Part of My Story
From the Battlefield to Civilian Life
I served as an 0311 rifleman in the Marine Corps with 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines. I deployed to both Iraq and Afghanistan—to Al-Anbar Province and later to Helmand Province, specifically Now Zad, one of the most volatile areas in the region at the time. Our squad uncovered an insane amount of IEDs. We were exceptionally well trained to find them. It was constant.
When we returned from Afghanistan, I was a civilian within a month. My contract hadn’t been extended due to an administrative error. I went from combat to civilian life overnight.
I drifted for a while—worked in the oilfield, did a short stint with Triple Canopy, and eventually found my footing in coaching and firefighting. For a time, I had purpose again.
The Oklahoma Fire Department Incident
I was working at a small combination department when everything changed. The chief was incompetent and also sexually harassing a female firefighter. I raised life safety concerns and stood up for her. We brought these issues to the city manager, who responded with threats. When I asked to reschedule a meeting until legal counsel could be present, I was immediately fired—wrongfully.
That was the trigger.
I left that building in a fog. A simple route home felt foreign. I was disoriented, confused, and overwhelmed. My son had just been born, and I was already under massive stress from back-to-back calls at work with minimal staffing.
I was quickly rehired by another department, but in the time between, I sought help at the VA. That decision almost broke me.
Misdiagnosis and Meltdown
The VA quickly misdiagnosed me with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. They loaded me up with psychiatric meds and muscle relaxers—an insane cocktail of prescriptions.
The side effects were brutal. I was having severe vision issues, muscle spasms, and major GI problems that made everyday life miserable. Still, I was trying to be a good man, provide for my family, and return to the job. But I was far from stable.
One shift, I knew something was wrong. I told my captain I needed help and started driving to the hospital—but couldn’t shake the feeling I was being followed. Paranoia gripped me. I pulled over and called the Veterans Crisis Line, then 911.
My own department ran the call on me. I ended up in the back of an ambulance, heart racing, blood pressure spiking.
It got worse.
The Psych Ward
I checked myself into the VA hospital. My mind was in fragments. The night before, at my parents’ house, I thought the house was being watched. I found a note that said something like “cherish ancient things,” which led me to empty out one of their closets looking for a sign. I found an old box—where my dad had hidden my Glock after the VA told him to take it from me (a decision I strongly disagreed with; I’m a Marine, and a weapon is part of my sense of security). When I found it, I felt for sure I was meant to. I thought someone was wanting me to do a mission of some sort—but I didn’t want to. I wanted to be a firefighter. I wanted to help people now. My dad drove me to the VA the next morning. When I arrived, I dropped my gym bag and wandered off, convinced someone had told me to. My father found me, panicked. The VA thought I had brought a bomb.
I ended up on the mental health floor.
The staff treated me like a threat. A nurse checking me in trembled as she questioned me. Most of the staff mocked me. They drugged me to keep me sedated. When I started regaining awareness, I pretended to take the meds just to get my clarity back.
I spent ten days in that place. The shower in my room was broken and only dripped cold water. There was another working shower that others were allowed to use—but not me. Little dignity. No toothbrush unless approved. They teased me, mocked my service, and tried to have me committed.
It was only because of a kind nurse—maybe an angel—who warned my wife and mom that something was wrong, that I got out.
Back to Camp Hope
I had been fired again. Lawsuit pending. Nervous system wrecked. As I was unfit to parent my newborn son at the time, my parents took me in.
I was delusional—climbing into their attic at night looking for snipers, pouring out all their alcohol into Christmas baskets in the middle of the summer. My mind was gone. The meds were killing me.
That’s when my family found Camp Hope.
I went. I healed. Slowly. I got off the meds. I found strength again. Coaching opportunities returned, first at CrossFit West Houston, then a volunteer gig at Westlake Fire. Eventually I was hired full time in Southeast Texas.
But healing isn’t linear.
The Nerve Injury
One night on shift, I felt a surge of pain between my shoulder blades. My right arm went numb. Muscle spasms locked up my back, tricep, and pec.
I couldn’t move. The pain had me incapacitated.
Even the shot of pain meds from the Hospital didn’t take the pain away. After days of agony and no sleep, a veteran friend gave me Kratom. I finally slept. In that rest, inflammation subsided and I found clarity. But the damage was done.
My tricep and pec stopped firing. The muscle was gone. I couldn’t get the muscle to flex or even press a 5 pound dumbbell.
The neurosurgeons told me, “You won’t grow that back. Doesn’t matter how many curls you do.”
They gave me a month to try before surgery.
I used everything I had: Chris Duffin’s elite recovery protocols, red light therapy, breathwork, strength training, peptides, cold therapy, functional mushrooms, blood flow restriction, and sled work. I also leaned on the support and guidance of the Power Athlete coach network and other experienced coaches, who played a critical role in my recovery. I fought.
In a month, I grew an inch and a half back on my arm.
I avoided surgery. I returned to duty.
The Last Straw
Friends started reaching out to me for help—with PTSD, with nerve injuries, with suicidal thoughts.
