You are NOT your own.

 On Being Different I always knew I was different, even before I had the words for it. And I knew it wasn’t safe— I had heard what they called boys like me. So I hid. I ran. I tried to be normal. It hollowed me out— into despair, into self-loathing. To survive, I learned to wear masks. Carefully made. Convincing. A different version of me for every room. But it was never enough. It could never be enough. Eventually, I grew tired— of performing, of shrinking, of living inside expectations that were never mine. So I began to unmask. Slowly. Deliberately. Piece by piece, I let myself be seen. Not perfect— but real. Shaped by pain, forged through confusion. I no longer try to pass as normal. I never was. Now I stand unmasked— as I am. Proud. Unapologetic. Because authenticity will always outlive the mask. And what is true— is real, is valid, is enough.

 Some days it comes quietly. Not with accusation or drama—just a low, persistent whisper that settles somewhere in the background of my mind: You haven’t really done much. It’s a strange thought, because I know it isn’t true. If I take a moment to look back, I can see the shape of a life that has been anything but empty. I have been a father. A husband. A provider. I have led, I have mentored, I have stood in the gap for others when it mattered. I have shown up. And yet, the feeling lingers. I’ve come to realise that this voice doesn’t deal in facts. It measures something far less tangible—something closer to expectation than reality. Perhaps it’s the distance between who I once imagined I would become and who I see when I look at myself now. Not disappointment, exactly. Just… a quiet questioning. But if I’m honest, there is another truth that sits alongside that voice—one that is easier to overlook because it doesn’t announce itself as loudly. I didn’t live my life on the surface....

 I don’t consider myself religious anymore. At least, not in the way people might expect. There was a time when belief felt structured, defined—something I either fit into or drifted away from. And in many ways, I did drift. I questioned, I pulled back, I let go of things that no longer felt true to me. But somewhere along the way—quietly, unexpectedly—something else found me. Not rules. Not obligation. Not pressure to become someone else. But a sense… that I am already chosen. And I know how that sounds, especially to those who’ve perhaps taken a step back from me over time. Maybe it feels like I’ve changed in ways that are hard to understand. Maybe it feels like distance was necessary. But the truth is, this hasn’t been about becoming more distant from myself. It’s been the opposite. It’s been about coming home. --- Oh to be chosen— not polished, not rehearsed, not softened at the edges to fit another’s comfort, but as I am in the quiet, unguarded truth of myself. To be seen beyo...