I did what I did for reasons that made sense to the version of me holding the wheel at the time. Some of those reasons were survival dressed up as pride. Some were ego pretending to be strength. But they were mine. I signed my name to them.
I don’t flinch from my past. It built calluses where skin used to split. But there is one quiet ache I can’t muscle through. I wish my mother and my father could see me now.
Not the version they left behind. Not the restless, loud, half-formed kid who thought the world owed him interest on pain. Not the son still swinging at shadows.
My mom left in 2011. My dad in 2019. And when they closed their eyes, I was still arguing with life instead of building one. It took falling past pride, past excuses, past the illusion of control all the way down to the bottom of my own making to understand that manhood isn’t volume. It isn’t bravado. It isn’t waiting for applause. It’s responsibility when no one is watching. It’s discipline when no one is clapping. It’s paying your debts, emotional and otherwise. It’s standing up after you’ve met the worst version of yourself and deciding that’s not the final draft.
I don’t regret the road. It carved me into something solid. But I do wish they could see the finished foundation instead of the demolition site. I hope, wherever they are, they know that kid, that man child grew up.
