Dear Mother,

While I was serving 10½ years in prison, my mother was serving a sentence no judge ever gave her. She was home waiting for calls, worrying about what could happen to me, crying when no one was around, and still trying to be strong for everyone else. Holidays were a burden and a reminder of everything she had missed out on. Time was a curse, robbing her of precious moments she will never get back.

I did not understand how much she was carrying until I came home. That is when I realized my sentence had reached far beyond the prison walls. I was doing time inside, but my mother had spent years living with fear on the outside.
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I cannot change your son or daughter’s sentence. I cannot make the phone ring. And I cannot control what happens behind those walls.
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But I found something my mother was never taught: feeling more steady does not mean you stopped worrying about your child, gave up on them, or loved them any less.

No one had shown my mother how to carry the pain without letting it carry her.

And when I finally learned that there was another way, it changed everything I thought I knew about “staying strong.”

For a long time, I thought feeling better started with getting control of your thoughts. Stop worrying. Think positive. Tell yourself everything will be okay. Push through. Then I came home on parole and watched my mother try to do exactly that.

She could tell herself to be strong and still lie awake worried about me. She could know there was nothing she could do at that moment and still feel the weight of it.
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That made me question something I had never questioned before:

What if she wasn’t doing anything wrong? What if trying to change her thoughts was not where she needed to start? That question led me somewhere I never expected.

When I started paying closer attention to my mother, I noticed something I had missed for years.

Sometimes the worry made her restless. Her body looked tense. She could not seem to settle down. Other times, she looked completely worn down. Quiet. Heavy. Like she had nothing left to give. That is when something clicked for me.

If telling yourself to calm down is not enough, then the first question cannot be, “What should I think?”

Because my mother could feel worked up one moment and completely drained another.

Yet she was still trying to get through both by doing the same thing. Those moments looked different because they were different. And once I saw that, I started looking at the hard moments’ families go through in a completely different way.

Here are three moments you know very well...

THE NIGHT WHEN SILENCE TURNS INTO FEAR

One of the first things I began to see differently was silence.

I used to think a quiet house should help someone calm down. But after coming home, I saw that quiet did not bring my mother peace. Instead, it created space to worry more than ever since uncertainty could not be foretold.

You may know that kind of night. The prison call has not come. You check the phone again. Then again. You replay the last conversation, and you wonder if your son or daughter is safe. You pray. You try to stay busy. You tell yourself, “Stop thinking the worst!” But while your attention is on the phone and everything that could be happening behind those walls, changes are happening inside you without you noticing them.

Your breathing gets shorter. Your muscles tighten. Your heart beats faster.

By the time the frightening thoughts start piling up, part of what is making the night so hard is already happening, and it starts in your body, not in your thoughts.

That helped me understand why simply telling yourself to stop worrying can feel useless.

And it raised a much bigger question: What if there was a way to work with what is happening inside you while the fear is happening, instead of waiting for your thoughts to calm themselves down?
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​I found an answer. But before I get to it, you need to see why silence is only one kind of hard moment. Because sometimes the phone finally rings... and what you hear on the other end changes everything.

THE CALL COMES, AND SOMETHING DOESN’T SOUND RIGHT

This happens while you can hear your son or daughter on the phone, but instead of feeling better, something in your son or daughter’s voice makes your heart drop.
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​Maybe they sound scared. Rushed. Angry. Or they keep telling you, “I’m okay,” but something about the way they say it does not feel okay.

Now you are listening to every word. Asking more questions. Trying to figure out what happened and what you need to do. And at the same time, your heart is pounding, your chest is tight, and it is getting harder to think clearly.

This was not a moment where a mother simply needs better thoughts.

She needs to be able to think while fear is already hitting her and settle the changes happening in her body first. The beating heart and the change in her breathing are a challenge just as much as trying to get a hold of her thoughts. Depending on when you get the call, you may not have time to go somewhere quiet. You may be at work. Standing in a store. Sitting in your car. And you may not want anyone around you to know what's happening.

That left me with another question: What if there was something you could do right now without explaining your situation to anyone, something that can help you get enough control of yourself to deal with what was happening?
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​I found that there was. Before I get to that, let’s look at one more moment that can hurt in a completely different way... The moment you finally get to see your son or daughter and then have to walk away and leave them behind.

YOU HAVE TO LEAVE THEM AFTER VISITATION

I listened to mothers describe this kind of pain. One mother said, "Even after years of doing this, there are still times she leaves a visit, gets to the car, and just sits there crying."

That says a lot! Because this moment did not sound like the fear of waiting for a call or hearing bad news. The visit is over. You saw your son or daughter, but now you have to walk away while they are left behind.

You may cry in the car. Go quiet. Feel blank. Feel heavy. Or go home and avoid people because you simply do not have much left in you.  

To me, breathing was just something I could use when prison got too loud inside my head. I had no idea there were people who had spent most of their lives studying it, teaching it, and carrying old breathing practices into the modern world.

