Why Ruck 1000 Miles
Why would anyone walk 1,000 miles across Texas with a weighted pack on their back?
The Quiet Desperation
There was a time when I thought pain was something to escape.
When life got hard, I ran from the truth, from the people who loved me, and from myself. What started as a way to feel good became a way not to feel at all.
The drugs were my hiding place. For a while, they worked, until they didn’t.
There’s a point in addiction when the high stops coming but the hunger doesn’t. You’re stuck chasing a ghost that never stops moving. You know it’s killing you, but you can’t let go. I remember looking in the mirror and not recognizing the man staring back. My eyes were empty. My body was there, but my soul was gone.
That’s where addiction took me, to a place so dark that hope felt like a rumor.
Getting clean was brutal. It wasn’t one miracle moment; it was thousands of small, painful decisions to keep showing up. Meetings. Sweat. Silence. Starting over again and again until something finally stuck.
And that’s where I met Kenny.
He was one of the first men in my life who didn’t just talk about change, he lived it. He showed me that real life begins when you stop running and start building. He pushed me toward faith, toward fitness, and toward purpose.
He used to say, “You’ve been through hell, now use it. Turn that pain into power and put it to work for somebody else.”
That became my compass. My sobriety wasn’t just about staying clean; it was about building something real. And every time I leaned into hard work, physical challenge, or helping someone else, I found a piece of myself I thought I’d lost.
Recovery doesn’t end when you stop using. It begins when you start serving.
The Fire and the Road
This October, I’ll walk 1,000 miles across Texas. Forty days. Twenty-five miles a day. Solo and self-supported.
From Port Arthur where the Gulf meets the bayou, through small towns and open country, across the blackland prairies and into the Hill Country my family has called home for eight generations. Then west through the desert, up Guadalupe Peak, the highest point in Texas, and on to Mount Cristo Rey overlooking El Paso.
No crew. No chase van. No shortcuts.
Just me, the road, and the weight on my back.
The idea for this ruck was born years ago, somewhere on the shoulder of another hard road, the Immortal 32 Ruck, a 75-mile march honoring the men who once walked from Gonzales to the Alamo knowing they wouldn’t return. I remember being out there at mile 42, dehydrated, beat down, and ready to leave my friend behind. But then I saw something familiar in him, a man who just needed someone to stay.
So I turned back.
That was the first moment I understood what all of this was really about. Not fitness. Not ego. Community. Grit. Purpose.
And now, years later, the 1,000-mile ruck is the next step in that same story, a bigger fire, a deeper test.
The Weight I Carry
The ruck I’ll carry isn’t filled with shame or regret. I laid those things down a long time ago.
Now it’s filled with something heavier: purpose.
It’s the weight of gratitude for the second chance I was given when I didn’t deserve one.
It’s the weight of memory for everyone still trapped in the same darkness I escaped.
It’s the weight of responsibility for the life I get to live and the message I’m meant to carry.
Every morning when I throw that pack over my shoulders, I think about the road behind me. The jail cell I once sat in. The meetings that rebuilt my foundation. The day I hit 22 years clean. The first time I stood in front of a group of men still locked up and told them they weren’t too far gone.
That’s the weight I carry. And it’s worth every ounce.
For Those Who Feel Lost
If you’re reading this and you feel stuck, if you’re tired of pretending, tired of scrolling, tired of the ache that won’t go away, this is for you.
I know what it’s like to wake up and feel like you’ve already failed. To stare at the ceiling wondering if it’s even worth trying again. To wish the noise in your head would finally stop.
But it’s not over.
You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need to take one honest step. Then another. That’s how I did it. One day, one mile, one choice at a time.
And when you find your way, you’ll realize something powerful. You can help others find theirs. That’s where real purpose begins.
The fire you walk through can light the path for someone else.
The Road Ahead
From the Gulf to the desert. From sea level to the summit.
The miles ahead will test everything I’m made of. My body will ache, my feet will blister, my shoulders will burn. My mind will wrestle with doubt. My spirit will be stretched thin. My patience, faith, and endurance will all be tested.
And that’s exactly why I’m going.
Because growth doesn’t come from comfort. It’s born in resistance, in friction, in the long quiet hours when no one’s watching and you have to decide who you want to be.
Out here, the road tells the truth. It doesn’t care about your plans or your pain. It doesn’t bend to your moods or your excuses. It just stretches forward, mile after mile, asking one question: Will you keep going?
That’s where life happens-in the step after doubt, in the mile after pain, in the place where you choose to move forward when everything inside you says stop.
This isn’t about glory. It’s about awakening.
It’s about remembering what’s real-faith, grit, connection, and purpose. It’s about stripping life down to the essentials and realizing that the hard road is the one that shapes you.
Official Project Grit was built on that belief. We challenge mediocrity, embrace difficulty, and find connection through shared struggle. Every event, every ruck, every story comes back to one truth: we are built for more.
If this story hits something in you-if you’re tired of standing still or if you’re searching for a way back- stay connected. Join the Official Project Grit newsletter, follow along on the 1,000-mile ruck across Texas, or show up at one of our events.
Wherever you are, start walking. The road will meet you halfway.
