Redemption implies return.
As if I’ve clawed my way back to some former version of myself.
As if the goal was to be accepted again, welcomed back, forgiven by the same world that set the fire.
But I’m not returning.
I’m resurrecting.
I didn’t want to be who I was before.
He was scared.
He was desperate.
He was trying to outrun shame with glitter and noise.
He thought survival meant being seen, no matter the cost.
But when the lights burned out and the stories got loud and the mirrors cracked—
I didn’t go looking for a way back.
I went looking for a way through.
What they got wrong is thinking I wanted applause.
I didn’t.
I wanted truth.
I wanted stillness.
I wanted to stand in the ruins and not flinch when I said, “Yes, that was me.”
Not to perform my guilt.
Not to erase my pain.
But to finally become something whole.
And I have.
Not in the public eye.
Not in a statement.
Not in a courtroom.
But here.
In these words.
In the scars I no longer edit.
In the silence I’ve learned to hold without fear.
This isn’t a redemption arc.
Because I don’t believe in arcs.
I believe in spirals.
In burning and breaking and blooming again.
Redemption sounds like a marketing strategy.
Resurrection is spiritual.
And mine didn’t come easy.
It came with blood.
With loss.
With confronting the version of me that almost didn’t survive.
But I did.
And not for headlines.
And not for forgiveness.
And not to prove anyone wrong.
Just to breathe.
Just to write.
Just to stand.
So no, I’m not here to be saved.
I’ve already done that part myself.
I’m not interested in changing minds.
I’m here to change myth.
To burn through the story that others told about me
and build a new one—one I can live in,
not hide behind.
You can believe it or not.
But this is the truth:
I didn’t come back to explain.
I came back to exist.
Fully.
Fiercely.
Finally.
Recommended Posts:
Dear Mum, You Never Asked Why I Screamed
Dear Me, Age 7
Dear Spector
Dear The Girl I Hurt
Dear The Man I Was Becoming