UNENCUMBERED: THE ORIGIN STORY

UNENCUMBERED: THE ORIGIN STORY

A Life Lived Outside the Lines

I was five years old the night my world split in half. My parents told me and my brother to stay in our room, like the thin wood of that door could somehow keep the truth from leaking underneath it. But the voices still came through — sharp, cracking, full of tension — and I pressed my ear to the wall even though I was crying. On the other side of that door, my father was packing his life into bags. On my side, I was trying to understand a world too big for me to hold. That night didn’t break me. But it opened my eyes earlier than most.

After the divorce, my life became two completely different worlds: Dallas and New Iberia. Dallas, Texas was fast and loud and full of appearance — a place where kids learned early how to posture, how to fit in, how to pretend. Louisiana was the opposite — slow, gritty, raw, warm, wild. A sugarcane town full of Cajuns who were the same people at fourteen that they were at forty. Loyal. Real. Imperfect but honest.

I bounced between these two realities, and I think that’s where my vision started sharpening. Even at eight or nine years old, I could see through adults. They smiled too hard. They lied without blinking. They preached things they didn’t practice. They acted happy when they weren’t. They said words that didn’t match their eyes. I wasn’t judgmental — I was observant. Something about the world felt staged, and I didn’t have the vocabulary for it yet, but I felt it in my chest.

So I went looking for something real.

I rode my bike everywhere. Not down the street — miles. Under freeways. Through drainage ditches. Along creeks. Across parts of Dallas my mom would’ve grounded me for a year if she’d known I was exploring. I built forts in patches of woods. Made tiny fires with a magnifying glass I wasn’t allowed to have. Hunted squirrels with a slingshot. Wandered until the sun reminded me to go home.

Around that time, I read My Side of the Mountain, and it was like the book whispered something I had already believed: “You can live your own life. You don’t have to live theirs.” I carried that voice with me for decades.

My teens weren’t about fitting in. I had my own mind. My own questions. My own doubts about the world adults built. I didn’t hate it — I just didn’t trust it. But I still gave it a chance. I followed the path they said was necessary, even though I kept one foot outside the line.

In adulthood, I did what society told me to do — just not the way they intended. I went to college, but not one college. Many. East Texas for photography. Austin for CAD and design. Collin County for 3D animation and more photography. International Fine Arts College in Miami Beach for high-end animation. Then Art Center in Pasadena — even though they didn’t accept me, I forced myself in through night classes. I worked in the labs, configuring SGI machines and servers. I pushed my way into an education that fit me better than any system could’ve designed.

I worked any job I had to — floor guard at eleven, mowing lawns at fourteen, sandwich shops, mechanic schools, Ducati shops, lab tech, builder, tuner, racer. I didn’t float through life; I built my life piece by piece, trade by trade, skill by skill. Every job taught me something. Every trade sharpened me. Every place added something to the person I was becoming.

Eventually, all those skills, all that motion, all that instinct turned into something big: Rivera Corsa. My motorcycle shop. My creation. My place. I built machines out of carbon fiber and titanium that manufacturers weren’t building yet. These weren’t just bikes — they were the best possible version of a dream: $100,000 superbikes, built by hand, built with obsession.

For a while, I thought this was success. I had the shop. The home. The land. The lifestyle. I had mastered something difficult, built something rare. I had reached the top of the mountain society said would make me whole.

Then, in one night, it all disappeared.

The break-in wasn’t just a theft — it was a dismantling. Multiple people cut through my world and took everything that wasn’t bolted down. They stole my custom bikes, my Öhlins forks, my BST wheels, Magneti Marelli electronics, my tools, my parts — hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of machines and components that represented years of my work. Insurance didn’t help. The system didn’t help. And the people I thought were on my team had already walked away.

The business fell. My finances collapsed. The relationship I treasured fell apart under the weight of it. I lost my home. And the truth hit me harder than any of the losses themselves:

I had built my life inside a system that could take everything in a single night.

And it did.

I didn’t quit.

I walked away.

I loaded my Tacoma — not built out yet, not ready for long-term living — and drove into the Colorado mountains without a plan. I wasn’t running from something; I was returning to something. I didn’t know that at the time, but I felt it the moment the trees closed around me.

In the woods, I came back to life.

I didn’t have much gear. I didn’t have a blueprint for how to live out there. I just followed instinct — the same instinct that had guided me through creeks and drainage ditches and trees as a kid. I camped. Fished. Hunted. Built fires. Learned bushcraft again. Prospected for gold. Rebuilt my truck. Rebuilt my routines. Rebuilt my mind.

My dog was always with me — the one presence that made me feel not alone. My companion. My friend. My family.

I became healthier than I had been in years. My anxiety fell away. My mind sharpened. My body got stronger. My instincts woke up. Nature didn’t lie to me. Nature didn’t pretend. Nature didn’t confuse me with rules and expectations and invisible traps. Nature was honest. And so was I.

Up there, I started to understand something that had been following me since childhood: society isn’t just flawed — it’s addictive. It replaces your instincts with cravings for approval. It replaces your purpose with distractions. It replaces your survival with comfort. It convinces you to work away the best years of your life in exchange for a future you may never live to enjoy.

Survival, I realized, is the point of life. Thriving is the goal. But you can’t thrive if you abandon what keeps you alive. Society asks you to abandon survival for 40 years so you can “earn” thriving at 65. That’s insanity.

In the mountains, I remembered the truth I felt as a child: I had always known better. I had just been trying to live inside a structure that wasn’t built for me — or for anyone, really.

So I started writing. Not for the world — for myself. Notes, lessons, gear choices, moments, realizations. I wrote because I didn’t want to forget who I was becoming. I wrote because I wanted to stay awake.

And eventually, something formed in those pages.

Unencumbered.

The word landed in my mind like it had been waiting there all along. It meant living without weight, without judgment, without rules that suffocate, without performing for people who don’t know you. It meant living with your instincts intact. Living simply but richly. Living with the best version of the tools you need, not with a house full of tools you’ll never use. Living with a dog by your side. Living in motion. Living in nature. Living for yourself.

Unencumbered wasn’t a brand. It was a return — a return to the boy who built forts in the woods, the young man who questioned everything, the adult who built and built until the world took it all, and the person who emerged stronger, clearer, and freer than before.

I built Unencumbered so others could find their way back to themselves, too — not by copying my life, but by waking up inside their own.

I want people to question their world.

To think for themselves.

To stop living a life that doesn’t belong to them.

To enjoy what they have now, not ten years from now.

To live simply but fully.

To move, explore, breathe, wander, build.

To stop apologizing for being different.

To stop waiting for permission.

To put down the weight they never needed to carry.

I want people to realize they were never broken — the world they were stuck in was.

So who am I now?

I’m a rebel who doesn’t accept the status quo. A man who doesn’t need much but insists the tools he does use be the best. An explorer. A builder. A black sheep who loves his family unconditionally. A loner who’s never alone because his dog is always there. A man who jokes, sings, debates, questions, laughs, and keeps moving. I’m someone who walked away from a life that was killing me and found one worth living.

That life is Unencumbered.

And this is where it begins.