The Hangar Years
I grew up in an aircraft hangar in Laguna Beach. Not by choice—by necessity. My dad owned a body shop there, and from the moment I could hold a paint stick, I was working.
I was 5, maybe 6 years old, and I'd take those wooden paint mixing sticks and carve them into knives, airplanes, cars—anything my mind could imagine. I'd spend hours creating little worlds out of scrap wood while the sound of sanders and spray guns echoed around me.
One day, I got bored. My dad was working on Laguna Beach PD cars, and I climbed into one of the cruisers. There was a gun mount in the front console. I locked my wrist in it.
Couldn't get it out.
So I did what any 5-year-old would do—I grabbed the police radio and called dispatch. "Uh, hello? I'm stuck in the gun holder. Can someone come unlock me?"
The dispatcher came down, unlocked my arm, and my dad just shook his head. That was the kind of kid I was—curious, reckless, always testing boundaries.
My dad didn't coddle me. When I'd bother him too much, he'd hand me a hammer, a dolly block, some body filler, and an old dented door. "Fix it," he'd say. Maybe to teach me. Probably to get me out of his hair.
When I was 8, he told me to move the Toyota truck. It was a manual transmission. I could barely reach the pedals. I started it up, looked behind me, revved it, dumped the clutch—and went straight into the back of my grandpa's Lincoln.
My dad had JUST finished that Toyota after buying it totaled. And my grandpa's Lincoln? He'd finished that the week before.
I took off running toward the beach as fast as my legs would carry me. I thought for sure he was going to kill me. Everyone came out of the shop to see what the crash was. I felt like I'd run a mile when one of the guys finally caught me and brought me back.
My dad said nothing. Not a word. God was on my side that day. Or my mom talked him down. Either way, I dodged a bullet.
At 11 or 12, I'd drive with him to work. He'd hand me the keys to another Toyota—lifted, 33-inch tires—and say, "Go get me coffee and a doughnut."
On the way to the coffee shop, there was a perfect jump. I hit it every time. One day, my dad asked, "Why are my truck's dumpsters bent?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
I probably got smacked on the back of the head. That was the last coffee run.
We painted countless airplanes together—small Cessnas, Pipers, you name it. We even painted the planes used in the movies Congo and Mulholland Falls. Later, I helped paint a Hummer H1 for the producer of The Hulk. That's when things started taking off for me.
My dad had the most influence on my success in the car and motorcycle industry. He was terrible at giving anyone a day off. Sometimes, when I wouldn't wake up, he'd come into my room, tear my covers off, throw them into the hallway. If I still didn't move, he'd fill his coffee cup with water and splash it right at me.
"Get your ass out of bed. Let's go."
I never realized why I was such a workaholic. Why I pushed so hard to become relevant. Then one day, it hit me: I just wanted my dad to say, "Good job. I'm proud of you."
That was my drive. My focus. My subconscious.
Without that, who knows? I might still be flagging hours, fixing dents in doors. Instead, I'm here—trying to add years to people's lives through mitochondrial research, helping people with critical diseases, building things that matter.
For that part of my life, I have my dad to thank. No water throwing in the morning needed anymore.
But I also owe my mother. She's been in the health and wellness industry for 50 years. Her influence is why I'm diving deep into fulvic acid, supplements, and longevity research today.
My grandfather was a cartoonist for Mighty Mouse before it became Looney Toons—back when it was called Terry Toons. Creativity runs in the blood.
So that's where it all started. A hangar. A paintbrush. And a dad who wouldn't let me sleep in.
The Assault and The Rise
I was 17 when I learned what survival really means.
I was dating a girl. One night, she didn't come home. Her brothers assumed she was with me. She wasn't—I had no idea where she was. But assumptions don't care about truth.
Five of them jumped me.
My mother didn't recognize me when she saw me in the hospital. My jaw was broken and wired shut. I had over 400 stitches inside my mouth—I don't even know the count outside. I spent two months in bed, eating through a straw.
Three of them went to prison. The state prosecutor pressed charges—I didn't even have to ask. That's how bad it was.
I spent the next few years drinking. Partying. Causing trouble.
I didn't know it then, but I was trying to numb the trauma. It's extremely difficult to get over something like that—your body heals, but the anger, the fear, the injustice of it—that sticks with you.
Looking back, I understand the reason behind the behavior. I'm not proud of it. If you experienced that version of me, I apologize. That was a kid trying to figure out how to carry a weight he didn't know how to put down.
But I got through it. And somewhere in that haze, the work started coming.
