Everyone talks about redemption like it’s a film. Like some big, dramatic scene, you know? A speech you give, a sudden moment where everything just clicks into place and the hero walks off into the sunset. The way people talk about what redemption feels like it’s always this instant, huge, brilliant thing. All shiny and perfect.
But for me, living through it? It’s nothing like that. Not a bit of it. It’s not a single moment. It’s a never-ending slog. It’s a thousand small, completely unglamorous things you do every single day. Most of the time, no one even sees them. It’s rough. It makes you humble. And it’s so much more real than anything you’d see on a screen.
My whole journey into this messy reality started with everything blowing up in my face. The Willy Wonka Experience, that became a worldwide joke. And I was right in the middle of it. The papers, they called me a cheat, a monster. The shame from that was just stifling, it just made the personal chaos already in my life even worse. And in that absolute mess, that desperate state I was in, I made some really bad choices with an old partner. Sending those sexual messages. That led to a domestic abuse conviction. I pleaded guilty. I took my punishment. And those truths – the massive public failure and the deep personal harm I caused – they just locked together. It ripped away everything I thought I was.
When you’ve lost everything, when the whole world has pointed at your worst mistakes and said, “That’s him. That’s who he is.” Well, the idea of “redemption” feels like something from a fantasy book. Miles away. You don’t get the swelling music, or a cheering crowd. What you get is just the quiet buzz of your own broken life.
So, what redemption feels like for me?
It feels like waking up. Every single morning. Some days, it’s like wading through thick mud, all that guilt and regret pulling me down. Other days, it’s just about getting out of bed, putting one foot in front of the other. Making the choice to actually do something with the day, instead of just hiding in the dark place I used to be.
It feels like staying sober. One day at a time. The urge to just switch off the pain, to escape from all that public judging and my own massive guilt. That was huge. Redemption, for me, is just that quiet win of choosing to see things clearly, instead of trying to escape. Of facing what’s uncomfortable instead of running from it. It’s a battle no one else sees, but it’s the bedrock of who I’m becoming.
It feels like going to supervision. Every time they tell me to. Just turning up. Doing what I’m told, listening, trying to learn. There’s no flashiness in reporting in, no clapping for just doing what you’re supposed to do. But every visit, every session, that’s another brick in the wall of being accountable. It’s real proof that I’m dealing with what I did, not just saying words, but actually putting in the work, day after day.
It feels like writing when it hurts. Like now. Taking away all the easy answers, all the excuses, all that wanting to just be seen as the ‘misunderstood dreamer’. It’s about looking right at the ugly truth, especially the harm I caused. And trying to explain the real, often bloody painful, lessons I’m learning. It’s about letting people see behind the curtain, into the messy, unpolished reality of trying to change. Not some clean, perfect story.
Redemption, the real kind, it ain’t a sudden fix. It’s about the slow, soul-deep work of unlearning all that self-loathing and trying to find my worth again. For years, the voice of shame just took over my head. It told me I was beyond repair, that I deserved every single bit of flak I got. The real hard graft of redemption is that quiet, constant fight against that voice. It’s like trying to grow something good in bad soil. You have to plant the seeds of being kind to yourself, water them with honesty, and then just wait. Wait for them to break through.
It’s about getting my head around the idea that I’m not just my worst mistakes. They’re part of my story, yeah. And I can’t ever forget the pain they caused. But they don’t cover everything. Redemption is slowly understanding that even after big failures, even after causing deep hurt, there’s still something good left inside. There’s still a chance to learn, to grow, to actually do some good in the world.
It’s also about humbling myself. Accepting that other people might never forgive me, and that’s not up to me to decide. My job is to focus on what’s inside. On being honest about who I am. On living a life that actually shows I’ve changed.
So, when people talk about redemption, I don’t picture the happy ending anymore. I picture the sun coming up, day after day. I picture the choice to face things, every single time. The awkward talks. The endless effort. I picture the moth. It went through the fire. Now it flies, with a deeper understanding. Not towards the blinding glare, but to the steady, humble little flicker of its own light. The light it had to work bloody hard to find. That’s what redemption feels like. And it’s a hundred times more meaningful than any big, fancy show.