Unearthing Egypt: Breaking the Chains You Can’t See

Some wars don’t start on battlefields. They start in cribs.

From my earliest memories, I’ve wrestled with shadows, figures I couldn’t name, a fear I couldn’t shake, and an ache that no amount of moving, achieving, or pretending could fix. By the time I was an adult, that ache had woven itself into everything, relationships, faith, even my view of God.

On the outside, I built an impressive life. Inside, I was still that boy, frozen in fear, believing the lie that I was alone, unsafe, and unworthy. My coping mechanism of choice? Alcohol. It numbed the noise until it nearly killed me.

And then came the night in the mountains, the moment that should have ended my life but didn’t. A jammed gun became my burning bush. Grace stepped in where despair had planned to finish the job. I walked away shaken, sober for the first time in nearly a decade, but far from healed.

Sobriety peeled back layers I didn’t know I had. I began to see patterns, generational wounds passed down like heirlooms: silence masquerading as peace, control mistaken for love, and performance rewarded over truth. I also began to see how I’d been complicit, how fear had kept me returning to familiar bondage rather than trusting the unknown freedom God was offering.

Relationships became both the battlefield and the classroom. I learned that trauma bonds can disguise themselves as love, that being wanted isn’t the same as being loved, and that silence can be both a prison and a weapon. And as God exposed the roots of my pain, I realized the real war wasn’t with people, it was with the unseen patterns trying to write my story before I could live it.

This wasn’t just about my marriage, my childhood, or even my recovery. It was about bloodlines. It was about the curses that bleed through generations until someone finally says, “It ends here.”

The journey wasn’t clean or pretty. It was raw, full of setbacks, and marked by the loss of almost everything I’d built. But in that stripping away, I found something worth keeping, my true identity, not as a performer or peacekeeper, but as a son of God.

Egypt is more than a place, it’s a mindset. It’s the false safety of what you’ve always known, even when it’s destroying you. And freedom… freedom means leaving Egypt behind, even when it feels like you’re walking into the wilderness.

My story is messy. It’s painful. But it’s also proof that God doesn’t just redeem people, He redeems bloodlines. And when He calls you out of Egypt, it’s not just for your sake, but for the generations after you.

If this resonates with you, if you’ve felt the pull of old chains, the sting of inherited pain, or the ache of wanting something truer, there’s more to the story.

This blog is just the surface. The full chapter, Unearthing Egypt, digs into the raw details, the near-death moment, the relationships that shaped me, and the exact ways God broke the cycle.

📖 Read the full story in my book To Die Is To Live, available now. 

Your freedom might just begin where mine did.