WHEN AMBITION IS JUST ADDICTION IN DISGUISE

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There’s a moment from my life I keep coming back to because, looking back now, it

explains more than I ever understood at the time.

Back then, I would have called it confidence.

Drive.

Hunger.

Ambition.

Maybe even discipline.

But underneath all of that, something else was already forming. Something I could not

name yet. Something that would follow me for years.

In Chapter 1 of After the Trident, I tell the story of climbing a water tower in a small

Northern California town while I was training to become a Navy SEAL. At the time, I

thought that story was about toughness. Pushing limits. Becoming the kind of man who

could do hard things.

Now I see it differently.

That water tower was one of the first clear signs that I did not know how to stop.

And if you have ever chased achievement, adrenaline, success, attention, substances,

relationships, or just anything that made you feel more alive for a minute, hoping the next

thing would finally be enough, then you may understand that story more than you want to

admit.

In the spring of 1996, I was twenty-three years old and obsessed with becoming a Navy

SEAL.

I was living in Yreka, California, a little town where everybody seemed to know everybody

else’s business. I was enlisted in the Navy’s Delayed Entry Program, which gave me six

months to get myself ready before shipping out. My goal was BUD/S, Basic Underwater

Demolition/SEAL training, and I had the official warning order in my hands like it was

scripture.

Run here.

Swim there.

Eat clean.

Do not screw it up.

Simple.

I was also working as a medic on the town ambulance, so people saw me training all the

time. I ran through the streets. I did pull-ups on traffic signs. Neighbors honked when they

passed. People waved. I probably looked like a focused young man chasing a dream.

And to be fair, part of me was.

But there was another part of me that nobody could see yet. Not even me.

I always needed more.

More challenge.

More intensity.

More adrenaline.

More feeling.

That hunger would eventually give me accomplishments and stories most people would not

believe. It would also bring me shame, addiction, humiliation, and pain.

At twenty-three, though, I did not have language for any of that.

All I knew was that normal never felt like enough.

One afternoon, after a brutal training run, I hit the steep hill leading up to my apartment.

Instead of slowing down, I sprinted it. Hard. Like something was chasing me.

Maybe something was.

At the top, I could have gone inside like a normal person. Taken a shower. Eaten something.

Called it a day.

Instead, I noticed a dirt road that kept climbing up the mountain behind the complex.

So I kept going.

That instinct right there—to take a finished thing and push it one step further than it

needed to go—has been one of the great threads of my life.

When I got to the top of that dirt road, I found the water tower sitting above the valley like

a crown.

The ladders were locked behind steel cages. You were not supposed to climb it.

That did not matter to me.

I was fired up. My lungs were burning. My heart was pounding. I felt unstoppable. So I

found a way around the cage and climbed the side of that tower like a lizard with a mission.

When I reached the top, the view hit me like a drug.

The whole town stretched out beneath me. The valley opened wide. The light was starting

to soften. My chest was still heaving from the run, and adrenaline was pouring through me.

For a minute, I felt like a king looking out over his kingdom.

And here is the part that matters most:

Even that was not enough.

That is what addiction and compulsive behavior do. They move the line.

The hill was not enough.

The tower was not enough.

The view was not enough.

The feeling came, and as soon as it came, I wanted more of it.

So I climbed back down, went to my apartment, dragged my six-foot couch out the front

door, hoisted it onto my shoulders, and carried it back up the mountain.

Then I tied a rope to it and hauled that beast to the top of the water tower, hand over hand,

until it was sitting up there with me.

Most people would stop there.

I did not.

I went back down again and grabbed my brother-in-law’s barbecue grill off the deck. It was

heavy as hell and nearly broke my back, but I muscled it up the mountain too. Then I hauled

it up with the rope and set it beside the couch.

Then I went back for a steak.

Then a cold Corona.

Then I climbed back up, lit the grill, dropped onto the couch, and sat there watching the

sun bleed down over the valley.

Looking back now, the whole thing sounds ridiculous.

It was ridiculous.

But that is the thing about compulsive behavior. When you are inside it, it rarely feels

ridiculous. It feels exciting. Justified. Alive.

That is what makes it so dangerous.

For a few minutes, I thought I had made the best decision of my life.

I was twenty-three years old, sitting on top of a water tower, on top of a mountain, grilling

a steak, drinking a beer, and staring out over the town.

I was about to become a Navy SEAL.

I felt strong.

Untouchable.

On top of the world.

Then I heard the megaphone.

“You on the water tower!”

I looked over the edge and saw flashing lights everywhere. Police. Sheriff’s deputies. Utility

trucks. Even the power company.

Turns out, I had been setting off pressure sensors on the tower all day long. The alarms had

triggered a full-blown emergency response.

By the time I climbed down, they were waiting.

Handcuffs.

Patrol car.

Felony charge.

And then came the part that still plays like a movie in my head.

I sat in the back of that cruiser and watched a rookie shove everything off the top of the

tower.

The couch.

The grill.

The steak.

The beer.

My entire future, or at least what felt like my entire future, crashing down in front of me.

The charge was felony tampering with a city water supply. The kind of charge that could

have ended my shot at becoming a SEAL before I even started.

I was screwed.

And for the first time, life had shown me, very clearly, what my behavior could cost me.

But I still was not ready to change.

That is the part people do not always understand.

A consequence can scare you without waking you up.

You can almost lose everything and still not understand what is driving you.

Today, I can look back on that day with fifteen years of recovery behind me and a career in

mental health, counseling, and clinical studies.

Now I have language for what was happening.

Back then, I did not.

From the outside, it looked like drive. It looked like I was just a hard-charging young man

with a big goal and no fear.

