Shotgun Rider

I didn’t realize that delivering pizzas as a closer meant actually closing.
Like... staying at the store until 4 a.m.
But I needed the money, so I kept pushing through — even though I was just barely shedding the weight of survival mode.

Life was heavy back then.
But I was trying.
Trying to break old patterns.
Trying to stop the trauma loops.
I was tired, but I was determined.

And not long after I started that job, my wife came into my life.
I didn’t know it yet, but everything was about to shift.

Around that same time, I went back to my old merchandising job. Same company, but with a pay cut. Still, I was grateful to have work.

The funny thing is — the only route available was at the exact same store I worked at when I first moved to Lansing five years earlier.

Life has a weird way of circling back.

Back then, I had made this promise to myself:
Don’t get involved with anyone. Just heal.
Be kind. Stay out of the way.
Do the work. Don’t catch feelings.

And I’m pretty oblivious when people flirt with me anyway, which — looking back — was probably for the best at the time.

But... she noticed me.
My wife.

She worked in fashion, but her job had her walking past the pop aisle all the time — where I usually was. Turns out, she’d called dibs on me to her coworkers not long after I started. But she had anxiety — real, rooted, hard-earned anxiety from fourteen years of trauma.

She couldn’t even bring herself to say hi. It took her two weeks just to find me on Facebook.

And me?
I was spending a lot of time with my little brother, trying to keep to myself, still convinced I wasn’t ready for anything real.

It took me a couple more weeks to finally message her.
I thought maybe she was posting more because I kept liking her stuff.
There was just something about her that felt... familiar. Safe. Unexplainable.

Eventually, I gave in and sent her a message — even though I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to flirt. Wasn’t going to get involved. Not this time.

And here’s the wild part — we both remembered each other from five years earlier. One tiny conversation about how shitty the grocery bags had gotten. That was it.

But back then, it wasn’t our time.
We were both in toxic relationships.
Both lost in our own chaos.
We had healing to do.

But this time?
It was different.
She was different.

She was the piece I didn’t know I had been missing.
The kind of love I had only ever seen in my grandparents — gentle. Playful. Safe.
The kind where arguments are rare, and when they happen, they get resolved without tearing each other apart.

Real partnership.

Something changed in me when she came into my life.
I didn’t want to hurt anyone again — not like I had before.
And hearing what her ex had done to her... it wrecked me.

Not just for her, but because I saw pieces of myself in that man.

Not all of it. Not to that extent.
But enough to make me stop and ask myself hard questions.

The difference was — I wanted to change. I wanted to be better.

And Kendra?
She never made decisions for me.
That was new. That was terrifying.

I had been conditioned by my mom to always ask for permission — to make sure everyone else approved before I made a move. I didn’t know what I wanted. Didn’t know how to choose.

So at first, her love felt... cold.

When I faced big life decisions — like leaving a job — she didn’t tell me what to do. She stayed neutral. Calm. Detached in the best kind of way.

It scared the hell out of me.
And it freed me.

She forced me to listen to myself.
To decide for myself.
And somehow, that started to piece me back together.

I realized I wasn’t making choices. I was reacting.
People-pleasing.
Trying to regulate everyone else’s emotions so I wouldn’t get rejected.

But with her?
I didn’t have to do that.
She gave me space.
Real space.
And love.
Real love.

And I think we both needed that.

Back then, her anxiety was so intense she couldn’t even ride in a car without her sea bands on. She’d drive with them, wear them all day, just to keep her body from turning on her.

But now?

Now she can almost eat a whole bagel while I’m driving.
And that might sound small to some people — but to me? That’s everything.

She’s come so far.
She’s my shotgun rider.
And I’m so damn proud of her.

This brand we’re building — it’s not just mine. It’s ours.

It’s not just about me healing.
It’s about giving her space to express her full creativity, too.

She’s carried a weight I’ll never fully understand.
And she’s still rising.

We’re building something that reflects who we’ve become —
as individuals,
as partners,
as two people who finally found home in each other.