If you’d rather watch than read, I shared this update in two places: a shorter 17-minute edited video on YouTube (link) and a longer 34-minute version on Twitch (link). Both cover the same heart I’ll share here, but if you prefer to listen, those are ready for you.

The Story So Far

For four years I’ve split my world in two: life inside and outside of my stream room. In my office, it’s manageable. I can handle it. I’m pretty good at it, and good things are happening. But outside the office door there’s always some difficult stuff. And for a long time, that’s all I could share: “life outside the office door is hard”.

My wife has been going through mental health struggles for a long time. You’ve probably seen it on stream—where I had to end early, or I was kind of falling apart. “You look tired, Ninja.” Yeah. There’s stuff going on.

Last week it all came to a head. Things were bad, then worse, then worse again. More hospital trips, more medical emergencies, more bad stuff. I can’t get too specific but suffice it to say: the bad things were getting worse.

On Friday I had enough. I sent a message to a friend: “I don’t want to be here anymore. I want out. I can’t take it. There’s no hope left in me for this situation and I feel absolutely trapped.”

Their response was: “Let’s get a GiveSendGo going. You need a break. She needs dedicated care.”

Incredulously I said, “Do what you want. It’s $27,000, and we’d have to raise it over a weekend. Go nuts.” We’d been talking about it for months and it never seemed like it would happen – especially since we needed Anita’s permission to share her side of the story. You can’t just say, “Hey friends, we’ve got stuff going on—send a pile of money.” You have to explain.

After she finally allowed part of her story, my friend got to work. (I recently wrote a post from my perspective, and an update.) I didn’t have much in the tank to help. If I was raising money for someone else, I’d blast it everywhere—but I couldn’t. I wrote something, edited a bit, but it was my friend Chantal who set it up, made calls, sent messages, the works.

Then, unsurprisingly, she got super sick. I’ve told you before that it seems anyone who stands with me seems to get annihilated. She ended up doing this from bed. Still, within three days we raised $17,000 which allowed her to begin with a 30 day stay. The total for 60 days is $27,000. As of today we’ve raised almost $20,000. (GiveSendGo + money sent to me directly).

We still need another $7–9k but more donations are incoming. Some people are sorting out bank issues—fraud flags, closed banks—but they’ve made pledges. I’m hopeful we can raise the rest within a week so she knows how long she’ll be there. It would be hard not knowing if you’re going home in 29 days or in 60.

The Move-In

Yesterday was rough. The speed really hit our family. I texted my kids something like, “Mom’s getting ready to go,” and the response was, “What do you mean—now?” One was in school, one at work. My son, who was scheduled said, “I’m not going to work. I’m going to come say goodbye.”

The centre is an hour away. She packed her bags, we got it together, and drove through Ottawa rush hour. When we arrived, I parked, took out her bags, put them on the entryway, met the manager who simply said: “Are you ready to go?” Anita said yes. “Okay, say goodbye to your family.” Kiss, hug. “Okay, bye. You won’t be talking to her for two weeks.” Click went the front door.

That’s how fast it was. From pulling up to goodbye—maybe six minutes. Probably less.

I sat in the car, spun. To get home I went into autopilot. My son tried to talk to me, but I had seven million thoughts at the same time and was barely able to form sentences.

The Mix of Emotions (Edison)

I think one reason I was so shook was that it reminded me of when my son Edison died: that mix of grief and relief. For the last couple years when he was here, he was self-harming, violent, destroying our home, physically assaulting me—unsafe. Then, one day while I was streaming, one of my kids said, “Dad, you better come upstairs.” and the police informed us he was dead. My wife fell apart, but I was hit with a mix of emotions – one of which was relief that his suffering and our chaos had stopped. But also grief, because he was my son, a good kid for a long time, and he died alone in another city of a drug overdose.

I remember when we had to go down to get his stuff and saw where he was living. It was quintessentially miserable. Open the fridge: empty—except for five giant packs of cheese. Dishes gross, floors gross. We looked through his things. Bottom drawer: the government-issued safe-injection kit—needles, spoons (in rainbow colors), alcohol swabs. Just… awful. Everything he owned fit in a single grocery bag.

I’m telling that because dropping Anita off brought similar feelings: sadness, relief, fear, hope—all mashed together.

The Six-Minute Goodbye & The Old Ritual

We went from “I don’t want to do this anymore” to “we have a GiveSendGo,” to “the money is raised,” to “the doctor says she can go straight from hospital to Valiant,” to “pack your stuff,” to “goodbye”—in what felt like a few hours. Then six minutes at the door. Gone.

As I drove home, my brain did something weird. Years ago, when I’d visit Anita in the hospital during that first, very intense 12-week stay, I started a ritual: if it was a really hard night, I’d stop for a McDonald’s chicken sandwich on the way home. “Chicken sandwich equals sad.” became a thing.

Yesterday, driving home from Valiant, without even thinking, I got a hankering for a chicken sandwich. We swung by Popeyes. Different sandwich, same ache. And it hit me: when she was in public care, I got the cheap McDonald’s sandwich. Now she’s in this fancy private facility… Popeyes—the “fancy” one. It made me laugh.

Where We Are Now

Tonight, I’m going to go upstairs and clean her “depression nest” try to get life put back together.

It’s hard not to think, “This is the solution.” We thought that before. It wasn’t long ago that she spent three months in a “top-notch” government hospital—even missing Christmas at home—and our hopes were high then. But, it was the worst. The environment wasn’t good, the doctor didn’t seem to know or care, and she came out worse.

Now, she’s locked into this is a new private facility. It’s Christian-friendly (not exclusively, but they have Christian care available). Of all places, this seems like the place to be. But I don’t want to say or even think, “This will fix everything.” That’s not realistic and it’s not fair to her.

So that’s the update.

Here’s the link if you’d like to help: https://www.givesendgo.com/GJNMD

Thank you to everyone who donated, helped, shared, or prayed. All of it matters. You brought her care we couldn’t have gotten otherwise, right when things were really, really bad. You were integral to that, and I’m very thankful.

Q&A Bits You Asked Me

What’s it like there?
It’s like a big house, not a cold facility. A home. There’s a bed, a pool, a workout centre, nature. Dedicated staff, all the time. It looks nice.

Are you okay?
Honestly—no. I’m messed up. Yes, God’s in charge, the Spirit comforts, the community encourages—and that’s all true. But there’s so much, and so much of it is big: Anita’s struggles, raising all that money, four conferences coming up (I’m keynoting one), my daughter going to college, dental surgery (front tooth stuff while I’m speaking—great), TACO’s next phase and grant writing, The Church Digital wanting to partner with us (they want to use my book globally, maybe classes)…

Any one of those things is a lot—and I didn’t even mention content creation and streaming, my own mental and physical health, caring for my family, my son’s car blowing up and needing a ride to get another one. That’s all happening right now.

I feel buried. Like being locked in a coffin and thrown in a hole. I’m clawing through the wood and then six feet of dirt: figuring out where to put it so I don’t suffocate, how to get to the other side, how to get out so I don’t let everyone down. So much is outside my power.

But I can say this: “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8–9). That has been my reality for a long while. Wounded, yes. Baffled, yes. Exhausted, yes. But not destroyed, not despairing, not abandoned.

The only way I can take one more step is by the miraculous and consistent grace of my Heavenly Father. Over and over, His strength has held me when I’ve had none of my own. He has also given me strenght through your prayers, giving, messages, and kindness.

Thank you for standing with us.