Testimonies

My Testament

My name is Alex Arreola,

At one point in my life I was really dark, twisted, and demonic.

I was so used to being in the dark and just being in pain that it became my norm.

I was so numb to the point I wouldn’t feel physical pain, wouldn’t have any emotion or sympathy for anybody,

not even the closest people to me such as my parents. I ran away from home at a young age and had to change for the better.

With that came sacrifice, being homeless, adapting to a new environment while being thousands of miles away from everybody I knew.

Since the beginning of my life the adversity I endured was painful, but I wouldn’t have it any other way

because it forged me into who I am as a person, as a son, grandson, tio, a friend, and as an athlete today.

I used to always feel alone.

Deep down I knew God was with me. I hated it because I felt like I wasn’t worthy of his love and grace. I would even question why and how could he still love me. I pushed him away for a couple of years and went to the dark side until I had enough of it all. It was just unlivable. I couldn’t even breathe, I didn’t know who I was or if anything was real anymore. I just wanted everything to end. So, I just had enough one day and gave all my pain to God. I surrendered everything to Him. The Father, the son, and the Holy Spirit changed my life for the better, and gave me my purpose in life. God gave me courage rather than fear. Humbleness instead of pride. Strength instead of weakness. Wisdom instead of foolishness. God gave me peace instead of rage. For that everything I do is for Him. When I’m in the cage it’s for him, when I’m out in society he’s a constant reminder of who I truly am. I inspire. I lead. I give off brotherly love and am there for others who truly need support or guidance. For those that knew me before, that person no longer exists. I’ve evolved into the person I was supposed to be, in God’s eyes. My story is not done. It’s being written, for he strengthens and guides me.

My Testimony begins as a young kid who grew up, self aware of my appearance and at young age I wasn’t aware of the impact it would cause in my life.

I was always concerned with how I looked because I wasn’t as skinny as the other kids, being fat was something I truly hated even if it was just a little. As I got older I felt this was a big reason of the rejection I felt from girls, not knowing it had stemmed from traumatic instances at home.

I began watching porn as a way of coping because it didn't require anything other than myself and I wasn’t very social anyways, I was taken down an awful path as a result destroying my objective views on relationships, sex and women. When I finally came to terms the life I led was filled with misery and riddled with confusion, problematic behavior and self loathing I could only do one thing.

That was to pray.

I prayed every moment of every day asking God if he was truly there to give me deliverance, to take away my pain, to make me grow, to move forward not being broken and breaking people.

I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior, as my relationship with Jesus grew knowing there was literally no other option or path that would result in any true form of fulfillment I held fast to my faith.

I was given the gym as an expression and an outlet of my inner frustration with myself, my inequities, my insecurities and a way to practice faith and discipline.

While this is only a brief explanation of why I am who I am and how I’ve become the man I am today I wouldn’t be where I am without Jesus Christ. There’s so much more, so much deeper. A truer sense of meaning and fulfillment that can’t be typed, or always spoken in short form but lived. Every day waking up with a purpose to be a mouthpiece for the greatest man sinless and blameless to walk the face of the earth.

We were born to die to ourselves, only to have rebirth go forth and prevail.

My name is Shelbi Browne, and this is my story.

I was born and raised in Big Spring, Texas. I grew up in a household with my mom, my dad, and my younger sister, who is seven years younger than me. On the outside, we looked like a typical family. But over time, our home grew more and more toxic.

My dad had anger issues—you always felt like you were walking on eggshells—and my mom was stuck in a marriage she didn’t know how to leave. She was a stay-at-home mom for most of my childhood, picking up odd jobs here and there, like substitute teaching and helping coach the gymnastics team I competed with.

Gymnastics became my escape. I was in the gym five days a week, three hours a day, on top of school. It kept me out of the house and gave me something to focus on. When I was about ten, my parents started sleeping in separate bedrooms. Around that time, they began using me to get back at each other—saying hurtful things about one another and leaving me to decide whether to stay silent or pass along the message. I remember hiding in my room, listening to them scream through the walls. My mom became  withdrawn in some ways and depressed, though I didn’t recognize it at the time. She stopped cleaning, our dog was allowed to go to the bathroom in the house, and she spent most of her time sleeping when she was not running us kids around. My dad was barely home, and when he was, he was grumpy and bitter. He was also a hoarder. Our house began to pile up with junk and tension.

