Prologue — Shattered
What's the hardest thing you could possibly do?
At first glance, the question sounds either trivial or impossibly vague, so let's narrow it. We're not talking about physical feats; with enough motivation, anyone can train for a marathon. Nor are we talking about Hollywood tear-jerker clichés, hands-to-heart and whispering, "Watching my child suffer." We've all binged that scene in HD and dozed through the credits.
But have you ever really asked yourself, under true constraints, what single act would gut you the most?
I hadn't. Life answered anyway.
Back in 2023, I had myself figured out. If I owned one immovable truth, it was that I knew who I was. Hard questions didn't scare me; they anchored my identity. My ego's blend relied on two ingredients I'd spent years perfecting. An eye for judging character and an insatiable appetite for introspection. I'd stress-tested both qualities ad nauseam; when they occasionally failed, the failures only strengthened the whole.
As a Rwandan proverb says, Ibuye ryagaragaye ntiriba rikishe isuka—The stone you see won't break your hoe.
My shields of introspection and observation served me well until, like rust on stainless steel, the impossible happened. First, spider-web fissures spread across armor I'd sworn was indestructible. Then, one day in the spring of 2024, I glanced up and the sky was ablaze—my world was a meteor roaring to earth, only seconds before impact.
So. What was the hardest thing?
What it wasn't is the confirmation that life doesn't always work itself out. Nor was it the hubris of overconfidence. It wasn't even the voiceless rage, faithless prayers, or the trading of pride for survival.
The hardest thing was admitting that Black Hawk was down, behind enemy lines, with no exfil on the horizon. It was letting those I loved see me at my worst, hearing them describe how broken I was, and resisting every impulse to argue, deflect, or joke it away. No witty retorts, no bravado. The hardest thing was sitting in the wreckage and choosing, for some time, not to fight back; accepting that having once thought myself an apex predator that roars with pride, now at my lowest, I couldn't even conjure the tired stare of a stray cat. And still keep going.
This may read like a one-man pity party. It isn't. I had a desperate need for help and I had no clue how to seek it. Asking has always been and is, to this day, a tall order for me, but it's now stored in my introspection vault. As Belgium's own JCVD once said, "I'm aware."
That was my hardest thing.
Make no mistake, the fight rages on. The nice thing about rock bottom is that it crowns you the ultimate underdog—and who doesn't love an underdog story?
There's this poster that hangs on the wall in my living room, a gift from a dear friend. In huge white print over a black background, it bears a grounding message that never fails to center me. 1% better every day.
That's the plan. A steady walk. One step at a time, one percent daily, eyes forward toward better things.
The Five Stages
Much like a maze, to navigate the path ahead, it helps to have a map. I've carved my life into five stages, each mirroring the life cycle of a legendary sword—a metaphor for the events, conflicts, and transformations that shaped me.
Ore (1984 — 1995)
- Ore is the rawest form of any metal. At this stage, it has all its potential; its nature is the only thing constraining what it can become. Childhood is the same—undefined, malleable, time on your side. It's pure possibility.
Forge (1996 — 2002)
- Heat, hammer, and the forger's care separate metal from slag; early adulthood pressures and parental guidance do the same for people, setting most of us on tracks we'll ride for years.
Blade (2003 — 2013)
- Alloyed, tempered, and sharpened, the metal takes its designed form; it has a purpose and an edge. Humans at this stage choose careers, maybe even start families. We are at the apex of our means and abilities.
Shards (2014 — 2023)
- Not every blade survives battle. Some deform, others chip, a few shatter. Relationship implosions, brushes with death, family losses—life offers no shortage of trauma.
Shield (2024 — present)
- Most swords rust where they splintered; a lucky few can spawn a second life. We, too, can rise from our ashes and become mighty once more.
The Method
To explore these stages, each chapter follows a specific pattern. First, since I fancy myself a storyteller above all else, I'll do just that, tell you a story. All stories will follow the same protagonist, a certain Gabriel who has many, many things in common with yours truly. Please meet Gabriel, whose creation allowed me, for reasons I don't fully understand, to infuse a measure of objectivity into the events at the center of each story. Immediately after, marked by a separator, I will step in with my own voice to reflect on that memory from my present-day perspective. This constant shift between the event and its echo is the engine of this memoir, collection of ramblings, or however you want to name it.