Let me be painfully honest with you. This part flat-out sucks to write.
Living through it was bad enough. Reliving it and reflecting on it was the only path to healing. After years of gut-wrenching reflection, I've finally faced the astronomical cost of drift, what it did to me, and what it did to my family.
There's a big difference between casually discussing "drift" over case files and evidence one day, and waking up as a former detective, former Officer of the Year, sitting in an interrogation room with cold metal handcuffs biting into your wrists, headed for a jail cell, wondering how your life imploded so spectacularly, thinking about your kids trying to explain to their friends why dad's mugshot is trending.
Four O'Clock in the Afternoon
This isn't some hyperbolic exaggeration. That was four o'clock in the afternoon, Thursday, August 25, 2022. Reality.
That day marked both the death of my life and, weirdly enough, its birth. Not a reset, a completely new existence. One that actually means something.
The real cost of drift isn't measured in minor inconveniences but in absolute destruction. It's not tallied by what you gain, but by what gets ripped away: relationships, integrity, freedom, potential, purpose. The bill arrives all at once, and holy cow, the compound interest will flatten you.
How Did I Get Here?
Officer of the Year in 2018. Chief's Special Investigator Award in 2019. Decorated. Respected. Moving up.
On paper, I was crushing it.
Inside? I was dying.
PTSD from the job. Alcoholism that started as stress relief and became daily necessity. Stimulant drug use that I told myself was helping me perform better. I was successful by every external measure and completely empty on the inside.
I quit drinking in 2019 after years of denial and dishonesty. But I was still using stimulants, still lying to myself that I had it under control.
The truth? I had lost my sense of purpose. I had lost my identity.
The Accusations
I was accused of stealing evidence. I was innocent of those charges.
But here's the brutal truth that still haunts me: My drift had caused me to live my life in such a way that it was reasonable for those around me to believe it was possible that I did.
Let that sink in.
Not "Did they make a mistake?" They didn't.
Not "Were they wrong to suspect me?" They weren't.
My drift—my unmanaged stress, my substance abuse, my daily compromises, my slow surrender of values—had created a version of me that made the accusation plausible.
That realization was worse than the handcuffs.
The Outrage Phase
At first, I was furious.
How could they do this to me? Don't they know who I am? Don't they know what I've done for this department?
Officer of the Year. Decorated. Awards on the wall. Years of service.
I had earned respect. I had earned trust. I had earned the benefit of the doubt.
Hadn't I?
The outrage felt righteous. It felt justified. It felt like the only sane response to an insane situation.
I wore my indignation like armor.
Then Came the Shame
But outrage is exhausting. And eventually, when the adrenaline fades and the noise quiets down, you're left alone with the truth.
And the truth was this:
The drug abuse wasn't a secret. The unmanaged stress wasn't hidden. The drift wasn't subtle.
I had been telling myself "I'm fine" for years. But everyone around me could see I wasn't.
We cannot selectively numb emotions. When we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.
Brené Brown
Drift is emotional Novocain, making us increasingly numb to both life's warning sirens and its wonders.
I had been numbing myself with alcohol, then stimulants, then denial. And in doing so, I had numbed myself to everything that mattered.
My wife. My two young sons. My purpose. My integrity.
All of it, buried under layers of "I'm fine."
The Walls I Built
"I'm fine" became the two most destructive words in my vocabulary. The walls of my eventual confinement were constructed long before the day I got arrested. I built the walls meticulously, brick by brick, until I stood completely isolated with problems far too massive for any single person to solve alone.
Years before my arrest, I had pulled a floating 3-year-old boy from a family swimming pool. After desperately performing CPR, he sputtered and coughed chlorinated water directly into my eyeballs. He had barely regained consciousness when the ambulance screamed into the driveway.
Did the boy survive? No idea. I never even learned his name. What was likely the most traumatic, life-altering day for this family was just another 20-minute segment of my shift.
My own son, Lucas, was exactly the same age. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I couldn't stop the horrifying images endlessly replaying in my mind.
What if that was my child?
But in law enforcement culture, you handled your own emotional wreckage. You stayed outwardly strong. You never showed vulnerability.
You said "I'm fine."
The Insidious Nature of Drift
The insidious nature of drift makes it nearly invisible until the damage is catastrophic. Just like that frog in warming water, I adjusted to each degree of separation from my values, my purpose, my authentic self, until suddenly I found myself in a hellscape I never would have consciously chosen.
Jim Rohn's warning haunts me daily.
The pain of discipline weighs ounces; the pain of regret weighs tons.
Jim Rohn
I'm now carrying that tonnage. The crushing weight of knowing exactly where the path split, precisely which tiny surrenders snowballed into total annihilation.
The Collateral Damage
The most brutal realization? It's not what happened to me, but what happened through me, the collateral damage to everyone who trusted me, believed in me, counted on me. Those aftershocks continue long after the initial earthquake.
Leadership is not about being in charge. Leadership is about taking care of those in your charge.
Simon Sinek
My drift wasn't just personal failure; it was leadership desertion, with flesh-and-blood consequences for real people.
My wife, my two young sons, even my dog Midge got caught in the blast radius. Nobody who mattered to me escaped unscathed.
These losses aren't sentimental reflections—they're gaping holes in reality. Empty chairs at barely-used dinner tables. Trust that no apology can rebuild. Opportunities vanished forever. Time that's gone for good.
Life never offers do-overs, only do-betters.
The Turning Point
Charges were filed in February 2023. A year of waiting, wondering if my life was over. Then, in February 2024, a last-minute miracle plea deal.
A plea deal that would not only avoid prison, but leave me with a clean record... assuming I did the hard work required.
But the real miracle happened the day I was arrested.
I quit using that day. Cold turkey. No more denial. I had come face to face with the brutal truth: substance abuse had cost me EVERYTHING.
The court-ordered treatment helped maintain sobriety, but I had already achieved it the hard way.
Rock bottom has a way of knocking sense into you when nothing else can.
What I Know Now
I'm a single father of two amazing boys. My relationship with them isn't just restored—it's rebuilt from the rubble and ashes. Stronger than before because it's built on truth this time.
I've been sober since August 25, 2022.
I live in the Reno/Sparks area of Northern Nevada. My mornings start early: get the kids to school, meaningful biblical reading, personal development reflection and planning.
I run a web design business in addition to coaching, speaking, writing, and ghostwriting. I work out daily—even if it's just a walk. Movement matters.
I'm currently enrolled in the Kingdom Builders Academy Dual Degree Program, pursuing my Bachelor's and Master's degrees in Ministry and Business, along with a credentialed coaching certification.
But more importantly?
I know my purpose now. And I know what drift costs.
If You're Drifting
Maybe you're reading this and thinking, "That's not me. I don't have a substance abuse problem. I'm not facing arrest. I'm doing fine."
That's what I thought too.
Drift doesn't announce itself. It doesn't send a calendar invite that says "Hey, your life is falling apart!"
It shows up in the small compromises. The daily defaults. The "just this once" that becomes "just this pattern" that becomes "just who you are now."
It shows up when you're succeeding on paper but dying inside.
It shows up when you can't remember the last time you felt truly alive, truly present, truly you.
This reckoning isn't about wallowing in self-pity but about brutal accounting, tallying the true costs so you might spot the warning signs I ignored. I want you to make the course corrections now that I postponed until it was too late.
This list isn't theoretical. It's autobiographical.
And I'm sharing it not for your sympathy but hoping my shipwreck might serve as your lighthouse.
