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It began — in a small, dim apartment in Latvia,
where the walls always felt damp
and the air carried the heavy smell of alcohol mixed with stale cigarettes.

My mother was drowning in her own pain,
and the bottle was the only thing she knew how to hold onto.
My father was gone before I could form a single memory of him —
like he never existed,
except for the emptiness he left behind.

I didn’t grow up with someone tucking me in.
I grew up with shouting.
With slamming doors.
With nights where I wasn’t sure what version of my mother I was going to get.

Some mornings, I’d wake up hungry —
not the kind of hunger where you ask for breakfast,
but the kind that burns from the inside out,
the kind that makes you dizzy when you stand.

I remember being a tiny, shivering boy
knocking on neighbors’ doors with no clothes on
because I didn’t have the words to say,
“I’m hungry, and no one is taking care of me.”
So I just stood there, naked, confused, desperate,
hoping someone would hand me something
so the ache in my stomach would go away.

It wasn’t rebellion.
It wasn’t misbehavior.
It was survival.

Even at that age, I understood one thing:
nobody was coming to protect me.

That reality settled into my bones before I even knew what the word “fear” meant.

 

social services knocked on our door more times than I can count.
Neighbors heard the yelling.
They saw things a child should never be around.
People talk, and eventually, the system steps in.

One day, they arrived and didn’t leave without me.

I remember rough hands lifting me,
placing me in a cold car seat,
buckling me in while I watched my whole world shrink in the rear window.

No explanations.
No comfort.
No reassurance.

Just movement —
away from everything familiar,
even if familiar wasn’t safe.

You can’t ask a child how he feels during moments like that.
He doesn’t know how to answer.
He just absorbs it.

The fear.
The confusion.
The numbness.

And then suddenly,
I was in the orphanage

 

 

I don’t remember much until around eight.
Trauma has a way of burying things so deep that your brain pretends they didn’t happen.

But when my memories do return,
it’s like they explode open.

The orphanage wasn’t a home —
it was a holding place for children who didn’t have anyone.

The building always felt cold.
I'm not talking about temperature —
I'm talking about the kind of cold that lives in the walls
because too many broken stories have passed through them.

The halls echoed with crying that went unanswered.
and had soaked up more nightmares than sleep.

Kids fought.

 

They fought because there was no such thing as emotional support.
They fought because pain has to go somewhere.
They fought because nobody ever showed us how to process anything.

 

I saw fists connect with faces that knock kids out.
I saw teeth fly.
I saw kids get slammed into walls.
I saw bodies curled in corners trying to disappear.
I saw blood dried into the cracks of the floorboards.

And I fought too.
Not because I wanted to hurt anyone,
but because the only rule in places like that was simple:

If you don’t defend yourself, you get destroyed.

There was a moment I still hate myself for —
a cat scratched me one day,
and in a blind flash of rage,
I snapped its neck.

 

That is the type of rage 8 years old me had.

 

I wasn’t evil.
I was eight.
And at eight, I only knew one emotional sequence:
pain → reaction.
There was no thinking in between.

We weren’t children.
We were survivors.

Every day you learned:

Don’t cry.
Don’t trust.
Don’t get too close.
Don’t reveal anything someone could use against you.

And above all:

Don’t expect anyone to take care of you.

 

 

The Nights — The Real Hell

People think the fighting was the hardest part.
It wasn’t.

The nights were.

When the halls went quiet…
when the lights shut off…
when the chaos stopped…

that’s when the real battle started.

Nighttime didn’t come with safety.
It came with everything I tried to avoid during the day.

Fear.
Loneliness.
Worthlessness.
Questions I didn’t have words for.
Emotions I didn’t know how to handle.
Memories I tried to forget.

I’d stare at the ceiling,
my small chest tight,
fighting tears that never came because crying didn’t make anything better.

Silence was torture back then.
Silence meant facing yourself.

But silence also became my first real teacher.
It’s where I learned how to sit with thoughts,
how to crawl through emotions,
how to understand pain without running from it.

I didn’t know it then,
but that silence would one day become the same silence
that fuels my discipline, my reflection, and my faith.

 

 

In the middle of all this chaos,
there was one boy from the outside
who would show up at the fence.

He stood on the outside,
I stood on the inside,
and for a few minutes,
we talked like the world wasn’t broken.

His visits were small,
but to a kid who never felt seen,
those minutes felt like sunlight.

Then one day,
he didn’t come.

No explanation.
No final conversation.

Just a silence that hit harder than any punch.

That was the moment I learned —
or confirmed —
the belief that shaped my childhood:

Everyone leaves.
Nothing good stays.
Don’t get attached.

And I shut down deeper.

