Finding Clarity and Wisdom Through Life's Storms

Brad taking Gatehouse volunteers and staff through Shaolin movements

Dear Reader,

While the following message is that of encouragement, inspiration, and hope, it does include sensitive subjects like suicide. If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts, please know that help is available. You are not alone in your struggle.

Suicide is a serious issue. If you’re struggling, please reach out to a trusted friend, family member, or mental health professional. You can also call or text 988 for confidential support. If you see this symbol, it means that person—or someone in their organization—is trained to speak openly, compassionately, and safely about thoughts of suicide. There are over 2.5 million suicide first aid caregivers worldwide. You are truly not alone. It’s always okay to seek help—there are people ready to listen and walk with you through this.

My Story

“You have cancer,” Doctor Chan said. Those three words turned my world upside down. It was Christmas 1980. I was fifteen years old.

Loneliness suddenly became an uninvited companion, not born from solitude but from a profound sense of disconnection. Despite being surrounded by people, I felt adrift, cut off from the rhythm of 'normal life' and the identity I had only just begun to carve out for myself. My body turned into a battlefield, assaulted by a shadowy force that left lasting scars—not just on my flesh, but etched deeply into my mind and soul.

I endured nine grueling months of chemotherapy and radiation, trying to uphold social status in high school, clinging to the hope that the worst would be behind me. Surviving cancer should have felt like a victory, a doorway to a fresh start. But the reality was far from triumphant. The lingering shadow of trauma echoed through my life for over a decade, distorting my outlook and stifling my ability to embrace life fully.

The fractures in my family didn’t heal through it all; instead, they deepened. Two years after I recovered, my parents separated, and I couldn’t shake the haunting thought that my illness had been the breaking point. Their split left me untethered, stepping into a world without a map, no clear direction—just a vast, uncharted future stretching before me. And with it came a new, sharper loneliness—the kind that sinks deep into your soul when there’s no one to share your pain, your fragile dreams, or the fears that quietly consume you.

I tried to leave it all behind, rush ahead of the trauma, the guilt, and the pain. But no matter how much space I tried to create, it never left me. Fear underpinned my existence, locking me into a job in the trades, far from the creative life my spirit yearned for. My five-year relationship in my early twenties mirrored the volatility I’d grown up with—a cycle of affection and conflict that left me feeling trapped. My deep yearnings to love and be loved seemed to be receding farther and farther out of reach with each passing year. 

By my late twenties, I realized that no one was coming to save me, and I was becoming more and more cynical. I had blown-up my career as a gasfitter in an angry exchange with my boss. My intimate relationship crumbled about the same time, and I was left staring at the wreckage of my life, trying to make ends meet through low paying jobs. Life felt bleak.

Then, at twenty-nine, I found myself in a hospital room, watching my father die from self-inflicted wounds. My whole dysfunctional world collapsed into a void. The pain of those long hours is beyond words. Time seemed to stop, and in the stillness, something shifted inside me. It was as though my spirit, long buried beneath fear and doubt, found a way to rise to meet me, to illuminate a different path forward.

That moment became a profound turning point. In the stillness of that hospital room as my father’s life slipped away, something shifted—a spark ignited within me, a reminder that I was connected to a vast and powerful creative energy. Despite my doubts and the weight of my past, I felt a quiet certainty: I was meant to write and to teach.

Logically, it made no sense—barely scraping through high school and dropping out of a college program didn’t point to a future of writing and teaching. Yet, on a deeper, spiritual level, it resonated with the truth of what I was meant to do here. Other feelings surfaced that night too. Through those long hours, another, more ominous picture was emerging. My meandering life path that I thought was leading nowhere, might be leading somewhere gravely dangerous.

It became clear I couldn’t keep going as I had; I needed to break from the familiar.

The willingness to step onto an unknown path sparked a cascade of synchronistic events, opening doors I never imagined. It was as if life itself was conspiring to draw me into its flow. And people started showing up, mysteriously at times, to guide me into the vortex of creativity and possibility.

A few months following my father’s passing, I found myself in a kung fu studio, on a date. A friend set me up and she suggested our date include taking a class in kung fu together. Since the television show “Kung Fu” of the early seventies, I had been attracted to this ancient art. I would imagine walking through life with quiet strength, unwavering compassion, and a deep respect for the interconnectedness of all things.

We took a few classes together, but the relationship did not progress beyond that. Quite frankly, I was in no state to be in a successful relationship. I had layers of trauma to unfold. But I continued training. Two to four nights a week, I stepped out of my comfort zone, learning discipline, resilience, and the power of presence. Slowly, I began to feel better—stronger, clearer, more alive. Ten years later, I had earned my black sash, had met and married my soulmate, Kristie, and with that deep longing of intimate friendship fulfilled, a long exhale. I had even published three books.

Life unfolded with new possibilities. In 2006, I met Arthur Lockhart, a man who would profoundly influence my journey. At the time, I was full of Yang—driving, light-giving energy—empowering students to rise into their higher potential. Arthur taught me the value of balancing Yang with Yin, embracing a softer, more receptive approach to healing trauma. Through him, I discovered restorative justice, healing circles, and gentle ways to help others find community in the most stigmatized corners of our culture.

