Warzones to Workshops

I didn’t grow up in a classroom—I grew up in a war zone. Philadelphia in the 90s felt more like survival training than childhood. Years later, I’d find myself in a very different war zone—this time wearing a uniform.

What followed was a long journey through trauma, burnout, reinvention, and eventually, peace.

This story isn’t just about me—it’s about how anyone can transform chaos into clarity. I now coach others to do the same. Here’s how it happened.

The First Battlefield

I grew up in Philadelphia during the crack epidemic—a time when cocaine sales, turf wars, and daily violence turned my neighborhood into a battlefield. Getting shot, going to jail, or narrowly escaping death as a teenager wasn’t shocking—it was just what happened. Normal. Half the friends I grew up with didn’t make it past their twenties.

School didn’t offer much of a break either. We walked through metal detectors every morning and were greeted by teachers who, though well-meaning, were burnt out and underpaid. Education felt more like crowd control than opportunity.

Shortly before I had my own close call—shots fired at close range that missed only by grace—I dropped out of school. Surviving felt more urgent than learning.

Insight: When survival becomes the baseline, anything beyond it feels like a luxury. But buried beneath all that chaos is still a spark—of curiosity, of potential. The first step toward transformation is realizing that your environment doesn’t get the final say in who you become.

Trading One War Zone for Another

I joined the military to escape Philly, thinking anything had to be better than what I knew. But instead of peace, I found myself in a different kind of war zone—this time with bombs, ambushes, and enemies I couldn’t even see.

By the time I left the service, PTSD had its grip on me. I didn’t know that’s what it was—I just thought it was life. Anxiety followed me like a shadow. Crowds, lines, small spaces—they’d send me into panic. I’d black out while standing still. No one saw it, but I felt it every day. I kept it hidden, maybe because hiding was second nature by then.

Insight: Avoiding pain doesn’t erase it. For years, I thought pain was just part of the deal. But the body always remembers. And it will find a way to remind you—until you listen.

Building Peace Through Structure

To outrun the anxiety, I worked. At one point, I held down three jobs just to stay too busy to feel. But weirdly, it helped. Having a plan gave me peace. Setting goals—no matter how vague—gave me something to move toward.

When I got out of the Army, the only job I was qualified for was truck driving—the same thing I did in Iraq. But driving in war zones changes how you see the road. In Germany, I used to max out my Audi on the autobahn until the car shook. I wasn’t trying to die, but I wasn’t afraid of it either. If I crashed, I crashed.

Eventually, I took a safer route. I got a job at Burger King managing inventory. I was good at it. That opened the door to a contract managing military supplies—tools, truck parts, everything. I got so good, I started training soldiers on the system.

That led to a job in HR, issuing ID cards for soldiers and government workers. It was simple work, but it gave me a sense of direction. Things started to feel… manageable.

Insight: Structure creates space for healing. Even the smallest routines—when done with intention—can anchor you in the middle of chaos. Momentum doesn’t always start with clarity. Sometimes it starts with showing up and doing something well.

When Purpose Collides With Pain

Eventually, I took on a role I wasn’t prepared for—Casualty Coordinator.

When a soldier passed away, I was the one who got the 1 a.m. call. Sometimes, I’d sit alone in my office, letting the weight of it hit me—tears running down my face—before I made the calls to the officers responsible for notifying the family.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

And yet—it was an honor.

In the Army, we’re family. And in that role, I felt like I was doing my part to care for the extended family of my fallen brothers and sisters. It mattered. But it came with a cost.

I watched mothers unravel in grief while their children played on the floor beside them—too young to understand the weight of the moment.

I’ve stood in living rooms surrounded by grieving relatives, doing my best to remain composed while everything around me was falling apart.

I attended funerals to make sure the ceremonies were carried out with dignity—but I never stayed for the final roll call. I couldn’t.

Still, there’s one moment I’ll never forget.

A veteran came into my office one afternoon. He was young, but life had aged him. He approached casually, like we were just two old friends reconnecting. And in a way, we were—there’s a certain bond that forms instantly when you meet someone who’s walked the same path.

