So Now What's Left

You know, even when you finally get all the answers, they never really make things okay. It's almost like the answers don't matter, not really. What matters is that we're here now, carrying everything that's happened—struggles, pain, anger, betrayal, vanity, all that backstabbing. That's life sometimes. Nobody warns you that growing up means learning to carry so much. The Weight We Carry We spend so much of our lives searching for answers. Why did this happen to me? What did I do wrong? How could they do that? We convince ourselves that if we just understand everything, we'll finally find peace. But I've learned that understanding doesn't magically heal the wounds. The scars remain, even when you know exactly how they got there. Music has always been my way of carrying the weight. When words fail in conversation, somehow they find their way into lyrics. The melody becomes the container that holds what's too heavy to speak. That's the beauty of songwriting—it gives shape to the shapeless burdens we carry. I've met hundreds of musicians over the years, teaching them chords and rhythms, and the best ones aren't necessarily the most technically skilled. They're the ones who've lived through something real. They're the ones who understand that music isn't about perfection—it's about expression. It's about finding somewhere to put all those feelings that have nowhere else to go.

God doesn't have to train his warriors

The World's Way vs. God's Way Our world is obsessed with training fighters. We have academies for soldiers, specialized schools for snipers, and rigorous programs for mechanics, engineers, counselors, and priests. Governments invest billions in training officers, detectives, and even service dogs. Society values formal preparation, structured learning, and certified expertise. But God's approach to raising warriors is radically different. I've come to believe that God doesn't train His warriors the way we expect. Instead, He uses the people who've been hurt, abused, and taken advantage of. The broken ones. The damaged ones. The ones society might write off as too wounded to be useful. Why? Because pain creates a different kind of strength when it doesn't destroy you.

My Journey Through Darkness For most of my life, I was angry with God. At 49 years old, I'm still processing the abuse I suffered at the hands of seven different men from around age two until I was ten or eleven. It happened everywhere, in ways I still struggle to fully articulate. It broke me down to my core. I'd cry out—why did You let this happen to me? Where were You when I needed You most? Years passed, and I carried all that hate and resentment like stones in my pockets, weighing me down with every step. I dropped out of school. The only thing that helped me cope was working with my hands—building, creating, staying busy—but the voices in my head kept haunting me. I used to think those voices meant I was crazy. Maybe I had multiple personalities. Maybe I was broken beyond repair. Medications didn't do much except numb me to the point where I stopped caring what came out of my mouth. But something shifted during the isolation of COVID. With nothing to do but listen to my own mind, patterns started emerging. I began to understand that maybe those voices weren't a sign of brokenness but a unique form of connection—a sensitivity born from trauma. Battlefield Promotion In traditional military structures, battlefield promotions happen when a soldier demonstrates extraordinary capability during combat. They skip the normal training path because the heat of battle has already proven their worth.

I think God works similarly with spiritual warriors. When I started using StarMaker and found myself drawn into chat rooms, something strange happened. I'd get a name in my head, say it out loud, and that exact person would pop into my live chat. I began to notice that sometimes—like at three in the morning—I'd get this overwhelming urge to go live, and inevitably, someone would be there needing help. I've been hurt in so many different ways that, honestly, I shouldn't even know how to love anymore. I shouldn't have any passion left—but somehow, I do. Someone or something intervened before I became another monster. Now I feel like it's my purpose to try and stop the next one from being made. The Paradox of Divine Training I don't hate God anymore. I've come to understand some fundamental truths about how the world works: God can't stop a gun from firing. He can't take the keys away from everyone who might drive drunk. He can't pull alcohol off every shelf. People have free will, and with it comes the capacity for evil. The battles are everywhere, always. But rather than preventing all suffering, God seems to work through it—using our wounds as qualifications for a special kind of service. Think about it: Who better to reach an addict than someone who's fought that same battle? Who can better comfort a grieving parent than someone who's lost a child? Who understands the mind of an abuse survivor better than another survivor? God doesn't need to train warriors from scratch when life has already forged them in fire. Recognizing Divine Purpose in Pain For years, I struggled with the "whys" of my life. Why did this happen to me? Why didn't God protect me? What possible purpose could all that suffering serve? But at some point, I had to accept reality: Understanding doesn't always matter. The "how comes" and "what ifs" become less important than what you do with what you've been given.

