Before It Fell Apart
There was a time when everything in my life looked picture-perfect. I had the house, the family, the dogs, the backyard chickens. A growing business and a brand-new contract tied to a national advertising campaign for a multi million dollar company.
To the outside world, I was doing well—rising, thriving even. I smiled in meetings. Took the calls. Held my kids on my shoulders at family gatherings. I played the part of a man in control.
But the truth was, I was hanging on by a thread.
I had just relapsed.
After over two years of sobriety, I convinced myself that I could drink like a “normal” person again. I told my wife the same thing. I believed it—or I wanted to. That illusion didn’t last long.
It’s hard to admit how far I had drifted from the man I wanted to be. I was burning through money recklessly. Half-assing my business. Numbing my emotions. Avoiding anything that felt like real leadership. And at home? I was there, but not really present. Not in the way that mattered. Physically present, yet emotionally unavailable. I was busy, but not productive. Making money but at the cost of everything else.
And then came the night everything broke.
It was after a work event—beers in, stress boiling over. I snapped. I exploded in a way that still haunts me. Yelling. Slamming doors. The kind of outburst that shakes the walls and shatters trust.
It wasn’t the first time.
But it was the one that ended everything.
The following Monday, I slipped back into work mode like nothing had happened. I told myself I could fix this. That if I just worked harder, proved myself more, maybe she’d forgive me. Maybe we’d be okay.
By Friday, I walked into an empty home.
No wife. No kids. Just silence.
A silence so loud it echoed.
I called. Texted. Reached out for answers. Eventually, I got in touch with her parents.
She wasn’t coming home.
The next morning, an off-duty officer arrived at my door with a typed letter and a court notice. I had to leave. That day.
I packed a backpack with whatever I could grab. Closed the door. And walked out of the life I’d built. I didn’t know it at the time. But I would not be returning to that home for almost a ye
The Studio
I moved into the Wise Bear studio space I’d been using for work. It had no windows, just four walls, a leaky faucet, and an air mattress that couldn’t stay inflated through the night.
During the day, I tried to fake it through client calls and emails. At night, I crumbled. I’d lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering how I’d lost everything—and what it would take to fight for my kids.
I hated her.
I hated myself.
I was angry.
But mostly, I was scared.
Because I didn’t know who I was anymore.
Then came the first court hearing. The judge read her statements out loud—everything she said about me, everything I had done. I didn’t argue. I didn’t justify. I listened. I nodded. I cried.
And for the first time, I owned it all. These statements were true and I could no longer deny the impact the events had on her, us, our children.
Then the judge looked at me and said something that cracked my ego wide open:
“I’d recommend a men’s resource group for anger management.”
I almost laughed. Me? Angry? I knew I had a drinking problem. But I’m not angry.
I had always been the guy who joked through pain. The happy-go-lucky one. But in truth, I had been yelling for years—just not with my mouth. I yelled with my drinking. With my silence. With my absence. With every time I chose escape over presence.
He then asked her. “Are you filing for divorce Mrs. Britton? With out hesitation she calmly said, “Yes”.
And that’s when the mask started to fall away. That’s when I stopped running away from it.
Back in the Basement
Eventually, I moved into my parents’ guest room in the basement. No childhood nostalgia, no symbolic full-circle moment—just a spare bed, a small dresser, and a backpack full of clothes with what was left of my life.
I’d lie awake most nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how I got here, wondering how I’d ever get back up. I felt like a grown man who had lost everything that mattered. How do I get it back. What could I do to fix this, to talk my way out of it.
Then one night, after another restless sleep and most likely another cry I didn’t want anyone to hear, my dog jumped up and licked my face. It sounds small, but that simple gesture—something real, something pure—snapped me back into myself.
I reached for my phone, not to scroll, but to write. I made two lists: every part of myself I wanted to leave behind, and every trait I hoped to grow into. That night didn’t fix anything—but it was the moment I stopped running. It was the first step toward rebuilding something better.
Emotionally Present Father
I was granted court-ordered visitation. Every other weekend, the boys would stay with me. At first, it was a bit awkward—quiet moments, hard for me to have fun, a kind of emotional limbo none of us quite knew how to navigate.
