I was a neo-Nazi for 7 years going through life in constant hate and fear. My daughter was the major push I needed to finally quit.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Arno Michaelis, a former neo-Nazi who works with the organization Parents for Peace that helps radicalized individuals. It's been edited for length and clarity.
For seven years, I was a white nationalist skinhead and the front man of a neo-Nazi metal band based in Milwaukee.
During that time, I lived in fear and anger, driven by a violent ideology that twisted history into mythology and cast me as a hero in a delusional war.
However, that "heroism" was hollow. The life I led was toxic to myself and everyone around me.
How I became a neo-Nazi
I was drawn in when I was 16. I was an angry, lonely kid, searching for something: identity, purpose, belonging.
I found it, or thought I did, in a fantasy: the idea that I was part of a master race under siege.
I was into Greek and Norse myths as a kid, and Nazi ideology sold itself as the real-life version. It told me I was one of the "noble few" standing up against dark, corrupting forces.
That story was intoxicating, and listening to it through the music drew me in.
I wasn't a real musician. I couldn't carry a tune, but I could scream loud enough to whip a crowd into a frenzy, and that was enough.
Our goal was to spread the ideology through music, to indoctrinate others like I had been. Music was the device that allowed us to feel united and righteous in our hate.
Being a neo-Nazi, though, wasn't empowering, it was exhausting.
I lived in constant anger, fear, and hate
Everyone who doesn't look or think like you is seen as a threat. You wake up angry and go to bed angry. The only relief is violence, and even that doesn't satisfy for long.
We justified brutal attacks — what we called "boot parties" — on people we saw as enemies: people of color, LGBTQ folks, Jews, punks, anyone who wasn't us.
I'd hear a quiet voice inside asking, "What are you doing? This guy didn't do anything to you. You don't even know him," but I didn't have the courage to listen.
I told myself I was protecting my race, but the truth is, I was addicted to hate, and somewhere deep down, I knew it.
I'm an alcoholic. I drank profusely from the time I was 14 until I was 34. There were days when I was like, "I just, I can't do this anymore. I'm so tired of it."
Hate's the same way.
I was going through life in constant fear and hate of everyone who didn't look and think like me, and I got sick and tired of it.
The push I needed to get out
By 1994, I was looking for a way out, but leaving wasn't easy.
Being a neo-Nazi gave me status. I was a reverend in a so-called racial holy war. I had groupies and was a "founding father" of my band.
Outside that fantasy, though, I was a high school dropout and an alcoholic who couldn't pay my bills and had to move back in with my mom and dad.
It was intimidating to give up all of this, albeit false, status and face the cruel reality of the hole I had dug for myself.
It was going to require something drastic to give me the push I needed.
In early 1994, the mother of my daughter and I broke up, and I found myself a single parent to our 18-month-old. Two months later, a second friend of mine was shot and killed in a street fight. By then, I'd lost count of how many friends had been incarcerated.
It finally hit me that if I didn't leave, prison or death would take me from my daughter. That was the push I needed, so I walked away.
My life is better without fear and hate
The hate didn't end overnight, but freedom came in stages: listening to music I actually liked and going to a Packers game without the guilt of feeling like I was playing into the pop culture propaganda designed to corrupt the will of the white man.
A year and a half after leaving, I was on the South Side of Chicago at 4 a.m., dancing to house music with 3,000 people of every ethnicity, gender, and background. That's when I knew I was free.
That night, I realized something profound: what I had been searching for all along — belonging, joy, connection — wasn't found in hate, it was in community.
There were moments along the way that gave me glimpses of that truth: a Jewish boss, a lesbian supervisor, and Black, Latino, and Asian coworkers. People who treated me with kindness when I least deserved it, but most needed it.
That's what undid me, in the best way. Their compassion made me see who I could become if I let go of the lies.
Today, I work with Parents for Peace, an organization that helps people caught in extremism find a healthier, more connected life. We support individuals on their journey — whether they're questioning, struggling, or still deeply entrenched — and we guide families trying to reach a loved one.
I believe that accountability isn't just about admitting guilt, it's about using your story to make sure the cycle stops with you.
I live with deep regret for the harm I caused, but I know I can never undo it. What I can do is work to prevent more pain, and in doing so, I've found a life I never thought was possible: a life without fear, anger, or hate.
If you or someone you know is struggling with extremism, Parents for Peace offers confidential support for families and individuals. Learn more at Parents for Peace.
This story was adapted from Michaelis' interview for Business Insider's series, " Authorized Account." Learn more about his life before and after neo-Nazism in the video below:
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