we cross paths with strangers daily, glimpsing their surface—where they’re from, maybe a flicker of their past. But the raw, jagged road that carved them? That stays hidden. Our stories, though, pulse with quiet power, each one a singular map of survival and becoming.As a child, I wrote clumsy essays about summer trips or dog-eared books. Easy. But distilling a life—my life—into a single, unflinching narrative? That’s a blade to the bone. I once took a Christian course, Navigator, meant to shape a testimony of faith. It forced me to unearth truths I’d buried deep. Writing my story for strangers to judge? That’s a different beast.
Vulnerability isn’t just hard—it’s a house fire, exposing every fragile beam. Words strain to capture the ghostly, gut-punch moments that mold us.No two paths mirror each other. Not even my sister, raised in the same chaos, carries my exact wounds or wonders. Yet we shrink from sharing, as if our stories don’t hum with unique voltage.I was a ghost in my own skin.
As a boy, I pressed myself into corners, breath shallow, eyes down. I’d whisper apologies for existing, my wide blue eyes a traitor, pleading for connection despite my fear. I felt marked, as if a neon sign blinked above me: prey here. Those who hurt me saw it, their cruelty precise, like they’d read my invisible script. I learned to flinch before the blow landed.When asked to write 1,000 words about conquering adversity, I froze.
A thousand words isn’t a life—it’s a Polaroid, if you angle the light just right. I sidestepped myself at first, spilling ink about my mother’s iron will, my children’s bright chaos. Writing me felt like clawing through stone. I’m on my third draft, each one a mirror I’m afraid to face. Two weeks until the deadline. I’ll set it aside, let it simmer, then dive back in.
Who am I? A man stitched from silences and stubborn hope. I’ve been the boy who hid, the son who fought, the dreamer who stumbled but never stopped. My scars, some from others, some self-inflicted-Map, a journey I’m still tracing. I’m learning to stand in my own space, unapologetic, eyes steady. My story isn’t finished, but it’s mine, electric and unbroken.
