In the days after everything collapsed,
my voice didn’t sound like mine.
It was rehearsed.
Filtered.
Clenched behind my teeth like I was afraid the wrong syllable might ruin me for good.
I said what I thought people wanted to hear.
I avoided what I knew would be used against me.
And in between those two places,
the truth sat quietly,
unspoken.
This isn’t a PR statement.
This isn’t damage control.
This is a confession.
What I Said
I said “sorry”
because it was true—
but also because I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t.
I said “I take responsibility”
because I meant it—
but I didn’t always know how to show it.
I said “I’m still here”
because part of me wanted to disappear—
and needed to remind myself I hadn’t.
What I Didn’t Say
I didn’t say how deeply I was unraveling.
How I couldn’t sleep.
How I feared my name might never mean anything human again.
I didn’t say that I sometimes felt like my body was moving but I wasn’t inside it.
That I couldn’t tell if I was trying to survive the backlash
or punish myself with it.
I didn’t say how ashamed I felt watching my daughter’s name cross my mind,
knowing I wasn’t the man she needed me to be.
I didn’t say how afraid I was
that maybe they were right—
and maybe I really was the monster they painted.
What I Should Have Said
I should have said,
“I don’t need you to forgive me.
I need you to know I’m listening.”
I should have said,
“I was trying to build something magical and I failed spectacularly.”
I should have said,
“This isn’t about optics.
This is about grief.”
I should have said,
“If I’ve hurt you—really hurt you—then I accept the weight of that fully.”
I should have said,
“I don’t expect to be welcomed back.
I expect to earn peace by living differently from here on out.”
But instead I froze.
I wrote half-truths.
I paused before the most important lines.
I edited out the humanity.
The Aftermath Is Where You Find Your Real Voice
When the noise dies down
and no one’s watching,
you have to ask yourself:
What was I afraid to say?
What was I afraid they’d see
if I said it?
For me, the answer was simple.
I was afraid they’d see I was scared.
That I didn’t know who I was anymore.
That I wasn’t sure I deserved a future.
But I’m not afraid of that now.
Because silence protects shame.
And I’ve already carried enough of that.
Final Thought
The aftermath doesn’t need more statements.
It needs honesty.
I can’t change what I said.
Or what I didn’t.
But I can keep speaking now—
from this place.
This raw, stripped-down place
where I don’t have to perform the perfect answer.
I’m not trying to speak for sympathy.
I’m just trying to tell the truth
before silence rewrites it again.
