I was raised in a basement in the Bronx where silence wasn’t just survival—it was the only language spoken. No one knocked. No one saved me. There was no coming-of-age arc, no dramatic rescue, no script.

There was just a boy learning how to breathe in the dark—and later, a man learning how to write from it.

Silence Was My First Language is the book I needed when I was ten. When I was thirteen. When I was still hoping someone might notice what was happening behind those locked doors. It's not a feel-good story. It’s not a trauma memoir tied up with a bow. It’s truth—raw, unfiltered, unflinching.

For years, I lived two lives:

• One as a senior executive in the medical device industry, where I built success from steel and strategy.

• And another, quieter life—typing in the shadows, chasing voice, building chapters like scaffolding around the boy I used to be.

That second life? That’s the one that saved me.

Now I write for those who weren’t allowed to speak. For the ones who made it out, but were never asked how. For the ones who are still in it, trying to find the words.

The Jaguar, my debut novel, is fiction born from the same fire. It's about a Salvadoran refugee turned New York doctor who has to return to the land that scarred him to save the people who need him most. It's not my story—but it carries my bones.

Every book I write is a conversation:
Between the boy and the man.
Between silence and voice.
Between survival and what comes next.