There were things happening in that house I never told anyone about—not out of shame, but because I was terrified of being separated from my sister. My mom pressured me into having boyfriends and experimenting far too young. She put me on birth control at 13. My dad, meanwhile, would look at explicit images right there in the living room with the family around.

All of it—the emotional manipulation, the confusion, the tension —put a tremendous strain on me. I desperately wanted out, but didn’t know how. So I slept. Sometimes I thought about not waking up. Eventually, I found a way out. I convinced my parents to let me graduate high school early under the pretense of wanting to start nursing school. They agreed, and that became my escape route. I graduated a year ahead of schedule and jumped into college prerequisites. Even before I was accepted into nursing school, I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to do. But my parents were paying for school, and they wouldn’t let me change majors.

Once I got into nursing school, I moved out while my parents were out of town—into a house my now-husband was renting. I earned my LVN license and worked as a nurse for two years. In 2017, I became pregnant, but suffered a miscarriage. A few weeks later, I was pregnant again—this time with my daughter.

Life changed rapidly after she was born. We were living in Midland at the time, and on the very day I went into labor, the realtor who had sold us our house called to say someone was interested in buying it—even though it wasn’t on the market. We knew it was the right time to sell and made plans to move to San Angelo. But two weeks before the move, I developed mastitis, which turned septic. I was hospitalized for a week, and at times, my oxygen levels dropped dangerously low. I was discharged with just one week left to pack and move our entire lives.

Two weeks after settling into San Angelo, I got a call from my father. We hadn’t been speaking, so I ignored the first ring. When he called again, I answered. He asked if my husband was with me, and then said, “Shelbi, there’s been an accident.”

My mom, my sister, and my sister’s boyfriend had been in a rollover crash in Crosbyton, Texas. My sister’s boyfriend died on impact. My mom survived the crash but passed away hours later after being trapped in the vehicle. My sister was airlifted to pediatric ICU, where she stayed for 56 days. She was in critical condition, underwent multiple surgeries, and was on a ventilator for weeks. Miraculously, she survived and is doing well today. That tragedy allowed me and my father to be cordial for a short time—mainly because I needed to make sure my sister would be okay living with him and his unpredictable moods. But once I tried to open up to him about how I viewed my childhood, the relationship fell apart. I haven’t spoken to him in over four years, even though he lives just 45 minutes away. I made the decision to cut ties because I now have a daughter of my own, and I refuse to expose her to that kind of energy. It wasn’t an easy decision—I struggled with guilt and went to therapy for months to work through it.

And then, I found the gym. Fitness quite literally saved me from a deep depression. I started my fitness journey in 2021 and lost over 30 pounds in the first year. Before that, I was shy and socially anxious. I was always afraid of being judged or not fitting in. My parents didn’t have many friends, so I never saw what healthy socializing looked like.

But something shifted. I began asking people questions at the gym, and what I discovered was a community—warm, welcoming, and supportive. The gym gave me strength, confidence, and connection. In 2022, I started handing out stickers at the gym as a random act of kindness—little notes of encouragement like “I see you” or “Don’t give up.” I didn’t want anyone to feel alone. What I didn’t expect was how those stickers would change my life. People started opening up to me—sharing raw, vulnerable stories. Eventually, I became known as “The Sticker Girl.” That same year, I became a certified group fitness instructor. I started teaching Pilates, and then RIDE, a stationary cycling class. I quickly realized that people were coming to my classes not just for the workout—but for the words I was sharing. My messages were making a difference, and yes, I kept handing out stickers.

By the summer of 2023, I had an idea: I wanted to start a podcast to share the real-life stories of people in the fitness community—why they started, what they’ve been through, and what keeps them going. That September, with a couple of microphones from Amazon and no real idea what I was doing, Everything & The Gym Podcast was born… right there in my kitchen.

Season 1 had rough audio. Season 2 got a boost from a friend who helped with video before she moved to Colorado. I taught myself how to produce Season 3, found sponsors, bought better equipment—and pulled it off. But by the end, I was exhausted. Running a podcast alone, while being a mom and wife, had drained me.

I set it down.

Then, in October 2024, someone asked me what it would take to do Season 4. I said, “I don’t want to produce or edit.” The next day, Landon Ward from Cosmic Arc Media reached out and said he believed in the show and wanted to help. I was hesitant—but I took the leap. And I’m so glad I did. Season 4 is the best yet. The stories we’re sharing are changing lives—including mine.

