This is an exciting, and admittedly slightly surreal, next step in the weird journey that has been my career.

I now have professional representation through ROLA MediaWorks.

That is a sentence I never really expected to write.

Most of my life, I’ve had this strange feeling that I’ve done some pretty interesting things, while simultaneously assuming that nobody else thought they were particularly interesting. I still struggle with that. I can accomplish something, be proud of it for approximately seven minutes, and then immediately think, Okay, but what’s next?

Imposter syndrome is remarkably efficient.

But one of the unexpected things about beginning this relationship with ROLA is that they seem to look at my strange hodgepodge of experiences—magician, therapist, speaker, artist, writer, crisis mental health professional—and see something valuable.

More importantly, they see how those things fit together.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt quite that “seen” professionally before.

And ironically, getting representation has forced me to do something I’m not particularly good at:

Look backward.

Wait…What Have I Actually Done?

When you’re constantly moving on to the next project, client, show, problem, idea, or crisis, you don’t necessarily stop and take inventory.

So I’ve been doing that lately.

And apparently my career makes absolutely no sense.

For example:

I started working in mental health as a crisis counselor. That work eventually included psychiatric emergencies, suicide interventions, hostage situations, supervision, and developing child and adolescent crisis protocols.

Later, I worked at Vanderbilt, where I became involved in psychiatric admissions and ultimately developed and ran protocols for children and adolescents experiencing behavioral health emergencies at the children’s hospital.

That work resulted in me receiving a prestigious physician award from Vanderbilt.

I am not a physician.

And, in perhaps the most healthcare-worker detail imaginable, I wasn’t able to attend the ceremony to receive the award because I had to work.

There was also the day, while working as a Mobile Crisis supervisor, when someone announced that a police officer was being assaulted outside our building.

We had security monitors. Everyone could see what was happening.

I yelled for someone to call 911 and ran outside.

When I got there, the individual the officer had been escorting was attempting to grab the officer’s gun. I intervened, restrained the individual, and helped stop what could have become an incredibly dangerous situation.

That one eventually resulted in a commendation from the Mayor of Nashville.

Because apparently my career has occasionally included side quests.

Eventually, I went on to oversee psychiatric crisis and transfer protocols for hospitals within a large healthcare system. I learned an enormous amount there about mental health care, leadership, systems, and what happens when systems stop serving the people they were designed to serve.

Eventually, I decided it was time to strike out on my own.

Meanwhile—and this is where the résumé becomes particularly confusing—I was also a magician.

Not as a hobby.

At this point, I’ve performed well over 6,000 shows.

I’ve had the honor of serving as the 108th National President of The Society of American Magicians.

I’ve become a published illustrator.

I’ve become a published author.

I’ve created things.

I’ve built programs.

I’ve worked with people experiencing some of the worst moments of their lives.

I’ve made other people laugh during some of their best.

I’ve spent thousands of hours studying why people think, feel, perceive, believe, communicate, and behave the way they do.

And I’ve spent thousands more figuring out how to make them believe a playing card disappeared.

Oddly enough, those two careers overlap more than you might think.

And there are plenty of other things I could put on this list.

But writing even these down feels strange.

Almost like I need to see the words in front of me to convince myself:

Oh.

I actually did those things.

The Weird Road Here

Maybe the strangest part is remembering where all of this started.

A significant part of this journey was born out of a long period of Major Depressive Disorder when I was younger.

At that point in my life, I certainly wasn’t imagining a future where I would become a therapist, develop crisis programs, perform thousands of magic shows, become the national president of a magic organization, illustrate and write books, perform on stages, and eventually have an agency tell me:

We think there’s something here. Let’s build it.

Life is weird.

And I’m becoming increasingly grateful that it is.

Because the things I once thought were disconnected pieces of my life don’t seem quite so disconnected anymore.

Mental health.

Magic.

Art.

Psychology.

Speaking.

Writing.

Storytelling.

Human behavior.

They’ve all been different ways of exploring essentially the same thing:

People.

How we think.

How we connect.

How we get stuck.

How we change.

How we see the world.

And occasionally, how easily we can be convinced that the quarter was definitely in that hand.

So…What Happens Now?

That’s the exciting part.

I don’t completely know.

ROLA and I are working on developing the next evolution of what I do—speaking to mental health organizations, developing speaking opportunities, performing for the public, building the larger brand around my work, and apparently even creating official merchandise.

Yes.

I may have merch.

This has gotten out of hand.

I suspect quite a bit is going to change over the next three to six months, and I’m excited to share that process as it happens.

But before running headfirst into the next chapter, I want to acknowledge some of the people and organizations responsible for helping me get here.

First, my family, who have been there through every strange career turn, project, show, idea, late night, and “So, I was thinking…” conversation.

House of Cards has given me something incredibly valuable: reps. Lots and lots of reps.

Performing there has pushed my abilities to another level. Just as importantly, I’ve made friends there who encouraged me, challenged me, and helped me begin to feel like a peer rather than someone impersonating one.

That matters more than they probably realize.

I also owe an enormous amount to the Society of American Magicians.

It is the most supportive magic community I have ever been a part of.

The S.A.M. has encouraged me to experiment, create, write, draw, perform, lead, fail, try again, and see where my ideas might go. Without that community, I don’t believe I would have progressed nearly as far in the magical arts, nor developed the confidence to pursue writing and illustration.

One of the things I love most about the S.A.M. is a principle I hope never changes:

Every magician matters, regardless of clout.

And finally, I need to thank my longtime mentor and friend, Antony Gerard.

Antony has taught me more about magic than anyone else on planet Earth.

And when he didn’t know something, he knew where to send me so I could learn it.

He also didn’t simply hand everything over. There were things I had to work for. I had to practice. I had to demonstrate that I was ready before moving on to more advanced techniques.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how valuable that was.

His mentorship, guidance, generosity, and willingness to share what he spent a lifetime learning are things I try to emulate in my own work with other people.

The Next Chapter

So here we are.

I have representation.

Even typing that still feels a little ridiculous.

Maybe eventually I’ll get used to it.

For now, I’m allowing myself to acknowledge that this is a milestone.

Not an ending.

Not an arrival.

Just another strange turn on a road that, in retrospect, seems to make considerably more sense than it did while I was walking it.

I’m excited about what comes next.

I’m excited about bringing together the magician, therapist, artist, speaker, and all the other pieces of myself that I’ve spent years assuming were separate careers.

Apparently, they weren’t.

They were all building toward something.

I’m not entirely sure what that something is yet.

But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.

So I suppose I’d better hold on tight.

Things are about to start moving a little faster.