Mental health. Leadership. Psychological safety. Human connection. Grief. Technology and AI. The person underneath the performance.
Not because I figured all of this out. I haven’t. I’ve just spent a lot of time living in the space between how a life looks and how a life actually feels.
The details are mine. The struggle isn’t.
My brother David was murdered in 2019.
In the years that followed, my wife went through cancer, and I ended up needing emergency open-heart surgery.
I kept working.
I kept practicing dentistry, doing surgery, running a business, teaching, leading organizations, being a husband, and raising three kids.
From the outside, a lot of the résumé still looked pretty good.
In 2023, I got onstage and tried to talk about that collision for the first time.
I thought I understood resilience then. I did understand some of it. I also thought I was further along than I was.
I thought I was standing on the other side of something, looking back.
I wasn’t. I was in the middle of it.
And, if I’m being accurate, I probably still am.
My understanding has changed. I don’t think resilience has a finish line anymore. I don’t think it means becoming tough enough that the floor never drops again.
Sometimes the floor drops.
Sometimes you lose connection to yourself, to other people, to the world around you, or to something bigger than you.
What matters is recognizing it—and finding whatever helps create a pathway back toward connection.
Sometimes you know what that is. Sometimes somebody else sees it before you do.
I have not solved trauma. I don’t know what someone else’s suffering is supposed to mean. I can tell my story truthfully. And I can ask some questions that I think are worth asking.
Ten days after David was murdered, I went back to work and placed a dental implant.
For about an hour, I had to be completely present.
The implant did not cure my grief.
Dentistry did not save me.
But for that hour, grief did not occupy every inch of my brain.
That stayed with me.
Murder, Resilience, and Dental Implants became a talk about grief, mental health, identity, connection, professional life, and what happens when there is no going back to the person you were before something happened.
There is no promise that those questions make life easy.
They just make it harder to pretend.
We spend an incredible amount of time teaching people how to perform better. Sell more. Lead better. Produce more. Communicate better. Become more efficient.
Almost nobody asks: What is happening to the person carrying all of that performance?
I’m interested in the gap between what leadership says and what people actually experience.
Can somebody say “I don’t understand,” “I disagree,” “I screwed up,” “You’re wrong,” or “I need help” — and remain connected afterward?
I’m not interested in pretending the damage never happened. And I’m not particularly interested in “getting back” to who we were before it happened.
Not finding the way back. Finding a better way forward.
The story was a little too perfect. The vulnerability felt rehearsed. The suffering somehow became a gift. The complicated human problem became a five-step framework. Everyone applauded.
Then Monday came.
I’d rather tell the truth, ask better questions, make people laugh when appropriate, and give the room enough space to decide what any of it means for them.
There is a longer CV. Nobody should have to read it unless they actually need it. I’m happy to furnish it upon request.
Am I a good dentist to the person, not just the procedure?
Am I a good husband and dad?
Can I lead well—and follow well?
Do I actually listen?
Can someone tell me I’m wrong?
Do people feel safe disagreeing with me?
Do I know when to speak, when to listen, and when to keep my mouth shut?
What kind of wake do I leave behind?
There is no board certification for character. I’m still working on mine.
Some people come to see me after years of dental problems.
There can be fear, embarrassment, pain, disappointment, and a lot of history sitting in the chair before I ever look at a CT scan.
The technical work matters enormously.
But before I can do any of it, another human being has to trust me enough to let me try.
I cannot promise perfection.
I can promise preparation, honesty, accountability, communication, care—and that I won’t disappear when something gets difficult.
I love implant dentistry. It can also exhaust me. Both are true.
Grief · family · mental health · humor · asking for help · connection
A conversation about David, our family, what grief actually looks like, and some of the things we are terrible at saying to people who are hurting.
Watch / Listen →Trust · fear · communication · responsibility
Watch →
Preview note: these cards use existing portraits as temporary thumbnail art. The final version should use actual media thumbnails. When 2026 MRDI stage footage is available, it becomes the dominant media piece.
I use AI constantly. I’m not anti-tech.
A tool can make me faster. That doesn’t necessarily make me wiser.
The more powerful the tools become, the more important it is to know what I value, what I’m trying to accomplish, where my blind spots are, and when another human being needs to remain in the loop.
Attention is not authority.
Visibility is not value.
Virality is not truth.
And despite many years of enthusiasm, there continues to be almost no professional demand for me as an EDM DJ. I remain available.
If you’re thinking about a keynote, leadership conversation, professional meeting, retreat, podcast, or something interesting that doesn’t fit neatly into one of those boxes:
Tell me about your room.
Your message comes to me privately. My direct email address does not need to live on the internet.