Thoughts from a Gentleman Warrior

This is a place for hard-earned truths, not polished answers. I write about my experiences, life lessons, books, and life in general.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

Week 3 – JOY: The Courage to Be Ridiculous

Some movies make you believe in magic. Elf makes you believe in joy.

There’s a scene where Buddy the Elf, dressed in full green-and-yellow regalia, bursts into a boardroom and declares, “I’m in love! I’m in love! And I don’t care who knows it!” It’s absurd. It’s embarrassing. And it’s precisely what joy looks like when it’s unfiltered.

If Hope is the stubborn will to matter, and Peace is the quiet moment after you stop performing, then Joy is something far more volatile. It’s what happens when you decide to stop trying to be cool and just let the absurdity in.

Buddy, a human raised by elves, leaves the North Pole to find his father in New York. He’s naive, relentlessly cheerful, and entirely out of place. He’s also exactly what the city and his father need. He’s too loud, too tall, too enthusiastic, and prone to sprinting across traffic to hug a hot dog stand mascot. He is the physical embodiment of the kind of public, unrestrained joy that makes a self-aware, perpetually anxious adult want to crawl under a table.

The comedy works because it’s sincere. There’s no irony in Buddy. He’s ridiculous, but his optimism is armor. He disarms cynicism simply by refusing to play along.

For years, I thought joy had to be earned. It was the reward for surviving something hard or achieving something noble. I didn’t trust joy that came too easily. It felt unserious. Unworthy. Like Buddy himself.

But here’s what I’ve learned: joy often shows up in the middle of pain, not after it. It’s not the absence of suffering. It’s the refusal to let suffering have the final word.

During my days as a firefighter, we constantly made dark, incorrect jokes. Were we being disrespectful? Yes, sometimes. But we were also honest, funny, and weirdly hopeful.

It’s classic survival humor of two extremes placed side by side. You laugh because the darkness is so profound that the only logical countermove is to find the most ridiculously trivial thing possible. It is a reminder that even in despair, there’s room for absurdity, humor, and joy.

In John 15:11, Jesus says: “I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.”

Joy isn’t a bonus. It’s a promise. A gift. A divine inheritance. But it takes courage to receive it, especially when you’ve been taught to distrust it, when you’ve learned that joy is fragile, fleeting, or foolish.

Advent joy isn’t happiness. Happiness is circumstantial; joy is theological. It is the deep, abiding conviction that despite the darkness (or maybe because of it), something good is on its way. As Philippians 4:4 puts it: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice.”

Buddy’s joy is reckless. He’s not performing; he’s simply being. He’s not worried about whether his bright green tights and floppy collar are appropriate for a Manhattan office building. He’s too busy being excited about syrup on spaghetti. In a world that prizes cynicism, Buddy’s joy is a rebellion. It’s a declaration that wonder still matters. That laughter still heals. That love—no matter how awkward—is worth shouting about.

I used to flinch at joy. I’d downplay it, deflect it, joke it away with sarcasm. Humor was how I kept people from seeing how tired I was. But Buddy uses humor differently—his laughter heals instead of hides. Watching him, I’m reminded that joy isn’t denial of pain; it’s resistance to it.

When Buddy tells his father, “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear,” it’s not a punchline; it’s theology. Joy is contagious when it’s genuine. The Gospel puts it this way: “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” Buddy proves that strength doesn’t always look like stoicism. Sometimes it looks like laughter echoing through a cold city.

Buddy didn’t change the world. But he changed the people around him. With sugar, with song, with relentless optimism. And maybe that’s enough.

This week, as we light the candle of joy, choose to be ridiculous. Let yourself feel delight, even when it doesn’t make sense. Trust that joy isn’t weakness—it’s strength in disguise.

Watch Elf again this week. Let yourself laugh without apology. Lean into the enthusiasm, even if it feels loud and embarrassing. Permit yourself to be the Buddy the Elf in your own messy, cynical world.

