Healing in the Current: How Fly Fishing Helped Me Reclaim My Life
There’s a story I don’t tell very often—not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it’s heavy. And for a long time, I didn’t think it mattered to anyone but me. But over the years, as I’ve stood beside clients on rivers across Northern California, I’ve learned that almost everyone is carrying something. Grief, trauma, regret—whatever name you give it, it has weight. And sometimes, hearing someone else’s story helps lighten your own.
So here’s mine.
I grew up in a world that shifted underneath me before I even understood what stability felt like. My grandmother was the heart of our neighborhood—she lived right across the street and owned the local restaurant where my mom worked long hours to keep food on the table. She was strong, warm, and rooted in family. Then, in a single violent moment, she was taken from us. Murdered. The Case is still unsolved today
The fallout from that shattered everything. Our family, already trying to get by, spiraled. Grief didn’t come in soft waves—it crashed down and never let up. The trauma lingered, unspoken and unresolved, a storm that lived in the background of every day. And when you’re young and hurting, and no one around you knows how to talk about it, you learn to keep things inside. You build walls. You stop trusting peace when you feel it.
Eventually, I started looking for ways to dull the pain. Addiction doesn’t show up with a warning sign. It sneaks in quietly, promising relief but delivering destruction. I chased numbing over healing. I made choices that hurt others and myself. Self-destruction became a habit—because when you’re constantly fighting memories, the idea of a future feels like a joke.
For a long time, I was just surviving. But somewhere along the way, something started to change. I can’t point to one moment—there wasn’t some big movie-scene epiphany—but I remember one day realizing how long it had been since I felt anything real. I missed the smell of pine trees. I missed the sound of water tumbling over rocks. I missed feeling alive.
So I went back outside.
At first, it wasn’t about fishing. It was just being in nature again. Walking trails. Sitting in silence. Letting myself feel small in the best possible way. And then, like it was waiting for me all along, I picked up a fly rod again.
Fly fishing did something for me that therapy and words hadn’t yet. It pulled me fully into the moment. The precision, the rhythm, the focus—it demanded my attention in a way nothing else could. For the first time in years, I wasn’t thinking about the past or worrying about the future. I was just… here. Watching the water. Feeling the line. Breathing.
That’s mindfulness, even if I didn’t have the language for it then. Fly fishing grounds you. It slows your thoughts and forces you into the present. There’s a simplicity to it that cuts through all the noise. Whether you’re stalking wild trout in a small creek or swinging flies through a steelhead run, it becomes a form of meditation. A moving prayer. A reminder that peace isn’t gone—it’s just been waiting for you.
I believe the outdoors—especially rivers—hold healing power. Water is always moving forward. It doesn’t rush, but it doesn’t stop either. It carves new paths through even the hardest rock. And when you stand in it long enough, you start to believe maybe you can too.
That belief changed everything for me.
It didn’t happen overnight. Healing’s not linear. I still carry scars, and I still have days when the weight tries to creep back in. But I’m no longer running. I’m not numbing. I’m living—and I get to do it alongside my wife, Ashley, our daughter Olive, and our dog Lola. I traded a cubicle and chaos for a drift boat and a deeper purpose.
Today, through Bock Fly Fishing, I help others find their way into that same stillness. I guide trips, teach clinics, and create spaces where people—especially those who’ve carried trauma—can reconnect with themselves through fly fishing. It’s not just about catching fish. It’s about remembering you’re still here. That your story isn’t over. That beauty and joy and presence are still available to you.
I don’t need to know your whole story to know you’re welcome on the river. I’ve been there—in the darkness, the confusion, the hurt. And if fly fishing can offer even a moment of peace in the middle of that? Then it’s worth sharing.
So if you’re carrying something heavy—if the past keeps following you or you feel like you’re just barely holding it together—I want you to know there’s a place for you in this sport, on these waters, and in this community. You don’t need to be an expert. You just need to show up.