We laughed, swapped stories, found common ground.

Then, quietly and without drama, he told me he didn’t have much time left. He wasn’t afraid—just concerned. He wanted to make sure his family would be taken care of when the time came. He didn’t come for sympathy. He came for peace of mind—for them.

That conversation never left me.

Over time, the weight of the job began to chip away at me. Not all at once. Just little by little, quietly and steadily. Until eventually, I had nothing left to give.

Insight: Even when you’re strong, you can’t carry it all. There’s a difference between being in service and being consumed by it. Knowing when to step away isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.

Tech, New Territory, and Tiny Wins

While I was unraveling emotionally, I was still showing up. I took night classes and volunteered at a local military unit learning teleconferencing systems. Eventually, I earned my degree and got a job as a software developer.

It felt like another planet. I didn’t know the language. I didn’t feel like I belonged. But I stayed. I learned. I figured it out.

That role opened the door to consulting in enterprise architecture—focusing on database optimization and training. Then things got exciting. I started traveling—to France, Turkey, Abu Dhabi—teaching people how to use our systems.

For the first time, I felt energized by work. I wasn’t just surviving—I was contributing.

Insight: Growth rarely feels comfortable. You might feel like a fraud at first. That’s not a sign to stop—it’s a sign that you’re stretching. Keep going.

The Collapse—and the Comedy

While my career was rising, my personal life was falling apart. I realized I had never truly faced my trauma—I’d just kept moving. So I left everything: the job, the career, the image. I walked away.

And I became a full-time stand-up comedian.

Comedy broke something open in me. On stage, there’s nowhere to hide. I had to connect—to feel. Jokes became therapy. Green rooms became safe spaces. Comics were some of the most honest, open people I’d ever met. And the audience? They’d let me know exactly who I was.

I even performed in German. My language skills weren’t great, but I translated my material, rehearsed, and hit the stage. It worked. They laughed. I got paid. I started to heal.

Insight: Healing doesn’t always look like what you expect. Sometimes it’s laughter. Sometimes it’s connection. Sometimes it’s finding a space where you can be fully, unapologetically yourself.

When the World Stopped, I Didn’t

Then the pandemic hit. The stages went dark. But I didn’t spiral. I pivoted.

I picked up Python, learned machine learning, and earned a Data Science certification. A couple weeks later, I was interviewing for a Data Scientist role at Mercedes-Benz. I got the job. I worked with forecasting tools, built Power BI dashboards—it was everything I loved.

That same year, I enrolled in a Scrum Master course with Maxpert GmbH. At the end of the training, I shared a bit of my story with the trainer. He looked at me and said, “Have you ever thought about becoming a trainer?”

I said I had. He replied, “Send us your résumé.”

Soon after, I became a full-time trainer in frameworks like PRINCE2, Scrum, and ITIL4—in German. I’ve trained across the country, probably more places than most locals have ever visited.

Insight: Sometimes, your breakthrough begins with a conversation. When someone sees something in you—pause and consider it. It might be your next step calling.

Coming Full Circle

One day, I heard about a project in Rwanda. Article 26, an extension of Maxpert, was offering free certifications to students. I knew I had to be part of it.

That first trip to Africa changed everything. I found a kind of peace and purpose I didn’t know I was missing.

Now, I not only train full-time, but I’ve also created and deliver a soft skills program for students in Rwanda—helping them develop Time Management, Communication, Data Analysis, Road Mapping, and AI literacy. These are skills that help them build careers—or simply survive better than I once did.

For the first time in my life, I feel whole. I’ve made it through my PTSD. I’m doing work that goes beyond borders—and beyond me.

Insight: When your pain becomes your purpose, your story becomes a map for others. Transformation isn’t just personal—it’s powerful. And it’s meant to be shared.

What’s Next?

I’ve lived through war zones—some physical, some emotional. I’ve broken down and built back up. And now, I help others navigate their own journey of transformation and resilience.

Wherever you are in your story—just surviving or ready to rebuild—I’m here to walk alongside you.

Interested in coaching, speaking, or workshops? Let’s turn your story into a source of strength