I read my old notes like a stranger wrote them. 2017. 2018. 2020. Back when the blood boiled, when every day felt like war. Back when I worked like I was starving. Every page drips with purpose. Rage. Creation. I didn’t care who was watching. I didn’t care if it broke me. I wanted to build. I had to build.
2017—that boy, fresh out of law school, with no money to put up. Put up plenty of heart and laced it up 18 hours of work, each day, no breaks, no holidays—blood, sweat and guts. He had some creative rage.
But now? That boy appears gone. The fire’s gone quiet. The edge is dull. I got soft. Comfortable. Paid. And paid for it with my soul. Money didn’t free me—it slowed me. It padded the corners. Turned the hunger into habit. Killed the urgency. Killed the truth. It made me like things. Like ease. Like applause. Like weekends.
And now the heart sits heavy. Because those old notes weren’t just words. They were warnings. I was never meant to enjoy this. I was meant to create. To suffer for something bigger. To burn, not lounge. To go to war with myself—push the limits of flesh, blood and bones. This comfort? This quiet? It’s the enemy. It’s not who I was. It’s not who I’m gonna be. I’m not going to settle.
So I’m lighting the match again. Burn the softness. Starve the ego. Build like I’ve got nothing left. Because this life ain’t about celebrating. It’s about becoming—to the best of your potential.
This is the return. This is the reckoning.