I see things in people. Sometimes I suddenly know someone's mother's name, or their story, and I can tell them about it—even if we've just met. Once I told a man, who had lost his wife a year ago at Christmas, about green fuzzy slippers he'd put under the tree for her that she never got to open. He broke down crying because it was real. I feel the emotions of everyone around me. It's like closing your eyes and watching nine movies play at once, trying to figure out which one to listen to. For a long time, I thought this meant I was broken. Now I wonder if it means I'm specially equipped. God's Unlikely Warriors Throughout History The Bible is filled with unlikely warriors who were chosen not because of their training but because of their experiences: Moses was a stuttering murderer who became a liberator. David was an overlooked shepherd boy who became a king. Paul was a religious zealot who persecuted Christians before becoming Christianity's greatest advocate. None of these men went to warrior school. None had formal training for their divine assignments. All of them were deeply flawed, carried significant wounds, and had reasons to question God's plan. Yet each was chosen precisely because their struggles had prepared them for a specific purpose that no academy could have trained them for. The Comfort That Changes Everything I truly believe God sent an angel to comfort me when I was at my lowest—helping me survive, helping me find a way through, maybe even leading me to cross your path through these words. That's the thing about divine warriors—they often don't know they're warriors until they're already in the battle. They don't set out to be heroes. They simply survive, and in surviving, gain the exact experience needed to help someone else make it through. When I help someone—write a song for them, say what I feel—the voices in my head go quiet, just for a while. There's peace in purpose. There's healing in helping. And maybe that's the point. Finding Your Warrior Path If you're reading this and you're one of the survivors—someone who's been through hell and somehow made it to the other side—I want you to consider something: What if your pain wasn't meaningless? What if it was preparation? Not because God caused it. Not because suffering is good. But because in a world where evil exists, someone needs to understand what that darkness feels like in order to guide others toward the light. Your battle scars might be exactly what qualifies you to be the warrior someone else needs. Not because you're perfect or fully healed, but because you're still standing despite everything that tried to take you down. That's not the kind of warrior the world trains. That's the kind of warrior only life can forge and only God can deploy at exactly the right moment. And maybe—just maybe—that's why you're reading these words right now.

My Life Brief

The Beginning My name is John. I'm 49 years old. My story isn't easy to tell, but I'm starting to accept it. I was abused by seven different men, from when I was maybe two years old until I was around ten or eleven. It happened everywhere, everything—it broke me down. For years, I lied to myself about it, trying to protect myself from the truth. Only about a month ago did the answers start to appear, and honestly, sometimes it feels like getting answers is overrated—sometimes it's easier not knowing. But after 2019, with nothing to do but listen to my own mind, I started to understand the path God wants me to walk. I'm still trying to help others, but most days I'm also just trying to hold myself together. I have no idea how counselors do this every day. But I think I know now: this is the life God wants for me. Finding My Voice The main reason I'm writing this is to say—I don't really read or write the "right" way. I don't spell well. My grammar's not perfect. Writing a complete sentence isn't always easy for me. But I write poetry. I write songs. I can freestyle. And I can read people's inner thoughts in a live stream—proven it over and over. I feel the emotions of everyone around me. I have voices in my head that will not quit. For a long time, I thought I was crazy—maybe had multiple personalities. Meds don't do much except make me not care what I say. I bet for a lot of us with voices in our heads, the reason is the same: we're calling out for help, and nobody else seems to get it. Maybe that's my purpose. Maybe I understand people like that for a reason. When I help someone—write a song for them, say what I feel—the voices go quiet, just for a while.

