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.