True joy might be courage wearing a smile. It’s the decision to let the absurdity in. It’s the realization that sometimes, the most sophisticated response to profound darkness is not a profound insight, but a deep, ridiculous, unfiltered smile. Let the world laugh. You’re too busy being delighted.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

Week 2: PEACE — Charlie Brown Christmas

Advent is a time to reflect on hope, peace, joy, and love. Many Christmas movies capture these themes. The second week of Advent is about Peace.

Charlie Brown’s search for peace in a noisy world echoes my own experiences. While last week’s blog on It’s a Wonderful Life explored despair, A Charlie Brown Christmas captures the overwhelming noise of the holidays. Charlie’s struggle is not about gifts but finding meaning amid commercialism and outside pressures. Despite his efforts to direct, buy a shiny tree, and listen to friends, he fails to find inner calm.

You sense Charlie’s confusion: Why do I feel so sad when everyone else seems so sure? I related to this for much of my life.

For many years, I searched for a sense of peace during the Christmas season. Unlike others, I did not grow up in a Christian home, so the traditions that brought meaning to others were absent from my experience. Our house did not have a Christmas tree or holiday lights. Stockings were never hung, and the familiar sound of carols never filled the background. December passed much like any other month for us, unchanged and unadorned.

Yet, neighborhoods glowed with festive decorations and laughter. I felt like an observer watching someone else’s celebration. The holiday spirit was vivid and all around me, but I could not reach it. Even the beloved Christmas specials, such as A Charlie Brown Christmas, seemed magical on the surface, but inside, I felt an emptiness that the season could not fill.

While classmates buzzed about Santa lists and stockings, my home had none of it—no wrapped gifts, no stockings, no excited Christmas mornings. I had quietly accepted that I did not belong to those customs. I understood, even at a young age, not to expect to be included in celebrations that weren’t mine.

Still, the difference left a mark. There is a quiet loneliness that comes with being surrounded by festivities that you observe but cannot participate in, a sense of standing outside the circle of warmth and belonging, watching as others share in traditions that remain out of reach.

As an adult, I put on a Charlie Brown smile, doing the tree, baking cookies, and watching A Christmas Carol, but only as a spectator, so the rituals felt hollow. Deep down, I was still that kid at the window, watching lights dance in another family’s home and wondering what it felt like to belong to that kind of warmth.

Charlie Brown’s moment of enlightenment comes when he is at his most defeated. He brings back the scrawny little tree, everyone laughs at him, and he yells: “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas all is about?!”

Then comes the turning point. Linus, clutching his security blanket, walks to the center of the stage and asks for the lights to be dimmed. It’s the only time in the whole special that everything goes silent.

Linus’s recitation of the nativity text from the Gospel of Luke redirects the story to proclaim the angel’s words, “Fear not”, and the good news of Christ’s birth reframe what truly matters.

The scene is powerful because Linus, the most anxious character in the whole series, delivers a message of profound certainty, then drops his security blanket. A visual sermon on letting go of fear. Peace comes in the stillness when the external noise is silenced, and a simple, powerful truth is spoken.

Charlie Brown’s forlorn little tree becomes the visual embodiment of Advent peace: fragile, honest, and in need of care. Advent teaches that peace grows not from grand projects but from small acts of faithful attention, repairing what is broken, welcoming the overlooked, and honoring dignity over display. The children’s eventual gathering around the small tree models the biblical truth that God often plants peace in what the world deems insignificant.

Later, as I became a believer, I learned what Christians already knew. The point of Christmas isn’t to do more; it’s to be still enough to notice.

Watching Charlie Brown, I think about my own “volume knob.” Work, family, anxiety, church, scouts, health, ambition, they all compete for maximum decibels. The trick is learning to turn them down one by one until you can hear the still, small voice beneath it all.

This week of Advent calls us to that stillness. Peace doesn’t arrive through control but through surrender. As we light the candle of peace, let’s stop chasing it like a trophy and sit with it. Let it be messy and trust that even in the noise, God is near.

