I wasn’t planning on writing this.
Honestly, I’ll probably delete it.
But I’m writing it anyway.
I had a conversation with my therapist recently.
We were talking about my creativity, the things I keep building through fashion, music, and film.
The worlds I create when real life feels too heavy.
She told me something that stuck with me.
She said vulnerability is the riskiest thing a person can do.
Letting people see the shit you normally keep locked away.
The parts that don’t fit an image, a brand, or a narrative.
The parts you can’t clean up or control once they’re out there.
I’m in the middle of molding something right now.
A more intentional version of myself.
And maybe that’s exactly why this feels uncomfortable.
Because this doesn’t sell anything.
This isn’t me trying to be deep for attention.
This is me choosing to be raw on purpose.
Even if nobody ever reads it.
Even if I delete it right after.
Everything below this is the truth without polish.
Growing up, I was raised by my dad, Daryll.
He’s not my biological father, but he’s the man who’s been there since the day I was born.
So in every way that actually matters, that’s my dad.
On paper he’d be called my stepdad, but that word never fit.
He raised me from the ground up.
Still does in ways he probably doesn’t even realize.
When I was five, I found out he wasn’t my biological father.
That’s when I met my real one.
On my biological father’s side, I’m the middle child.
To keep shit straight in my own head, I call him Pops.
That was the only way I knew how to separate the two without losing my mind.
Daryll is the man who showed up.
So a lot of my childhood was hospitals, waiting rooms, machines beeping while time moved slow as hell.
I watched him abuse drugs because his body was constantly at war with itself.
I saw shit no kid should ever have to see.
Pain will make anyone desperate.
And despite everything, he took care of me.
I was spoiled in ways other kids weren’t.
As I got older, the illusion cracked.
I started seeing the bullshit my mom put herself through.
And how that bullshit always landed on me.
I carried adult responsibility way too fucking young.
I didn’t get to just be a kid.
Anger lived in that house.
Watching my mom chase love in places that only brought chaos.
The embarrassment of that situation followed me everywhere.
Almost ruined my life over it.
Shit I should’ve never had to do at that age.
But when you grow up feeling like the protector, you react before you think.
That environment wired me wrong in some ways.
A deep fear of being left.
When I love, I love hard as fuck.
Been on my own ever since.
I’ve dealt with death more times than I ever should have.
I watched my uncle die in front of me.
That image never really leaves.
You don’t forget the moment life exits someone’s body.
In 2020, my grandmother passed away.
The one holding everyone together without asking for credit.
She died from ALS and internal bleeding.
Her body failed her slowly.
Watching someone you love trapped inside their own body is a special kind of hell.
My mom and my aunt couldn’t make the call.
At twenty years old, I sat in a room and told them it was time to let her go.
The silence afterward was loud as fuck.
I was calm on the outside.
Inside, something cracked permanently.
Even though I know it was mercy.
Even though I know she was in pain.
Sometimes I still hear her voice in my head.
Telling me I did the right thing.
I didn’t have my older brother there to carry that weight with me.
Not because he wasn’t alive.
But because that responsibility always landed on me regardless.
I was always the one holding shit together.
That kind of weight is lonely as hell.
Around 2023, my biological father passed away.
Me and Pops never really had a real relationship.
Our conversations were always awkward.
But every time we talked, he’d tell me I was wise.
I never felt that way growing up.
Like I tried too hard just to be accepted.
One of our last conversations was about women.
He was known for having multiple women, multiple kids.
He told me never let a woman control you.
Always keep your foot on a woman.
That’s not how I’m built.
I don’t agree with that shit.
But I appreciated him trying.
That was him being a dad in the only language he knew.
The last real thing he ever said to me and my brother D’Angelo was
Look at my sons. They handsome. They healthy. I’m proud of them.
I told him I’d see him around.
A month later, he was dead.
When he died, something in me went hollow.
Like I was walking around as a shell of who I used to be.
After that, I started noticing shit about myself I couldn’t ignore.
I wasn’t regulating my emotions.
At twenty three, my anger was unchecked.
If I felt invalidated, I’d sit in that rage until someone acknowledged me.
I didn’t have an addiction.
But I was abusing substances.
It wasn’t about getting high.
About turning my brain off.
I don’t get addicted easily, but that doesn’t make it harmless.
And people around me called it out.
I didn’t like that version of myself.
Because I knew I was avoiding myself instead of dealing with my shit.
Last year, I had another painful conversation with my dad Daryll.
About me not being his biological son.
Another thing my mom forced me to carry.
I’ve given her so much grace.
More than most people ever would.
I don’t hold anger toward her because what the fuck does that solve.
But it’s never really felt like a mother son relationship.
Sometimes it feels like I’m a burden for even needing to be heard.
But it doesn’t feel motherly.
I wish she sacrificed more emotionally.
I know she worked her ass off.
But I wish she put me and my younger brother first instead of chasing love.
Maybe he wouldn’t be so fucked up now.
So now I pour myself into the few things that don’t abandon me.
I build worlds because mine felt unstable.
I create because silence is too loud.
I keep moving because standing still lets everything catch up.
I don’t know the point of writing this.
I’m not looking for sympathy.
I just needed this to exist.
Because I’ve carried it long enough.
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