the kindness. Here was a group of people with nothing, giving what little they had to a stranger. No judgment. No conditions.

That same day, I found a room to rent from a friend. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. And it was the first small step back to myself.

The Bet I Couldn’t Afford

I wasn’t looking for love. I had decided I was better off alone—content, self-reliant, finished with romantic entanglements. That’s when Catrina walked into my life.

She joined my team at work. On her very first morning, a few of the guys—some of my own team—immediately hit on her. She turned them all down. And instead of managing their behavior like a responsible boss should, I looked into her office and said, “She’ll go out with me.”

It turned into a $100 bet. A bet I absolutely could not afford to lose.

I asked her out.

She said no.

Luckily, the guys didn’t hear that part. I regrouped and asked if she’d just go to lunch so we could get to know each other. She agreed.

We’ve been together ever since.

No Husband Left Behind

Cat is everything I didn’t know I needed. Smart, kind, strong. She inspires me daily. Not just as a partner, but as a human being.

She’s wrestled with depression for much of her life. For a long time, medication helped keep it at bay. But she never stopped searching for something more—something that could help her truly heal. About eight years ago, she began working on her physical health. She hired a personal trainer and completely transformed her body.

Suddenly, she was stronger than I was. So of course, I had to step it up. We began working out together regularly, and eventually started running Spartan obstacle course races. She usually leaves me behind—but always comes back to find me at the finish line. Her motto? “No husband left behind.”

That’s Cat.

Plant Medicine and the Journey Within

Around four years ago, Cat was introduced to plant medicine. She approached it with hope—and just enough skepticism. But something shifted during her first ceremony. The depression that had haunted her for decades began to lift. She stopped needing medication. And she hasn’t looked back since.

Together, we’ve been on an incredible journey of self-discovery—deep, raw, transformative.

For me, it unlocked something I didn’t even know I needed. A sense of inner balance. A connection to all the parts of myself that I’d unknowingly kept separate. I began to lead more from my core—what some might call the Self. Life began to flow more easily. More fully. As if I was no longer trying to control it, but simply allowing it to unfold.

Men Can Do That?

At one of those ceremonies, I met Bill.

Bill challenged everything I thought I knew about being a man.

He walked up, laid down beside me, and asked if he could feel my heart. Then, gently placing his hand on my chest, he just lay there for a few moments and said, “Your heart is magnificent.”

A younger man nearby watched and asked, “Men can do that?”

Bill didn’t even pause. “Sure, why not?”

That moment was another awakening. I’d spent most of my life around men who were guarded, distant, stoic. Bill showed me something else—what it looks like to be open-hearted, emotionally present, and fully alive.

We’ve become close friends. Together, we now lead a men’s support circle, built on a simple but powerful mission:

“To uncover and transcend the barriers to growth in support of each man becoming the best version of himself.”

Becoming a Coach and Living the Vision

“Allow—and the right thing finds you.”

By the time I met Brian, I had nearly given up on finding a coaching program that worked with the whole person. I had explored a few, but they always felt too narrow—too focused on performance, too disconnected from the heart. I wasn’t looking for surface-level change. I wanted depth. Wholeness. Integration.

So I let go.

I stopped trying to force it, and somewhere in that letting go… it found me.

Meeting Brian—and discovering PCI—felt like being seen in a way I didn’t realize I’d been longing for. It wasn’t just a program. It was a fit. A reflection of what I’d always believed leadership and growth should be: human, holistic, real.

And with that, I stepped into the next chapter of my life—not just as a coach, but fully being a coach.

The Throughline

In some ways, I’ve been coaching for decades. I just didn’t have the label for it.

I coached young leaders during that early leadership program, watching them grow into executives. I coached teams across the world, helping them shift behaviors and reshape their culture. I coached technicians and operators, listening deeply, seeing them, believing in their potential. I even coached myself—through loss, through doubt, through the long journey back to wholeness.

What I now understand is this: all those moments weren’t separate. They were part of a single thread—an unbroken line leading me here.

In Service of Others

After everything Cat and I have experienced—the deep healing, the breakthroughs, the peace—I feel a profound responsibility to be in service. Not out of duty or obligation, but out of gratitude. We’ve been given something rare and beautiful: the chance to live aligned, connected, and awake.

And if there’s even a chance I can help someone else get there… I want to take it.

This is why I coach.

Not to fix people. Not to lead them somewhere I’ve mapped out.

But to walk beside them. To hold space. To trust their inner wisdom. To be a mirror when they forget who they are. To witness the unfolding—not direct it.

Where I Stand Now

Today, I feel incredibly blessed—not in some vague, social-media-post way, but in a grounded, soul-level way.

I’ve lived a full life—one shaped by movement, loss, growth, resilience, love, and transformation. And now, I get to bring the whole of that life into every coaching conversation I have.

That eight-year-old boy exploring Ely, Nevada...That young sailor dragging fire hose through smoke...That man sleeping in a truck, offered a hotdog by strangers...That leader watching people come alive…That partner running Spartan races behind a woman who refuses to leave him behind…

They’re all still here. And they’re all coaching now.

Closing Reflection

I didn’t set out to become a coach.

I set out to be myself. And somewhere along the way, that became enough. More than enough.

Coaching isn’t what I do. It’s who I’ve become.

And for the first time, maybe ever, I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.