Scars, Bullying, and Becoming a Teacher: A Mini-Autobiography

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the phrase: “Do hard things.”

At first glance, it sounds like typical motivational poster stuff. Cold plunges. Heavy deadlifts. 4 a.m. wake-ups. David Goggins screaming somewhere in the distance.

But the older I get, the more I think the real purpose of hard things has very little to do with becoming tough.

I think it has more to do with learning not to panic.

That’s different.

I’ve done jiu-jitsu for many years. Not much anymore because of injuries and surgeries and age and life, but it shaped me deeply.

One thing I used to intentionally do while rolling was let people put me into terrible positions.

Mount. Back takes. Pressure. Bad angles. Bad leverage. Smothering positions where you can barely breathe.

Not because I enjoyed suffering. Not because I wanted to prove something. But because I wanted to learn something.

I wanted to learn that panic was optional.

If I could stay calm there… if I could breathe there… if I could think clearly there… then maybe I’d be okay elsewhere too.

Jiu-jitsu taught me something that life keeps confirming over and over again:

Panic usually makes things worse.

Breathe first.

Assess. Frame. Create space. Move carefully. One step at a time.

That principle followed me far beyond the mats.

Old Memories

Years ago, I was driving through some backcountry roads and noticed a motorcycle on its side in a ditch. I stopped.

A man had been run off the road. His arm was essentially hanging open. I could see muscle tissue, tendons, blood everywhere.

I don’t have medical training.

But I remember immediately slowing myself down internally.

Okay. Breathe. Check him. Talk calmly. What do we do next?

I stayed with him until the ambulance arrived.

Another time, one of my middle school band students had a seizure in class while I was conducting.

He collapsed in the middle of rehearsal.

Forty-five kids instantly panicked.

I jumped off the podium, caught him, rolled him onto his side, and started calmly directing the room.

“You, go get the principal right now.” “Call 911.” “Everybody relax.” “He’s going to be okay.” “Take some deep breaths.”

And afterward the principal asked if I needed to go home for the day.

I remember thinking: No. Why would I?

Not because I’m emotionless. Not because I’m some superhero.

But because somewhere along the way, chaos stopped feeling unfamiliar to me.

There were other forms of chaos too.

My parents divorced when I was young. We moved constantly as kids.

I don't really remember much stability before middle school.

New schools. New neighborhoods. New kids. New environments.

I learned early how to adapt quickly.

I also learned how to take care of myself young.

Cooking. Laundry. Folding clothes. Emotional survival.

Somewhere along the way, childhood started speeding up.

I remember my mother crying to me often when I was little, and me trying to comfort her even though I was just a kid myself.

Looking back now as a father, I realize how much that shaped me.

I want my own children to stay children for as long as possible.

I want them to feel rooted. Safe. Stable. Protected.

Maybe much of adulthood becomes an attempt to build the kind of environment you needed when you were young.

Some of my earliest memories involve car accidents.

When I was little, my mom crashed into a telephone pole in an old Cadillac. The pole snapped sideways beside the car. I split my forehead open and broke my collarbone.

Before that, I’d already had surgery on my front teeth due to gum disease as a little kid, so most of my childhood pictures are me with missing front teeth, scars, a collarbone brace, and a bowl cut.

Cute maybe. But awkward.

Then came the big accident.

I was very young. My parents were still married. We were driving through Riverside County in an old first-generation 4Runner on the way to the mall before my father left for China with his church to smuggle Bibles.

Right before the crash, we stopped to look at a coyote. I still remember that coyote vividly.

Then around a bend, another vehicle ran us off the road head-on.

The 4Runner rolled four times.

My right arm went out the window and got destroyed during the rollover. Over a hundred stitches. Massive scars from wrist to shoulder that I still carry today.

I remember ending up thrown into the back of the vehicle. I remember my dad ripping his shirt off and wrapping my arm. I remember my mother screaming in panic. My sister crying.

Cars driving past us without stopping.

And I remember being strangely calm.

Not brave. Not fearless. Just… still.

I remember thinking: "Why is everybody panicking?"

That sounds and feels strange to even write.

But I think that moment shaped me more than I realized.

