Lately it feels like the world is coming apart, and darkness can be seen everywhere.  We must be intentional and choose to recognize the light that still exists — in the stories we choose to carry.

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Against the Growing Dark

Building with Light in Darkness — Part 5

There are moments in life when everything seems to converge at once—when the future stops being an idea and becomes a date on a calendar.

For me, that date is July 16, 2026.

It’s the day one chapter closes and another begins. Between now and then, there’s a stretch of road filled with transition: terminal leave starting April 24, a house being built in Texas, another being sold in Hawaii, and the steady, sometimes uncomfortable process of redefining what purpose looks like after service.

On paper, it looks like progress. And it is. But progress doesn’t always feel like light. Sometimes it feels like standing at the edge of something unknown, watching the familiar fade behind you while the path ahead hasn’t fully taken shape.  This is where faith is refined.

That space—that in-between—is where the darkness tends to grow.

Not all at once. Not in obvious ways. It builds slowly, quietly. Doubt creeps in. Questions get louder. The weight of responsibility, of change, of identity—it all presses in at the same time. You can do everything right and still feel like you’re fighting something you can’t fully see.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand:

Darkness doesn’t have to be total to feel overwhelming. Even when it takes up 99.99% of the space, it still isn’t everything.

There’s always something left.  A fraction. A spark. A point of light.

And that 0.01%—that’s the part that matters most.  That’s the part that refuses to quit.

That’s the part that has been tested, refined, and sharpened by everything that tried to put it out and failed.  That’s the warrior spirit.  As warriors we have been trained not to show emotion, and to bury our feelings, so to the outsiders, and sometimes to ourselves, it can become hidden.

It doesn’t always look strong from the outside. Sometimes it’s barely visible. Sometimes it’s just enough to get through the next hour, the next conversation, the next day. But it’s there. And the fact that it’s still there means something.

It means the darkness didn’t win.  Darkness can’t win.  The only thing that can snuff it out is us.  And the darkness can try very hard to convince us this is what we need to do.

That idea has been shaping the way I see both my own path and the path of others. As I step into this next phase—building a home, building a studio, building something bigger than me, something that lasts—I keep coming back to one question:

How do you help someone see the light that still exists in them when all they can feel is the dark?

For me, the answer is art.

Art doesn’t ignore the darkness. It doesn’t pretend it isn’t there. It acknowledges it, gives it form, gives it weight. Darkness can make some amazing and terrifying art. But more importantly, it creates contrast. It defines the light by placing it exactly where it matters most.

A tattoo, at its best, isn’t just an image. It’s a marker. A reminder. A way of saying, this part of me still stands.

That’s what I want to build.

Not just a studio, but a place where people can come in carrying whatever they’re fighting—and leave with something that represents the part of them that hasn’t been defeated.

Because that small point of light? It’s not insignificant. It’s not fragile in the way people think.

It’s resilient.

It’s been through pressure. Through loss. Through uncertainty. Through everything that tried to bury it. And instead of disappearing, it condensed into something stronger.  Something harder to break.  Something worth carrying forward.

The image that accompanies this piece is simple—just a point of light in the middle of darkness. No detail, no distraction. Because sometimes that’s all there is.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

You don’t need the whole path illuminated. You don’t need certainty about what’s coming next. You just need enough light to know that it’s still there—and that you are too.  I was trained not to fear the dark, because I trained to be the scariest thing in the dark.  Now it is time for me to work in the light.

As I move toward this next chapter, I don’t expect the darkness to disappear. If anything, I expect it to show up in new ways. But I also know this:

It doesn’t have to win. Not while that light still exists. Not while there are stories worth carrying. Not while there are people willing to see it, capture it, and remind others that it’s still there. And I want to be that person.

That’s what I’m building toward. And that’s what I’m choosing to stand for— against the growing dark. I am here when you are ready to capture your story in art or a tattoo.