After eleven years of playing music in local bars and restaurants, everything stopped on Mother’s Day of 2012.
At that time, music wasn’t a passion project. It was my livelihood.
I had been playing constantly, and every dollar went into building a small house in Haddock, Georgia. No loans. No financing. Just gigs, discipline, and long hours. For two years, my life followed a hard rhythm: book shows, haul gear, play late, save money, buy materials, work on the house whenever I wasn’t on stage or calling for gigs. I had a wife and three boys (13, 5, and 3), and I was working to give us an edge in life. Build our own home with cash. Done.
We were clearing out the old place. I climbed into the attic to retrieve a few light fixtures I had installed there, trying to save thirty dollars. The house was finished enough to move into, and this was the final trip of the move.
I didn’t see the weak spot.
I fell straight through and landed on the garage floor.
“He fell twenty feet,” the paramedic said.
The result was a crushed L2 vertebra, possible severe spinal damage, and a pulverized right heel. I was put in a back brace, and the foot injury was so severe that amputation was strongly suggested. One spine specialist told me, “I wouldn’t worry too much about losing your foot. Based on what I’m seeing, you might not ever walk again anyway.”
In just minutes, my ability to earn a living disappeared, and the future I had been methodically building went dark, all while my wife and kids sat on the steps of the house we were leaving behind.
Everything we knew was gone. I couldn’t perform. I couldn’t travel. I couldn’t stand for hours or carry equipment. The thing I relied on to build our future was suddenly impossible.
I was deeply depressed. I felt useless.
Surgical complications led to a severe infection in my foot that sent me to a wound care specialist in Atlanta twice a week for a year and a half. While I was there, I paid attention. I watched how progress was tracked, how test results were discussed, and how treatment plans were built around individual limitations and strengths.
A biotech company, MiMedx, included me in a trial for their product. I worked relentlessly and got stronger. The treatment worked. I was able to keep my foot and eventually get out of the back brace.
I couldn’t perform on stage anymore, but I could teach.
I had always been good at simplifying complex ideas. I taught myself music theory and the Nashville Number System as practical tools. I learned how to adapt theory to a student’s natural dexterity and could get people playing usable lead guitar quickly. I found that I worked especially well with kids, turning learning into a game without watering it down.
So I started teaching.
I turned my most recent experiences into structure.
Teaching became a system built on clear goals, measurable progress, accountability, and what we call “filling the prescriptions.” The same principles that rebuilt my body became the foundation for how I help others grow.
That fall ended the future I thought I was building.
And it gave me a life I didn’t know I needed.
The way my treatment was planned and tracked became the backbone of how we teach music. I named Music Medix after the company that helped save my foot, and our medical theme is an homage to the medical professionals who gave me hope when I needed it most.
Now, we strive to give that same sense of hope, progress, and forward momentum to others.
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