MTV called. Magazines called. I painted for Pimp My Ride. I traveled the world. I built choppers in Istanbul, luxury cars in Dubai. I became the guy I'd always imagined—successful, recognized, respected.
And I thought I'd left that 17-year-old kid in the hospital bed behind.
I was wrong. Trauma doesn't leave. It just waits.
Today, I can say I've forgiven the people who did that to me.
I haven't forgotten. But I've forgiven them. Because holding onto that anger—holding onto the "why me?"—that's a prison. And I've spent enough time in those.
Forgiveness isn't about them. It's about me. It's about choosing to move forward instead of staying stuck in a moment that's already gone.
That lesson—forgiveness—would come back again and again in my life. I just didn't know it yet.
The Peak and The Fall
By my mid-20s, I was living the dream. Pimp My Ride. Speed Channel. History Channel. MTV. Local news. Bloomberg. 37+ publications featuring my work. I won Truck of the Year at SEMA in 2008. Three Goodguys first-place awards. My name was in magazines across the world.
I painted for Pimp My Ride. I built custom bikes and cars that people stopped to photograph. I worked with world-famous builders. I traveled globally. Istanbul. Dubai. Everywhere the craft took me.
During this era, I also collaborated on some memorable projects: Fifty Frenzy 2 with Brian Pinecone (video production and filming—full credit to the main riders who made that video happen), Lens Moto (motorcycle culture collaboration), and Widow Maker Clothing (lifestyle apparel design partnership). These were team efforts with talented people, and I was honored to contribute.
But I was also partying. A lot. Drinking got in the way of my career—I knew it, but I didn't know it, you know? Looking back now, 100%. I was selfish. I didn't care. We all do dumb things when we're younger.
As of today, I've had maybe 15 drinks in over 10 years. Not because I hit rock bottom—because I finally realized what I was chasing wasn't at the bottom of a bottle.
Then came the night that changed everything.
I was at a party. I found out the main editorial chief of one of the biggest custom car magazines—Mike Alexander—was seeing my girlfriend. I didn't handle it well. I chased him into his house. Bad decision.
That guy had every tool to influence my future. And he did. He wrote about me in the magazine—talking trash, spreading lies, telling anyone in the industry who would listen. I felt like every door I'd worked years to open suddenly slammed shut.
All the respect I'd earned—gone in weeks.
I wanted to leave the industry. I felt like my reputation was destroyed by someone with a platform and an axe to grind.
Mike Alexander, if you're reading this: I apologize.
I was young. I reacted out of ego, not wisdom. You're married to her now—I hope you're both happy. I mean that. We all make mistakes. I made mine. You used your platform the way you saw fit. I can't change the past. But I can own my part in it.
Forgiveness goes both ways. I hope people have forgiven me for being a shithead when I was younger.
The 2008 financial collapse hit. I closed my shops in California. The industry went quiet. My phone stopped ringing.
But here's the thing: that "end" became the beginning of something bigger.
When the US industry shut me out, the world opened up.
The Kidnapping
In 2009, I had a daughter. Her name is Sailor. She was everything.
Her mom and I didn't work out. We separated. We had a custody arrangement.
Then one day, she was gone.
Her mom took her to California. No notice. No permission. Just—gone.
I called the sheriff's office every single day for three months.
"My daughter was taken across state lines without my permission. That's custodial interference. That's illegal."
"We know, Danny. There's nothing we can do."
Every. Single. Day. Same answer.
It was illegal. They admitted it was illegal. But they did nothing.
Then came court.
Friends I trusted—guys I'd worked alongside, built businesses with—stood up as witnesses. But not for me. For her.
They said the letters they'd written on my behalf—letters calling me a fit father, letters defending my character—were written "under duress." That I forced them. That they didn't mean it.
Later, I found out her dad had taken care of my business partner's mortgage. Even put a down payment on a new house for him. Go figure.
The judge ruled. She got full custody. Sailor was gone.
The last phone call, she said: "You're not my dad."
That sentence ended me.
I realized later that I mourned her like a death. That's what it felt like. For years, if I saw a little girl walking with her father, it would dismantle my composure instantly. I couldn't handle it.
Still, to this day, it kills me.
So I left.
North Dakota: Rock Bottom
I didn't go to North Dakota for a fresh start. I went there to disappear.
I spent two weeks building a trailer in my driveway, thinking I'd have somewhere to park it when I got there. I loaded it up and drove blind—no job, no place to stay, just going.
When I arrived, I found out it would cost over $1,000 a month just to park the trailer. I'd just blown everything I had on a custody battle I lost. I had maybe $300 to my name.
