Growing up during my struggling adolescence,, my parents—especially my dad, thankfully, rarely my mom,—worked so gadhhhh damn fucking hard to mold me into someone I never wanted to be. Someone I couldn’t be. It wasn’t malicious; it was their way of loving, their way of trying to guide me into what they believed was the “right” path. It was the only language they both knew how to speak.
But it was a path, that I didn’t discover until much later, that didn’t feel like mine. It felt foreign and somewhat disconnected from the spark I carried inside me.
They had their vision for me, but life, as I’ve come to learn, has a way of burning through visions and expectations. And now, as I stand here, warts, scars, wrinkles, and all, I can say this with confidence: I’m happy—radiant, actually—with how things turned out. With how I turned out.
I like this version of me. No—scratch that. I love this version of me. I see myself as a beautiful mess: chaotic, crazy, disordered at times, yes. But happy. Truly, deeply, beautifully happy.
I never quite measured up to my parent’s expectations of me. But I sure as hell measured up to my own.
While absolutely far from perfect, and sitting on the other side of two marriages…..I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Whenever I scroll through my camera roll, I don’t just see snapshots of sunsets or candid portraits of strangers. I see proof. Proof of a life lived on my terms. Proof of a child-turned-adult who fought tirelessly to be different, to break away from expectations, and to carve out a life that’s uniquely my own. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but I do. I see the little rebellions, the moments where I chose to lean into my instincts instead of the voices telling me to conform.
My photos, as commonplace as they are, capture the essence of a life in progress, a story unfolding with all its twists and turns.
Some days, I feel like I’m still untangling parts of myself, still learning to embrace the chaos. But you know what? That chaos has been my greatest teacher. It’s shown me that perfection is overrated, that beauty exists in the rough edges, and that happiness isn’t found in becoming what others want you to be—it’s in becoming who you want to be.
I’ve come to honor and celebrate this independent spirit of mine, even if it took a literal lifetime to truly understand its worth. There’s a kind of magic in saying no to the boxes people try to fit you into and saying yes to the wild, untamed version of yourself. That magic has been my compass, guiding me through moments of doubt and fear, reminding me that I don’t need to have it all together to be whole.
I don’t have it all together. And I am whole.
So here I am, a little older, a lot older actually, a little wiser, sorta, and infinitely more content. I’ve learned to see the beauty in my scars, the poetry in my wrinkles, and the strength in the path I’ve forged for myself.
To anyone out there feeling like they’re too messy, too unconventional, too “different”—let me tell you something: there’s power in that. There’s freedom in that.
Be your own beautiful mess. Embrace it. Love it. Celebrate it. You might just surprise yourself with how radiant you can be.
Click.
Jack.
