Finding Purpose
Medication, Dependency, and Facing the Mirror
After my breakdown at work, I was officially placed on leave. I was prescribed antidepressants—sertraline, the generic for Zoloft. Taking that first pill was harder than I thought it would be. It made everything feel real. Like I had to accept that something was actually wrong.
I’d struggled with substance use before—especially after I tore my labrum and had surgery. That’s when the pills started. Vicodin, prescribed for pain. But the real relief wasn’t from the pain in my shoulder—it was from the pain in my soul.
They numbed everything. And for the first time in years, not feeling felt like peace.
Eventually, it wasn’t just Vicodin. I moved on to muscle relaxers. I wouldn’t say I was addicted, but I definitely developed a dependency. That was my truth. I thought I had control, thought I had an edge over it. I didn’t drink or pop pills constantly—but I didn’t want to stop either. I didn’t see a problem.
I had a wife. A job. Healthy kids. A house. I wasn’t some guy panhandling on the corner. I thought I had it locked in. I thought I was good.
But I wasn’t.
Time off work gave me space to reflect. I took the Jayco to Reno for Trey’s World Series tournament. He was playing for a top-tier team out of Walnut Creek called The Nines. It was my first real outing since being officially labeled a depressed, anxious person. A guy who needs meds to be okay.
I loved being with my boys, but I craved adult company too. I was in Reno, after all—the biggest little city in the world.
I ran into a few of the Nines’ dads in the casino mezzanine. I greeted them, tried to connect, but one of them made it very clear: “Alright, bud, have a good night.” Translation: You’re lingering. You’re not welcome here.
I got the message.
I told them I was heading to the tables, but truth is, I didn’t even have table money. I was on leave, making $20 an hour. I didn’t know if I’d even have a job to come back to. The market had crashed, I was in the middle of a divorce, and the financial settlement wasn’t helping my security either.
Still, after several appointments and honest conversations with professionals, I was cleared to return to work.
But the fear didn’t stop.
I worried about what people would say. What they’d ask. I’d lie awake at night, imagining conversations—feeling dread over judgment.
One of my therapists helped me prepare for that. We came up with a response. Something like:
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m working with professionals right now. What I need most from you is support. If I need advice in the future, I’ll come to you. Thank you for being here.”
That helped. It gave me a boundary and a way to protect my peace.
December 1st was my first day back at work.
December 2nd, I met with the co-team mom Jessica S.—my soon-to-be ex-wife—to notarize our divorce settlement.
Ironically, December 2nd was also the anniversary of our wedding. We had gotten married at the courthouse years earlier, months before the actual celebration.
She said it was the only day she had available. Coincidence?
I don’t think so. The universe can be a cold, ruthless teacher.
That day, I sent 25% of my life savings over to her in one transaction. I had just come out of a mental health crisis, was on antidepressants, broke, and now officially getting divorced.
That day was one of the saddest days of my life.
It was all there, in writing. The official failure of my marriage. My mistakes. My grief. My loss.
Even the wording on the documents was changed the day before I signed, but at that point, it didn’t matter. I would’ve signed away everything—I was defeated.
2023: Healing Through the Game
2023 was the year I committed to healing. I made a promise to myself: be the best version of me. For my kids, for my community, but most importantly—for me.
The boys’ birthdays had just passed. That meant one thing: Little League season.
I signed on to coach the 2023 Sundown Major White Sox. And I told myself before the season even started: this would be my last year coaching. It was Ivey’s final year in the Major Division at Sundown Little League. I wanted to go out with intention. With presence. With purpose.
I poured everything into that team. All the reading I’d done on leadership, child development, mentorship… all of it came together. Years of experience, pain, love, growth—I gave it to those kids. And they gave me everything they had in return.
They were “yes coach” kind of kids.
For those who’ve worked with youth before, you know how rare that is. No knuckleheads. Just pure-hearted, hard-working kids who wanted to play the game and do their best.
We had a solid coaching squad—Manager/ Coach Mike Valverde, Coach Fabian Contreras, Coach Ruben Chavez. Gentlemen, it was an honor. Coaching with you was easy because we were all in it for the same reason: the kids.
That year wasn’t just about baseball. It was about redemption.
In 2021, we’d experienced the Tournament of Champions with the Sundown Major Phillies.
In 2022, we took 2nd place with the Major Padres.
In 2023, we wanted it all.
And this time, we had the roster, the experience, and the unity to make it happen.
I hope those kids had as much fun as I did. I truly lived in the moment, savoring every practice, every game, every cheer from the dugout. Knowing it was my final season made it that much sweeter.
Something magical happened that year, too. My current partner, Salina Ros, came into the picture. She supported me. She cheered for Ivey. She brought her kids to the games, and they loved it. They got hooked on the energy. The snacks. The joy. They’d ask, “Coach Will, when’s the next game?”
We went on to win our division. League champions.
We represented Sundown in the Tournament of Champions. We weren’t satisfied—we wanted more. But everything comes to an end. We lost to Sunset in a close game and were eliminated by Linden—home of the Aaron Judge.
