I had love in my life.
But I didn’t love living.
There’s a difference.
See, when life starts weighing you down, even love can feel far away.
Even trust can crack under the pressure of everything falling apart.
I wasn’t blind to the good—I just couldn’t carry it.
Not when the rest of it was so heavy.
I saw people letting me down, sure. But worse than that, I saw myself letting down the ones who mattered most.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because I couldn’t keep up.
The bills.
The jobs that led nowhere.
The silence in friendships that once felt real.
The noise in my own head that wouldn’t quit.
I was alive, but not really living.
Not in the way I wanted to.
Not in the way I knew I could.
And then something unexpected happened.
Writing didn’t save me.
It didn’t have to.
It just showed up—quiet, honest, waiting.
It gave me space to bleed, without judgment.
To name the pain, without fear.
At first, it was just release.
A place to put the things I couldn’t say out loud.
No rules. No structure. Just truth.
The page didn’t care if I made sense.
It didn’t need me to be strong.
It just needed me to be real.
And in being real, something started to shift.
The more I wrote, the more I could see what I was carrying.
Not just the pain, but the lessons buried inside it.
Not just the struggle, but the strength I didn’t know I had.
Writing gave me a way to hold it all—
to face the mess,
to find the meaning,
to heal.
Writing Nobody’s Words was a wager.
My life on the table.
Succeed—or give it all up.
It wasn’t just a book. It was a battle.
Me against every fear, every doubt, every reason to quit.
It was proof that what mattered could rise above the mind’s noise.
That I could shape my day, even if the night was spent praying for a better tomorrow.
Self-publishing?
I didn’t know a thing.
But I had done the work.
And I wanted to remember it—the blood, the tears, the moment I stopped running and faced myself.
So I learned.
One mistake at a time.
I slowed down. I made better decisions. I realized time wasn’t something to race—it was something to respect.
One baby step turned into an endurance run.
And I crossed that line. I was there to see it, to feel it, to hold it.
Today, Nobody’s Words is my companion.
I don’t need the first two parts anymore—they’re fossils now.
Reminders of a time that can’t walk my mind again.
Now, I read it to remember that I showed up.
That I fought.
That I didn’t give in.
What I thought was so far away—a normal life, peace, purpose—it was never far at all.
One healthy choice led to the next, and the next.
Until I found what I can only call heaven on earth.
I’m grateful.
Beyond words, beyond time.
Because the journey, in the end, was a flash—
from confusion,
to clarity,
to the one thing I hold above all else now—
Gratitude.
A Man, Alive, but Not Living
