Life has a way of teaching us lessons the hard way, and my story is no exception. Like so many others, I wasn’t taught the realities of money growing up. I knew how to balance a checkbook, but nobody explained interest rates or predatory lending practices. The world handed me credit cards before I truly understood their weight. Mistakes were made—expensive ones. I worked hard to dig myself out, but the system doesn’t make it easy, especially for someone still figuring out the rules.

Marriage felt like a fresh start. I moved across the country with my new wife, ready to build a life together. I buckled down, determined to be responsible and start my family on solid footing. But reality didn’t follow the plan. Predatory loans I thought were a lifeline turned into anchors, pulling me—and even my parents—deeper into debt. My pride stopped me from asking for help when I needed it most, and I’ll carry the weight of how my struggles impacted others, especially my parents, for the rest of my life.

My wife, like many, was swept up in a society that glorifies spending—one that tells us we need to buy, even when we can’t afford it. How can I blame her? We’re taught to measure our worth in things. The world doesn’t encourage saving or building; it pushes us to consume.

After years of financial strain, we lost our home. Bankruptcy and foreclosure forced us to move back in with my parents, bringing along two kids and all the dreams I thought I’d built. Starting over wasn’t just a choice—it was survival. Slowly, we found our footing. My wife and I both got jobs, and we rented a house in my hometown. For a moment, it felt like we might finally breathe.

Then came the flood. My shop—the small space I’d carved out in the basement of our rental to build guitars and work with tools—was damaged by one spring storm. Water poured in and ruined countless tools and materials. The house wasn’t in a flood zone, so insurance wouldn’t cover the damage. To make matters worse, our landlord—a used car salesman in every sense of the word—shrugged it off, knowing full well this had happened before. I fought tooth and nail just to get my security deposit back. We packed up and moved on.

Then came the divorce. A heated, painful process where neither of us had much to lose but the things that mattered most—our children. My parents, ever supportive, offered to pay my legal fees, but I couldn’t let them shoulder that burden. This was my fight, not theirs. I took over after the retainer and faced it head-on, knowing the road would be long and hard.

Post-divorce, I moved back in with my parents, splitting my time with the kids. I lived in a closet while making sure they each had their own space. For two years, I worked and saved, driven by one singular goal: to buy a home. Not just any home, but a forever home for my kids—a place that would represent stability, something I felt I’d never truly had myself.

And I made it.

There have been countless moments in my life where the system seemed rigged against me. Times when I was hit so hard it felt like I couldn’t get up. But I did. Again and again, I got up. And I know I’m not alone. I know there are countless others out there who’ve been kicked, preyed upon, and left wondering how many punches they can take before they can’t get back up.

This isn’t just my story. It’s the story of millions of Americans. People who keep fighting, who keep hoping, who believe that somewhere, somehow, this system can work for them instead of against them.

My experiences have taught me resilience, but they’ve also taught me something more important: the system isn’t broken for lack of effort. It’s broken by design. And that’s what needs to change. It shouldn’t take bankruptcy, foreclosure, and years of living in closets to provide your family with a forever home. It shouldn’t take 30 years of gut punches to get to a place of stability.

I’m not just telling this story because it’s mine. I’m telling it because it’s ours.