As Linus says, “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

[thegentlemanwarrior]

Week 1: Hope - Lessons from It's a Wonderful Life

The Advent Season invites us to reflect on hope, peace, joy, and love—core themes that resonate deeply at this time of year. Many beloved Christmas movies beautifully capture these values, weaving them into stories that inspire and uplift. In the weeks ahead, I’d like to share a few of my favorite films that embody the spirit of Advent and explore the lessons they offer us.

The first week of Advent is about hope. One of my favorite Christmas films about hope is Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life (1946), released in the wake of World War II, when a weary society longed for reassurance.

Often called sentimental, It’s a Wonderful Life is a story of despair and ultimately, hope. George Bailey feels angry, disappointed, and stuck by his own moral code, making Capra’s 1946 film a timeless study of a man who feels he wasted his life.

Bailey never set out to be a martyr; he dreamed of adventure, but life kept him in Bedford Falls, bound to family and duty. He’s a guy who yells at his wife and drinks too much. Despite his flaws, anger, frustration, and personal struggles, his sacrifices make him a compelling figure who questions his own worth on Christmas Eve. He finds himself on a bridge on Christmas Eve, looking down into dark water, truly believing the world would be better off without him.

I understand that feeling. I’ve been a workaholic and described as a “workhorse” in a performance review. Several years ago, rumors about job security were circulating. Suddenly, I found myself facing an uncertain future, and my body reacted first. I spent five hours in the emergency room trying to stabilize my blood pressure. My physical self was crying out what my mind couldn’t express: I am not safe. When your worth is tied to your success, and your work begins to fall apart, the result is a crisis of self.

The bridge scene is pivotal as George breaks down and receives a new perspective from Clarence, a second-class angel. Clarence helps George by revealing a world without him, showing that hope comes from seeing things differently. The message: true worth isn’t measured by achievements but by everyday acts of kindness. Though George never leaves Bedford Falls or achieves grand success, his quiet compassion profoundly impacts those around him.

The drive to achieve and the fear of failure motivate George Bailey, just as it does us. We worry that losing work or money means losing ourselves. My own panic attack mirrored this.

The movie’s central message is that your worth isn’t based on financial success. George’s true value lies in his acts of kindness, such as saving the bridge, helping the pharmacist, and protecting his community. George’s neighbors rallied to his side not because he was perfect, but because he was present, flawed, and kind.

Romans 5:5 says: “And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”

Paul emphasizes that hope is not wishful thinking; it is certain because it rests on God’s promises. Unlike worldly hopes that can fail, this hope is anchored in God’s faithfulness. The Greek word used (“ekcheō”) means to pour out lavishly, suggesting that God’s love is not rationed but generously overflowing.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed or undervalued, consider watching Frank Capra’s classic film this season. George Bailey’s journey serves as a reminder: being present is the most meaningful achievement. As we enter Advent and reflect on hope, remember—your worth isn’t earned or lost with status or wealth; it’s inherent. You matter, and that’s reason enough to begin again.

This week, as we light the candle of hope, accept that your value is already secure through God’s grace, even in invisibility or weakness. God sees you when the world doesn’t. Your worth isn’t earned; it’s received.

The hope that Advent asks us to hold onto is precisely this: the value of your soul does not depreciate, even when your bank account or your reputation does.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

Between Duty and Delight

The dawn arrived fair and mild, as though the heavens had conspired to grant us a gentle day. The air bore the scent of early autumn; the sunshine was neither harsh nor weak, but tempered, sweet upon the skin.

I rose in a fog of spinning thoughts, the vestiges of last night’s indulgence still heavy upon me. Though I had slept the full eight hours, my head felt unsteady, as though burdened by unseen weight. All day long, my mind swirled with concerns — the duties I owe to the Boy Scouts, the obligations at church, the many responsibilities that press upon me and yet must not be neglected.

After dispatching the morning’s unease, I devoted long hours to aiding Andrew in his arithmetic. The numbers, though mundane, afforded me a respite from heavier cares, and I found in his progress a small solace. Later, we journeyed to the festival, where we were to see both my boys perform in Taekwondo. We encountered a dear friend in the crowd, and in the glow of simple fellowship, I felt the stirrings of delight. The day waned, and we repaired to dinner together, servants of appetite and gratitude both.