Everything I’ve been through has shaped me into who I am today. People often describe me as the flower-power, bubbly, cheerleader type—but the truth is, I struggle too. Sometimes, I feel like an orphan, longing for a tribe. But even with the pain, life is beautiful.

Every morning we have a choice: to live in the past with shame and regret, or to embrace the journey, find joy in the present, and use our scars to help others heal. Sometimes, the mountains we’re given are the very ones that prepare us to guide others through theirs. And that’s the story I’m here to tell.

Shelbi brown

My name is Jon Wiederhold, but you might know me as Jonny Outlaw, Jonny Smoke, The Outlaw of BBQ. I stand before you a man forged in the fires of hell on earth, a survivor of a life that tried to bury me before I even took my first breath. This is my story—raw, real, and relentless—a testimony of brokenness, redemption, and a burning calling that’s brought me to the smoke and sizzle of the greatest barbecue you’ll ever taste.I was never supposed to be here. My mother planned to abort me, and when that didn’t happen, she nearly gave me up at birth. Instead, I landed in foster care for my first two weeks, unwanted, despite grandparents ready to love me and a father serving in the Navy. That was just the beginning of the darkness. My early years were a battlefield—neglect starved my soul, sexual abuse shattered my innocence, and brutal beatings left scars deeper than skin. I was a child drowning in insecurity and depression, a boy so lost that by age 9, I was sitting in therapists’ offices, confessing suicidal thoughts. By my early teens, I wasn’t just thinking about it—I was trying to end it all, desperate to escape the pain that clung to me like a shadow. School was a war zone. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t fit in, couldn’t find a way out. So I turned to the streets of Baltimore, where the chaos felt like home. I dove headfirst into addiction—drugs numbed the hurt, but they chained me to a life of destruction. I ran with gangs, watched brothers fall to overdoses, and saw blood spill in the streets as violence claimed lives I loved. I didn’t just survive that world; I thrived in it, becoming a prominent figure in the East Coast EDM scene—not as a hero, but as a drug dealer, a supplier. The weight of that life was crushing—responsibilities no one should carry, costs no one can fathom. I was a kingpin of chaos, but when I got a girlfriend pregnant, I saw the truth in the mirror: I was a monster, a walking wrecking ball destroying everything in my path. In 2012, the law caught up with me. A Fugitive Task Force stormed in, guns drawn, and took me down. Handcuffs clinked, and my world crumbled. Desperate for a lifeline, I fled to Michigan, hoping to build a new life, to be a father, to marry the woman I loved. But the darkness in me wouldn’t let go. I hit the self-destruct button hard—cheated on her, betrayed her trust, and lost her. My daughter, now 10 years old, doesn’t even know me. That’s a knife in my heart, my greatest regret, a wound that bleeds every day. The shadow of my past stalked me, and in 2014, another felony conviction—assault with a deadly weapon—slammed me onto probation. For two more years, I spiraled into a pit of despair, snorting cocaine, shooting meth, drowning in a sea of self-hatred and destruction.But July 2016 was my breaking point. I stumbled into the woods, a broken man, my body trembling, my soul screaming. I fell to my knees and begged God to save me from myself. Days later, while I was partying, trying to numb the fear, my grandmother’s voice cut through the haze. Her call was a thunderbolt: my probation officer had shown up at her house. I had to turn myself in by Monday. A felony probation violation and four pending felony charges stared me down—a combined 35 years in prison loomed like a guillotine. I was terrified, defeated, done. But on July 11, 2016, in the cold, gray cellblock B2F of the Kent County Jail, I made the choice that changed everything. I surrendered—not just to the law, but to Jesus. I cried out, tears soaking the concrete, and gave Him my broken life. Miraculously, in October of that year, the chains fell off—literally and spiritually with Judge Sullivan granting me another chance with a promise, "if you ever appear in this court again, you will be sent to prison for the max the state will allow, good luck." I walked out of that jail a free man, given a second chance at a future I didn’t deserve.I grabbed that chance with both hands and ran toward redemption. I joined Youth With A Mission (YWAM), pouring my heart into teaching English to children in the sweltering jungles of Cambodia. For nearly a year, I sweated, served, and found purpose in their smiles. Then, Colorado called—I volunteered with YWAM Emerge, laboring for a year to build one of the state’s largest non-profit aquaponics operations, my hands dirty, my spirit healing. Liver disease tried to take me down, but I fought back, and soon I was at Christ for the Nations in Dallas, Texas, diving deep into theology, addiction recovery, and inmate rehabilitation through prison ministry. I was learning to be a light in the darkness I’d once lived in, to help others claw their way out of the pit I knew too well.Then COVID-19 hit, and I landed in El Paso, Texas, with my then-fiancée, now my beloved wife. For nearly two years, I pounded the pavement, my skills and determination in hand, only to be slapped with rejection after rejection. I bartended to survive, pouring drinks while my dreams simmered. I landed a job as a forklift operator at a logistics company, giving it my all, only to be walked off the property—not for my work, but for a mistake from nearly a decade ago, a debt I’d already paid to society. The humiliation burned like fire, the “modern Scarlett letter F” for felon branded on my chest. I was done—done with the world’s judgment, done with being counted out. I fell to my knees again, crying out to God for direction. His answer roared back: “BBQ.”That was the spark. In my in-laws’ kitchen on the Eastside of El Paso, I poured my pain, my passion, and my fight into crafting unique artisan barbecue sauces. I bottled them in mason jars, sold them for $10 a pop at local biker haunts like Rocking Cigar Bar. The demand exploded—within four months, I knew I’d struck something fierce, something real. Fueled by that fire, I returned to where I’d been reborn, Grand Rapids, Michigan, with nothing but a backpack full of sauce and a burning desire. In three days—three days!—I locked in a partnership with Flanagan’s Irish Pub for the massive ArtPrize event. It was chaos, a storm of orders, understaffed and overwhelmed, but I fought through it. My authentic barbecue ignited the city, earning me the name “The Outlaw of BBQ.” Fox News rolled in, cameras blazing, to capture my story, my rise from the ashes