Around Memorial Day, I saw my old First Sergeant, now Sergeant Major Ruiz, in a Marine Corps statement honoring those who served in Helmand. He told the story of when my friend Stanley was killed—KIA while responding as part of a QRF after our snipers stepped on an IED. Stanley was originally in my team when I was first with Weapons Company, and everyone in that platoon kept kind of a strange bond. I was coaching another buddy, Rogers, who had also served with us. We were all connected by those years in 3/4.
My Corpsman from Iraq, Doc Salas, came to visit and essentially experienced an Operation Antifragile retreat at my house. After seeing what I was doing firsthand, he told me: “You need to turn this into a program.”
That was the beginning of Operation Antifragile.
But just as it was taking shape, I was betrayed by someone at my department who I had helped tremendously over the years and thought was a brother. I’m still unsure why it happened—and honestly, I pity him. At the time, I wanted nothing more than bad things to happen to him. But now, I hope he’s doing well, because I recognize that he’s a sick individual. What he said triggered a rage in me I hadn’t felt since the psych ward. I didn’t sleep that night.
I told my wife: *”I have to quit or I’m going to the hospital again.”
So I quit. I felt as though God had set me on a new mission, and that mission was Operation Antifragile.
And my kids were happy when I told them I quit. That’s how I knew I made the right choice.
Collapse in Alaska
Still, the symptoms lingered.
I had trips planned to Montana and Alaska. While flying to Anchorage, I had a mental health crisis mid-flight. The lights, tones, airplane manual warnings—it all triggered flashbacks. I started thinking I had to prevent the plane from crashing. I panicked.
The Alaska Airlines crew handled it with grace. They got me to the back of the plane, where I told them: “I’m a Marine veteran and firefighter. I’m having flashbacks.”
They calmed me down. Treated me like a person. They treated me better than the staff at the VA and helped me recognize that I have a photographic memory—and that when I get into these modes, I literally see images in my head. I also tend to overanalyze body movements and facial expressions, which makes situations like that even more overwhelming.
When I landed, I was in Nome. Remote. Surrounded by two Marine buddies, but completely stuck in PTSD and Operator Syndrome.
Coming home was even harder. I don’t remember much except wandering the airport in a fog, hiding behind cars, blasting binaural beats. My wife—with a broken hand—found me wandering around at the top of the escalator looking like a crazy person. I was trying to find cover and move between vehicles—who knows, maybe I thought one of them was coming to pick me up for a mission again. Meanwhile, she had to drag 80 lbs. of moose meat in a cooler through the terminal.
It didn’t feel like my life. It felt like a movie.
The Return to Camp Hope, and the Birth of the Mission
I told my wife I needed to go back to Camp Hope.
She was terrified I’d try to drive. I was stuck in that operator mode again. She told me she’d call 911 if I did. I was angry—but now, I’m grateful.
My Marine brother Riedel, who lives in the area, drove me. However, even during that drive, I felt a threat from him and jumped out of his truck on I-10, running across the highway. I would do things like this and then have “come to” moments—realizing it was just my paranoia. I got back in the truck and told him to slow down his driving and not talk as much. I had run a large number of calls at that intersection, and it was making me feel like I was in a fire truck again—or back in Afghanistan with him. He had been my driver and pointman there too.
Camp Hope had changed. I was only there a week, and it was hard—bunk beds, overstimulation, flare-ups of my nerve injury. I wasn’t dealing with acute trauma anymore. I was dealing with chronic nervous system dysregulation. It’s still a great program, but it wasn’t well set up for what I was going through at the time.
But something happened there. Guys started coming to me. They asked about breathwork, strength, meditation, trauma recovery, the nervous system. They saw I had something that could help.
I realized when I quit the fire department that this was my new mission. It was when I was here at Camp Hope that I truly saw how much these guys could benefit from this program.
I left Camp Hope and went all in on Operation Antifragile.
This is a reactive and proactive system. It’s for guys in the fire. It’s for guys just getting out. It’s for guys who don’t even know they’re slipping yet.
And it’s built on experience.
I lost a brother from Camp Hope in a death-by-cop incident. I didn’t even know he lived down the road from me.
Maybe, if he had known about Operation Antifragile, he’d still be here.
I still tried going back to the VA. Same story. They offered me pills. I said I was in crisis. They said:
“Your next appointment is in two months.”
That’s why Operation Antifragile exists.
The Call to Action
If you’re a veteran or first responder, and you’re in that fog—you are not alone.
Operation Antifragile is here to help you build yourself back up. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Nervously.
We offer:
- Peer support from those who’ve been there
- Breathwork and nervous system regulation
- Strength and mobility coaching
- Trauma-informed mindfulness
- Tools and resources while you wait for VA or clinical care
And we offer it with zero judgment.
If you need help, reach out. If you want to support this mission, donate. If you believe in what we’re doing, spread the word.
This is not just a program.
This is a lifeline.
Visit www.operationantifragile.org to join the movement, donate, or connect someone to support. Fill out an application for help.
Your story doesn’t have to end in silence.
You can become antifragile.