I grew up chasing wins like my life depended on it.

Football, hockey, lacrosse—whatever the season, I was all in. My parents’ car was a constant shuttle, and I wore my toughness like armor. That mindset took me far: record-setting seasons in high school, then the honor of captaining the University of North Carolina’s Men’s Lacrosse Team.

What I didn’t realize then—what no one really talked about—was that every hit, every collision, was quietly adding up. I wasn’t just building stats; I was stacking neurological debt. But back then, pain was a badge of honor. You didn’t slow down. You didn’t complain. You ran through it.

Then at 33, during a casual game of flag football, everything shifted. It stopped being about winning. It became about figuring out why I couldn’t feel like myself anymore—and what I could do to get back.

The breaking point came in 2012.

I was in San Francisco, leading sales and marketing for a well-known fitness brand, when another concussion—my worst yet—forced everything into focus. After a battery of scans and tests, the neurologists were stunned I’d ever played high-level lacrosse at all. But they didn’t know what drove me. Quitting wasn’t part of my wiring. I had been carrying pain silently for years—toughing it out, hiding the toll behind performance and pride.

By college, the fog had crept in—headaches, mood swings, a sense that I was slipping away from myself. But I masked it with hard habits and a harder shell. Eventually, I was prescribed a cocktail of 22 to 26 pills a day—every day—for nearly six years. It dulled the edges but never addressed the root. As dosages climbed, so did the realization: no one was coming to fix this for me. If I wanted a different outcome, I’d have to chart a different path.

Eventually, the search started paying off.

Through a lot of trial, error, and unorthodox choices, I found a set of practices and tools that changed everything. They didn’t “fix” me overnight—but they helped me feel clearer, calmer, and more like myself than I had in years. I traded the dark rooms and daily dread for light—literally and mentally. There was still work to do, but for the first time in a long time, I could see a path forward.

By fall of 2019, I had reached a place of stability that felt good enough to share. I started introducing friends and family to the same tools and protocols that had helped me. To my surprise, they felt real shifts too—in how they moved, slept, focused, and handled stress. It didn’t matter if they were dealing with a broken brain or just the weight of a busy life—these practices resonated.

That’s when I realized this was bigger than me. These tools needed a home, a system, and a space for others to experience them—without years of trial and error.

That’s how The Current was born.