The Moment I Knew I Wanted to Be a Magician (It Wasn't When I Was a Kid)

Ask most magicians how they got started and you'll hear a familiar story. A birthday gift. A magic kit with a plastic wand and a foam ball. A grandfather who knew a few card tricks. Something that happened when they were eight years old.

That's not my story.

I came to magic in my mid-forties. And honestly, it started with my son Noah and a TV show.

Penn & Teller changed something

Noah and I used to watch Penn & Teller: Fool Us together. If you haven't seen it, the premise is simple — magicians perform their best illusion for Penn and Teller, two of the most knowledgeable people in magic alive, and try to fool them. It's part competition, part celebration of the art form.

I had always enjoyed watching magic. But something about watching it with Noah, week after week, flipped a switch. I wasn't just enjoying the tricks anymore. I was obsessed with the how. How did they do that? What just happened? I found myself rewinding, watching again, studying hands and angles and misdirection.

That curiosity didn't go away when the episode ended. It followed me around.

A book on card tricks

I bought a book on card tricks. Nothing fancy — just a beginner's guide. I figured I'd learn a few things, satisfy the curiosity, and move on.

That's not what happened.

I was hooked. Not just by the tricks themselves, but by the craft behind them. The mechanics. The psychology. The way a well-constructed trick leads a person's attention exactly where you want it, and then pulls the rug out from under them at precisely the right instant.

I kept reading. I kept practicing. I bought more books.

What starting late actually gave me

Here's something I've come to appreciate about coming to magic in my mid-forties rather than as a kid. I didn't start performing to impress people or to show off. I started because I genuinely fell in love with the craft. The methods, the mechanics, the psychology.

And because I came to it as an adult, I brought something with me that's harder to teach, an understanding of people. Decades of conversations, relationships and reading a room. When I perform now, I'm not just executing a trick. I'm paying attention to the person in front of me. What makes them laugh. When to slow down. When to let the silence do the work. I take the time to just talk with them.

I think that's why the reaction I value most isn't applause. It's that stunned pause right before the applause. It’s when someone's brain is trying to catch up with what their eyes just saw. That pause is everything.

If you'd like to bring that experience to your next event in Portland, I'd love to talk.