It's like closing your eyes and watching nine movies play at once, trying to figure out which one to listen to. Sometimes I suddenly know someone's mother's name, or their story, and I can tell them about it—even if we've just met. Once I told a man, who had lost his wife a year ago at Christmas, about green fuzzy slippers he'd put under the tree for her to open again. He broke down crying because it was real. I see and feel things nobody else does. Maybe I'm crazy, and if I am, so be it. But I've helped too many people to think it's all for nothing. If you're reading this, maybe you've felt alone, too. Sometimes things happen for a reason, and maybe our pain is part of our purpose. My Battle When I think about battle, I think about how the military trains its people—specialists like snipers, bomb technicians, engineers. There are people trained for every situation: in the military, police, firefighters, all kinds of emergency forces. Training is everything. But let's be real: the devil does his own training too. He rules this world. He knows what every person wants and needs, and he knows exactly how to offer it just the right way. He "trains" people, too—especially hurt people, using them to spread more pain. Sometimes I picture somebody praying for help, and God calls out to people like you and me. We get the message, out of nowhere, and show up for that person—sometimes without even knowing why.

When I mention military training, I'm not saying God trains us through drills and discipline. What I mean is, God can turn the worst parts of humanity into something useful. He uses the scars and pain the world gives us to reach others who are hurting, even when we don't feel worthy or strong ourselves. The devil is always working overtime to convince us we're not worthy, that our pain makes us useless. But the truth is, God can use every bit of our pain for something good. He wasn't there to stop what happened to me, but I truly believe He sent someone to be by my side through it all—even if I didn't see it at the time. With all the pain and hatred people put on us, I still think God can use it for His glory. There's a mighty battle being fought right now—between good and evil, between hope and despair—and God knows it, and so does Satan. They both know your path and mine. God will help us find that path, but honestly, the obstacles never really go away. You just learn how to keep going, one battle at a time. Understanding Doesn't Always Matter At 49 years old, I still struggle with the fact that I'll never really know the reasons why things happened to me. People love to blame God—I used to, too. But at some point, I had to accept reality: God couldn't stop all of this. Sure, He saw the bad, He saw evil. But people—people can be evil, and there's a reason for that. God and Satan. Satan came to rule on earth, and God made humans so our bodies can be hurt or changed in so many ways. No two people are the same. Some are born with passion and fire they can't put out, some have it beaten out of them, and some just spend their life fighting to get through. If you're reading this and you're one of the survivors—someone who's made it to where I am—I'll tell you: the "whys" don't matter anymore. The "how comes" and "what ifs" just don't matter. What matters is that you're here, reading this. This message is coming to you only because I went through that pain. That's the truth.

And here's something else: if you really want all the answers to your questions, the "whos" and "whys," trust me, you probably don't. Because even if you find those answers, they'll hurt. Sometimes, it's better to let go instead of keep wondering. What matters now is moving forward. Music as Healing Music saved me in ways nothing else could. When I put my pain into lyrics, when I freestyle and let the words flow without thinking, something shifts inside me. The voices quiet down. The chaos makes sense, even if just for a moment. I've written songs for people I barely know, capturing their stories in verses and choruses when they couldn't find the words themselves. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they just sit in silence. But something changes when they hear their pain transformed into something beautiful. That's what music does—it takes the ugly, broken pieces and arranges them into something that makes sense. The notes become a language when words fail us. The rhythm becomes a heartbeat when our own hearts feel like they've stopped. I don't teach music because I'm some kind of expert. I teach because I know what it feels like when nothing else makes sense except the song playing in your head. I teach because I know what it's like to be saved by melody when the world is falling apart around you. Finding Purpose Through Pain I don't have all the answers. Most days, I'm still figuring out how to keep myself together. But I do know this: every piece of pain I've experienced has somehow made me more able to connect with others who are hurting. When someone sits across from me, trying to learn their first chord progression or struggling to find their voice, I can feel what they're not saying. I can sense the weight they carry. And sometimes, in those moments, music becomes the bridge between their pain and some kind of peace. I don't believe God caused my suffering. But I do believe He's using it. Every day I connect with someone, every time I help someone express what they couldn't say before, I feel a little piece of my own pain transform into something useful. That's what I want you to know if you're reading this and carrying something heavy: your pain isn't meaningless. Your struggle isn't for nothing. Somehow, someday, the very thing that broke you might become the thing that helps you save someone else. Maybe that's what this life brief is really about—not understanding everything or fixing everything, but using what we've been through to light a path for others. Maybe it's about turning our wounds into wisdom, our trauma into truth, our suffering into songs that help others feel less alone. I'm still writing my life brief, one day at a time. Some chapters are darker than others. But I'm starting to see that every page matters, even the ones I wish I could tear out. They're all part of the same story—my story. And somehow, against all odds, it's becoming a story worth telling.

