My Story
I didn’t set out to become a coach. Life led me here.
I’m originally from New Orleans. When Hurricane Katrina hit, my entire world was swept away—literally. My family and I evacuated just before the storm, thanks to a dream my grandfather had the night before. That dream saved our lives. We ended up in Austin, Texas, watching on the hotel TV as everything we knew vanished. It was the end of one life—and the beginning of another.
At the time, I was 230 pounds, failing high school, and feeling pretty lost. But that year, something shifted. My uncle—someone I deeply looked up to—helped me start eating differently. That year, I learned discipline in a way I hadn’t understood before. I lost 82 pounds, going from 230 to 148.
Discipline isn’t about forcing yourself—it’s about finding a reason strong enough to move. And that reason? It keeps changing. I learned what it meant to choose yourself, even when everything around you falls apart.
Then I lost my best friend.
His name was Nemr. We were a duo—he played bass, I played drums. He was the first person who really understood me. He brought philosophy into my life through laughter, music, and deep conversations. When I found out he had taken his own life, it shattered me. That grief still lives in me. But so does the quote he left behind:
“The current struggle in today’s intellectual is whether to act on or what ought to be.”
That sentence changed the course of my life. In grief, I searched for meaning. And in that search, I found philosophy—not as an escape, but as a way to hold the weight of what I had lost.
I ended up studying Philosophy at Texas State University. I learned how to think, how to feel, and—most importantly—how to connect the two. Philosophy helped me understand life’s questions—and how people live those questions, day by day.
After college, I worked in long-term care, helping the elderly transition into rehab facilities. It was meaningful work—but also heartbreaking. I saw how broken the system was, how many people numbed themselves with food, alcohol, or medication. Not out of weakness, but because they had nowhere to put their pain.
I kept thinking: we’ve forgotten the basics. Eat well. Sleep well. Move. Connect. Give. Heal.
What I realized was this: we all need something that brings us back to ourselves. Something that helps us feel alive. That helps us move—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
I searched for something to ground me. Something simple. Something I could control.
It started with movement.
It started with a jump rope.
I began going to the gym after work to avoid traffic. One day, I picked up a rope—and I couldn’t put it down. It felt like the rope chose me. I jumped for nearly 500 days straight. I started to smile more. Sleep better. Feel lighter and more connected to my body.
Jump rope became more than fitness—it became therapy, meditation, and a way home to myself.
I realized I wasn’t alone—so many others were discovering the same thing.
That’s why I created Jump Theory—to share this tool with the world. Not just as a workout, but as a path. A rhythm. A reminder that healing doesn’t have to be heavy. Transformation is already happening—you just have to say yes to it. Sometimes, it’s as light as a rope moving through the air.
Later, while living in Germany, I discovered something deeper:
Flowlosophy—my way of bridging the mental and physical planes of existence. It emerged from years of studying philosophy and training the body. It’s not just about movement; it’s about how we live. How we shift between perspectives. How we dance between effort and ease.
It’s about mental agility, presence, and the freedom that comes when you align the mind and body as one. To find flow. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence. Movement as meditation. Jumping as alchemy. Healing as a daily practice.
Now, I coach people through movement, mindset, and flow. My goal isn’t to fix you. It’s to remind you that you were never broken. You’ve just been waiting to return to yourself.
You don’t find flow by chasing it. You find it by returning to yourself—one jump, one breath, one beat at a time.
This is my Jump Theory. I invite you to remember yours.
Because you already know the way.
Maybe you’ve forgotten. Maybe life has drowned it out. But somewhere inside you, there’s a dream—a calling, a pulse, a feeling that has never left. Maybe it came to you in childhood, in quiet moments, in a time before the world told you what was possible.
That dream, that knowing—it’s still there. Waiting.
My grandfather’s dream didn’t just pull us out of danger—it pushed us toward a new life. That’s what dreams do. They don’t just save you from something. They save you for something.
Just like his dream led us to safety, your own dream is trying to lead you home. But dreams don’t shout. They whisper. They move like a rope cutting through the air—steady, rhythmic, always there, if only you listen.
So listen.
Move toward it.
Trust that the rhythm will catch you.
Because your dream—the one that saves you—is already in motion.
All you have to do is jump.