Word comes in the region’s news that the Education Department has moved to withhold grant monies from the county’s magnet school programs, pending evaluation of the school district’s compliance with federal policy. The decision reminds me that even local institutions are tested, and our personal struggles pale in comparison to the larger struggles of the community and state.

Tonight, I sit with pen in hand, my spirit unsettled yet hopeful. Perhaps the coming hike will clear my head, and Providence will grant me rest and courage for the duties yet to come.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

Feeling Off

Lately, I’ve been feeling off—heavy, overwhelmed, maybe even a little lost. Over the weekend, the weight of it sat with me, and I kept trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. At first, I thought it might be the bourbon on Friday night, since drinking can amplify emotions. But even after the fog lifted, the feeling stayed.

The life advice book I’m writing for my boys has been on my mind. It’s a monumental task, and maybe that’s part of it. Even though I’ve hired an editor to help, the pressure of putting personal stories on paper—stories that hold pieces of my life—is daunting. Revisiting childhood trauma might be overwhelming, and I wonder if it is worth it. There’s vulnerability in it, and with that comes fear. Will my boys connect with it? Will it help them, or are life lessons only truly learned through experience?

Then there’s the loneliness that doesn’t make sense on paper. I have connections and people in my life, yet I still find myself seeking out conversations with strangers online. And I wrestle with that. Does that make me a bad person? I feel guilty. Shouldn’t I be fulfilled with what’s already in front of me? But maybe this need to reach out, to talk, isn’t about morality. Maybe it’s just about wanting to feel understood in ways that everyday life doesn’t always allow.

There’s also the looming uncertainty—the future, summer plans, making sure everything falls into place. The questions spiral: What do I need to plan? How can I ensure everything works out? I need to organize summer events and the fall/spring lecture series for the church group. Heck, will I even have a job at the end of this year? They have been laying so many people off work that it’s a scary time.

Then there’s the frustration with my body. When things don’t work the way they’re supposed to, it can mess with your head in ways that are hard to explain. It’s not just physical—it taps into deeper feelings of worth, identity, and the fear of being somehow less than.

All of it—past, present, future—it’s crowding my mind. And I know it’s okay to feel this way, to acknowledge the weight of it instead of pushing it aside. But right now, I’m just sitting with it, trying to sort through it and trying to figure out what comes next.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

The Visitor

This morning, I looked out into the backyard and locked eyes with a visitor I wasn’t expecting—a red fox, calm and watchful, standing in the open as if she owned the place. She didn’t run. She didn’t hide. She just stood there, holding her ground with a quiet kind of strength.

What the photo doesn’t show is that she wasn’t alone. Just beyond the frame, nestled in the grass near the edge of the tree line, were three fox cubs. Tiny and playful, they stayed close to the underbrush while their mother kept watch. I stood frozen, not wanting to startle them or miss the moment. It felt like a gift.

I found myself wanting to do something, so I grabbed a handful of grapes and tossed them onto the lawn, an offering of sorts. They rolled onto the grass. For a moment, the fox considered them. She didn’t rush or scramble. Just a slow, deliberate movement as she sniffed the air, then turned back toward her cubs. Maybe she didn’t want them; maybe she was teaching them caution, or maybe, like so much in nature, it wasn’t about the food but about the exchange-the quiet acknowledgment that we had seen each other.

There was something deeply moving about it. The way she carried herself—alert, protective, but unafraid—reminded me of how powerful maternal instinct can be. She didn’t need to do anything flashy or aggressive. Just being present, just watching, was enough.

And I wondered: how many wild, beautiful things are out there, just beyond our line of sight? How often do we miss the sacred moments happening right under our noses because we’re too distracted, too hurried, or just not looking?

[my-faith-journey]

Faith Tested by Pain

Cruelty shaped my earliest school years. I was not merely excluded; I was targeted. I was called names and racial slurs that cut deeper than any physical blow. Mocked, beaten, and humiliated, I became a daily vessel for others' projections. My suffering is constant.

