I met Kate on a flight to Nashville. She was visiting a friend, and I was heading to see my son. The conversation started the way most do on a plane—casual, polite. But something about her energy pulled me in. She wasn’t just making small talk. She was present. Real. You don’t meet people like that every day.

Somewhere along the way, our conversation turned to life—the real kind. She told me about her brother. Addiction. Jail. Rehab. The whole battle. "He’s been fighting these demons for years," she said, her voice carrying the weight of too many sleepless nights. Then, something softened in her. "But this time feels different. He’s clean now. He found meditation. It’s like he’s finally finding some peace."

I could feel her hope. It wasn’t just for him—it was for herself, too. She had that look, the one you get when someone you love is finally pulling their shit together, and you let yourself believe it’ll last this time. I recognized that look because I’ve worn it, too. I told her about my own struggles, about the things I’d done to pull myself out of my darkest moments. She leaned in, listening like every word mattered. And for a moment, I thought, Maybe her brother really is going to make it.

When we landed, we said our goodbyes. “I’ll see you on the way back,” she said. We were flying home the same day, and it felt good to think we might reconnect. A day or two later, she sent me a text. It was a picture of some books she’d picked up for her brother, asking if I had any recommendations. I smiled when I saw it. Here was someone doing everything she could to help. Her brother was lucky to have her.

And then, everything fell apart.

The next text came on the morning of my flight back. It was short, almost clinical, like she couldn’t bring herself to say more: "My brother passed away. He killed himself. I’m heading home early."

I read it three times, my brain refusing to accept what I was seeing. My stomach dropped, and I felt this crushing weight press down on me. Just days earlier, we’d been celebrating his progress. She was so proud of him, so hopeful. And now? He was gone.

I didn’t know what to say. I felt like someone had yanked the ground out from under me. All I could think was, Why him? Why him and not me? I’d stood where he stood, looked at the same abyss he had. I’d felt that same overwhelming darkness, the pull to end it all. So why the hell was I still here, and he wasn’t?

The guilt hit me like a tidal wave. Survivor’s guilt, they call it, but that phrase doesn’t even begin to describe the storm of emotions. I felt anger, sadness, shame, and a helpless fucking rage at the unfairness of it all. I kept asking myself, What if he’d had the right tools? What if someone had been able to reach him? What if I could’ve done something?

That night, I sat with those questions, letting them tear me apart. And then something shifted. This wasn’t the worst day of my life. No, it was something else entirely. It was a wake-up call. A reminder of what it feels like to be at rock bottom—and a call to do something about it.

Kate’s brother didn’t have to die. Neither does anyone else. But the truth is, most people in that kind of pain feel like there’s no way out. They think they’re alone, that they’re too broken, too far gone. I’ve been there. I know how easy it is to believe that.

But I also know it’s a lie.

I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: there’s a way out. You don’t have to stay in hell. You don’t have to fight this alone.

That’s why Back to Wild exists.

This isn’t about perfection or self-help fluff. It’s about getting real, facing the darkness, and clawing your way to the other side. It’s about reclaiming what’s yours—the strength, the fire, the clarity that’s been buried under years of pain and programming.

So, if you’re here, if you’re reading this, know that I see you. I hear you. And I promise you this: you are not alone.

Let’s take the first step together.