There’s a strange kind of peace in being forgotten.
When the names they gave you start to fade, and the headlines turn to dust, there’s a moment when you realise: You are still here.
Not as “Billy Coull the scandal.”
Not as “Billy Coull the failed CEO.”
Not even as “Billy Coull the myth.”
Just breath. Skin. Bones. Presence.
And maybe that’s where it all truly begins.
Shedding the Story
I used to wake up every day wearing armour made of words.
I was whatever they said I was—visionary, liar, healer, criminal, madman, mystic. I tried to fight back with my own stories, to correct the narrative, to rewrite the plot.
But none of it was real.
Stories are built for survival. They give us roles to play and masks to wear. But they don’t let you rest. They don’t let you exist.
Waking up without a name is terrifying.
And it’s also the most honest thing I’ve ever done.
What’s Left When You Stop Performing
There’s no applause in healing.
No performance to rehearse.
There’s just tea. And silence. And slow breath. And the questions that creep in during the quietest moments:
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Who are you when no one’s watching?
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What part of you never wanted to be known?
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What have you been hiding from yourself?
The answers don’t come all at once. They come like dew on a morning leaf—quiet, patient, barely visible unless you’re still enough to notice.
The Light That Doesn’t Burn
We talk a lot about transformation like it’s a fire.
But real transformation is less like an explosion—and more like a slow thaw.
You don’t rise from the ashes. You unfreeze.
Piece by piece.
Day by day.
And in the quiet of that first light, you don’t find a new self. You find the one that was always there, beneath the shame, the ambition, the noise.
The one that never needed a name at all.