My name is Chip—short for “Chip off the old block,” but the name grew to mean something more: a chip on my shoulder, a weight I carried through the worst of life’s storms.

I was born fighting for survival, doctors unsure if I’d even make it past my first breath. That fight never left me.

My early childhood was idyllic—married parents, Catholic school, and family gatherings. Then came the divorce, and the world I knew fell apart. I was pulled from my safe circle and dropped into cold classrooms and colder friendships. That was my first taste of abandonment—and I’ve been wrestling with its aftershocks ever since.

I rebelled. Hard. Witchcraft, shock value, expulsion. I fell fast and deep into drugs, shady crowds, and self-destruction. My twenties dissolved in alcohol and anger. I became a stranger even to myself—socially awkward, withdrawn, bitter. I lost the vibrant, extroverted boy I once was.

Then came Deacon—my husband, my safe harbor. With him, I tasted a better life. We built a home, a future, and raised a dog together—Finn, my Emotional Support Animal and my soul in fur. For a moment, I believed in happiness again. But addiction clawed back in, poisoning everything. I lost Deacon, and eventually, almost everything else.

A mysterious illness followed—painful, terrifying, and ignored by doctors. In that isolation, with nothing but time and a failing body, I was forced to confront myself. Who I had become. Who I never wanted to be again. I made a quiet vow: to rebuild myself with honesty, integrity, and loyalty as my foundation. I didn’t know how—I still don’t—but I knew I had to try.

After exposing a scandal at work, I was betrayed again. I lost my job, my home, my best friend. All I had left was Finn. Then, I lost him too.

That was the line in the sand.

I had two choices: let it win, or fight like hell to be the man I still believed I could become. When Finn got sick, I realized how much joy I’d missed by being consumed with my own misery. I’d taken everything good in my life for granted—and that ends now.

So, I’ve decided to walk. To Hike Out of Darkness.

This thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail is more than a journey. It’s a reckoning. I will strip away comfort, carry only what I need, and walk through hell if it means showing others that shedding your burdens—physical and emotional—can save your life. This isn’t about finding peace in the woods. It’s about earning it, one blister, one mile, one brutal, beautiful step at a time.