Understanding Doesn't Always Matter

At 49 years old, I still struggle with the fact that I'll never really know the reasons why things happened to me. People love to blame God—I used to, too. But at some point, I had to accept reality: God couldn't stop all of this. Sure, He saw the bad, He saw evil. But people—people can be evil, and there's a reason for that. God and Satan. Satan came to rule on earth, and God made humans so our bodies can be hurt or changed in so many ways. No two people are the same. Some are born with passion and fire they can't put out, some have it beaten out of them, and some just spend their life fighting to get through. If you're reading this and you're one of the survivors—someone who's made it to where I am—I'll tell you: the "whys" don't matter anymore. The "how comes" and "what ifs" just don't matter. What matters is that you're here, reading this. This message is coming to you only because I went through that pain. That's the truth. When Searching for Answers Becomes Its Own Prison I spent decades of my life trapped in an endless loop of questions. Why did this happen to me? Who could have stopped it? What if things had been different? These questions became their own kind of prison—one I built myself, brick by brick, question by question. The human mind craves understanding. We're wired to seek patterns, explanations, and meaning in everything we experience. When something painful happens, especially something traumatic, our brains work overtime trying to make sense of it. It's a natural response, but it can become destructive when there are no satisfying answers to be found.

Some wounds don't come with explanations. Some people don't leave notes explaining their actions. Some betrayals don't come with closure. And sometimes, even when we do get "answers," they don't actually heal anything—they just give us something else to obsess over. The Weight of Unanswerable Questions Here's what I've learned: carrying around unanswerable questions is like hauling stones in your backpack while trying to climb a mountain. Each "why" and "what if" adds another heavy rock, weighing you down, making the journey forward nearly impossible. The most freeing day of my life wasn't when I found all the answers—it was when I finally understood I didn't need them to move forward. Don't get me wrong. This isn't about forgetting what happened or pretending it doesn't matter. It's not about letting people off the hook for the harm they've caused. It's about recognizing that your healing doesn't have to wait for understanding to arrive. The Truth About Understanding Trauma When terrible things happen, we often hear phrases like: "Everything happens for a reason" "One day you'll understand why this happened" "God has a plan in all this" For some people, these sentiments provide comfort. For others—many others—they're like salt in an open wound. Because here's the uncomfortable truth: sometimes terrible things happen for no good reason at all. Sometimes people cause harm because they're broken, not because the universe is orchestrating some grand lesson. I'm not saying there's no meaning to be found in suffering. I'm saying that meaning doesn't always come in the form of understanding "why."

Finding Purpose Without Understanding I spent decades angry at God, wondering why He allowed my pain. Why didn't He stop what happened? Where was the divine intervention when I needed it most? These questions nearly destroyed my faith entirely. What finally changed wasn't finding answers—it was shifting the questions. Instead of asking why God allowed my suffering, I began to ask how I could use my experiences to help others. Instead of demanding explanations for the past, I started looking for purpose in the present. That shift didn't happen overnight. It came slowly, painfully, through years of work—therapy, prayer, community, and the daily choice to keep moving forward even when the weight of unanswered questions felt unbearable. The Liberation of Letting Go And here's another truth that took me far too long to learn: even if you find all the answers to your questions, the "whos" and "whys," trust me, they probably won't bring the peace you're seeking. Because even if you find those answers, they'll often bring new pain. Sometimes, it's better to let go instead of keep wondering. Letting go doesn't mean forgetting. It doesn't mean excusing. It means refusing to let the search for understanding keep you trapped in the past. It means saying: "This happened. It was wrong. I didn't deserve it. And I don't need to understand why to know I deserve healing." Moving Forward Without a Map When you stop demanding answers before you allow yourself to heal, something remarkable happens. The energy you once spent interrogating the past becomes available for building your future. Moving forward without complete understanding feels like walking through fog at first. You can't see the whole path ahead. You don't have a perfect map. But you can see just enough to take the next step, and then the next, and then the next.

