“Roots & Horizons”

                                    Preface

I never imagined I would write a book about my life at 25. For a long time, I wasn’t even sure I’d make it to 25. Life has tested me in ways I never expected—through loss, trauma, and struggles I didn’t fully understand until recently. But through it all, I’ve stayed standing. (P.S. one of my favorite songs is I’m Still Standing by Elton John) I’ve learned that even when I lose sight of my own resilience, it’s still there, waiting to be remembered.

For most of my life, I knew something was off, but I never sought help. I dealt with physical abuse, the absence of a father figure, and the weight of losing people I loved. I’ve faced moments where it felt like nothing was going my way. On top of that, school wasn’t easy for me. I didn’t do too well academically, but I always excelled in science—something that, in a way, has carried over into my work today. I was athletic and poured everything I had into sports, doing my best to keep my grades from getting in the way of the one thing I truly loved. Baseball, in particular, became an outlet for me. I even made it to regionals, playing against teams from Southern California, Hawaii, Washington, etc. I didn’t know it then, but that experience gave me a deep appreciation for sports medicine and athletics, a passion I never fully pursued but one that shaped how I see discipline and perseverance.

I have people who support me—people who remind me of my strength when I forget it myself. Some of the most mature and grounded people in my life have given me the confidence to follow in their footsteps, and I strive to be like them one day. One person, in particular, encouraged me to seek help, leading me to my psychiatrist, Dr. Thomas E. Bittker. He introduced me to his book, Dragon Slaying: A Primer for Heroic Self-Transformation, which opened my eyes to the ways psychiatry, psychotherapy, and even medication could help me. Through this process, I’ve realized that I am capable of so much more than I ever thought.

But healing isn’t just about treating what’s wrong—it’s about learning who you are. As a gay man, I’ve struggled with rejection, with feeling like I had to earn my place in the world. I’ve been learning how to love myself before trying to love others, how to embrace who I am despite the fear of being shunned. I also deal with deep trust issues, and I’ve spent a long time relying on others to feel secure. Independence doesn’t come naturally to me, but I know I have to learn. I know that, little by little, I will find my own way, without needing someone to hold my hand through every step.

Some might see this book as a reach, but I don’t. I know I’m capable of this. I’ve come too far not to tell my story. Even when life has tried to break me, I am still here. I am still learning, still growing, still pushing forward.

This is my story. But maybe, in some ways, it’s yours too.

Isaak Rowe

Chapter 1: The Boy Behind the Smile

I was born on August 29, 2002, in Fallon, Nevada—but my story truly began in a small, tucked-away town called Yerington. It wasn’t much, but it was home. I didn’t grow up with the kind of foundation most kids are given. My mother wasn’t in a place to raise me, and my father had already left long before I could even remember his face. So, it was my grandparents—my Nani, grandma Lee, and my grandpa, who I called Papa—who stepped in and became the people I leaned on.

Nani was everything. She raised me with a kind of love that was both firm and forgiving. Papa, though, wasn’t always home. He worked several hours away and was gone for long stretches of time. I didn’t see him often, but when he was home, he filled the room with presence. He was a masculine figure—a hunter, and a quiet but powerful influence. His mind was sharp, the kind that could build and fix anything. He had the brain of an engineer, and I looked up to him for that.

Maybe because he wasn’t around all the time, I held tightly to every moment I got with him. I didn’t just love him—I admired him. And when he passed away in 2011, something in me broke. I was only nine years old, and his absence left a silence I didn’t know how to live with. It left a void I would keep searching to fill for years.

After Papa’s death, I noticed a shift in Nani. There was a heaviness in her, something quiet and dark, but she carried it with grace. She never let the world see how much she was hurting, and maybe that was where I first learned how to hide pain behind a steady face.

Eventually, she reconnected with an old friend named Rudy. I don’t know exactly how they met—maybe through church—but he stepped into our lives like someone trying to patch the hole Papa had left. At first, he seemed kind. I even daydreamed about moving to Smith Valley, where he lived in a large custom-built home. I imagined having my own ten-foot-ceiling room, a clean slate, a new beginning—far away from the grief and memories.

But that dream turned into something darker.

Rudy was two-faced. The man he showed the world was not the man I lived with. He physically abused me in ways that left more than bruises—he left scars I still carry inside. Wounds that took years to name and even longer to begin healing from. I was just a kid, trying to survive something no kid should have to endure.

I didn’t know how to talk about it. I didn’t know if I was even allowed to. So I stayed quiet. I found little things that helped me cope—drawing, running around outside, and later, technology.

I wasn’t good at handling my emotions. I had big feelings and no outlet. But I never stopped doing the things I loved. I found a strange kind of peace in drawing, an escape in pretending I was somewhere else. And when I discovered technology, I was hooked—not just on using it, but on understanding it. I wanted to know how things worked.

I learned about outer space. I memorized facts about galaxies and orbits. I taught myself pieces of code and tried to build things out of curiosity. I didn’t do well in school—not by traditional standards—but I excelled in science. I learned best when I taught myself, and that’s something I still carry with me today.

