I don’t remember the exact moment I broke.
Not the headlines. Not the arrest. Not the memes.
It wasn’t one single thing.
It was a slow burn—days blurring into nights, silence sitting on my chest like a weight I couldn’t shift.
What I do remember is this:
Waking up one morning with no home, no partner, no name left that didn’t come with a punchline.
That’s when I realised I was already in the fire.
And I had two choices—burn, or be forged.
People love the fall. They share it, mock it, repeat it until it becomes someone else’s identity.
But the process after that—what happens in the quiet, when the crowd moves on and you’re still sitting in your own ashes—
That’s where the alchemy begins.
I didn’t become a better man overnight.
I didn’t meditate my way into healing.
I screamed into pillows. I paced empty streets. I drank too much.
I relived every message I sent. Every mistake I made.
And every time I wanted to disappear, I chose—just barely—not to.
There’s no glamour in accountability.
You sit with what you did. You stop explaining it.
You learn the difference between context and excuse.
You face people who don’t care about the story behind the headline.
And you still show up.
That’s where the heat starts to change you.
Not because you’re innocent.
But because you refuse to stay the version of yourself who caused harm.
Some people won’t accept this.
Some never will.
But I didn’t crawl out of hell to be quiet about it.
This isn’t a redemption arc. It’s not for applause.
This is me showing up, over and over, with my scars wide open and my voice intact.
Because the fire didn’t kill me.
It forged me.
And I’m still here.