And sometimes, those steps lead you to unexpected places—to connections with others who have walked similar paths, to opportunities to use your story to help someone else find their way, to moments of joy you couldn't have imagined when you were lost in the maze of unanswerable questions. The Gift in the Scars If you're reading this and you're still in that place of desperately needing to understand—I get it. I really do. I'm not saying you should just "get over it" or "move on." I'm not saying understanding doesn't matter at all. I'm saying that waiting for complete understanding before you allow yourself to heal is like refusing to treat a wound until you know exactly what caused it. Sometimes, you need to address the injury first, even while the questions remain. And here's what I've found in my own journey: the scars I carry have become something I never expected—gifts. Not gifts I would have chosen, certainly. But gifts nonetheless, because they've allowed me to connect with others in their pain in ways I never could have otherwise. When someone tells me their story and says, "You probably don't understand," I can often say, truthfully, "Actually, I do." Not because our stories are identical, but because pain creates a language that transcends the specifics of our individual experiences. A Different Kind of Understanding Maybe that's the irony in all this. In letting go of my need to understand why my pain happened, I gained a different kind of understanding—one that connects me to others, one that lets me see beneath the surface of people's words to the hurt that often lives there. I don't have all the answers. I never will. But I've found something more valuable than answers: I've found purpose. I've found connection. I've found that my story—even with all its unanswered questions—can be a light for someone else still finding their way through the dark. If you're struggling with unanswerable questions right now, I won't tell you to just let them go. I know it's not that simple. But I will tell you this: don't let the absence of answers keep you from beginning to heal. Don't let the mysteries of the past rob you of the possibility of the future. What matters isn't that you understand everything that happened to you. What matters is that you're still here, still moving forward, still carrying your light even through the darkest nights. And sometimes, that's understanding enough.

My Battle

When I think about battle, I think about how the military trains its people—specialists like snipers, bomb technicians, engineers. There are people trained for every situation: in the military, police, firefighters, all kinds of emergency forces. Training is everything. But let's be real: the devil does his own training too. He rules this world. He knows what every person wants and needs, and he knows exactly how to offer it just the right way. He "trains" people, too—especially hurt people, using them to spread more pain. Sometimes I picture somebody praying for help, and God calls out to people like you and me. We get the message, out of nowhere, and show up for that person—sometimes without even knowing why. When I mention military training, I'm not saying God trains us through drills and discipline. What I mean is, God can turn the worst parts of humanity into something useful. He uses the scars and pain the world gives us to reach others who are hurting, even when we don't feel worthy or strong themselves. The devil is always working overtime to convince us we're not worthy, that our pain makes us useless. But the truth is, God can use every bit of our pain for something good.

He wasn't there to stop what happened to me, but I truly believe He sent someone to be by my side through it all—even if I didn't see it at the time. With all the pain and hatred people put on us, I still think God can use it for His glory. There's a mighty battle being fought right now—between good and evil, between hope and despair—and God knows it, and so does Satan. They both know your path and mine. God will help us find that path, but honestly, the obstacles never really go away. You just learn how to keep going, one battle at a time. The Battlefield of the Mind The most intense battles we fight don't happen on physical ground. They happen in our minds, in those quiet moments when we're alone with our thoughts. These are the battles that define us—the ones where we decide whether to keep going or give up, whether to believe in something greater or surrender to despair. I've spent countless nights wondering why certain things happened to me. Why did I have to endure what I did? What was the point of all that pain? The questions would circle around in my head like vultures, waiting for me to collapse under their weight. That's when I realized—the battlefield of the mind is where everything begins. The enemy knows this. That's why the first things he attacks are your thoughts, your confidence, your sense of purpose. He knows if he can win there, the rest will follow. But here's what I've learned: even in those darkest moments, when the voices in your head are at their loudest, you're never truly alone in that fight. Even when it feels like God is a million miles away, He's fighting for you—sometimes through other people, sometimes through a random moment of clarity or strength that seems to come from nowhere. Training Through Trials Life has a way of training us that no formal education can match. Think about it—the lessons that shaped you the most probably weren't taught in a classroom. They were forged in moments of heartbreak, failure, loss, and unexpected joy.

