For most of my life, I lived outside the lines. Not just a little—fully, intentionally, and with the kind of reckless confidence that comes from knowing you’ll either win or learn, but never lose. For three decades, I was an outlaw. Not the gunslinging kind (well…..) , but the kind who lived by his own rules, operated in shadows, and made his living where the law wasn’t looking. It wasn’t just about survival; it was a philosophy, a way of bending the world to my will through strategy, negotiation, and persuasion.
And then, one day, it wasn’t.
The Hustler’s Playbook
Before everything changed, I was deep into writing DealCraft, a guide to the art of negotiation and persuasion, built on lessons I had learned through years of high-stakes hustling. I knew how to read people, how to close deals, and how to control the flow of a conversation so that I walked away with exactly what I wanted. These were skills honed over years of making things happen in ways that most people wouldn’t—or couldn’t—understand. I wanted to take that knowledge and turn it into something that others could use, whether they were closing a business deal, bargaining for a better salary, or just trying to navigate the unspoken power dynamics of the world.
The book was my way of distilling my past into something useful, something that could give others the edge I had always relied on. I was ready to launch it, to build a brand around it, to make it the foundation of my next chapter.
And then my sister died.
A Hard Stop
Grief doesn’t move in straight lines. It crashes into you like a rogue wave, dragging you under when you least expect it. My sister had been in pain for years, suffering from Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, bedridden and in hospice. She had been on the waiting list for physician-assisted suicide when she passed unexpectedly.
I wasn’t ready.
She had sent me a pen before she died—a simple thing, but it became an anchor in my grief. It was as if she had left me a final message: Write.
I realized that the things I had spent my life mastering—control, persuasion, outmaneuvering others—weren’t what I wanted to be known for. I wanted to tell stories. I wanted to capture the things that mattered before they were lost. Because once someone is gone, all you have left are the stories—and if they aren’t written down, they disappear.
Heirloom Narratives: The New Mission
That’s how Heirloom Narratives was born. Not as a hustle, not as another game to play or a strategy to win, but as something deeply personal. A way to make sure that the stories of the people we love don’t fade into the void.
I started thinking about all the people I had known—some brilliant, some brutal, some legends in their own right—and how most of them would never be remembered outside of the few people who knew them. And I thought about families who had lost their people, left only with fragmented memories and unanswered questions.
I decided to build something that would help. A way for families to capture and preserve the essence of their loved ones through guided storytelling, legacy books, memorial tributes, and even professional obituary writing. Not some AI-driven, cold automation—but real, human-driven storytelling that keeps memories alive the way they should be.
The Recovery Chapter
I’ve been in recovery for about a year now. Sobriety changes the way you see time. The past is heavier, the present is sharper, and the future is no longer something you plan for “later.” It’s here, now, waiting for you to do something real with it.
I’m not writing DealCraft anymore—not in the way I originally intended. But I do see now that the most powerful form of persuasion isn’t closing a deal or controlling a conversation—it’s telling a story that people remember. And that’s what Heirloom Narratives is about.
I spent my life writing my own story in ink that bled outside the lines. Now, I help people write theirs before it’s too late. Because no matter where we’ve been, no matter what we’ve done, the only thing that lasts is the story we leave behind.
And this? This is the legacy I choose to build.
