Bless me father for I have sinned…that’s how Catholic confessions start. My first of which took place at the age of seven. Seven-year-olds are big time sinners, don’t you know? For those of you who aren’t Catholic, confession takes place in a wooden box with three doors. The priest's door is in the middle, with doors on each side. I guess it was supposed to be a time saver – having one person in the box telling their deepest, darkest secrets while the other waited their turn.

It was pretty cool, because while I was in the box waiting my turn, I could hear the sins of my counterpart who was running their mouth two doors over. It was nice to know the sins of others. Because I was a terrible disobeyer of my parents, which, according to my religion, would get me a first-class ticket to hell. Imagine that…burning in flames for all of eternity because I didn’t clean my room, fought with my brother, and snatched a cookie or two when no one was looking.

Omerta is an Italian word – which means STFU. Snitches get stitches, and don’t be ratting yourself out either…unless you are in confession. Then it’s okay. The guy who is in the box listening to it all – well he is sworn to secrecy. And, if he were to ever violate that oath, then he’d be sitting in hell right next to me. It took me until I was at least 12 years old to realize the unbridled stupidity of it all.

But even at 19, when I took my grandmother to the church on a Saturday, I went into the confessional. The only sin I’d confess was not going to church, and I’d get into a convo with a guy on the other side of the screen about it. An old Italian fella who wore a fedora and said a weekly mass in Italian – and he knew exactly who I was. So he’d chat it up with me a little…always wanting to know how much I was putting in the basket. Business is business.

I got up at 7 AM on Sunday. Took a hot shower. I usually don’t shave on Saturdays – but this’d be an exception. I thought about ceremoniously dressing up – but that’d be overkill. So I went with jeans, running sneakers, and my comfy blue Under Armour Sweatshirt. I made a coffee in my French Press. Pete’s Big Bang Medium Roast that I grind at Market Basket. I took my dog out for a walk – oh yeah – I got a dog in September. I’ve been meaning to write about him. His name is Louie.

It was a silent morning. The only noise was the words I was putting together in my head. I’ve done a lot of public speaking over the years…but not like this. You see, public speaking is just a dance with words. A performance. If you say exactly what people want to hear – you get high marks. At 9 AM, I’d be walking into a different environment – one where people would be listening to me. But this time I wouldn’t be saying what they wanted to hear. Rather, I’d be saying what I wanted to say.

I put a third cup of coffee in my silver Yeti travel mug and made my way to the executive conference room at Emerson Hospital. It's customary for those who go a year without drinking to deliver an address of sorts – and since January 25th was my 366th day without drinking…it was my turn.

In job interviews, we say what’ll get us hired. To our bosses, we say what they want to hear. Even at 12 years old, I knew enough not to tell Monsignor Amico what was really going on. So, for the most part, you, I, and everyone just walk around talking nonsense. Only letting morsels of the real story out…and even that…only once in a while.

On Sunday morning, I talked openly for about half an hour. There were people in the room whom I know well, some a little, and at least one dude whom I’d never seen before in my life. I talked about the journey – my life before this – which wasn’t a life at all. It’s really interesting when part of you dies, and you realize that it was the part of yourself that you wanted to kill.

One of the songs that I’ve always found fascinating is Live Like You Were Dying by Tim McGraw. Who the hell wouldn’t want to try to go 2.7 seconds on a Bull named Fu Manchu? Two weeks ago, I went to TD to see the professional bull riding thing. 2.7 seconds is a long time in that world. I won’t be doing that – but it’s safe to say that I found my Fu Manchu. I looked him right in the eyes.

My Fu Manchu isn’t a bull. It’s honesty. It’s walking into rooms without armor. It’s saying the thing that makes my throat tighten. It’s not hiding behind credentials, titles, jokes, or a drink. It’s choosing presence over performance. I rode that thing for thirty minutes in a hospital conference room, and I stayed on.

What surprised me most wasn’t that I could do it. It was how the room changed when I did. Nobody shifted in their seat. Nobody checked their phone. Nobody coughed to break the tension. They leaned in. Some nodded. One guy stared at the floor like he’d just been handed a mirror he wasn’t ready for. I stopped what I was saying for a second and told him that even though it was his first time there and nobody knew him, everyone in that room needed him there.

That’s the opposite of confession as I knew it. No wooden box. No screen. No priest sworn to secrecy. Just a bunch of people, in comfy chairs, listening to someone finally tell the truth. And here’s the twist: I didn’t feel judged. I felt understood. The very thing seven-year-old me feared most turned out to be the thing that saved me.

Hell is not fire. It’s pretending. It’s walking around speaking in safe sentences, living a half-life, keeping the real story locked behind polite smiles. Heaven, on the other hand, looks a lot like a Sunday morning in January – coffee in a Yeti, a dog named Louie at home, and a room full of people who don’t need you to be impressive. They just need you to be there.

I didn’t need a Rosary. I didn’t need applause. Just a bull named Fu Manchu.

A Bull Named Fu Manchu

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