My name is Austin McCullers, and I’m not sure why I’m writing this. Maybe I just need to get it off my chest. Maybe I want someone—anyone—to understand the weight of everything I’ve been carrying. Or maybe I just want to feel something other than regret.
I grew up in Tampa, Florida, as the younger brother of Lance McCullers Jr., the professional baseball pitcher for the Houston Astros. While he built a career most people could only dream of, I drifted aimlessly through life—always in his shadow, always falling short. I attended Jesuit High School and later the University of South Florida, but I never felt like I belonged. Instead of following a clear path, I got lost in my own darkness.
This is my official coming out—not that it changes much. I’m gay. I’ve always been gay. But for nearly 30 years, I hid that truth. I buried it beneath shame and fear, convinced that if anyone really knew me, they’d reject me. So, I kept people at a distance. I never let anyone close enough to see the real me. And the loneliness—it became unbearable.
To cope, I turned to gambling and drugs. At first, it was just a way to escape the emptiness. But soon, it became my whole life. I told myself I could win big and fix everything, but I was only digging myself deeper. I lost hundreds of thousands of dollars, destroying relationships along the way. No matter how much I gambled, the void inside me never disappeared.
When gambling wasn’t enough, I turned to food. Fast food became my comfort—greasy, heavy, and numbing. I ate to push down the pain, but it only made things worse. I gained so much weight that I barely recognized myself. The heavier I got, the deeper I fell into depression. The more depressed I felt, the more I ate. It was a vicious, endless cycle.
The truth is, I didn’t want to be here anymore. I lost count of how many times I tried to end it. But every time, I stopped myself—maybe out of fear, maybe out of habit, or maybe because I still clung to the hope that one last bet would save me. But it never did.
When I realized gambling wouldn’t fix my life, I tried working normal jobs—but I failed at those too. I was lazy, unreliable, and always looking for a way out. I thought meth would help. It gave me energy when I had none, made me feel invincible—for a while. But it also made me reckless, unstable, and even more lost.
Desperate for a fresh start, I moved to Phoenix, Arizona. I got involved in the vending machine business—buying and flipping locations—and for the first time in years, I felt like maybe things were turning around. But addiction doesn’t just go away. Greed doesn’t either. I started lying again, convincing people to send me money for locations that didn’t exist or that I secretly sold without their knowledge. I kept telling myself I’d pay them back once I made it big—but I never did. Eventually, the truth caught up with me, and like always, I ran.
I went back to Tampa, back to the life I thought I had left behind. I managed to get a job at Cyberfox, a cybersecurity firm. For a moment, I thought maybe I had finally found my second chance. But someone from Phoenix—someone I had scammed—found out where I was working and exposed me. My past caught up with me again. I was fired, and just like that, any hope I had for a fresh start was gone. Now, I fry fish at Long John Silver's, struggling to survive and haunted by the people I’ve hurt.
I think about the people I scammed all the time. I owe them hundreds of thousands of dollars—money I know I’ll never be able to repay. Part of me wants to make it right. But another part of me knows I probably never will.
Hoping to find a sense of purpose, I moved to Arizona again—this time to coach youth football and baseball. I’ve always loved kids, maybe because they remind me of who I was before everything went wrong. For a while, it gave me hope. But even that didn’t last. The head coaches found out about my gambling and drug addictions, and I was fired. Another door closed. Another chance lost.
I don’t know if I can ever change. I don’t know if I even deserve to.
Maybe this is just who I am—a liar, a failure, a lost cause.
I’m tired. Tired of running. Tired of pretending. Tired of being me.
Am I a bad person? Or just someone too far gone to save?
Maybe it doesn’t even matter anymore.
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