Years after I came home, I was on Facebook when an ad stopped me. I never heard of the man in it, so his name meant nothing to me. What caught me was his story. Dan Brule had spent more than 50 years studying the breath, learning from teachers around the world, and had worked with people like Tony Robbins, elite athletes, and others who depended on being able to stay steady under pressure.

I became his student because I wanted to know what he knew. And as I went deeper, I started seeing the breathing techniques I used in prison in a completely different way. Some of what I was learning had roots in ancient breathing practices that had been carried from teacher to student long before either one of us were born. Later, another teacher opened the door even wider through what had been handed down through Shaolin Kung Fu.

What pulled me in even more was seeing where some of those old ideas had ended up. They were not only being practiced by monks or people sitting quietly in meditation. Pieces of this same knowledge found their way into the lives of Navy SEALs, first responders, and people trained to keep functioning when pressure was already happening around them.

I remember thinking about those nights in prison when I used my breath to settle down and not knowing any of this. Something that had survived through generations of teachers had somehow reached me behind a prison wall when I needed it. I have been using pieces of an ancient art without even knowing what I found.

And the more I learned, the more my thoughts kept turning toward my mother.

Here I was finally understanding something that had helped me inside while thinking about all those years she had spent outside trying to hold herself together. That was when this stopped being something I was studying just for myself. I started wondering what her life might have felt like if someone had taken all this knowledge and made it simple enough for her to use while waiting in fear and pain.

I could not go back and give that to her then, but I can feel there is something more that can come from this. It was a call from within myself, and it was saying that I need to be the one to do something about this. I dealt with self-doubt, anxiety, and many restless nights wondering how I can serve the people I was called to serve. Was I good enough? Will they trust me? What if I let them down after I start?

I pushed through it all and took what helped me survive prison, what was handed down through ancient breathing traditions, what I learned from people who spent decades mastering the breath, what had already been used by people facing enormous pressure, and what my own mother’s struggle taught me about the pain families carry outside those walls.

Then I put those pieces together around one person. My mother, whom I wish, knew how to find help years earlier.

I wouldn’t want her to search through years of books, teachers, practices, and trial and error the way I did. I want what took me years to find to become something mothers can use in their own lives, while the prison challenge is still real.​

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And that creates a choice most mothers are never told they are allowed to make. You can learn this ancient art and use it to feel more steady, even while your son or daughter is still behind those walls. You do not have to wait until they come home before you allow yourself to sleep better, laugh again, enjoy a meal, or have a day where prison is not sitting in the middle of everything you do.

​And that creates a choice most mothers are never told they are allowed to make. You can learn this ancient art and use it to feel more steady even while your son or daughter is still behind those walls. You do not have to wait until they come home before you allow yourself to sleep better, laugh again, enjoy a meal, or have a day where prison is not sitting in the middle of everything you do.

A part of you can hear that and think, “How can I let myself feel okay when my child is not okay?” That thought can make suffering feel like a part of being a good mother, as if letting go of even a little pain means letting go of your child too.

But that is not the choice I am offering you. I am not asking you to care less. I am giving you a chance to learn how to carry the love you have for your son or daughter without believing you must carry every ounce of suffering with it.

For years, this was knowledge I had to search for. I had to find the teachers, study the practices, test what I was learning, and keep following the trail until I could finally make sense of it. You do not have to take that same journey. The search has already been done. What I found is already pieced together, and a clear path has already been mapped out for you to follow.

And what I wish someone could have placed in my mother’s hands years ago is now being made available to you for a limited time.

Click the button below and take the next step.

When I pictured putting this into another mother’s hands, I knew it had to fit the life she was already living. She shouldn’t have to drive somewhere, make an appointment, sit in a waiting room, or tell a stranger everything she was going through just to begin.

I want her to be able to get help from the privacy and comfort of her own home, or wherever she may be.

So, when the house gets quiet, when she finally has a few minutes to herself, or when she simply needs space to deal with what she is carrying alone, it will be right there waiting for her.

When the fear gets too high, you can learn how to bring yourself back down. When the pain leaves you empty, you can learn how to bring yourself back up. And when everything about the prison reminds you how little control you have, you can finally have something that is still yours.

And it does not end there. Because feeling more steady in the moment means you can think more clearly when something happens, let the house get quiet without giving the whole night to worry, and with practice, make it easier to find your way back to yourself the next time life hits hard again.

But making something easy to reach would mean very little if I made it difficult to use.

I know what it’s like to spend years trying to understand something that nobody made simple for me. The last thing another mother needs is more work added to everything she’s already doing. So, I took what I learned and began breaking it down into six separate pieces, each one helping you with something different, but all working toward your transformation. Instead of leaving you to search through different places to find them, I designed something else to bring it all together.

My Reset App.
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You will be in a place where I could guide you through what I put together, without overwhelming you with guesswork.

But here is what makes this different from what you may be expecting.

My RESET App is where I bring everything together, but your breath is what you take with you when you close the screen.

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