Two amazing boys would grace my life and teach me about unconditional love. And infinite patience. Breathe, just breathe I found myself saying a lot through their early years.

I was in alignment with my purpose: my voice resonating through the kung fu studio several nights a week, challenging students to rise into their greatness, while, within the sacred walls of The Gatehouse, I listened receptively to stories of childhood trauma. Every student I taught, and every story I heard, I was learning about resilience, courage, and the power of mindfulness to grow and heal deep wounds. When two or more people come together in a compassionate, non-judgmental space a third energy is invited to support healing and connection. I was empowered.

I would become a part-owner of the kung fu club, Executive Director of The Gatehouse, Chair of the Mississauga Library Board, a mentor to youth in care, and as a family we fostered puppies for Dog Guides Canada. It was more than I could have hoped for.

But life wasn’t done testing me.

In 2015, I began losing my voice—a months’ long decline that led to a stage 4 laryngeal cancer diagnosis. Words from my radiologist in 1981 echoed in my mind: “The radiation we’re giving you now could have consequences in the future. But my job is to give you a future.” Those consequences had arrived, thirty-five years later, with a vengeance.

Just prior to the life-changing surgery, in a quite moment before the storm, my spirit rose to tell me everything was going to be okay. It was a beautiful, fully present moment where, in the face of my imminent mortality, I felt peaceful, proud that I followed my spiritual impulses through my 30’s and 40’s to serve in meaningful ways.

Then the storm.

The surgery was devastating. My purpose, my passion, my work was pulled out from under me. One surgeon told me I’d never speak in front of people again. Recovery was grueling, and for months, I felt like I was barely surviving.

Somehow, I held onto the idea that balance is the foundational energy of the universe, the quiet rhythm that holds all things together. When life veers out of balance, the answer is not to think more, do more, or push harder, but to mindfully pause and be still—allowing spiritual energy to flow and gently restore harmony within and around us.

But it was hard. Days, weeks, and months slipped by with little reprieve from the pain, and no clear direction forward. Then, it came—a glimmer of light. An insight rose from deep within my spirit, casting away the shadows of discouragement. I began to imagine what it might be like to step back onto the facilitation stage.

Six months post-op, I was invited to say a few words at a Gatehouse event. It was awkward, I was clumsy and uncomfortable; I had difficulty articulating many words with my new way of speaking. But it was a start. Fear was there, too, telling me that I had no business being on the stage. If my kung fu training had taught me anything, however, it was to move through fear, mindfully, discerning between real and false danger.

The decade of my twenties warned against shrinking in the face of the love, light, and creative energy inherent in being human. I had learned how to keep still in the wake of negative emotional charges, grounding them, and mindfully attune spiritual impulses. Step by step I was moving forward.

In February 2017, nearly a year following my laryngectomy, I facilitated my first two-day Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIST) workshop. It was difficult, my voice a whisper of its former self. I continued to move through insecurities that told me to constrict, play it safe, that I would not be accepted. From there, I stepped into classrooms, sharing my story of resilience and teaching mindfulness practices to help students engage with the Presence behind the personality.

Fear constricts, warns, and tries to keep us small, but mindfulness has taught me to pause, breathe, and expand beyond it. In that space of stillness, I’ve found a wellspring of creativity and strength to guide me through difficult times. When we tune into the Presence within, loneliness dissolves, and we realize we’re connected to something far greater—a boundless ocean of love, peace, and possibilities.

As of this writing, July 2025, I have delivered 63 ASIST workshops, spoken to hundreds of post secondary students about rising in the face of adversity, and finding joy, peace, and love, even through difficult times. My co-authored book “Dynamic Balance, The Tao of Forging Individual and Social Transformation”, provides ideas for Setting In Motion Powerful Liberating Events (SIMPLE) in your life, practices to tap into the wellspring of creative energy abundantly available.

And now, in July 2025, I have been inducted into the USA Martial Arts Hall of Fame—an honour that would have felt impossible to the fifteen-year-old kid staring down another round of chemotherapy or radiation, unsure if he’d even make it through the week. Back then, the future felt like a fog too thick to see through.

If you are struggling with some thing hard in life right now. Breathe deeply and consider this.

Balance is the dominant basis of the universe, of the planet beneath your feet, and of you. I invite you to engage in simple mindfulness practice so you too can realize that your magnificent life is eternally tied to a steady rhythm of wellbe­ing. Be easy about life and wonderful things will flow naturally toward you. Let the child within you laugh, dance, and express spontaneously. Joy and sense of awe will expand through you like a pocket of air rising through still water.

This earthly journey is difficult on some level for everyone, but there is light in our darkest moments, waiting to heal and guide. By stepping through fear and embracing our true selves, we can create lives of meaning, connection, and joy. And in doing so, we inspire others to do the same.

Brad Hutchinson, Induction into the USA Martial Arts Hall of Fame

Left to right: Brad Hutchinson, Dr. John Terry, Duncan Seton