Great. Of course it does.
So I sold the trailer. Kept what I could fit in my Dodge truck. And drove.
A temp agency got me work. Some decent guys let me crash in their hotel room for free for a few days. I got hired full-time—low pay, but I was grateful. Got my own hotel room.
Finally. Maybe things are turning around.
Two weeks in, my phone rang.
My grandpa died.
I was devastated. Are you serious? Now? Why now? I'm already lost. I'm already broke. And now this.
I drove back to Idaho for the funeral. Said my goodbyes. Came back to North Dakota.
Okay. Reset. Let's try again.
The hotel said no more long-term stays. I had a truck and a tent. I found a spot by some railroad tracks—$20 a night.
When I ran out of money, I started sleeping in my truck near the job site, hoping no one would notice.
They noticed. Some guys wanted to help. Some thought it was funny.
Cool. Now I'm entertainment.
The shop manager offered me an old single-wide trailer to fix up. Holes in the floor. Mouse shit everywhere. I tried for two days. Couldn't do it. Too disgusting.
So I found a field in the middle of nowhere. Broke a trail with my truck. Set up camp where no one could see me.
I got promoted to shop manager. Started making better money.
Finally. Maybe I can catch a break here.
But every dollar went to my attorney and the loans from the custody fight. Still broke. Still in a tent.
I bought a welder on a trailer, fixed it up, parked it at the shop. There was a guy who'd been there four years—pissed that some kid who'd been there two months was now his manager.
Monday morning, I came in. My trailer tires were shredded.
Oh, come on. Really?
I watched him pull up. Door opens. His glasses go flying. He crawled into the office on his hands and knees, yelling to the bosses that I was beating him up.
They sent me home. Fired.
Great. Here we go again.
But my old boss called that night, laughing his ass off.
"That guy deserved every bit of it. Go see my cousin. He's got a welding job for you. $125 an hour."
Okay. Maybe not the end of the world.
Blessing in disguise.
I had to wait two weeks to take the 6G welding test. My stick welding was rusty—I hadn't done it in 15 years.
Two weeks. No income. Living in a tent. Waiting.
Just keep your head down. Two weeks. You can do two weeks.
Then the downpour hit.
I'm in my tent. Everything I own—every piece of clothing, every tool, every scrap of dignity—is sitting in a foot of water. I'm soaked. Freezing. Waiting for a welding test. Homeless. Embarrassed.
This was the lowest point of my life.
I stood in that field, water up to my ankles, staring at everything I had left in the world floating around me, and I thought: This is it. This is rock bottom. It can't get worse than this.
I had a choice: quit or build.
I drove to the hardware store with my last $200. Bought steel. Bought an axle. Drove back to that field—didn't even know who owned it—and started welding.
No permits. No plans. Just muscle memory and spite.
If I'm going down, I'm going down swinging.
Two days later, I had a trailer. No plates, no registration, barely functional. But it was MINE. And it was dry.
Test day came. Boss came out, looked at my work, handed me a paper. "Sign here."
I was hired. $125 an hour.
Okay. Maybe this is where it turns.
It didn't turn.
I rented a room. Woke up one morning—my stereo was stolen. Suspected the landlord. Next morning, my truck was gone. So was the landlord. Day after that, eviction notice. He hadn't paid rent in three months.
Of course. Why would anything go right?
No truck. No place to live. Nothing.
Again.
I got a train ticket home with help from my parents. Saved up. Built a welding truck. Went back. Oilfield slowed down. Work ended.
I came home to Idaho.
That year in North Dakota was hell.
It felt like every time I got close to standing back up, something knocked me down again. Why me? What am I supposed to learn from this?
But I'll tell you what it did: it built character. It built strength. It built wisdom. It made me the man I am today.
I felt sorry for myself. But I got through it.
You know why? Because I didn't have a choice. When you're standing in a flooded field at rock bottom, you either drown or you build a raft.
It's not how a man falls. It's how he gets up.
Rebirth: Istanbul, Dubai, and Water
Around 2010, I got a call: "Come to Istanbul. We need a designer."
I partnered with TT Customs Istanbul—a custom motorcycle shop working with world-famous designer Tolga Ozturk. We built choppers that ended up in Easyrider magazine. We partnered with West Coast Choppers Europe and Antonio Blanco. I helped secure a Custom Chrome dealership in Europe.
I assisted in the grand opening of the Harley-Davidson dealership in Istanbul. We did multiple news features and international publicity. It was a whirlwind.
I also had involvement with the bike builds used in the movie Untouchable.
