In the tumultuous year of 2020, amidst the chaos of a global pandemic, I found myself facing the most profound challenge of my life—a challenge that would teach me the true meaning of resilience and forever change how I show up as a leader.

At first, the signs were subtle. Fatigue that felt heavier than usual. A peculiar weakness I brushed off as stress, dehydration, or simply the toll of working long shifts. I told myself, I can handle anything. That was always my story. Push harder, keep moving, take care of everyone else.

But my friends, colleagues, and doctor urged me to pay closer attention. If this persists, you need to get checked. I nodded but resisted. Until one autumn morning after a run, when I felt a strange, almost unexplainable sensation in my left hand. It was enough to push me past denial. I went to the ER.

Pandemic days made hospitals eerie. Masks everywhere, fear hanging in the air. I went through the motions of testing—blood work, scans, an MRI. The technician paused mid-test, saying the neurologist wanted contrast. Something inside me tightened, but I dismissed it, trying to stay calm in that narrow tube.

When I returned to the ER room, a doctor and nurse entered, faces carrying a weight I instantly recognized. I had seen that look before. I knew what it meant.

The doctor sat down, leaned forward, and said words I’ll never forget:

“You’re not crazy. You have a marble-sized tumor in your head.”

Time froze. My body moved before my mind caught up—I stood, walked to the far side of the room like I could somehow escape the sentence. A gut punch left me gasping. Tears slid down my face without permission. And all I could mutter, childlike, was: “This sucks.”

Then came the words that hollowed me out: “I’m sorry.”

Those two words felt like the sealing of a coffin. Not compassion, but finality. Not comfort, but closure. It was as if my life had already ended, as if I were already gone. In that instant, I grieved my future—the mornings I hadn’t lived yet, the conversations I’d still wanted to have, the dreams I thought I’d chase later. A version of me died in that room, and I felt the emptiness of it collapse over me like dirt on a grave.

I remembered how many times I had said those very words—“I’m sorry”—to patients and families when delivering news that shattered their lives. I thought I had been empathetic. But in that moment, hearing it spoken to me, I understood how hollow and powerless it could feel. No one could truly stand in my shoes. No one could carry the rawness of that moment for me. I was face-to-face with my own mortality, and it was mine alone to hold.

The journey ahead was brutal—fear, surgeries, depression, anxiety, the long silence of not knowing what life would look like on the other side. But that day in the ER had already planted something in me: a new way of seeing pain. Instead of running from it, I began to lean in, to ask questions I’d never dared before:

- What is this pain here to teach me?

- Am I doing God’s work here? What is my purpose here?

- What is my purpose here?

Pain became my teacher, not my enemy.

I began responding differently—to myself, to others. Instead of reflexively saying “I’m sorry” when people shared their struggles, I looked them in the eyes and said, “This is hard.” And then I added the words that had become my lifeline: “But we do hard things.”

That simple shift gave people permission to feel the weight of their pain while also reminding them of their strength. It gave me a mantra to cling to when I wanted to quit, when the darkness pressed too close. This is hard. But I do hard things.

Out of that journey, I launched a podcast to hold space for others navigating their own battles. I listened to stories of resilience, and in every one I saw the same truth: hardship is universal, but it doesn’t have to be terminal. Pain, when faced honestly, becomes a portal to growth.

But I didn’t stop at surviving my own battle—I dove headfirst into the deep inner work. I asked the questions that most of us are afraid to ask: Why am I here? What is this moment trying to teach me? What parts of me need to be dismantled so something greater can be rebuilt? In that raw place, I began to learn not only how to transform myself but also how to anchor into a greater purpose and use my pain as fuel for clarity.

I confronted the challenges I carried as a man and as a human being—the expectations, the hidden wounds, the ways fear and ego had shaped my life. I saw how this diagnosis had not just shaken my health, but my identity, my relationships, and my understanding of what true leadership really means. Out of that wrestling, I developed what I now call the Pathway to Purpose Clarity Map—a process to help people uncover what truly drives them, break free from the unconscious patterns that keep them stuck, and reconnect with their deepest “why.”

At the same time, I created the Restorative Masculine Integration Theory (RMIT), a framework born out of my own wrestling with mortality and manhood. RMIT reveals how suppressed and fragmented masculinity erodes our ability to lead, love, and live fully. It provides a path toward wholeness—toward reclaiming an identity rooted in authenticity, relational integrity, and what I call grounded leadership. This kind of leadership doesn’t rely on performance, status, or external approval, but on inner alignment and deep connection. It’s a way of leading yourself and others from the inside out.

Together, these frameworks—the Pathway to Purpose Clarity Map and RMIT—have become the backbone of my work. They emerged not from textbooks or theory alone, but from lived experience, sleepless nights, and the deep conviction that pain, when embraced, can catalyze transformation. Today, I use them to guide men and women into breakthroughs that reshape their lives, their relationships, and their leadership.

And here’s what I’ve learned—this wasn’t just about me surviving a brain tumor. The lesson is bigger. You don’t need a diagnosis to feel like part of you has died. Life will hand all of us moments that strip us bare—loss, betrayal, failure, change. Those moments can feel like endings, but they hold the power of beginnings.

That day in the ER, “I’m sorry” sounded like the end of my story. Instead, it became the beginning of my transformation. It taught me how to lead, not by avoiding pain but by embracing it. It taught me how to guide others, not with platitudes but with presence.

So now, when I sit with people in their hardest moments, I don’t flinch. I don’t rush. I don’t reach for easy words. I simply say:

“This is hard. But we do hard things.”

And together, we take the next step forward.