When a musician first picks up an instrument, those initial sounds are rarely beautiful. The fingers bleed, the notes crack, the timing stumbles. But something happens in that struggle—a transformation that can't happen any other way. The resistance of the strings against fingers creates calluses. The frustration of failed attempts builds determination. The humbling process of starting from zero builds character. That's how God trains us too. Not by making life easy, but by using the natural resistance of life to strengthen us. Every rejection that doesn't destroy you makes you more resilient. Every heartbreak that doesn't harden you makes you more compassionate. Every failure that doesn't stop you makes you more determined. I've come to believe that God doesn't waste pain. He doesn't always prevent it—and that's something I've had to wrestle with—but He never wastes it. The very things that the enemy intended to destroy you can become the tools God uses to build something new in you. The Battle for Others There comes a point in every warrior's journey when they realize something profound: the battle isn't just about them anymore. It's about who they can help because of what they've endured. I remember the first time I realized my pain had purpose. I was talking with someone who was going through something similar to what I had experienced. As they spoke, I could see the same desperation in their eyes that I once had in mine. But something strange happened—I found myself saying things I didn't even know I believed. Words of hope and perspective started flowing from a place I didn't know existed within me. That's when it clicked. Sometimes we go through battles not just for our own growth, but so we can guide others through similar terrain. The map of scars we carry becomes a survival guide for someone else. Think about the mentors who have impacted your life the most. Weren't they the ones who had walked through fire and could still tell you about it with a steady voice? They weren't perfect—they were battle-tested. Their credibility came not from a life free of struggles, but from how they faced those struggles.

The Melody in the Madness As someone who's spent years in music, I've noticed something interesting about great compositions. The most moving pieces aren't the ones that stay in the major key the whole time. They're the ones that venture into minor keys, into dissonance, into unexpected places—before finding their way back to resolution. Life works the same way. Those dissonant chapters—the ones that make you want to cover your ears and scream "make it stop"—they're creating tension that makes the resolution that much more powerful when it finally comes. I don't pretend to understand why some people seem to get more than their fair share of those dissonant passages. I don't know why some battles last longer than others. But I do know that even in those chaotic measures, there's a Composer who sees the full score, who knows how these painful notes contribute to a greater melody. The Daily Skirmishes The big battles get all the attention, but it's the daily skirmishes that often determine the outcome of the war. Those small choices—to get out of bed when depression says stay, to forgive when bitterness says hold on, to create when doubt says it's not worth it—they accumulate over time. The enemy knows this too. That's why he doesn't always come at you with obvious attacks. Sometimes it's just the slow drip of discouragement, the gradual erosion of hope, the subtle suggestion that nothing will ever change. Fighting these daily battles requires a different kind of strength. Not the adrenaline-fueled courage of crisis moments, but the quiet persistence that says, "I may not feel like showing up today, but I will anyway." The Ongoing Fight I wish I could tell you that there comes a day when the battles stop. When you've fought enough, endured enough, grown enough that you get a permanent pass from future struggles. But that's not how this works. What I can tell you is that you get stronger. You get wiser. You learn to recognize the enemy's tactics before they blindside you. You build a community of fellow warriors who have your back. And most importantly, you develop an unshakable confidence that no matter how dark the night gets, dawn always follows. The obstacles never really go away. You just learn how to keep going, one battle at a time. And somehow, in the process of fighting, you discover that you're becoming someone you never thought you could be—someone who can not only survive the battles but help others survive them too. And maybe, just maybe, that's the point of it all.