I’m writing this from federal prison. My sons know that. They were in the courtroom when I was sentenced. They’ve seen me hand over my chiropractic license, shutter my practice, and prepare for incarceration. But they’ve also seen something else: they’ve seen me say I was wrong. No excuses. No deflection. That’s a kind of inheritance too.
This blog isn’t to explain what happened—they know. It’s not to make a case for sympathy—they’ve seen the consequences. I write this so that one day, long after I’m gone, they won’t have to wonder where I stood. Not when it mattered.
The hardest part wasn’t losing my business or the public shame. It was sitting in that courtroom and knowing my boys were behind me. There is a particular kind of pain that comes with being seen by your children at your lowest point.
I remember gripping the table with both hands, not to steady my body, but to ground myself—because I could feel the weight of their eyes behind me. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. But I knew they were there. I could feel every breath they took. In that moment, I stopped being a defendant and became something else—a mirror. I realized they would remember this moment for the rest of their lives, and it would either teach them that their father owned his mistakes or that he tried to outrun them. That clarity hurt more than the sentence.
But I chose to let them see it. Not because I wanted to burden them, but because I refused to lie by omission. I refused to let them think this was someone else’s fault. Hiding the truth would have taught them the wrong lesson.
They grew up seeing me as a provider, a tennis coach, a man active in our church and parish. They saw me organize food drives, give free chiropractic care, and teach hundreds of kids how to swing a racquet. They saw me care. That man is still here. But that man also crossed a line.
I understood these were marketers working with doctors. I now know I paid illegal kickbacks. I knew better. I had the education, the responsibility, and the duty to walk away. I didn’t. That failure is mine alone. And that’s what I tell my sons: being a man of character doesn’t mean you never fail. It means you say so when you do.
It breaks my heart that part of their memory of me will always include a federal conviction. But I will not let that be the last word.
The way I try to live here isn’t new. It’s just quieter. Before all this, I coached neighborhood kids, organized gift drives for our parish, and made house calls for patients who couldn’t afford to come in. I did that because it felt right—not because anyone was watching. That same instinct still guides me. Whether I’m stirring a pot in the kitchen or walking a man through his PSI, the point isn’t recognition. It’s presence. It’s being someone they can trust, if only for a few minutes. That’s how I honor what my sons once believed about me.
I cook here without pay. I lead prayer and spiritual conversations. I teach tennis to men who’ve never touched a racquet. I help where I can, not to be noticed, but because usefulness is the quiet shape of dignity.
My sons and I still talk. Not about what to believe, but about what matters. “Don’t let pressure do your thinking for you.” “If something feels wrong, stop. Ask. Walk away.” “When you fail—and you will—own it. Out loud. All of it.” “The truth is worth your name.”
They’ve seen me lose nearly everything. But they’ve also seen me tell the truth. That’s what I want them to remember.
That’s also why I write. Not to be heard, but to leave something behind that holds its shape. A record. A reckoning. A way to say: I didn’t run from this. I didn’t excuse it. And I didn’t stop trying to live up to what I once asked them to believe about me.
Even in here, I still wake up with that same hope—that my life can mean something good to them. Not because I always got it right. But because I finally stopped pretending I did.
If they remember anything about me, let it be this: their father failed, admitted it, and stayed present. That’s the kind of name I hope they carry—one that doesn’t flinch from the truth, even when it hurts.
