Starting Over: A Letter to the Man I Was in 2017

Construction. Faith. Leadership. Starting Over.

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Hey man.

I know where you are right now. You’re in Houston. You’re running hard — from job sites to happy hours to whatever else numbs the noise. The boys are little. Brock is five. Jack is four. They need you. And you’re there, but you’re not there. You know the difference. You just can’t fix it yet.

I’m writing this from 2026. I’m 49. And I need you to hear some things that nobody is going to tell you — because the people around you right now are either tempting you to continue making bad decisions with them, can’t see it, or are too afraid to say it. The friends you think are friends are destroying you — not by evil intent. They were, and are, good people. They were broken yet successful too, and you bonded over that in one way or another.

Or maybe that’s the story you tell yourself. Maybe it was just you the entire time, projecting your own failures and doubts onto others.

Either way, nobody said it. So I will.

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You’re Not Fine

I know you think you are. You’ve got the job, the truck, the story. You’re proud of being the guy who figured it out — left the house at 17 on your own, without a safety net, without a father who showed you how. Street smart. Self-made. That’s the mask you built, and it’s a good one.

You even put yourself through the University of Florida and came out with an engineering degree — Material Science, after you swore off construction and then failed enough chemistry to realize you should study something you actually enjoyed. Steel. And the irony is, that’s exactly what led you right back to construction. All that work, and you still couldn’t outrun who you were.

But here’s what that therapist told you — the one you’ll find in 2014, after everything falls apart. Your mother dies on New Year’s Eve 2013 — the same year Jack is born. Life gives and takes in the same breath. The next year, on Christmas Day, you’ll lose her mother too — your precious Mere, the other half of the world she shared with Pop, who’d already been gone since you were in the eighth grade. Two Christmases. Two losses. And somewhere in the middle of that grief, a therapist names the feeling you’ve been carrying your whole life. She calls it anxiety.

You almost laugh. Anxiety is for people who can’t hack it. Not you.

And then she says something that scares you more than anything anyone has ever said: “It’s going to have to get much, much worse before it gets better.”

She was right. You’re in the “worse” part now. Bankruptcy is coming in 2016. Houston is coming. In 2017, you’ll lose your job and end up on Rodney’s doorstep in Austin with nothing left. That’s where “better” starts — but you can’t see it from here.

You’ve been under the influence of something — anything — almost continuously since you landed in Dallas in 2009. You were trying to forget. You’d fallen in love with a whole life down in São Paulo — the country, the culture, the food, and one girl you would have stayed behind for if she’d been interested. Instead, the 2008-2009 financial crisis canceled the project you were working on and your whole world crashed around you in an instant. You were left trying to pick up the pieces and figure out what happened, in a town where you knew virtually no one, trying to fit in. Again. Eight years of numbing followed. The substances changed, but the pattern didn’t.

And the worst part isn’t what you’re doing to yourself. It’s what you’re missing with those boys while you do it.

Years from now, you’ll look back and call 2012 to 2017 the worst years of your life. Not the divorce years. These years. Dallas, Wichita Falls, Houston — while your sons were babies and toddlers and needed a father who was fully present. That’s going to haunt you. I won’t lie about that.

But it won’t destroy you. Because something is about to happen.

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The Stillness and The Darkness

Sometime soon — maybe you’ve already done it, or maybe it’s a few months away — you’re going to download an app called Headspace. You’re going to walk into your bedroom, close the door, sit cross-legged in the pitch dark, and try to be still for twenty minutes.

You’re going to feel ridiculous.

And then something is going to happen that you can’t explain. A brightness that overtakes you. A warmth that holds you. A knowing — deep, quiet, certain — that you’re going to be okay. That there might actually be something more out there than all this worthless pleasure you’ve been chasing.

Don’t run from that. For once in your life, chase that feeling. It’s the truest thing you’ve ever felt.

You didn’t grow up believing a loving father existed — because you never experienced one. Pop came closest. He was the first man who made you feel loved, who always knew the right things to say, who made you feel like you mattered. But Pop couldn’t fill the hole your father left. Nobody could. And so you stopped believing that kind of love was real.

What I need you to know is this: you were wrong. Not wrong for feeling it. Wrong about the conclusion. A loving Father does exist. And by the time you trust Him — really trust Him — you’re going to find a peace and a joy you didn’t even realize you’d lost.

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The Surrender

In November 2017, you’re going to reach the end of yourself. I’m not going to tell you exactly how it happens because you need to walk through it. But you’re going to end up on your knees in Rodney McGee’s house.

Yes — Rodney. Your ex-wife’s father. The man whose daughter you’ll eventually divorce. And here’s the part that will wreck you in the best possible way: that man will forgive you. He’ll house you when you have nowhere to go. He’ll walk with you. He’ll lead you to Christ. And nine years later, he’ll baptize you.

