Supporting Rich's journey to reclaim his life and one day become a story that gives hope to the next family facing ALS.

If you're reading this...

thank you.

Whether you've known my dad for forty years or forty minutes... whether you're family, a lifelong friend, a client, a teammate, a coworker, a neighbor, or someone who simply found our story...

thank you for taking a few minutes to get to know him.

It means more than you know.

Because this isn't just a fundraiser.

It's the story of a man who has spent his entire life showing up for other people.

And now...

he needs others to show up for him.

This isn't a goodbye fund.

It's a keep-going fund.

Because if you've ever loved someone...

you know there are some moments in life that are worth fighting for.

This is one of those moments.

My dad was told to get his affairs in order.

Instead, he chose to fight.

Not just for more time.

For more life.

For more memories.

For more family dinners.

For more golf.

For more trips with my mom.

For more memories made with you.

For future grandchildren.

And hopefully one day, to become one of the next already 50+ documented ALS reversal stories that gives another family hope.

There are three things my dad has always said he wanted written on his tombstone someday.

Family Man.

Nice Guy.

Fierce Competitor.

If you know Rich Nutter, you probably smiled reading those.

Because they weren't just words.

They were instructions for how to live.

My dad played college football.

He built a successful insurance business from the ground up.

He coached my brother and I.

He mentored.

He led.

He never missed a game.

He worked hard.

And he loved life even harder.

He was the guy who spent Saturdays watching college football, grilling steaks, sharing a great bottle of wine with family, and making everyone around him feel like they mattered.

He was the guy who showed up.

For his family.

For his friends.

For his clients.

For anyone who needed him.

If you needed Rich...

he was there.

Then, on June 10, 2024, everything changed.

After more than a year of searching for answers, countless doctor visits, specialist appointments, and a trip to the Cleveland Clinic, our family heard three letters no one is ever prepared for.

ALS.

We were told there was no cure.

We were told to get his affairs in order.

We were told he likely had two to five years to live.

I still remember the five-hour drive home.

The words "diagnosed with ALS" seemed to linger in the air.

Then there was silence.

Not because there was nothing to say.

Because there was nothing we could say.

For the first time in his life, my dad met an opponent he couldn't simply outwork.

An opponent that didn't care how disciplined he was.

Didn't care how badly he wanted to win.

And for a while...

it looked like ALS was winning.

Over the following months, Dad lost nearly 70 pounds.

He lost his ability to swallow.

He lost his voice.

And one of the hardest parts wasn't watching him lose weight.

It wasn't watching him struggle to eat.

It was losing his voice.

For months, the phone calls disappeared.

Conversations disappeared.

The man who had spent his life coaching, encouraging, mentoring, and leading others could no longer simply call his sons.

At one point, he communicated through handwritten notes.

Watching that happen to someone who had always been so strong, capable, independent, and full of life was heartbreaking.

Then something happened.

When our family felt completely lost, something happened that still feels impossible to explain.

A few days after Dad's diagnosis, one of my wife Steph's patients unexpectedly rescheduled an appointment that had originally been booked before we knew he had ALS.

When she came in, she immediately noticed something was wrong and asked Steph what had happened.

Steph shared that her future father-in-law had just been diagnosed with ALS.

Her patient paused.

Then she smiled.

"My best friend is an ALS nutrition specialist."

Her name is Coco Newton, and she lives in Traverse City, Michigan.

Looking back, it feels less like coincidence...

and more like God quietly opening a door we didn't even know existed.

Through Coco, we discovered the Healing ALS community and an entirely different world than the one we had been introduced to after the diagnosis.

For the first time since hearing the words "You have ALS," we met people who didn't tell us the story was already written.

We met people who believed there was still hope.

People who believed there was still a reason to fight.

People who believed there could still be another chapter.

People who literally reversed ALS.

That hope led us to Synergy Healing in Las Vegas and a journey focused on giving Dad every opportunity possible to heal, improve, and reclaim his life. He since has been back to synergy 5 times.

One of the things that inspired us most were the stories of people who had defied expectations.

People who were told there was no hope.

People who were told decline was inevitable.

People who refused to stop fighting.

Those stories didn't give Dad false hope.

They gave him something far more important.

A reason to keep going.

If you've ever walked through a difficult season, you know how powerful hope can be.

Sometimes hope doesn't change the diagnosis.

Sometimes it changes what you're willing to fight for.

For us, it changed everything.

And yes...

a dream.

A dream that one day he might become one of those stories himself.

Not for recognition.

But because he knows exactly what it feels like to desperately need hope.

Dad completed his treatments in Las Vegas and then slept for what felt like the next two weeks.

Honestly...

we didn't know what to think.

Was his body healing?

Was it shutting down?

We simply didn't know.

Then one evening about a month later I was sitting on the couch in our apartment in Traverse City watching TV with my wife Steph when my phone rang.

It was my mom.

I assumed she was just checking in.

Instead she said,

"James... your dad wants to talk to you."

I froze.

I hadn't spoken to my dad in months.

Then I heard his voice.

"Hi Hoddy."

The nickname he'd called me for years.

For just a moment...

everything felt normal again.

I immediately started crying.

His first words were simple.

"I have a voice."

I told him how good it was to hear him.

And he replied...

"It's good to be heard."

We talked for about fifteen minutes.

Nothing extraordinary.

And yet...

it was one of the most extraordinary conversations of my life.

Because after months of silence...

I got my dad back.

If you've ever gotten back something you thought you'd lost forever...

you know exactly why that phone call changed everything.