 

 

One day someone asked me a question no one had ever asked:

 

“Do you want to be adopted?”

I didn’t know what adoption meant.

I didn’t know who would take me.

I didn’t know what my future held.

But I knew one thing:

This was my way out.

 

I said yes instantly — not out of hope, but out of desperation.

And that decision took me across the world, alone, into a country whose language I didn’t speak, whose culture I didn’t understand, and whose people I didn’t know how to trust.

 

I had to relearn how to be human:
how to talk,
how to trust,
how to connect,
how to feel safe,
how to fit in,
how to exist.

That process was like being born for the third time.

 

America felt bright on the outside, but inside I was still that grey child — scared, disconnected, unsure how to be human in a world that didn’t match the one that shaped me. I had to relearn everything: communication, trust, relationships, identity.

 

 

America was everything Latvia wasn’t —
bright, loud, colorful, overwhelming.

People smiled for no reason.
Stores were huge.
Food smelled different.
The air felt different.

But inside,
I was still that same kid
who didn’t know how to trust,
didn’t know how to express emotion,
didn’t know how to exist in a world
that wasn’t built around survival.

I had to relearn everything:

How to speak.
How to make friends.
How to not flinch at raised voices.
How to understand love.
How to feel safe.
How to be a person, not a problem.

It was like being born again —
only this time, consciously.

 

But in this new world, I met something — Someone — who would change everything.

Jesus Christ.

 

Not the Sunday-morning version.

Not the painting-on-the-wall version.

The real Jesus — the one who shows up in darkness, in depression, in the nights you feel like you can’t go on. He gave me hope when nothing else did. He gave me a direction when I had none.

But faith alone didn’t rebuild me.

Discipline did.

 

I noticed that the men I respected — the men who had strength, stability, purpose — had one thing in common: they did what they said they’d do. No excuses. No negotiating. No backing out.

So I decided to build that into myself, in a borderline psychotic way:

Follow-through.

Daily action.

Ignoring emotion when it tried to hold me back.

Sharpening my mind and body.

Choosing growth over comfort.

And that discipline became the foundation of my new identity.

 

But growth isn’t clean.

I got into a fight. I went to jail. I had to take anger-management classes.

 

It wasn’t my proudest moment — but it was the turning point.

It was the moment I realized:

 

“My anger will NOT rule me. I’m taking control of my life — intentionally.”

From that point forward, everything changed.

 

Fast forward a few years — one random day, I was sitting with my first American friend talking about detailing. Something sparked inside me. Same day — not next week, not next year — I bought equipment, built a website, ordered chemicals, and launched a business: DBD Detailing.

 

No plan. No investor. No roadmap.

Just instinct, hunger, discipline, and God’s timing.

 

The early years were brutal.

Learning business.

Building clients.

Managing money.

Battling doubt.

Showing up even when I didn’t feel like it.

 

Running a business before I even understood what a businessman was.

Entrepreneurship is the hardest path because it works on YOU more than anything else.

And that’s exactly what I wanted.

 

Whether the business succeeded or not, one thing would be true:

I would become the man I chose to become.

 

As I grew, I outgrew people. Not on purpose — but because real growth creates distance. Some people became jealous. Some angry. Some competitive. Some uncomfortable with my intensity and depth. Growth exposed the truth:

 

People don’t fail relationships because they’re bad — they fail because they give too little.

 

But I learned to give deeply — the love, presence, listening, understanding, and connection I never received. And now I pour it into my clients, my girlfriend, my friends, and the people around me.

The habits that built me were simple but relentless:

Discipline

Grit

Perseverance

Respect

Consistency

Gym

Eating clean

Goal-setting

Faith

Reflection

 

My business became a mirror of my internal world — hard, lonely, uncertain, demanding… but meaningful.

Eventually, I realized something profound:

You don’t become a man by age.

You become one by accountability.

By self-honesty.

By hard decisions.

By trusting God in the darkest seasons.

By facing yourself when nobody is watching.

My faith took me further than I could ever take myself.

Faith is easy when life is comfortable — but mine was forged in discomfort, depression, and darkness.

 

Today, love to me means respect.

It means putting someone else first.

It means serving at a level most people don’t even know exists.

Purpose?

Purpose isn’t found.

Purpose is built — over years, through failure, through repetition, through pain.

And my mission?

To master business.

To master myself.

To master faith.

And pour everything I learn into others.

I want to be a lighthouse in the middle of an ocean — steady, bright, unshakeable.

Because being that light for others heals me too.

I get to give people what I never received.

And when everything is said and done, when my story echoes beyond my life, I want people to remember one truth:

There are no limits — only self-imposed ones.

Be Psychotic about what you want.