You've done so much of your inner work, yet something big still remains in the way. You've attended the workshops, sat in ceremonies, and healed enough patterns to become a father, a husband, a leader in your community, successful in your craft.

Yet the Big Thing lurks in the shadows, quietly demanding your attention. You've tried everything—denying its existence, distracting yourself with work, numbing it with technology, substances, or sex. You've even tried talking about it intellectually, only to watch it grow more intimidating.

Despite searching for the right container, you've never found a group of men you trusted would truly stand in the fire with you—who wouldn't flinch away when things got messy, who wouldn't try to fix you or rush you through the process.

Now you're stepping into your life in a deeper, more meaningful way. You can't help it—your life is calling. But the Thing is still there, still asking.

Some part of you has considered simply living with the consequences of never dealing with it. But you know better. You've seen where that path leads.

And here you are, wondering if or when it will bring everything crashing down, again.

I get it, because I've been there.

That Thing that haunts you haunted me too. It showed up in the moments when I was least present with myself—in conflict with my wife: as she cried in the other room needing my support, I numbed out to ignore her pain; when I got a promotion, I sabotaged the best work situation I'd ever had.

It was the voice that said, burn it all down. You don't deserve any of this. You're a piece of shit. You'll never belong, and you'll never be enough.

I did what many men do: I considered suicide. I considered becoming a hermit in the Yukon. Anything to save the world from having to deal with me.

After years of devoted suffering, I began to read the books. I attended the workshops. I sat in ceremony. I gathered insights and understanding. But understanding wasn't enough. The patterns of self-hatred lived in my body, deeper than words could reach.

What changed everything for me was finding a container of men that I trusted enough to hold my darkness and shame without turning away, no matter how big or expressive it became. A container where I could lean into, instead of away from, the most uncomfortable parts of myself. Where I could learn to expand at my edge, instead of contract.

I practiced vulnerability in the men’s circles. I feared that I would never come back during deep psychedelic ceremonies. I sat and breathed for a long time with the pain and the fear, just letting them be there.

No matter what came up, I was invited—not pushed, coerced, or convinced—to follow the path that felt most right for me. My body knew what it needed to do to resolve the suffering—but first it needed to trust that it was safe.

I ended up choosing to walk through the fire of my shame and fear and anger and not-enoughness—because I was curious to see what survived.

Ultimately, there weren't any fireworks. Nothing needed to die. Instead, I learned to stay present with myself—especially in the moments when everything in me wanted to run, shut down, or control.

This capacity wasn't something I was born with. It was something I built—through dedicated practice, through brotherhood, through integration work that helped to bridge new experiences of insight, connection, love, compassion, clarity—into my daily life and relationships.

This capacity fundamentally shifted all of my relationships in a positive way, from how I show up with my son in really difficult moments, to how I show up with my wife in intimacy. My businesses began to thrive as I started to really give of my self to them, rather than give up myself to them.

Now I guide men through this same journey—Into the Fire.

And through it. There's a saying that goes, everything you've ever needed is all inside you already. There's truth in that, but it misses something crucial: the wounds that form in relationship can only fully heal in relationship.

This is one of the great lies told to men—that our deepest work must be done alone. That reaching for support somehow diminishes us. That true strength means carrying burdens in silence.

Look at any man who's truly transformed, and you'll find the same truth: he didn't do it alone. He found others who could witness his darkness without turning away. Who could hold space for his rage, his grief, his terror—not to fix it, but to allow it to move through him, and out.

Humans evolved in tribes, not in isolation. Our nervous systems literally require co-regulation to function optimally. The idea that a man should process decades of pain by himself isn't just ineffective—it's fundamentally at odds with how we're designed.

Success in business, in family, in community—all require connection. Why would healing be any different?

But there's a critical element missing from most men's work: self-agency. Choicefulness—especially for those who have experienced trauma.

If you’ve been to any number of men’s rites of passage workshops, men’s convergences, or other immersive men’s gatherings, they have one thing in common: they know what’s best for you. Be more vulnerable. Have a big, cathartic experience. Bypass that which got you stuck where you’re at, and focus on the “positive.”

What Into the Fire does differently is to hold a wider space. It’s not just that All of You Is Welcome Here—it’s that your resistance, criticism, skepticism, your shadow, your not-enoughness, your shame and fear and even your too-muchness is all welcome, invited. You don’t have to do anything here.

You can take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere.

So, yes, the container matters, and so does your sovereignty within it. True transformation isn't about surrendering your will to a culture, a psychedelic, or a guru. It's about reclaiming your power to choose—moment by moment, breath by breath.

Most men oscillate between forcing outcomes and abdicating responsibility. Between isolation and blind following.

The path I'm describing is different. It's about standing in your own authority while remaining open to support. About choosing your way forward rather than having it chosen for you. About knowing when to lean into the group and when to trust your own inner compass.

This is why every element of Into the Fire is an invitation, not a prescription. Every practice, every ceremony, every conversation is an opportunity for you to exercise choice. To strengthen that muscle of discernment that knows what's right for you. To practice saying yes when it's authentic and no when that is authentic.

Men who've developed this kind of self-agency are exceedingly rare. They stand for what matters even when no one else will. They remain present with what's uncomfortable without controlling or abandoning it. They choose from clarity rather than fear.

This kind of sovereignty isn't about independence from others. It's about interdependence—knowing that the strongest men aren't lone wolves but pack leaders who understand both their unique purpose and their fundamental connection to the whole.