I’m not a mystery. I’m a memory that refused to fade.

There’s a photo of me on this page — I was just a kid in it.
Before the damage.
Before the silence got louder than my voice.
Before the mask.

That photo? That’s the last version of me untouched by the things I don’t talk about in rooms that don’t feel safe.
You look at him and see a child.
I look at him and see a ghost.

I grew up in England — the Midlands — in a place that raised me tough, even when I didn’t want to be.
But my blood? It’s Irish.
And I carry that with pride.
The fight, the fire, the loyalty — it’s in me, deep.

I was taught early that survival ain’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s silent.
Sometimes it’s hiding the breakdown so no one else has to carry it.
Sometimes it’s pretending you're okay just long enough to keep someone else breathing.

I was failed. Forgotten. Blamed.
But I stayed anyway.

I didn’t become this version of me overnight.
It took years of hiding pain behind jokes, turning trauma into tattoos, and staring at ceilings wondering if I’d be missed.

But here I am.
Still breathing.
Still breaking in places you’ll never see.
Still writing — because that’s how I scream without making a sound.

And let me be real with you —
I’ve got one of the biggest hearts you'll ever come across.
People don’t get it.
They see the hoodie, the scars, the silence… but they don’t know I'd die for the people I love.
That’s not some quote — that’s my truth.
If I love you, you’ve got all of me. No halfway. No maybe.
Even when it hurts.

If my pain means anything, let it be this:
That maybe I went through all I did just so someone else didn’t have to.
Maybe I survived the fire so I could help pull others out of it.
Maybe this is what purpose feels like — when you turn your scars into shelter for someone else.

This site?
It’s more than words.
It’s everything I was too scared to say out loud.

And that kid in the photo?
I made this for him.
So he knows someone never stopped trying.
And so do you.