I'm not fine. And no, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m just ranting.

But let’s be real. Why would I even say any of this? What would it change? Who would it help? We’re all struggling. And in the grand scheme of things, my struggles feel minuscule. I hate the feeling of being needy. I’ve spent most of my life helping others, avoiding asking for help myself—because deep down, I believed that needing help made me like them.

The ones I was related to. The ones like my father's family. My mother's family. Gutter trash. Always were, always would be. Comfortable in their misery.

My dad fought his way out of that. He rose up and became something. A community leader. Someone people looked up to. Someone who helped. Even if at home, he was always angry—I never understood why until I got older.

I tried to follow that path in my own way. Despite the assumptions that I helped people to gain something. Despite the slander, the whispers, the disbelief. All I ever wanted was to prove to my father that I learned the lessons he fought to teach. That his sacrifices hadn’t been in vain. That his brutal assessment of us—of me—was wrong.

Because every time we didn’t fit the mold he carved for us, we were "ungrateful." And that bar? Damn near unreachable. I broke his heart when I decided not to go to law school. Biggest mistake of my life, probably. Money is everything. I should’ve gone for the money.

Now my life is spiraling. And the people I sacrificed the most for? They’ve seen fit to let their burdens bury me. The ones who were always there for them—for my siblings, for the community—suddenly tapped out now that I need help. And the reason I need help is because I tried to be the good man they needed me to be.

People love to tell me, “God’s going to bless you for your kindness, for your heart.” For all I’ve done. For stepping up and taking on kids that weren’t mine—because let’s be real, I had no damn choice.

I’m jaded. I’m angry. I’m tired.

When I was grinding, doing everything right, trying to build something meaningful, they latched on. They made me carry them on my back while pretending they were helping push.

I look back on a life lived trying to be a “good man,” whatever the hell that means. Supporting everyone. Honoring a father who worked himself out of a trailer park, bought a house, built a business, and sent his kids to a mostly white private school where they hated me for breathing.

Even though I was the youngest and the most responsible, I didn’t get the love, the time, or the attention my siblings got—and they threw all of it away. But I had to live up to the legacy.

And I did. Don’t get it twisted. I ran with it. I built something. I helped others succeed by proximity. And I paid it forward every single damn time.

And yet... I would change it all.

I would’ve been more selfish. I would’ve kept to myself. The path I chose was lonelier because of the people in it—not despite them. And now, with 41 breathing down my neck, I’m bitter. And the only person I blame is me. Because I was too proud to see the world for what it really was.

I thought I could walk my own path. Thought I could be that guy—the man who doesn’t get jaded. The man who stays noble. Like my father. Millions of dollars and hours of his life he put into that community... and it didn’t mean a damn thing. Shucking and jiving, dancing for them white folks for funding. Being strong in the face of adversity while also haven't to practically beg politicians, leaders, and fucking sports teams to support the community. And what. Milwaukee is the new Detroit. Fucking burn all them niggas and start over, that shit ain't worth saving.

Go to Northcott now. Same lazy-ass people. Same out-of-control kids. Same parents with hands out and nothing to offer. The community is dying anyway. His life’s work? A joke. Because those people don’t want to be saved.

As a kid, I didn’t get Christmas presents after 13. Birthdays were ignored. But we had to give back to a community that hated us. I was raised thinking I owed something because other little Black kids didn’t have the chances I got. My pops wanted us to be the example. He made us sacrifice along with him—while he gave more of himself to other people’s kids than his own.

And me? I got it the worst. Because I’m Junior. I’m supposed to carry the legacy.

And I did. I don’t even need to explain how. I could drop names, give examples—but what’s the point? People would just accuse me of bragging. So I stopped talking about it. I keep it about my work, my projects.

These days I’m blunt. Straightforward. No flowers in my speech. I say what I mean.

People think I’m cold. Distant. Like I keep folks at arm’s length. But hell, wouldn’t you? I’ve been burned so many times my skin don’t even flinch anymore. People are only as loyal as their options. And the only reason some folks haven’t betrayed me yet is because the opportunity hasn’t been profitable enough. It’s not about if—it’s about when.

And now, I wake up every day in a world that confirms everything I feared it would be.

And what do I get told?

“Keep doing what you’ve always done. Be the man you’ve always been. Now we see you. Now we get it.”

Oh, really?

Now that it’s too late? Now that I’m broke down and done?

Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you.

No—I’m not going to be fine. I’m not going to be better. Being who you needed me to be has cost me everything. I’m stuck cleaning up the messes other people left behind. People I tried to help. People who used me. And now? I’m in a hole I can’t climb out of.

I either have to depend on a cold, indifferent world—or work harder than I ever have—while my influence, my opportunities, and my desire wither away.

So what now? I get the same tired chorus:

“Do what you’ve always done. Just know this time, we appreciate it.”

Yeah, sure.

You have less time. More of your own problems. More battles. More excuses.

But this time... you’ll be better.

Heh.

Yeah, no. Fuck yo