Some of my worst moments unfolded in front of my younger sister. The day two boys beat me until I collapsed, weeping in a fetal position before her, shattered more than my body—it fractured my sense of self. I had no dignity in that moment, only pain and shame. I was supposed to protect her, yet I couldn’t defend myself.

Children struggle to distinguish between suffering and self-worth. I did too. Pain hardened into belief: I was defective, undeserving of love or protection. Those beliefs shaped how I viewed the world and myself even into adulthood.

What made the suffering more hurtful was also the absence of a response from my parents. They saw the wounds, but they were overwhelmed, uncertain how to respond, and impotent to defend their child.

When I was hurled through a glass door, they went to school to apologize because the glass door I was shoved through shattered. I learned again: I was not safe. Not even at home.

Love existed in our house, but often, it was powerless. My mother thought that care could substitute for action. My father did not teach me to fight, to land a punch, or to defend myself. So, I flailed blindly, and fear turned to rage when I missed.

The anger had no outlet. It festered. Sometimes, it turned inward. Other times, I imagined vengeance—making them feel what I had felt. But those were only fantasies, symptoms of a wounded ego, not paths to healing.

That rage, I now see, was never about violence. It was about dignity—about reclaiming the humanity stripped away in moments of humiliation, especially in front of the person I most wanted to protect.

Even now, I feel echoes of that child’s fury. When I am taken advantage of, anger rises quickly and disproportionately. It is not about the present; it is about an old wound reopening.

At home, I faced physical and emotional abuse from parents who were themselves hurting, unstable, and trapped in cycles they didn’t know how to break.

I was nine years old, sitting naked in a bathtub as the water filled around me. I was weeping quietly, but with such intensity that it seemed the sound should have shaken the walls. It didn’t. No one came.

It was not the water that frightened me; it was the thought that I wanted to disappear beneath it. At that age, I could not articulate what I was feeling. But looking back, it is clear: I no longer wished to live. This, I now understand, was my first, but not my last encounter with the kind of despair that whispers of self-destruction—not out of hatred for life, but out of a profound inability to bear it. Because of the abuse I endured growing up, the feeling of hopelessness that told me I didn’t matter would return, again and again, until I believed it.

What had led me to that moment?

A school note.

A simple note stating I needed glasses. But for my parents, this was not a medical issue; it was a moral failing—a personal betrayal. I had watched television too closely; I had disobeyed. Therefore, the consequence—my deteriorating vision—was deserved. “You’ll go blind,” they told me, “and it will be your fault.”

The need for glasses was not the source of my anguish. Many children wore them. What shattered me was not the diagnosis but the verdict: You have ruined your future. I was not comforted. I was punished. Spanked. Shamed. Condemned.

In that bathtub, I thought not about my eyes, but about my worth. If this was what love looked like, I wanted no part of it. If these were the people tasked with protecting me, then I must truly be alone. I imagined death not as a tragedy, but as a relief. I fantasized about cutting my wrist—not to end life, but to end pain, and perhaps, in the child’s mind I inhabited, to make them see what they had done.

But I did not act. Not because the pain passed, but because the fear of death outweighed my despair. And perhaps, too, because some part of me—even then—sensed that life might yet hold meaning. If I could survive this pain, it might one day be redeemed.

In those moments, with my broken soul, I asked the only question that seemed to matter: "Where are You, God?"

Night after night, I cried into my pillow and prayed for deliverance. I begged for safety. I begged to be seen. I begged to be loved. And every night, nothing changed. The fists still came. The cruel words still landed. The walls at home stayed cold and angry.

Over time, the prayers grew shorter. Then quieter. Then they stopped altogether. It wasn’t that I suddenly stopped believing in God. It was worse than that: I believed He was real—and simply didn’t care. How could a loving God watch a scared little boy get beaten and abandoned day after day and do nothing?

Eventually, I decided that prayer didn’t work. It felt pointless to whisper into a sky that stayed silent. Somewhere deep inside, a piece of me hardened. I still carried a faint belief in God, but it was buried under layers of anger, betrayal, and sorrow. If God existed, I thought, He had more important things to worry about than me.

