Still Running

A story of work, loss, and the fight to rebuild

When I was fifteen years old, I spent my summers running.

Not because I loved running.

Because there was work to do.

In the mornings, I hauled wheelbarrows full of concrete and helped build roof trusses on Las Vegas construction sites. In the afternoons, I ran court papers through downtown—on foot, in 110-degree heat—because I was too young to drive and the work still had to get done.

While my friends slept in, I worked.

I grew up one of five kids, raised by an FBI agent father and a mother who never missed a game, a recital, or anything else her kids were involved in. We weren't taught to expect things to be handed to us.

We were taught to earn them.

So that's what I did.

I paid for every college class myself. I made the Dean's List and graduated with a degree in Management Information Systems.

I built a career as a loan officer, eventually managing my own team. I got married. I had a beautiful daughter. I invested in homes.

For most of my life, I believed in one simple equation:

Work hard enough, and you'll be okay.

For a long time, it worked.

Then came 2008.

The financial crash took almost everything I had built. The financial pressure helped destroy my marriage, and I found myself starting over with almost nothing.

So I did what I'd always done.

I worked.

I built a two-man mortgage office from the ground up and slowly fought my way back.

Then the damage from those early years of heavy construction caught up with me.

My shoulders deteriorated to the point where I needed surgery. Before that surgery, a doctor prescribed me 180 oxycodone pills a month and assured me they weren't addictive.

They were.

By the time I understood what was happening, I was already trapped.

That doctor was eventually arrested for running a pill mill, and my prescription supply disappeared overnight.

I went into withdrawal and panicked.

I made the worst decision of my life.

I forged prescriptions.

I was arrested at a pharmacy drive-through.

I detoxed in a cold jail cell with nothing but aspirin.

I walked out clean.

And I have carried the responsibility for what I did ever since.

But a felony doesn't disappear when you've paid your debt.

Background checks closed doors that I didn't even know existed.

Banks stopped calling. Technology companies stopped calling. Opportunities I'd spent years preparing for suddenly weren't available to me.

So I did what I knew how to do.

I worked.

I drove taxis.

I worked seven days a week as a dairy foreman for low wages because they were willing to give a man with my record a chance.

I was grateful.

Not because it was easy.

Because it was work.

Eventually, that persistence paid off.

A large construction company in Utah gave me an opportunity as an area manager. For four years, I worked 60-hour weeks, earned promotions, and grew my division.

For the first time in years, I felt like I had finally outrun my past.

Then, one day, everything changed again.

I was walking a jobsite when I suddenly couldn't catch my breath.

I collapsed.

I woke up surrounded by members of my own crew.

Within weeks, my feet were swelling so badly that I could barely walk a jobsite. After months of frightening tests, I finally got an answer.

Pulmonary hypertension.

It's a serious, progressive condition that puts enormous strain on the heart and lungs.

And suddenly, the man who had spent his entire life solving problems by working harder couldn't even walk across a construction site without his body fighting him.

My employment ended.

I was denied unemployment.

But I still refused to quit.

I applied to Utah's Vocational Rehabilitation program, hoping to retrain for work I could perform from a desk and get assistance launching a remote business.

This past Monday, I received my acceptance letter.

For about five minutes, I felt hope.

Then I read the rest.

Because of severe state budget cuts, the program can currently only fund people classified as "most severely disabled."

I'm approved.

But there isn't a place for me right now.

They told me they will check back with me in three months.

Three months.

I don't know how many three-month waits my lungs have left.

And while I wait, life hasn't waited for me.

I was evicted.

I sold my truck.

I sold almost everything I owned.

My church and local assistance programs stepped in when they could, and I will always be grateful for that help. But that emergency assistance has now been exhausted.

This coming Monday, I will be homeless.

I never imagined I would have to write those words.

I've spent my entire life being the person who shows up.

The person who works.

The person who helps someone else carry the load.

The person who cracks a joke when things get hard.

I've always believed that if I could just work a little harder, solve one more problem, take one more step, I'd find my way through.

But there is one thing I've finally had to accept:

Sometimes hard work isn't enough when your body won't let you work the way you used to.

That doesn't mean I've stopped fighting.

It means I've had to change how I fight.

I'm still working.

From a desk, where my lungs can keep up, I'm building a small business creating digital workflow tools and software templates for construction crews.

It's work I understand.

It's an industry I know.

And it's something I can do from wherever my body allows me to be.

I don't want someone to carry me.

I need enough time and stability to get back on my feet and carry myself again.

That's why I'm asking for help.

I'm trying to raise $5,000.

Not to live some extravagant life.

Not to escape responsibility.

Just to create a small patch of stable ground beneath me while I rebuild.

The money will go toward three things:

A safe place to live. First month's rent and a deposit so I don't end up sleeping on the street.

An electric bike. Something I can use to get to medical appointments, buy groceries, and handle basic necessities without pushing my lungs beyond what they can handle.

A phone and reliable internet. The tools I need to build my business, apply for remote jobs, communicate with employers, and keep moving forward.

Five thousand dollars won't solve everything.

But it could buy me something incredibly important:

Time.

Time to breathe.

Time to work.

Time to build.

Time to get back to the person I've spent my entire life trying to be.

If you can donate, even a few dollars, you aren't giving me a way to avoid working.

You're helping me get back to work.

If you can't donate, please share this story.

You never know who might see it.

You never know who might have a job lead, a connection, an opportunity, or simply the ability to help me make it through the next few months.

I've spent my entire life running toward something better.

I've fallen before.

I've started over before.

I've rebuilt before.

And I'm going to try again.

But this time, I can't do it entirely by myself.

IF YOU CAN HELP, HERE'S HOW:

Venmo: @josh-n-lawson

Venmo link: venmo.com/u/josh-n-lawson

Email: [email protected]

And if you're not in a position to give, please share this story.

A share costs nothing.

It might put this in front of the one person who can change everything.

The distance between having a home and being homeless can be frighteningly small.

So can the distance between losing everything and finding your way back.

I've spent my whole life believing that when someone falls, you reach out your hand.

Right now, I'm the one reaching.

If you can grab my hand, I promise you this:

I'm still running.

Still working.

Still building.

Still fighting.

And if I can get through this, I'll spend the rest of my life remembering the people who helped me get back on my feet.

Still running,

Josh Lawson