Present Path

I moved to Reno, Nevada in May 2019.
I didn’t come searching for a home. I came because I needed a job.

But the moment my plane touched down—the dry air, the open sky, the Sierra silhouette at the edge of the runway—something in me settled. When I drove west on I-80, snowbanks towering twenty feet high, Jeffrey pines crowding the road like guardians, a thought landed with absolute clarity:

I’m home.

Not someday.
Not metaphorically.
Immediately. Instinctively. Cellularly—home.

I had spent years drifting between countries and states, between careers, between identities.

Grandson. Son. Brother. Nephew. Cousin. Father. Grandfather.

The tireless boy roaming back roads and woodlands in Southern Illinois.
The young man who went from cornfields and corner bars to a sailor exploring the world, trying to understand what was out there.
The young father who pivoted his life just as it was taking off—making it the cornerstone of everything that followed.
The public servant who spent his adult life in service to family, community, and country.

The collapse.
The Midwest basement.
The coding detour.
The CPA grind.
Crypto’s rise and crash.
Love found and lost.
Work gained and lost.
Years of motion without arrival.

But that first night in Truckee, looking out at endless pines buried in snow, holding a glass of fresh Lake Tahoe water, something ancient and wordless clicked into place. For the first time in my adult life, the ground beneath me didn’t feel temporary.

When the job offer came, I didn’t hesitate. I packed a sleeping bag, loaded my car with clothes and gear, and drove west toward a life I didn’t yet understand but already trusted.

The High Sierra summoned me.
And I answered the call.

Years of mountains and silence. Long walks along Lake Tahoe and the Truckee River. Fly-fishing under evening light that pulled my childhood back into me like breath returning to lungs. Motorcycle rides across desert plains. Friends who became family. Heartbreak that deepened my capacity. Therapy sessions on my porch during the darkest days. A house that became a sanctuary—and then a forge. Projects built six feet from where I write this book. Ideas that grew into XPDSHN. A vision for a city I didn’t know I would one day try to serve.

Reno is where I stopped running.
Where I became the man I had been circling for decades.

Where everything I’m building—every system, every idea, every mission—took root.

It wasn’t a relocation.
It was a return to myself.

Where is your life already telling you, “You’re home”—and what would change if you trusted it?