Hi, My Name is Brian

Names are funny. We spend a lot of time with them—shaping them, sanding them down, trying to make them sound like the kind of person people want to sit next to on a plane. But the truth is, we didn’t choose them. They were assigned, like a dorm room or a diagnosis. And then life happened, and that name got dragged through it all—glorified, soiled, nicknamed, maybe forgotten.

I never really thought about my name as anything more than a label. But a name is a definition. It carries connotation. It shifts, depending on who’s saying it and why. Ask ten different people about who I am and you’ll get ten different answers—especially now, in a world where one person with a loud enough voice can turn your name into something fixed. Something final. Something false.

That’s what happened to me. The government gave me a new name. And I’ve been trying to scrape it off ever since. So, what is in my name? If we’re the sum of all our parts, what are mine?

I’ve never been the best man at a wedding. I’ve been divorced. I’ve lived on both coasts. I’ve been a millionaire and I’ve lost it all. I grew my company into $15,000,000 a year in sales and then ran it into the ground. I have fought the FBI, depression, authority and, most days, myself. I’ve been my own lawyer twice going 2 for 2. I’m a father and a husband. I grew up in a sad, scary household where the demons my father brought back from Vietnam buried themselves in the sheetrock and framing of a house that didn’t know how to love, but desperately wanted to. I’ve been one of the most successful salesman in my field and I’ve ridden a mountain bike in the snow to work while living in my best friend’s basement because I couldn’t afford a car. I’ve made a short film. I was a marine. I’ve been fired more than once. I held my mother’s hand as I watched her whither away and die from cancer during COVID and when she looked up at me through the pain and asked me, “Was I a good mother?” — I froze.

Don’t come to this blog thinking I have answers. I don’t. I’m not even sure I have good questions. I have stories. My children keep telling me that I’m not supposed to put two spaces behind periods anymore and so if that is no longer true; if I can’t count on that one simple thing that was drilled into me as a child, than what is true?

This isn’t an advice column. I’m not a guru. I’m just as lost as everyone else reading blogs or watching videos hoping someone can tell you how to live a better life while the world changes at the blink of an eye daily. My only goal is simple: be vulnerable. Tell the hard stories. The funny, awkward, shame-filled ones that taste like regret, but age like wine. Because we all have stories. And when told right, they remind us we’re not as alone as we think.

I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was in 7th grade, back when I forgot to bring extra underwear to put on after gym class and had to be sent home by Mr. Millhouse because everyone could see my little man through my mom’s homemade white parachute pants. (We couldn’t afford the real ones.) That day, I was exposed in every sense of the word.

That’s what I’m doing here. Again. Laying it all out.

I hope, somewhere in all of this, you start thinking about your name, too—not just the one you were given, but the one you’ve earned. The one that carries the scars and the surprises. The burnt edges and the bold flavors. Every recipe gets altered along the way. Some things you add on purpose, some you don’t. But when taken as a whole, even with the lumps, it’s yours. And I’d bet it’s a hell of a dish. Don’t be afraid to serve it.

I’ll share the deep, dark insecurities I’ve weaponized against myself. The moments I chose self-sabotage over success. The wreckage. The wonder. The parts I’ve never really let anyone see. And yes, I’ll still put two spaces after a period. These new rules can fuck off.

So here it goes.

See you on the other side.