I didn’t know it then, but I was already battling PTSD, ADD, and Bipolar II—long before I knew what those words even meant. Still, I kept going. Even when I was falling apart inside. Even when no one could see it.

Because that’s what I did.
Even when it hurt.
Even when I felt broken.
I kept going.

Chapter 2: The Field of Escape

The pain I carried from losing Papa, from Rudy’s abuse, from growing up feeling out of place—it all needed somewhere to go. And for me, that place was the field.

I was still in elementary school when things started to pile up emotionally. I cried a lot. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t control what I was feeling. I got bullied for being sensitive. And on top of that, I looked different. As an Asian kid in a small town, I heard more harmful remarks than any kid should ever hear.

I didn’t know how to speak up for myself yet. Instead, I learned to laugh along with it in high school. I stopped opening up to people who didn’t deserve my trust. I became more frugal with my communication—only letting people in if they felt safe.

Sports became my survival tool.

When I moved from Yerington to Smith Valley for middle school, I had to start all over again. Making friends was hard, but I found belonging through sports. My grandma pushed me into it, and baseball was the one that stuck. It wasn’t just a game to me—it was freedom.

I played catcher and pitcher. I practiced constantly, even alone. When no one was around, I’d throw a baseball at a brick wall for hours—just me, the sound of the ball hitting, and the rhythm that made everything else fade. I daydreamed about going pro. That was my escape. That was the dream that made me feel alive.

Baseball taught me communication, teamwork, discipline—things I didn’t learn in therapy, or in a classroom. It gave me something school never could: belief in myself.

But then came the grades.

Because I struggled academically, I wasn’t always allowed to play. School policies didn’t bend for kids who were hurting inside. I missed games, sat on the sidelines, and watched teammates I had practiced with take the field without me. It crushed me—not just because I loved the game, but because it felt like another door was closing on me.

Still, I fought to keep going. Eventually, I started doing better in school. I learned how to balance my emotions and my responsibilities. And the biggest shift came during my freshman year of high school. I finally convinced my grandma that living with Rudy wasn’t safe anymore.

I left that house before I could even drive myself to school. For a month, I lived in my buddy’s guest house. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt free. My grandma joined me soon after, and we lived together for about two years in that space. Money was tight—really tight—but we made it work.

That move changed everything. It was the beginning of something new.      

It was the moment I started claiming my life back.

Chapter 3: The Losses I Carried

Grief has a strange way of showing up—not just as tears or sadness, but as silence, confusion, numbness. When Papa died, something inside me went quiet. He had been the most stable presence in my life. The man I admired, even if he wasn’t always there. His absence left a gap in the world I lived in—and a deeper one inside of me.

But it didn’t stop there.

I didn’t grow up with the kind of family others seemed to have. My mother wasn’t able to raise me. My father wasn’t there. And though Nani did everything she could to give me a stable home, there were things even she couldn’t protect me from—especially Rudy.

His presence was a shadow I couldn’t shake. He masked himself well around others, but the reality I lived through was far different. The physical abuse left bruises, but it was the mental scars that stayed the longest. That part of my life still echoes in how I trust, in how I react, in how I sometimes flinch at things I know shouldn't hurt.

Then there were the quieter losses.

Being Asian in a mostly white community was something that set me apart before I even opened my mouth. I heard jokes, slurs, whispers behind my back. I learned early that my skin, my eyes, my background—things I didn’t choose—would be used against me. I didn’t know how to respond, so I started laughing along. I pretended it didn’t bother me, even when it did. Even when it cut deep.

I carried these things with me everywhere I went. Into school, into friendships, into every version of myself I tried to be.

The hardest part wasn’t just the loss of people. It was the loss of feeling understood.

There were days when I’d look in the mirror and not recognize who I was becoming. I tried to be okay, to seem okay—because I didn’t want to be a burden. But inside, I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of holding everything in. Tired of being strong just because I had to be.

But even in that tiredness… I never stopped moving forward.

I didn’t know it then, but every time I got up after being knocked down—every time I found a way to smile through the pain—I was rebuilding something inside myself.

Not everything I lost came back. Some things never will. But I gained something too. I gained awareness. I gained depth. I gained the ability to recognize pain in others and offer compassion instead of judgment.

Because I didn’t have a consistent male figure in my life—not Papa, and certainly not Rudy—I found myself deeply valuing mature friendships, especially with male figures who showed me the stability, wisdom, and safety I never had growing up. And as a gay man, that became even more complicated. That longing to be seen, to be supported, to be understood—it ran deep.

It wasn’t always easy to tell the difference between admiration and affection, safety and attraction. But more than anything, I wanted connection. I wanted someone to look at me—not as broken, not as different, but as enough.

I’m still learning what that means, even now.

But at 25, I can finally say this:
I didn’t just survive. I grew through it.

Chapter 4: Naming the Storm

There comes a moment in every storm when the wind slows just enough for you to hear your own breath. And in that quiet, you realize you’ve been drowning. That’s what it felt like for me—not a loud crash or an obvious breakdown, but a slow, creeping realization that I couldn’t keep living like this.

