A Letter To Myself.

“There comes a season in a man’s life when reflection becomes responsibility.” 

Dear Me,

There comes a point in life when time stops feeling infinite.

Not because it ends, but because it begins to matter.

Today marks the end of the first chapter of 2026—one page turned, eleven still unwritten. A quiet pause between where I’ve been and who I am still becoming. I write this not as a man who has arrived, but as one who understands the weight of the journey.

I turned thirty on the first day of August, and somewhere between the candles and the silence that followed, I realized that youth does not leave abruptly—it fades gently, replaced by responsibility. By awareness. By a deeper listening to life.

I am a father now.

My son, Mr. Flowers, arrived on the 31st of October 2024, and in that moment, the world rearranged itself. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But permanently. A new gravity entered my life, pulling every decision, every fear, every hope toward something greater than myself.

This letter is a mirror.

And a memory in advance.

On Life

Life is not a straight road; it is a series of lessons disguised as days. Some days teach gently. Others leave scars. But all of them ask something of you.

Life taught me that strength is often quiet. That survival is not always heroic—it is sometimes simply waking up and trying again. It taught me that joy and pain are not opposites; they are companions, walking closely, shaping us in turns.

Nothing lasts forever.

But meaning can.

On Becoming

I have failed in ways no one applauded. I have started over more times than I planned. And I have learned that failure is not the opposite of success—it is the forge that makes it honest.

Growth requires the death of old selves.

The versions of me that thought they knew everything had to step aside for wisdom to enter.

Be patient with yourself.

Be ruthless with excuses.

Be loyal to the work.

On Work, Purpose, and Legacy

Work is more than survival—it is testimony. It tells the world what you value, how you endure, and who you are when no one is watching.

Money feeds the body.

Purpose feeds the soul.

Build slowly. Build truthfully. Build something that can stand without your constant defense. Let your name mean something even when you are not present to explain it.

On Love and Responsibility

Love is not a feeling you fall into; it is a decision you stand by.

Family will stretch you. It will demand your best when you feel least prepared. But in that stretching, you will discover your truest strength.

Fatherhood taught me that love is no longer about how much I receive, but how much I am willing to give—especially when it costs me comfort.

On Time

Time does not ask for permission.

It moves. It takes. It gives. And it leaves quietly.

Learn to honor ordinary days. To recognize that life is not lived only in milestones, but in mornings, conversations, and moments you didn’t know were important until they were gone.

Be present.

Be gentle.

Pay attention.

A Promise Forward

As this chapter closes, I promise myself this:

To live intentionally.

To lead with character.

To love deeply.

To remain teachable.

To remember why I started.

This letter is not an ending.

It is proof that I was paying attention while becoming.

 
THE END!