For years, I walked through life hollow inside. Faith became something other people talked about, something soft, naive, childish. It was easy to believe in God when life was good. But when you’re bruised, broken, and abandoned, faith feels like a cruel joke. I stopped praying. I stopped hoping. I stopped looking up.

I felt that He had abandoned me. If God wanted me to find Him again, He was going to have to find me.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

[thegentlemanwarrior]

When Faith Doesn’t Feel Like Faith

Read More Here →

Some people talk about faith like it’s a birthmark — something you either have or don’t. Mine didn’t show up that way. It didn’t come in a sudden revelation or a whisper. It came slowly, unevenly, and often through tears.

I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel certain. I felt exhausted — especially during our adoption journeys, when hope kept slipping through our fingers. And yet... we kept going. That was faith. Not the warm, confident kind. The kind that drags itself forward when nothing makes sense.

This isn’t a post about spiritual mountaintops. It’s about the long, dark valleys — and what you find when you keep walking through them.

If you’ve ever struggled to believe, this one’s for you.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

When Prayer Leads to Guilt

Even if you're not spiritual, I think you'll find this true story funny.

@my-faith-journey · My Journey into Faith

I didn’t grow up in a deeply religious home. I thought Christianity was about following rules, being good, and pretending you had it all to

[thegentlemanwarrior]

Till I Collapse

"Till I Collapse" Isn’t Just a Song. It’s a Vow.

You don’t play Till I Collapse on a sunny Sunday drive. You play it when you’re on your last rep, last nerve, last bit of strength. When your body says "no" and your mind says "maybe" — and you need something louder than both to say "keep going."

Eminem’s voice in that track? It’s raw grit. It’s that friend who doesn’t pat you on the back but dares you to rise. The lyrics aren’t polished motivation. They’re a shot of adrenaline to the soul. They speak to the part of you that refuses to die quiet.

“I will not fall, I will stand tall.”

That’s not a lyric. It’s a code.

It’s for the fathers who show up exhausted and still give their best. For the men rebuilding themselves from the inside out. For anyone who’s been knocked down and told they’re done.

You don’t have to be perfect. Just relentless.

So the next time your knees shake and doubt starts whispering, turn up the volume. Remind yourself: quitting is easy — and you weren’t made for easy.

Keep going.

Till you collapse.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

David Goggins has a way of turning pain into fuel. He doesn’t just run ultra-marathons on broken legs or break pull-up records—he builds mental tools that keep him in the fight long after most people would’ve quit. One of the simplest, and most powerful, is what he calls the Cookie Jar.

The Cookie Jar is not about nostalgia or sugar—it’s about strength. It’s a mental reservoir of wins, comebacks, and moments when you refused to quit. Goggins reaches into it when doubt shows up, when pain spikes, when fear tries to take the wheel. He pulls out a memory—a time he conquered something hard—and reminds himself who he is.

Read more in my Books Blog

[thegentlemanwarrior]

How Faith is Forged

Read More In My Faith Blog

Some people talk about faith like it’s a birthmark — something you either have or don’t. Mine didn’t show up that way. It didn’t come in a sudden revelation or a whisper. It came slowly, unevenly, and often through tears.

I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel certain. I felt exhausted — especially during our adoption journeys, when hope kept slipping through our fingers. And yet... we kept going. That was faith. Not the warm, confident kind. The kind that drags itself forward when nothing makes sense.

This isn’t a post about spiritual mountaintops. It’s about the long, dark valleys — and what you find when you keep walking through them.

If you’ve ever struggled to believe, this one’s for you.

[caezen]

I love having deep talks like yeah tell me how do you see yourself and what kind of life you're gonna make after 15 years

[thegentlemanwarrior]

Same here — I live for conversations like that. The kind where you skip the small talk and dive into what actually matters. Where you're not just talking, you're connecting. That’s where the good stuff is — in the honesty, the dreams, the scars, and the hopes. So yeah, I’m all in. Let’s keep going — tell me more about how you see your future.