This was around the same time I started Kustom King USA as a clothing company collaboration with Tolga. We designed bold, unapologetic apparel that matched the bikes we built.
In 2018, I moved to Dubai.
I lived on the Palm Islands—Palm Jumeirah. I worked at TT Customs Dubai, assisting in business deals, purchasing international investments, painting cars and trucks, designing choppers.
I worked directly with local police, designing vehicles for law enforcement. That was surreal—going from a tent in North Dakota to designing police vehicles in one of the wealthiest cities on earth.
I came back to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, in 2020. Since then, I've been building one, maybe two cars a year. Custom cars. Bikes. But something else was calling me.
I started studying water. And the human body.
I built water management systems that increased the electrical charge in water, structured the molecules. But that research led me to something even bigger: fulvic acid and humic acid.
I believe these are two of the most powerful compounds on the planet.
In 2019, I launched Pure Path Northwest—a company focused on selling fulvic and humic acid in powder form. I did product research with plants, ground soil, water retention, nutrient uptake. I started exploring the fertilizer side.
But then I realized the potential benefits for human consumption.
So I started a supplement company and lifestyle brand.
I want to mimic AG1's model with what I believe is the ultimate powdered supplement in history. My flagship product is the FulviDerm skincare line—a proprietary cold-water extraction process that achieves 5x bioavailability.
I've spent 6 years researching water, minerals, and cellular health. Fulvic and humic acid show signs of breaking up cancer cells, supporting mitochondrial repair, acting as powerful antioxidants, aiding in anti-aging, improving skin health—the list goes on.
If I can save one person's life in my lifetime of owning this company—if one person gets a second chance because of something we created—then every dollar, every hour, every sleepless night was 100% worth it.
Because that person has loved ones who would've given everything they owned for one more day. And that alone makes it all worth it.
The Present: Building Forward
Today, I'm in my mid-40s.
I've built a solid network—somewhere around $2.5 million. I'm not retired, but I've built my life to a point where I can do what I want.
And what I want is to keep building—businesses that HELP people.
I've been blessed with an eye for design and an eye for details. My house in Coeur d'Alene has become somewhat of an icon in the city—it's talked about often and has very good reviews. Design matters. Details matter. At the end of the day, they're the signature you leave behind.
I've flipped 5 houses profitably. I've owned a construction company. I've worked in the oilfield across North Dakota and Texas. I've built custom motorcycles in Istanbul and luxury vehicles in Dubai. I've launched wellness brands and developed proprietary extraction processes.
Now, I'm designing YardSnap and SnowSnap mobile applications—tools to help people manage their properties and connect with service providers efficiently.
I'm also working on health and wellness apps, but I'll leave the details in suspense. If you want to know what's next, keep checking back. Or sign up for the newsletter. Big things are coming.
None of this happens without the people who stood by me when I had nothing to offer in return.
Mom and Dad—you threw me in that truck every morning, even when I didn't want to go. You taught me that work isn't punishment—it's purpose. You bailed me out when I was camping in a field in North Dakota. You never gave up on me, even when I'd given up on myself.
To my friends—the ones who let me crash on their couch, who lent me money when I was broke, who believed in me when the industry didn't—I wouldn't be here without you. You know who you are.
To everyone who's been part of this journey—customers, collaborators, mentors, even the ones who doubted me—thank you. You all shaped me into the man I am today.
Epilogue: Love, Forgiveness, and What's Next
Sailor, if you're reading this someday—I'm here. I've always been here.
The day you turn 18, I'll do everything in my power to have you in my life. But reaching out now feels selfish. If your life is stable, if you're happy—who am I to shatter that with a truth you might not be ready for?
For all I know, your mother told you I'm dead. So I wait. And I hope. I hope you're loved. I hope you're thriving. And when you're ready, I'll be ready too.
Life is the most precious thing we own.
It's the only thing you'd give to someone you love. And if you have someone in your life you love so much you'd give your life for them—my friend, I believe you've figured out life.
I think our ultimate test here on earth is love. Unconditional love. So we must forgive. We must grow. We must keep moving.
I've forgiven the guys who beat me at 17. I've forgiven Mike Alexander. I'm working on forgiving the people who testified against me in court. And I'm trying to forgive myself for all the years I lost with Sailor.
Forgiveness isn't weakness. It's freedom.
Tomorrow is a new day. Things get better. Giving up is never an option.
If you're reading this and you're at rock bottom—I've been there. Tent in a field. Water rising. Alone. Broke. Devastated.
But I got up. And you can too.
Big things are coming. Stay tuned.
"It's not how a man falls. It's how he gets up."