As a kid, reading was incredibly difficult for me. I have vivid memories of hitting myself in the head out of frustration—convinced that if I gave my brain a good “clunk,” like an old television, it might finally start working right. Words often swam on the page, and reading brought on splitting headaches that left me tearful and overwhelmed. Those headaches still happen occasionally, though not nearly as often.

But in 1991, something changed. I was in sixth grade, and during a health education unit, we were given a comic book to work through. I devoured it—not because I suddenly loved reading, but because I loved the art. That comic book showed me that storytelling could come in more than one form. Around that same time, I met my best friend Brent—a certified genius and avid comic book collector. Through him, I found my way to Waldenbooks at Westwood Mall in Jackson, Michigan, where I picked up Detective Comics #636 for a dollar.

Reading that comic was still a struggle. The letters blurred, the words jumbled, and the headaches persisted. But the art pulled me in. It helped me understand the story when the words failed me. I would take breaks, start over, and slowly begin to piece together the narrative. Comic books became my way of learning to read.

It wasn’t until decades later—while working at Vanderbilt—that I was formally diagnosed with dyslexia. By that point, I had already earned a master’s degree, simply because I had taught myself how to push through. I didn’t have the label yet, but I had the determination.

As a young person, I dreamed of being a comic book artist. But I struggled with self-worth and often preferred to stay invisible. Because of that, I never fully committed to drawing. I sketched here and there, but I never believed I was good enough.

Fast forward a few decades, and I’m now a mental health professional—and a magician—getting more magic gigs than ever before. I was even considering pursuing magic full time when… the pandemic hit. I was fortunate to keep my job as an “essential employee,” but it felt like another dream was slipping away.

Then Rob Liefeld started a podcast.

For those unfamiliar, Rob Liefeld is one of the most passionate voices in the comic book world. He’s a gifted storyteller, a legendary artist, and the creator of characters like Cable and Deadpool (not to mention co-founder of Image comics). When Robservations launched, I was immediately drawn in. I hadn’t read comics in over a decade (aside from a few trade paperbacks), but Rob’s enthusiasm was infectious. His passion reminded me of why I fell in love with comics in the first place.

That energy lit a fire in me. I started reading again—digging into the back issues Rob would discuss—and I was, once again, drawn to the art (pun intended). I decided to try drawing again.

I picked up classic guides like How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way and enrolled in the correspondence courses from The Kubert School. I spent countless hours practicing lines, shapes, shading, and color. My first major attempt? A portrait of the legendary magician Slydini. I had the idea to create posters for magicians who deserved them but didn’t have any. The drawing turned out better than I expected—partly because I had the help of Marcos Martins, a talented colorist who elevated my early work. I even shared it with Rob Liefeld, who responded with kind encouragement that meant the world to me.

Over the years (wow—it’s been years now), I’ve gone from working on Bristol board to using an iPad. I still draw by hand, but the digital tools allow me to take more creative risks. I’ve since become a published illustrator, having illustrated three magazine covers. Just recently, I was stunned to learn that Teller (yes, that Teller of Penn & Teller) commented on three of my pieces hanging in Marc DeSouza’s “House of Magic.” I was told he enjoyed them immensely. That meant the world to me.

As a tribute, I created a piece featuring Penn and Teller in the style of American Gothic—an artistic full-circle moment.

And yes, I’ve finally returned to that childhood dream of making my own comic book. I started one a few years ago, but when I realized the quality wasn’t where I wanted it to be, I paused. I practiced. I grew. Recently, I revisited the original pages, and the difference between then and now is night and day.

All of this is to say: thank you, Rob Liefeld. Your passion for comic books reignited my own. You gave a magician and therapist permission to rediscover the joy of creating art. Whether it’s through your storytelling, your characters, or your unshakable enthusiasm—you’ve made an impact. Art has been a wild and healing journey for me, and I’m grateful for every step of it.