For years, I had carried the weight of things I didn’t understand. My emotions were unpredictable, my thoughts sometimes spiraling, and I constantly felt like I was fighting myself. I had gone most of my life thinking I was just “too sensitive” or “too much.” I had internalized that maybe I was the problem. That maybe I was broken.

But I wasn’t broken. I was undiagnosed.

It wasn’t until I was 22 that I finally saw a psychiatrist—Dr. Thomas Bittker. He was calm, composed, and when he spoke, it felt like he was truly listening. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to explain every inch of my pain just to be understood. He recognized something in me. I finally had names for what I had been feeling for so long.

PTSD. Bipolar II. ADD.

It was overwhelming at first—like someone had handed me a mirror I wasn’t ready to look into. But slowly, that fear turned into relief. There was something powerful about knowing the names of your monsters. I wasn’t alone in this. I wasn’t weak. I was a human being with real, manageable conditions.

Dr. Bittker had me read his book: Dragon Slaying: A Primer for Heroic Self-Transformation. I didn’t know what to expect from it, but as I read, I found pieces of myself in those pages. It wasn’t just about psychiatry—it was about learning how to take the chaos inside of you and shape it into something powerful. It was about owning your story instead of letting it own you.

That book—and the help I started receiving—was a catalyst.

Therapy, medication, honest conversations—they didn’t make everything perfect. But they gave me space. They gave me time to breathe, to think, to choose how I responded to the world instead of reacting on impulse.

For the first time in my life, I realized: I am capable.
Capable of healing.
Capable of change.
Capable of becoming someone even I couldn’t have imagined a few years ago.

People often think that medication numbs you, but for me, it did the opposite. It gave me back me. The part of me that wants to grow, to create, to connect. It helped silence the shame just enough for my voice to come through.

And once I heard that voice—my real voice—I knew: I have a story to tell. I have something worth building. This book isn’t just for me; it’s for the version of me who didn’t think he would make it this far. And it’s for anyone who’s still stuck in their own storm, wondering if they’ll ever see the sun again.

You will.
I did.

Chapter 5: The Man I’m Becoming

There’s a quiet kind of wisdom that only comes after chaos. A softness that follows years of trying to be tough. At 25, I’ve come to understand that life is more than being alone—even if I once convinced myself that isolation was safer.

I used to think everything had to have some deep, cosmic meaning. I used to search endlessly for “why” things happened the way they did. But now, I’ve realized that not everything needs to be figured out. Some things are just part of life. Some questions don’t need answers—they just need peace.

The truth is, talking helps.
More than I ever expected.

Talking about what’s going on inside you isn’t weakness—it’s courage. Sometimes, just saying it out loud to someone else can help you find clarity. Most of the time, I find the answer I’m looking for not in silence, but in conversation. And through psychotherapy, medication, and honest reflection, I’ve learned that finding the problem isn’t always a dark, lonely walk through the forest. Sometimes, it’s a guided path—a hard one, yes, but one that leads you toward better choices, stronger boundaries, and a clearer sense of who you are.

I’m still finding myself, and I probably always will be. That’s not a weakness. That’s life. But I no longer carry the weight of worry like I once did. I’ve stopped asking myself if I’m enough. I’ve started believing that I already am.

Self-love didn’t arrive overnight. It came in waves. In learning how to take accountability for my actions, how to feel without shame, and how to forgive myself when I fall short. I’ve started healing in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

And the Isaak I am now? He’s the man I once dreamed of being. Not perfect. Not famous. But real. Someone younger than me would look up to and ask, “How did you do it?” And I’d smile and say, “One step at a time.”

Chapter 6: What Success Really Means to Me

I used to think success was something you could measure in numbers—likes, money, fame, approval. But at 25, I define success differently.

Success is being proud of myself even when no one’s clapping.
It’s making peace with my past.
It’s being able to say, “I’m doing my best,” and knowing that’s enough.

I want to be successful, even if it takes me all day and night just to feel like I’ve moved an inch. I want to be wealthy—not just in money, but in life. In travel. In love. In the kind of experiences that teach you more about who you are than any paycheck ever could.

I want to share my story through a blog. I want to help people who feel like no one understands. Because I’ve been there—and if my words can keep someone going just one more day, then that’s more meaningful than anything else I could do.

My relationships have grown stronger. Especially at work, where I’ve discovered I can show up for people in ways I never imagined. I’ve become dependable. Kind. Present. That matters more to me than any title ever could.

Love has evolved too. Real love. Love that isn’t afraid to go deep. To feel real. My romantic relationship has blossomed in ways I didn’t think were possible. For the first time, I believe true love exists—and I believe I’m worthy of it.

Being gay still doesn’t define me. It never did. But it has taught me the importance of not judging others by what they show on the surface. We’re all carrying something. We all have battles in our minds. And sometimes the smallest act—a smile, a kind word, a moment of understanding—can make the biggest difference.

Even on my bad days, I’ve learned to be kind. To others. To myself. Because healing isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up.

And I’ve shown up for myself.
Every single time.

Isaak Rowe