Let that sink in. The man you will hurt the most — through his daughter — will become the instrument of your salvation. If that’s not grace, I don’t know what is.

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Starting Over: What Faith and Fatherhood Will Build

I’m not going to spoil everything. You deserve to live it. But here’s the outline, because you need hope right now more than you need details.

You’re going to get sober. Not overnight — it’s a process, and you’ll stumble. But you’ll get there.

You’re going to start sitting in silence every single day. As I write this, you’ll have meditated for over 1,300 consecutive days. More than 64,000 minutes. That dark room in Houston was just the beginning.

You’re going to walk into a church — LifeFamily Church, at 8901 State Hwy 71 on the west side of Austin. A guy named Joseph Hauss is going to lead a men’s Bible study that changes how you think about fatherhood and Jesus. A book called Play the Man is going to give you a framework for raising your boys with intention, not just instinct. And you’ll still be breaking bread with Joseph every Thursday at the Galleria years later — iron sharpening iron over lunch.

You’re going to take Brock down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Three days, two nights, sleeping on the riverbank. You’ll set one rule: “You can ask me any question about my life and my marriage to your Mom.” And he will. And those conversations will be the most important ones you’ve ever had.

You’re going to take Jack to Jackson Hole for his manhood adventure. He’s loved snowboarding ever since your first trip to Steamboat in December 2024 — you both learned together back then. And you’ll teach him the rest: to look a man in the eye, to shake a hand, to lift weights and eat right and fear God and surround himself with strong men. Because iron sharpens iron.

You’re going to marry a woman named Lynette. She’s a Proverbs 31 woman — the real thing. She’ll see through your armor. She’ll be the first person since Pop who makes you believe you’re worth loving exactly as you are. You’ll commit to each other in a way you’ve never committed to anything: “We’re going to stick this one out, no matter what.”

You’ll blend a family — her kids, your kids, four total — and it’ll be harder and more beautiful than anything you’ve imagined.

And on February 22, 2026, you’ll stand in front of everyone who matters — your boys, your wife, your brothers, your ex-wife, the man who baptized you — and you’ll go ALL IN. Publicly. In the water at Lake Hills Church. With your sons beside you.

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What I’d Tell You If I Could Sit Across From You Right Now

You’re loved. It’s not your fault.

Let go and trust in God’s perfect plan.

When you finally learn what it means to abide in Him, it’s better than any drug you’ve ever tried.

Here’s the hard truth: you already married the wrong woman. You got her pregnant because you were blind drunk, using drugs, and making bad decisions all around. I can’t change that for you. And I wouldn’t — because without her, there’s no Brock. Without Brock, there’s no Jack. Without those boys, you never find the willpower to heal and find Christ. But there’s an amazing woman waiting for you on the other side of the fire. You just have to walk through it first.

And stop leading with your worst qualities as a shield. I know you think you’re being honest. I know you think you’re protecting yourself by letting people see the ugly stuff first, so they can’t be disappointed later. But that’s fear, not honesty. Lynette is going to teach you the difference.

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The Voice

That voice in your head — the one that says “You’re not interesting. Nobody cares what you have to say. Who do YOU think you are? Just shut up already” — that voice is a liar. It fed you your first beer before a Friday night football game in high school because you just wanted to connect with someone. It told you that numbing was the same as healing. It told you that you were a burden.

You’re not a burden. You never were.

You’re a man in the middle of becoming. And the hardest things you’ll ever build won’t be on a job site. They’ll be inside you.

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Why I’m Writing This

I’m building something called The Rebuild. It’s a website, a newsletter, a living record of who I am — who you’ll become — so that our children can understand us. Really understand us. Not the highlight reel. Not the résumé version. The real thing, unfiltered.

I’m tearing it all down to the foundation. Back to when I was as young as I can remember, before the yelling started. And I’m building something new. A dynasty for our children — one they’ll be proud to call their own.

I’m also writing this for the man reading it at 2 AM. The one who loves to hunt and fish and build stuff with his hands, but who’s struggling with life. Maybe he’s not connecting with his kids. Maybe he’s drowning in something he can’t name. Maybe a therapist once told him it was going to get worse before it got better, and he’s wondering when “better” starts.

It starts when you stop running.

It starts when you sit in the dark and let the silence find you.

It starts when you reach the end of yourself and discover that Someone was waiting there all along.

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I became everything I hated about others. How ironic. But I’m not that man anymore. And neither are you — not for long.

Sit and search for God. He’s waiting for you to find Him. In the still mornings. In your breath. In that same wind.

You’re not a victim. You’re a survivor. You’re still living. Now go live.

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The hardest things we build are ourselves.

— Matt

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If you’re the man reading this at 2 AM, I see you. Start here. And if you want to talk, I’m not hard to find.

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Some links in this post are affiliate links. If you purchase through them, I earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. I only recommend resources that genuinely impacted my life.