Eventually somebody stopped and let us pile into his truck. I bled all over the seat. Then the ambulances came.

I remember laying on the ground shivering once the shock wore off. I remember the blankets. The hospital. The embarrassment of nurses cutting my underwear off. The sadness of them cutting off my favorite leather jacket my grandfather gave me because I didn’t want it ruined. The ice chips afterward. The giant baby blue cast.

And two weeks later, the pain of having all the stitches removed. That’s when I finally cried.

Not during the crash. Not during the blood. Not during the ambulance.

During the stitch removal.

Funny how the body works like that.

I carried those scars for years with embarrassment.

Kids made fun of me. I got called Scarface. I wore long sleeves almost every day until high school because I hated people seeing my arm.

I was bullied for being overweight. Bullied for scars. Bullied for not being “Mexican enough.” Bullied for not being “white enough.” Sometimes by classmates. Sometimes by extended family.

I know what it feels like to feel out of place.

And honestly, I think that’s a huge reason I care so deeply about kids now.

I think part of why I connect with kids so well is because I remember exactly what it felt like to be one.

I remember the embarrassment. The shame. The awkwardness. The insecurity. The fear of rejection.

And because of that, I never want kids around me to feel small.

Not in my programs. Not on my rides. Not in my classes. Not in my presence if I can help it.

That doesn’t mean discipline disappears. It doesn’t mean standards disappear.

But kindness matters deeply to me.

Especially because I’ve seen where pain can lead people.

Childhood Grief

I’ve also spent much of my life around grief.

Funerals came early.

A cousin murdering his own father and brother. Friends lost to suicide. Former students and coworkers struggling silently. Standing in rooms filled with shock, confusion, heartbreak, and unanswered questions.

Even as a teacher, I once helped discover a coworker who had taken her own life after she hadn’t shown up to school for several days.

I later played music at her memorial service.

Those experiences stay with you.

They change the way you look at people.

They make you realize how much pain many people carry invisibly.

And maybe that’s part of why I care so deeply about community, encouragement, and creating spaces where people feel genuinely seen.

Because isolation can become very dark if left alone too long.

I also have family members serving life sentences in prison for murder, drugs, gang involvement, terrible decisions.

I understand how environments shape people. How pain spreads. How anger spreads. How humiliation spreads.

And maybe that’s part of why I’ve become so protective over the environments we create.

I want kids to feel safe. Encouraged. Seen. Challenged, yes. But not humiliated.

Maybe the deepest realization in all of this is that the hard things in my life didn’t just teach me resilience.

They taught me compassion.

Pain can harden people. Or it can soften them toward others.

Some people become dangerous after suffering. Some become safe.

I hope I’m becoming safe.

Not soft in the weak sense. But calm. Grounded. Steady.

I think that’s why I still intentionally do hard things: lifting weights, sauna, cold plunges, difficult conversations, fasting, exercise, learning new things, silence, prayer.

Not because suffering is holy.

But because intentional discomfort reminds me: “You can be uncomfortable and still okay.”

That matters.

Because life eventually puts all of us into bad positions.

Physical. Emotional. Financial. Relational. Spiritual.

Life eventually mounts you.

And in those moments, panic rarely helps.

Breathing helps. Presence helps. Faith helps. Grounded people help.

Looking back now, I can see that much of my life has been shaped by learning how to stabilize chaos.

Sometimes physically. Sometimes emotionally. Sometimes spiritually.

I became calm because chaos surrounded me early.

I became compassionate because pain surrounded me early.

And I became protective because I know exactly what unprotected children feel like.

Maybe the goal of hard things isn’t becoming harder.

Maybe it’s becoming calmer.

Gentler.

More resilient.

More compassionate.

More capable of carrying peace into chaotic rooms.

I think that little boy in the overturned 4Runner learned something very early:

Life is fragile. People panic. Bodies break. Chaos happens.

But somewhere in all of that, I also learned this:

Stay present. Breathe first. Help if you can. Calm people down. One step at a time.

Honestly, that philosophy has shaped almost my entire life.

And maybe that’s all maturity really is:

Learning not to panic when life gets hard.