For most of my life, I felt like I was fighting a battle on two fronts — one physical, one mental.

I was born with cystic fibrosis, so hospitalizations, treatments, and uncertainty were part of my normal. But what people didn’t see was the mental side of that fight. The anxiety, the depression, and the constant question in the back of my mind: Why me? There was also the fear that came with it — fear of dying young, fear of not having control over my future.

For years, I didn’t have the tools to deal with any of it. So, between the ages of 17 and 23, I coped the only way I knew how — I avoided it by drinking. A lot.

Five to six days a week I would drink, often to the point of blacking out. It became my way of escaping both cystic fibrosis and what I now know was undiagnosed mental health struggles. I was dealing with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), including intrusive thoughts and constant mental noise, but I didn’t have a name for it then. I just knew I didn’t feel right.

So I masked it.

To the outside world, I looked like I was just another young adult. But underneath, I was struggling with my health, my thoughts, and my identity.

When I was 23, my father passed away from cirrhosis of the liver. Not long after that, I was hospitalized again — this time due to my own negligence with CF treatments.

That was my wake-up call.

I remember thinking clearly for the first time, if I don’t change something, this is how my story ends. I saw where my path was heading — oxygen, a transplant, or worse.

At the same time, my life had changed overnight. I had new responsibilities. 

I took custody of my 7-year-old nephew, and my wife and I stepped in to raise him. It wasn’t just about me anymore. That moment forced me to take ownership of my life in a way I never had before.

I went back to school. I committed to my CF treatments. And I started exercising — consistently, relentlessly. Fitness became more than just working out. It became structure. It became control. It became a way to fight back. Every workout was a decision to show up. Every breathing treatment was a commitment to my future.

But even as I built discipline physically, I was still struggling mentally.

It wasn’t until I was 28 that I finally sought help for my mental health. My wife encouraged me to talk to someone, and that decision changed everything. I was diagnosed with OCD, which helped me finally understand the intrusive thoughts, the anxiety, and the patterns I had been living with for years. For the first time, things started to make sense.

Getting help didn’t magically fix everything, but it gave me tools. It gave me awareness. It gave me a way to stop running from what was going on in my own mind. 

And that changed how I approached everything, including fitness.

What started as a way to cope became something bigger. I began using endurance events as a way to challenge myself, raise awareness, and give meaning to everything I had been through.

In 2020, I ran 266 miles over seven days, covering 42 miles a day through every town in my county to raise awareness for cystic fibrosis.

In 2021, I attempted 300 miles in three days. I made it 100 miles before being hospitalized with rhabdomyolysis. I couldn’t finish, but my community stepped in and finished the miles for me.

That moment showed me something powerful: this journey wasn’t just mine anymore.

In 2022, I completed a fitness challenge that included a 50-mile run, thousands of reps, and hours of nonstop movement — all in under 24 hours.

These events weren’t just physical challenges. They were proof — to myself and to others — that we are capable of more than we think, even when we’re facing something like cystic fibrosis or mental health struggles.

Now, I’m training for my biggest challenge yet.

In March 2027, I will run over 1,300 miles from Miami to New York City  with a goal of raising $1 million for cystic fibrosis. But this run is about more than miles or money. It’s about showing what’s possible. It’s about representing everyone who has ever felt limited by their diagnosis, physical or mental. It’s about turning struggle into strength.

Living with cystic fibrosis and navigating mental health has taught me that life doesn’t get easier. But you can get stronger.

Strength isn’t just physical. It’s showing up for your treatments. It’s asking for help. It’s choosing discipline over escape. It’s continuing to move forward, even when your mind is working against you.

For me, fitness became the foundation for that strength. It gave me purpose. It gave me direction. It gave me a way to take everything I’ve been through and turn it into something bigger than myself.

We don’t get to choose what we go through. But we do get to choose what we do with it. And that’s what I’ve learned to do — every single day.

Own the hard.

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