Unleash the Power of Podcasts

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Unleash the Power of Podcasts *

A book cover for 'Four Names for Thunder: The Late Harvest of Recovery' features a stormy sky with dark clouds and lightning in the background. A weathered wooden key hangs from a frayed rope in the foreground.

Cover of the 'Four Names for Thunder Podcast' featuring a smiling man with glasses and a beard wearing a denim shirt, set against a stormy sky background.

Book cover for 'Four Names for Thunder: The Aftershock' featuring a hanging key attached to a frayed rope in front of a cloudy, stormy sky.

The cover of a podcast titled 'Four Names for Thunder' featuring a stormy landscape with dark clouds, lightning, a deserted road, an old house, a tree, mountains, and a sunset, with the text in neon style.

"Dark storm clouds representing childhood trauma and depression."

"Sunlight breaking through clouds symbolizing late-in-life recovery."

"Broken concrete texture representing surviving family dysfunction.

Matthew Hearn + Podcast Host Matthew 5:14 + Christian Music Late-in-Life + Healing Gen X + Recovery Wichita Falls + History Childhood Trauma + Survivor Story

Portrait of Matthew Hearn, author of the memoir Four Names For Thunder."

"Matthew 5:14 music artist and podcast host Matthew Hearn."

"Gen X trauma survivor and advocate Matthew Hearn in Wichita Falls

A man with a beard wearing a large straw cowboy hat and a light-colored shirt, looking at the camera, indoors with dark wood paneling and shelves in the background.

Our Anchor: The Love that Built a New Foundation

When I talk about my life, I often speak of chaos, of broken foundations, and of the need to build a protective wall. The truth is, I spent decades searching for an anchor—a consistent, unwavering presence that could silence the "thunder" of my past.

I found that anchor, and more, in Lynda.

Our relationship is not defined by a smooth journey; it is defined by the absolute courage and unconditional love we share in navigating the jagged terrain of a life rebuilt. Lynda saw the man behind the armor, the scared boy who never believed he deserved peace, and she loved him completely. She didn't seek to change the chaos that made me; she simply created a space where the chaos could finally be still.

Our love is powerful because it is resilient. It is the living, breathing proof that the generational cycles of pain and addiction can be broken.

The Foundation We Built

From Trauma to Trust: Where past relationships were built on unspoken rules and fear, our marriage is built on radical honesty and mutual respect—the pillars that allow us to process the long shadow of trauma together.
The Power of Stillness: Lynda taught me that love isn't a battlefield; it's a safe room. She is the steady presence that allows me to finally stop running and accept the peace I spent a lifetime avoiding.
Our Shared Mission: Today, our love is not just a private bond; it is the engine behind my work in sharing my story. She is my primary supporter in reaching out to Gen X and Baby Boomer survivors (who are often told their pain is too old to matter), reinforcing the message that it is never too late to heal and find a love that is truly bold.

Lynda, you are the most critical piece of my recovery, the most beautiful part of my present, and the enduring promise of my future. You gave me the one thing I needed most: a safe place to be seen.

A circular badge with the text 'Speak Louder Than The Storm' above a sound wave and lightning bolts breaking through dark storm clouds.

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THE LATE HARVEST

I used to believe that recovery was a young man's game. I thought that if you hadn't fixed your broken pieces by forty, you were destined to stay broken.

I was wrong.

I discovered what I now call "The Late Harvest." Just as some of the sweetest wines come from grapes that stay on the vine through the first frost, some of the most profound healing happens later in life. We have the wisdom, the perspective, and—finally—the courage to look at the storm and speak back to it.

Today, I am no longer running.

I have been sober from pornography for over two years.
My marriage to my wife, Lynda, has transformed from "coexisting" to truly communicating.
My relationships with my adult children, Tyler and Krispen, have been redeemed and restored.

I traded the shame of the "Secret" for the power of the Story.

THE MISSION

Now, I use my voice to help others find theirs.

Through my memoir, Four Names For Thunder, and my podcast, The Aftershock, I am building a map for the "Delayed Warriors." I want to reach the men and women who feel like it’s too late to heal—the ones sitting in the pews, the boardrooms, and the nurses' stations, holding their breath.

My message is simple: Speak Louder Than The Storm™.

You don't have to let the chaos of the past dictate the peace of your future. You can step out of the silence. You can break the cycle. And you can finally, truly, come home.

A smiling man with glasses, gray beard, and mustache wearing a black winter coat, scarf, and gloves, standing outdoors in a snow-covered park at dusk or dawn with snow on his coat and glasses, and trees, park benches, and street lamps in the background.

You can’t fix a patient until you assess the wound. I took me 45 years to finally assess my own”

THE STORY

By day, I am a Director of Clinical Informatics. My job is built on precision, data, and systems. I oversee electronic health records for fifty-six nursing homes across three states. In my world, everything has a diagnosis, everything has a code, and everything has a treatment plan.

But for most of my life, the person who needed the most urgent care was the one staring back at me in the mirror.

I am a "Delayed Warrior."

Like many Gen Xers and Baby Boomers, I was raised in an era where you didn't talk about trauma. You didn't air the family secrets. You kept the windows closed, you turned up the volume, and you pretended the house wasn't shaking.

For forty years, I ran. I ran into a successful career in nursing. I ran into perfectionism. I ran into addiction. I became an expert at managing crises for other people so I wouldn't have to face the crisis inside myself. I lived in what I call the "Cool Blue of Fear"—a high-functioning state of silence where I convinced myself that if I just kept moving, the memories of childhood abuse and dysfunction couldn't catch me.

But you can’t outrun physics.

Eventually, the inertia runs out. For me, the "Aftershock" didn't hit until the second half of life. The silence I had carefully constructed began to crack. The trauma I thought I had buried was actually a seed, waiting for the right season to break the surface.