(check it out here: https://www.fox17online.com/news/local-news/grand-rapids/overwhelmed-understaffed-but-we-persevered-restaurants-get-creative-as-crowds-head-to-artprize-2021).

For two years, I poured my heart into Sparta, Michigan, forging bonds with the police, fire department, and local businesses, becoming a pillar of a community that once saw me as a menace. The fire kept burning. I catered for legends—Foreigner, the iconic band, and earned a VIP front-row seat to their concert from Bruce Watson himself, a moment I’ll never forget. In 2024, my barbecue fed Aaron Lewis of Staind, Seether, and Tim Montana, their praise fueling my drive. Then came a pinnacle: catering for J.D. Vance, now Vice President of the United States, at an Apple event in Sparta. My flavors, my fight, my redemption were on display, and I stood tall, a man remade. But in October 2024, a thunderous calling shook me to my core. God’s voice roared louder than ever, pulling me back to El Paso. In a leap of faith, I packed up everything—my following, my connections, my friends, my thriving business in Michigan—and followed Him.  This is my testimony. I am now here in West Texas, currently helping and playing a major role in the outdoor BBQ events in Cornudas Texas, where my smoker and skills can be experienced and seen the 1st Saturday of every month. I am also currently working on creating systems to teach other people with similar struggles and backgrounds how to become the best versions of themselves. This is my story I was a child marked for death, a teen lost to the streets, a man chained by addiction and crime. I faced 35 years in a cell, but Christ broke those chains. I’ve fought through jungles, battled disease, and faced rejection’s sting, only to rise as The Outlaw of BBQ. Outlaw Sauce & BBQ is my heart, my fire, my proof that second chances can burn brighter than the darkest past.

I grew up learning about God. I knew the stories, said the prayers, and went through the motions—but for the longest time, I never truly felt Him. That absence scared me. I often wondered why I couldn’t feel the Spirit within me like others said they could. Was something wrong with me? Was I doing it wrong? It created this quiet fear and distance that lingered for years.

Everything changed after I had my baby. In those first moments of holding that little life, I felt something I couldn’t explain—an overwhelming wave of love, peace, and affection that brought me to tears. That moment was sacred. It was then I realized: this is God. He’s been here all along.

Looking back, I can now see that those subtle butterfly moments—the quiet nudges, the warmth in my chest, the unexplained calm in hard times—they weren’t random. They were God’s doing. He was always near. I just didn’t know how to recognize Him.

Now, my relationship with God feels more personal, more real. I see His hand in the little things. I trust that He’s with me even when I can’t “feel” Him in big, dramatic ways. Because now I know—His presence isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s soft, steady, and always faithful.