Warm up
Inversion to skin the cat to inversion to pike pulls
Pull over to support
P-bar complex
Seated leg raises in straddle
Super rocks
Skill
HSPU/pistols
WOD
30 seconds work followed by 1 minute rest
-Strict HSPU
-Pistols
-Strict pull ups
-Box jumps w/24 m/30
Warm up & Skill
Clean technique
-Pop
-Power clean
-From the knee and creep
WOD
EMOTM for 15 minutes
2 squat cleans
-Hip
-Below the knee
3 burpees
Warm up
KB around the world
Russian swing
H2H swings
Release
Wall ball substitute
Skill
Movement standards
WOD
5 rounds of:
20 seconds of work and 40 seconds rest
-KBS
-Battle ropes
-TTB
Warm up
2 minutes double unders
Bucket work
P-bar complex
Seated leg lifts
Handwalks
Pull over to support
Skill
Muscle ups
WOD
EMOTM for 15 minutes
15 double unders
2 muscle-ups or 5 CTB pull-ups
Ninety-five pounds. Three miles. One American flag. And a T-shirt covered with names.
Last September, I participated in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's Out of the Darkness Community Walk in a way that was deeply personal to me.
I wore a 45-pound weighted vest.
I dragged a 50-pound sled.
I carried the American flag.
And written across the shirt on my back were the names of the people who believed enough in this mission to support it.
But the weight was never really about 95 pounds.
It represented the weight people carry that the rest of us cannot see.
The grief.
The loneliness.
The anxiety.
The depression.
The loss.
The feeling that life has become so heavy that you don't know how much longer you can keep carrying it.
I understand some of that darkness personally.
I am a survivor.
Anyone who knows me knows that physical training has been part of my life for decades. I coach people for a living. I teach. I believe deeply in movement, health, discipline and taking care of ourselves.
But what I did last September wasn't about proving how strong I was.
It was about using something I understood—physical struggle—to represent something much harder to see.
A weighted vest is visible.
A sled is visible.
Fatigue is visible.
But many of the heaviest things human beings carry aren't.
There have been seasons of my own life when I have felt overwhelmed by loss, grief and uncertainty.
I have experienced the loss of my business. The loss of my home. The end of my marriage. Painful separation from my children. Financial hardship. My own struggles with disordered eating. And the grief of losing my father.
There have been times when everything seemed to arrive at once.
Times when getting through the next day felt more important than figuring out the next year.
And times when I felt very alone.
That's part of why suicide prevention isn't simply another charity or another fitness event to me.
It is personal.
And I know I am far from the only person who has ever felt that way.
One of the things I remember most about last year's campaign is that it did not explode overnight.
There were days when donations barely moved.
At one point, I had raised only about $150, and I remember wondering whether I was reaching anyone at all.
The subject is difficult.
Suicide makes people uncomfortable.
Mental-health struggles are still things many people would rather scroll past than talk about.
But I kept talking.
I kept posting.
I started reaching out personally.
And something changed.
$150 became $225.
Then people began responding.
We reached $905.
Then $1,290.
Then $2,000.
The original fundraising target grew because people continued stepping forward.
Eventually, together, we pushed beyond the $3,000 goal and raised $3,275 for suicide prevention.
That taught me something important:
One person's effort can start something—but a community is what carries it forward.
Of everything I remember from that day, one image stays with me more than almost anything else.
My white T-shirt was covered in handwritten names.
Those names represented people who donated, people who supported the mission, and people who chose to stand beside me even if they couldn't physically walk every mile.
Every time the sled became harder to pull, those names were still there.
Every time the vest felt heavier, those names were still there.
Every time my body wanted to slow down, I knew I wasn't walking alone.
I was carrying people with me.
That became one of the most meaningful parts of the entire event.
And I'm bringing it back this year.
Anyone who contributes $50 or more to my 2026 fundraiser will have a name written on my event T-shirt.
It can be your name.
It can represent someone you love.
It can honor someone you've lost.
It can represent someone who survived.
It can simply represent your decision to stand with people who are struggling.
Whatever that name means to you, I will carry it with me for all three miles.
Last year I made another promise.
If we exceeded $3,000, I would do 10 push-ups for every $10 raised above the goal while wearing my 45-pound weighted vest.
The community pushed us beyond $3,000.
So I kept my promise.
After the miles, the vest, the sled and the flag, there were still push-ups left to do.
That mattered to me because the campaign was built around something I tell people constantly:
Your word matters.
If I asked people to believe in the mission, I needed to show them that I meant what I said.
Because the problem did not disappear when last year's walk ended.
People are still struggling.
Families are still grieving.
People are still having conversations with themselves in the middle of the night that nobody else knows about.
And there are people walking around us every day who look completely fine while carrying an enormous amount of pain.
That is why I'm going back.
But this year feels different.
On September 26, 2026, I will participate in the Mercer County Out of the Darkness Community Walk at:
Veterans Park — South Entrance
Hamilton, New Jersey
September 26 is also my 49th birthday.
And that makes this year's mission even more personal.
I could spend my birthday asking what I want.
Instead, I want to spend it asking:
What can I give?
How can I take another year of my life and use it to help someone else keep theirs?
That's the birthday gift I want.
I have set another goal:
AFSP works in the areas that matter most to this mission:
Research.
Education.
Advocacy.
Support.
The goal isn't simply to raise money.
It's to create conversations.
It's to remind someone struggling that asking for help is not weakness.
It's to remind families affected by suicide that they have not been forgotten.
It's to make mental health something we are willing to talk about openly rather than something people believe they must suffer through privately.
And maybe—somewhere along the way—something we share reaches the right person at exactly the right moment.
You don't have to do what I'm doing physically to make a difference.
You can donate.
You can walk with me.
You can share this story.
You can send the fundraiser to a friend, coworker or family member.
You can talk openly about mental health.
You can check on someone you haven't heard from recently.
And if donating isn't possible right now, sharing this page costs nothing and could introduce this mission to someone who can help.
Please don't think a contribution has to be enormous to matter.
$10 matters.
$25 matters.
$50 matters.
Every person who chooses to participate makes this mission larger than one man walking three miles.
And for those who contribute $50 or more, remember:
Your name—or the name of someone you want represented—will go on my shirt.
I'll carry it every step of the way.
Last year taught me that strength isn't always about how much weight you can carry.
Sometimes strength is admitting that the weight has become too heavy.
Sometimes it's telling someone you're struggling.
Sometimes it's answering the phone.
Sometimes it's listening without judging.
Sometimes it's simply staying.
And sometimes strength means letting somebody else help carry the weight for a while.
That's what I want this campaign to represent.
I've spent much of my life teaching people how to become physically stronger.
This mission reminds me that human strength is much bigger than muscles, miles, sleds or weighted vests.
It's connection.
It's compassion.
It's showing up.
It's refusing to leave someone alone in their darkest moment.
So on my 49th birthday, I'm showing up again.
For the people we've lost.
For the people who survived.
For the families who continue carrying those losses.
And most importantly, for the people who are still here and still fighting.
Last year, we carried the weight.
This year, we go further.
And I hope you'll go with me.
Fundraising Goal: $3,000
Event: Mercer County Out of the Darkness Community Walk
Date: September 26, 2026 — My 49th Birthday
Location: Veterans Park — South Entrance, Hamilton, New Jersey
I'll carry that name with me for all three miles.
Support the mission here:
https://afspwalks.donordrive.com/participant/3514104
Donate. Walk. Share. Talk.
Because nobody should have to carry their darkest moments alone.
Coach Ray Traitz
AMRAP Fitness