For most of my life, OCD wasn’t something I “had.” It was something I lived inside of. It shaped how I thought, how I loved, how I reacted, and how I showed up in relationships. It wasn’t just intrusive thoughts or anxiety. It was a way of being in the world that was exhausting and isolating. When Brandi and I first got together, she didn’t understand what was happening. Honestly, neither did I in a clear way. OCD doesn’t announce itself. It hides behind logic, responsibility, morality, and fear. It slowly takes over how you make decisions and how you relate to the people you love.

There were times when OCD nearly cost me my marriage. Not because we didn’t love each other, but because OCD creates distance, confusion, and emotional chaos. It’s incredibly hard for someone on the outside to understand why certain things feel so urgent, so dangerous, or so impossible. And it’s equally hard for the person living with OCD to explain something that doesn’t make logical sense but feels absolutely real.

I suffered for decades. And for a long time, I managed it rather than healed it. About ten years ago, something shifted.

I stopped looking for ways to make OCD more comfortable and started looking for ways to outgrow it. I realized that knowledge alone wasn’t enough. Insight wasn’t enough. Reassurance wasn’t enough. I had to change my relationship with fear, discomfort, and responsibility.