But we held our heads high. We finished 3th in the district, and we lost to two excellent teams. That made it easier to stomach.
We celebrated like champs.
We played like champs.
We were champs.
And no one can take that from us.
Thank you to the kids, the families, and the coaches. You helped me find purpose. You helped me heal. You helped me grow into the version of myself I always hoped I could become.
You saved my life.
2024: A New Chapter, A New Banner
In 2024, I had every intention of just being a dad. After all, I’d promised myself that 2023 would be my final season of coaching. I’d given it everything.
But the universe had other plans.
A vacancy popped up in the Juniors Division—13- and 14-year-olds. The call to serve was too strong to ignore. These kids weren’t just players—they were entering a pivotal, identity-shaping time of life. They were navigating puberty, pressure, and independence. Coaching them wasn’t just about the game—it was about guidance.
So, I stepped up again.
Coaching the 2024 Sundown Junior Yankees was a completely different beast. These weren’t “yes coach” kids. These were teens, and with that came pushback, attitude, and raw emotions. I had to dig deep into my reserves—of energy, patience, empathy.
Some days, I felt like I was carrying the entire team’s spirit on my shoulders. At Western, I swear, it was my energy alone willing those kids to compete.
But the hard work paid off.
We came together. We grew together. We dropped the egos, embraced the grind, and focused on the goal. And we didn’t just play—we dominated.
We went 4–0 in the tournament of champions and made history.
The Sundown Junior Yankees became the first Juniors TOC champions in nearly a decade.
And our coaching staff? We made history too.
Coach Jason Stenson, Manager/Coach Erick Culpepper, and I became the first all-African American coaching staff in our league’s history to bring home a banner.
To me, that is what a team is—coming together to accomplish a mission bigger than ourselves.
Some of our players had been through tough seasons in previous years, battling on other great Sundown squads. They gave their blood, sweat, and tears. This win? It was for them. For everyone who ever gave their all and just fell short.
We kept that same squad together for the All-Star Tournament and finished as runner-up. We were just one step away from glory—but we still walked away as winners.
And we celebrated like it.
I promised the team that if we won TOCs, I’d take them to Six Flags. And I’m a man of my word. My partner Lina and I rolled deep—me, her, and a gang of teens on a wild, joy-filled adventure. That trip was a memory-maker. We laughed, we bonded, and for a day, we left it all behind.
That’s what it’s about.
Giving Back: Full Circle
Volunteering at Sundown Little League isn’t just something I do. It’s a part of who I am.
That league—and those kids—saved my life.
They gave me purpose when I thought I had none. They reminded me that joy still existed. That I still existed.
I owe them everything.
Through every swing, every pitch, every dugout pep talk—I found myself again. I found the version of Will who gives back, who leads with love, who lifts up the next generation because no one should have to feel as low as I once did.
Final Chapter: From Rock Bottom to Rising
If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this—through the divorce, the depression, the mental breakdowns, the coaching, the wins, the heartbreaks—it’s this:
Life will knock you down.
Hard.
Repeatedly.
And often when you least expect it.
But you don’t have to stay down.
I’ve faced more than a few rock bottoms. The night I nearly ended it all… that was one of them. Signing my divorce papers on what should’ve been an anniversary—that was another. Sitting at work, overwhelmed, shaking, unable to breathe… that was yet another.
But every single time, the universe sent me a reminder.
A call from my son.
A hug from a player.
A smile from a teammate.
A moment of stillness that said: Not yet. Not like this.
What I thought was the end turned out to be the beginning. The beginning of deeper healing, of self-forgiveness, of reconnecting with my kids, my purpose, my identity.
I’ve been forced to face truths I didn’t want to admit.
I wasn’t loving myself.
I was depending on substances to feel normal.
I had let go of the man I wanted to be.
But now?
Now I’m rebuilding—stone by stone, swing by swing, game by game.
The kids I coach don’t know how much they’ve done for me. They see me as “Coach Will”—but I see them as my lifeline. My little angels in cleats and uniforms who reminded me why I fight. Why I stay.
I’ve realized that healing isn’t a destination—it’s a daily choice. Some days are beautiful. Some days are heavy. But every day I wake up and try again… that’s a victory.
In the process, I’ve found joy again.
In Ivey’s swing.
In Trey’s smile.
In Lina’s support.
In every high-five after a win, and even the tough team talks after a loss.
I’ve got more growing to do. I’m not perfect—never will be. But I’ve come a long way from the man staring at the kitchen floor, ready to give up.
Now, I’m standing.
I’m showing up.
And I’m coaching—on and off the field.
To anyone reading this who’s been in that dark place—know this:
You are not alone.
You are not weak for feeling broken.
And you are not beyond repair.
Your comeback might not look like mine. But it’s possible. And when you can’t find the strength to rise, find something—or someone—to rise for.
For me, it was my boys.
My team.
My community.
And eventually… for myself.
Thank you to everyone who stood by me.
To those who stepped in when I couldn’t stand on my own.
To those who cheered me on, even in silence.
The story’s not over.
I’m still writing it—day by day.
And now? Now, I’m playing to win.
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