The victories kept coming.

He regained his ability to speak.

He regained his ability to swallow after two failed feeding tube attempts.

He gained more than 25 pounds.

He returned to work with my brother.

He started enjoying meals with family again.

He even got to enjoy a glass of wine again.

Then, just days after getting his voice back, he developed pneumonia and landed in the ICU.

Again.

At one point, we were told to prepare for the worst.

Again.

And once again...

my dad refused to quit.

When he left the hospital, our family had one goal.

Get Dad to my wedding.

Six months earlier, we weren't even sure he'd make it to Christmas.

Now...

on June 20, 2025...

in Winter Park, Colorado...

more than 9,000 feet above sea level...

my dad was there.

Not as a prognosis.

Not as a statistic.

As my dad.

And he gave a toast.

Just before he spoke, he told my brother Johnny he felt like he had lost his voice again.

Somehow, when it was time to speak, his voice came back.

Afterward, he smiled and said,

"God gave it back to me right when I needed it."

There wasn't a dry eye in the room.

Not because everyone was thinking about ALS.

Because everyone was thinking about Rich.

Today, Dad is still fighting.

He still works.

He still watches Detroit sports.

He still cheers for the people he loves.

He still dreams about getting back on a golf course.

He still talks about taking my mom Kelly and our family to Italy.

Most importantly...

he still believes there is more life left to live.

Recently, after a particularly difficult day, he sent me a message.

He wrote:

"It just gets hard some days because I want so bad to be normal again."

That sentence has stayed with me.

Because beneath all the doctor visits...

the therapies...

the travel...

the testing...

the treatments...

that's what this fight is really about.

Dad wants his life back.

He wants family dinners.

He wants golf.

He wants Italy.

He wants future holidays.

He wants future grandchildren.

He wants more memories with the people he loves, like you.

More life.

A few days ago, before launching this fundraiser, I told Dad we had finished writing his story.

His response wasn't about money.

It wasn't about ALS.

It wasn't even about himself.

It was this:

"I want to reverse so bad and then help others do the same, by giving them hope and Positive Mental Attitude (PMA)."

I smiled when I read it.

Because that's my dad.

Even now, in the middle of the hardest fight of his life, he's thinking about the next family.

He's thinking about giving someone else the hope we were so desperately searching for after his diagnosis.

That's why we're fighting.

Not just for more time.

Not just for more memories.

But because if Dad's journey can one day help another family believe there's still hope...

then this fight will have meant something even bigger than us.

Because hope has a ripple effect.

One story gives another family courage.

One family gives another family strength.

One chapter becomes someone else's beginning.

One of the biggest discoveries in Dad's healing journey has been severe mold toxicity and extensive mold contamination in my parents' home.

Addressing that environment has become a critical part of his healing plan.

Your support will help fund:

• Mold remediation and flooring replacement throughout the home

• Ongoing trips to Synergy Healing

• Functional medicine testing and therapies

• Nutritional protocols and supplements

• Travel and lodging related to treatment

• Physical therapy and rehabilitation

• ALS Specific Equipment

• Caregiver support

And that last one matters deeply.

Because while Dad has been fighting ALS...

my mom Kelly has been fighting right beside him.

If you know Kelly, you know she has a heart of gold.

She spent her career helping children with autism.

She is sunshine, kindness, compassion, and unconditional love wrapped into one person.

Somewhere along the way, she stopped being just a wife.

She became a nurse.

A researcher.

A respiratory therapist.

An advocate.

A caregiver.

And somehow...

she still found ways to simply be his best friend.

She sacrificed the life she knew to help save the person she loves most.

Dad often says,

"I wouldn't still be here if it wasn't for your mother."

And we all know he's right.

This fight belongs to both of them.

For decades, Rich and Kelly quietly spent their lives showing up for other people.

This fundraiser is one of the very few times they're allowing others to show up for them.

If Rich has ever encouraged you...

If Kelly has ever made you feel loved...

If you've ever laughed with them...

worked alongside them...

played a round of golf...

shared a meal or a bottle of wine...

or simply been lucky enough to call them friends...

thank you for considering standing beside them now.

For nearly two years, our family has fought this battle together.

Recently, Dad sent us a text that ended with these words:

"My family is and always has been my A Team."

That perfectly sums up this entire journey.

No one fights ALS alone.

Not Dad.

Not Mom.

Not Johnny.

Not me.

It has taken our entire family, incredible friends, amazing practitioners, and a community of people who have refused to let us lose hope.

Today...

we're inviting you to join that team.

Not because we expect anyone else to carry this burden for us.

But because we believe life's hardest battles were never meant to be fought alone.

Whether your support comes through a donation...

sharing this page...

or simply keeping our family in your prayers...

please know that every act of kindness matters.

More than you probably realize.

thank you.

Thank you for believing this story isn't over.

Thank you for believing there are still more memories to make.

And maybe one day...

when another family hears the words,

"You have ALS,"

they'll find Dad's story.

They'll discover that hope still exists.

They'll realize they aren't alone.

If that day comes...

every person who stood beside Rich...

every person who donated...

shared this page...

prayed for us...

or simply believed another chapter was possible...

will have helped write far more than our family's next chapter.

You'll have helped write hope into someone else's.

Thank you for helping give my dad every opportunity to continue fighting for the life he loves.

Because if you know Rich Nutter...

you know one thing.

A fierce competitor never stops fighting.

With love,

James, Johnny, and the Nutter family

Help Rich Nutter Continue Writing the Next Chapter

Still $34,800 to go. Help us build momentum.