One afternoon, my oldest looked at me with wide, honest eyes and asked:
“Dad, why did you leave us?”
I froze. How do you answer a question like that—especially when the truth is complicated, painful, and bigger than a child can understand?
I took a breath and gave him the only answer I could: the truth.
“I didn’t know how to show up—but I’m learning now. And I’ll never stop showing up again.”
That moment has stayed with me.
I wasn’t just trying to earn back their trust.
I was trying to earn back mine. Was I good dad? Maybe? But I knew there I could do a lot better.
And little by little, something shifted.
I started to become more than just “weekend dad.” If this divorce was going to happen, then I was going to fight like hell for these boys, I was going to be the dad they deserved.
I cooked them breakfast. Made up bedtime stories. Took them on adventures. I started showing up early, staying late, being fully present—not distracted, not halfway there, not numbing out with a screen or a drink.
I was becoming SuperDaddy as my son expressed.
Not because I was doing anything extraordinary—but because I was doing the ordinary things with love, consistency, and a sense of purpose I’d never had before.
I think in their eyes, I was becoming their hero again.
And in the process, I was learning how to be mine too.
Rebuilding the Business—For Real This Time
When the dust started to settle, I did what a lot of people do—I went looking for a “real” job.
Something stable. Predictable. Professional.
I interviewed. I applied. I showed up with polished resumes and cleaned-up LinkedIn profiles. I got close more than once.
But nothing ever landed.
At first, I was frustrated. Then confused. Then one day, sitting in front of another rejection email, I just laughed.
That’s when it hit me: this was the sign.
I wasn’t supposed to get hired.
I was supposed to build.
But this time, I’d do it right.
No more treating my business like a side hustle. No more winging it. No more working for validation or hiding behind ego. I was being handed a second chance—and this time, I would show up for it.
I stayed sober. I rebuilt from the ground up. I invested in real strategy, sharpened my services, defined my values, cleaned up my messaging. I stopped trying to be everything to everyone and got laser-focused on who I serve and how I help. Most importantly, I began hiring people and developing them. I stopped trying to do it all and started building a very wise team.
Now, I run my business with purpose.
I charge what I’m worth.
I follow through.
I create things that matter.
It’s no longer about being a clever entrepreneur.
It’s about living my purpose.
This—Wise Bear Creative—isn’t just what I do. It’s who I’ve become.
Surrender and Gratitude
I used to think that admitting you didn’t have control was a weakness. But over time, I realized it’s the only way to stop pretending. You can’t fix what you refuse to face. So I started owning what was mine—every mistake, every scar, every time I hurt someone out of fear or avoidance. I stopped blaming. I started building.
And I’ll say something that might sound strange:
I’m genuinely grateful my ex divorced me.
Not because it was easy. Not because I wanted it. Not because I believe it was the right thing or it was what was best for our children. But because it forced me to wake up. To face myself. To rebuild from the inside out. I don’t think I ever would’ve gotten here—the version of me I’m proud of—if she hadn’t left.
She didn’t just walk away from a marriage.
She gave me the chance to become a better man and to find a course of this life that is worth living fully.
If You're in the Basement
If you’re in the middle of your own rock bottom—whatever it looks like—I want you to know this:
You are not broken beyond repair.
You are not your worst day.
You are not too far gone.
But no one’s coming to save you. Find the course that is genuine to you, to your values and chart the map. Stay on it.
You have to do the work. You have to show up. You have to surrender your pride long enough to rebuild with purpose.
And if you do?
There’s peace on the other side.
There’s clarity. Sobriety. Fatherhood. Business. Wholeness.
You can’t shortcut the process. The course is long and can be exhausting.
But I promise—it’s worth it.
I’m not perfect.
But I’m here.
I’m sober. I’m steady. I’m real.
And I’m proud of the man, the father, the business owner I’ve become.
So today, I chose the only path that makes sense now, I chose to stay the course.
If This Hit Home
If you’re a business owner or you are navigating your own personal storm, I see you.
You don’t have to figure it all out alone. Whether you need brand help, a creative partner, or just someone who gets the chaos behind the scenes—I’d love to connect. We don’t go through life’s battles to just keep what we learned to ourselves. Otherwise it’s a waste. I’m an open book. Ask me anything.