[thegentlemanwarrior]

The Psychology of Batman: A Bullied Kid's Blueprint for Resilience

I wasn’t drawn to Batman because he’s cool—I was drawn to him because I saw myself in him. A wounded kid who didn’t know how to fight, who carried shame and pain, and who had to learn how to turn all of it into strength. This isn’t just a story about a superhero. It’s about how I found a mirror in the mask—and why, to this day, I still carry what he taught me.

Read more here in my Screening Room Tumblr Blog

[thegentlemanwarrior]

One Monday in seventh grade, I forgot my English homework and prayed for divine intervention. What happened next still haunts me, making me rethink everything I thought I knew about faith, guilt, and heavenly customer service.

Read More Here on my Faith Tumblr

[thegentlemanwarrior]

We’ll Always Have Paris, But I’m Looking for Casablanca

A moment in Casablanca always hits me harder than the rest. Rick, alone at the bar, nursing a drink while Sam plays “As Time Goes By.” Ilsa has just walked in with another man. Rick’s face doesn’t move. He barely flinches. He wears that classic Bogart mask—cool, unbothered, untouchable. But if you look closely, you see it. The ache. The fracture under the surface.

I know that look. I had that look when my ex-girlfriend walked into a New Years Eve party in the arms of my ex-best friend. 

I saw Casablanca for the first time when I was 22. I rented it out of curiosity, expecting trench coats and dated dialogue. What I got instead was a mirror. Rick Blaine wasn’t just a character—he was the version of myself I didn’t know how to explain. Cynical. Guarded. Loyal to a fault. Haunted. Still trying, quietly, to do the right thing—even when no one’s watching.

And at the time, I was him.

Her name was Connie. Our story started like a lot of young relationships—mutual friends, awkward flirtation, a gradual orbit into something more. I was terrible at dating. Six months in, she asked why I hadn’t tried to kiss her. The answer was simple: I was afraid. Not of her, but of me. Of messing up. Of rejection. I had spent years being the “safe guy,” the friend girls confided in while dating someone else. Now that I was the lead in my own story, I didn’t know what to do.

We lasted six years—until she left me. For my best friend.

That broke me.

I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Drove past her house at night just to see if his car was there. I knew it was unhealthy. I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel close to her again, even if it hurt. When she told me I was obsessed, I denied it. But she was right. I didn’t just miss her. I had tied my worth to her. Losing her felt like losing the only proof that I could be loved.

So when Rick says, “We’ll always have Paris,” it doesn’t feel romantic to me. It feels like surrender. Like a man trying to wrap his wounds in poetry. Like someone who knows he has to let go—not because he’s strong, but because he’s finally too tired to hold on.

I used to think that was what strength looked like. Walking away. Moving on.

But I’ve come to believe real strength is different. It’s not forgetting the pain. It’s learning from it. Letting it reshape you. Not harden you.

Connie broke my heart. But she also cracked something open in me—something that needed to be exposed. My fears. My need for control. My fear of being truly known. That pain became a kind of forge. Not pleasant. Not clean. But necessary.

Spoiler Alert - Do Not Read Further

That’s what Casablanca is, at its core—a story about clarity. About choosing conviction over comfort. About letting go, not to erase the past, but to stop letting it define you.

Rick doesn’t get the girl. But he does get something better: a clear sense of who he is and what he stands for. He steps into the larger story. He becomes a man of principle in a world full of shadows. And maybe for the first time, he’s free.

That’s what I want.

Not the perfect ending. Not the fairytale. Just the kind of clarity that comes from living through hell and refusing to let it make you bitter. I want to carry my scars with honesty. To lead with conviction, not fear. To do what’s right, even when it’s not seen. Even when it’s not rewarded.

Because here’s the truth: we all have our Connie. We all have our Paris. But if we’re lucky, we also get our Casablanca—a moment, a place, a turning point—where we stop being defined by what broke us and start living by what we believe.

That’s the real story.

And it’s worth telling.