But underneath it, I was not only chasing the goal.

I was chasing the feeling.

That is a completely different thing.

Because when you are chasing a goal, there is at least some chance you will stop when you

reach it.

When you are chasing a feeling, the finish line keeps moving.

The run is not enough.

The hill is not enough.

The tower is not enough.

The top is not enough.

You keep adding more. One more risk. One more high. One more hit. One more win. One

more thing to make the feeling last.

That pattern became one of my greatest strengths and one of my greatest downfalls.

The same intensity that helped me survive brutal environments also helped destroy parts

of my life.

The same hunger that drove me to accomplish things also drove me into addiction.

Sometimes strength and self-destruction wear the same uniform.

You may not have climbed a water tower with a couch, a grill, a steak, and a beer.

I hope you have not.

But you may know what it feels like to keep needing more.

Maybe your water tower is work.

Maybe it is money.

Maybe it is success, fitness, attention, relationships, alcohol, sex, control, productivity, or

your phone.

Maybe you are the person who cannot relax without feeling guilty.

Maybe you keep moving because slowing down means you might have to feel something

you have been outrunning for years.

Maybe one win feels good for about five minutes before you start needing the next one.

If that is you, I want to say this clearly:

You are not crazy.

You are not weak.

And you are not alone.

In Chapter 1 of After the Trident, I wrote, “The hill wasn’t enough. The tower wasn’t enough.

Even the top wasn’t enough. So I pushed further. Not because I had to… because I didn’t

know how to stop.”

That line took me a long time to understand.

Because the real problem was not the hill.

It was not the tower.

It was not even the stupid decision to haul furniture and a barbecue up there.

The real problem was that stillness felt impossible.

When intensity becomes your identity, peace can feel like a threat.

A few days later, I walked into court terrified that my dream was over.

I had a suit on. I had a lawyer. I had a stack of letters from neighbors and coworkers who

had seen me training and were willing to vouch for me.

My mother sat in the front row crying.

Then my brother came in wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles. He had been arrested

for breaking into the sheriff’s armory and stealing ammunition.

So there we were.

Two brothers.

Same courtroom.

One in cuffs.

One in a tie.

Both in trouble.

We both knew whoever got called second was probably screwed.

Thankfully, I went first.

The judge read the charges, looked through the letters, and asked if I had anything to say. I

stood there nervous as hell and told him the truth, or at least as much truth as I

understood at the time.

I had made a dumb mistake.

I was training to become a SEAL.

If the felony charge stuck, that dream was gone.

I asked him for mercy.

He reduced the charge to trespassing, a misdemeanor, as long as I joined the Navy.

I nearly collapsed with relief.

My dream was still alive.

At the time, I thought I had gotten lucky.

Now I see it as grace.

But grace only changes you if you learn from it.

And I did not learn from it yet.

That warning shot should have stopped me.

It did not.

It would take another decade, a lot more damage, and a lot more falling before I finally

understood what I was really fighting.

One of the first steps toward change is learning how to pause long enough to tell the truth

about what is driving you.

Here is something simple you can try today.

Step 1: Name Your “More” (1 Minute)

Write down one thing in your life that never seems to feel like enough.

Maybe it is achievement. Validation. Productivity. Food. Alcohol. Attention. Fitness. Control.

Relationships. Your phone.

Do not dress it up. Just name it.

Step 2: Ask What It Gives You Emotionally (2 Minutes)

Now ask yourself:

What does this give me emotionally?

Not practically.

Emotionally.

Does it make you feel powerful? Wanted? Safe? Distracted? Important? Numb? Alive?

That answer matters.

Step 3: Watch the Crash Without Judging It (1 Minute)

Think about what happens after the high wears off.

Do you feel restless?

Empty?

Ashamed?

Do you immediately start looking for the next thing?

Do not use this as a reason to beat yourself up. Just notice the pattern.

Awareness is not the whole answer, but it is where the answer starts.

Step 4: Interrupt the Pattern Once Today (1 Minute)

Pick one small moment today where you can pause before reacting.

One breath before opening the app.

One walk instead of another drink.

One honest text instead of disappearing.

One moment of stillness before chasing the next thing.

Small interruptions create space.

Space creates choice.

And choice is where change starts.

For most of my life, I thought strength meant handling everything myself.

As a SEAL, that belief only got reinforced.

Push through.

Endure.

Stay hard.

Keep moving.

Do not need anything.

Do not ask for anything.

But recovery taught me a different kind of strength.

The kind that begins when you finally tell the truth.

The truth about your compulsions.

The truth about your pain.

The truth about the damage.

The truth about the fact that more is not going to fix what is broken underneath.

That kind of honesty is not weakness.

It is the doorway out.

I often say, even heroes need heroes. I mean that with everything in me.

Healing did not start because I became tougher.

It started because I finally became honest enough to ask for help.

That honesty led me into recovery. It led me into education. It led me into mental health

work. It led me into rebuilding a life I had done a pretty good job of wrecking.

Here is what I believe now.

Pushing harder is not always the same thing as getting better.

Intensity can become addictive, even when it looks impressive from the outside.

Most compulsive behavior is not really about the thing itself. It is about the feeling the

thing gives you.

A second chance is a gift, but eventually you have to decide what you are going to do with

it.

And no matter how far you have gone, you are not beyond repair.

I do not care how many times you have crashed.

I do not care how many bridges you have burned.

I do not care how badly you have lost your way.

There is still a path back.

That is why I wrote After the Trident.

Because if someone like me could finally stop running long enough to face himself, maybe

you can too.

And if you are struggling right now, please hear me:

You do not have to do it alone.

Even heroes need heroes.