A True Story. Told with Open Hands.
I didn’t write this for pity. I wrote it because I’ve lived most of my life carrying what no one saw.
And at some point, the weight became too much to hold in silence.
This was written with the help of ChatGPT, because turning a decade of pain into something readable was beyond what I could do alone. But the story, the heartbreak, the debt, the panic, the strength, the truth, is mine. All of it.
If you see yourself anywhere in this, I’d love to hear your story too. We weren’t meant to carry everything alone.
I was the oldest. Not just by age, but by assignment.
The one who was expected to endure more. Know better. Be stronger. From the start, love came dressed in discipline. I was raised by a man who loved us all, but was harder on me than anyone else. It wasn’t subtle. Everyone saw it—the tone that shifted when I spoke, the silence that followed my mistakes.
But I loved him anyway. Deeply. I carried the weight of trying to be good enough for him, even when it hurt. There was this idea that if I could just keep doing the right thing, maybe one day he’d soften. Maybe I’d earn warmth.
And one day before he died, he said what I had needed my entire life: “I’m sorry for being so hard on you.”
It was the only moment of softness I remember. And then he was gone.
I was 19. In my first year of engineering school. When the ground beneath me collapsed.
But grief wasn’t all that came. It brought war.
My father had older sons—half-brothers, three decades older, with money, lawyers, and a name to protect. They came for everything. I stood alone, the legal representative of my mother and my younger brothers, while they circled like wolves.
They had the family name. I had responsibility.
My mother and brothers were in France. I was in Montreal. Every day I walked to class with legal briefs in my backpack. Studied voltage drop calculations while responding to lawyers. I couldn’t afford to break down. There was no one else.
I remember nights where I’d fall asleep on my textbooks, emails to lawyers unread, half-eaten meals beside me. Days where I’d sit in class and wonder what would happen to my family if I failed—failed the case, failed school, failed as the one person everyone seemed to rely on.
Five years. That’s how long the legal fight lasted. The same five years I earned my engineering degree. I didn’t live them. I endured them.
I didn’t have time to party, to wander, to explore the edges of myself like most people do in their early twenties. My identity was shaped by fire—by crisis. There wasn’t room for softness. Only strategy. Only strength.
Somehow, I made it through. And just when I thought peace might follow, 2020 came.
That year, my mother—trying to downsize—bought a small house. It was all she could afford. But the neighbor upstairs had done illegal renovations, and water began to pour through the ceilings. Mold took root. The house became cold, wet, and dangerous. The French justice system, slow and indifferent, offered nothing. It still hasn’t.
So I stepped in again.
From across the ocean, I sent money. Month after month. I did the math a hundred ways, tried to stretch every paycheck. I gave up comforts, delayed things I needed, postponed healing I hadn’t even begun. I couldn’t fix the roof, but I could at least try to ease the suffering. For four years I supported her.
All while trying to hold my own life together.
At the same time, I had built a relationship. A long one. Nine years. She entered my life just before my father passed. Her presence was a gift—warm, steady, accepting. She didn’t lift the weight, but she stood beside me while I carried it. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
She gave me a home when the world felt like a battlefield. And when it all finally ended, she was still there. But I was already a different man. Quiet. Worn. More soldier than partner. Our love was real. But war changes people. And I never came home from mine.
And I had work. I held a job for three years. I fought for fairness. I stood up when things were wrong. I challenged authority. I gave everything I had to try and make the system more humane. And eventually, I paid for it.
In November 2023, they let me go—not for performance, but for being the kind of person who can’t keep his head down.
I found a new job quickly. It paid well. But I had to leave my company-provided housing with barely any time. I booked an Airbnb and moved overnight. That one transition cost me more than I could afford.
For the first time, I couldn’t keep up. I was drowning.
I had to make the call I had never wanted to make. I stopped sending money to my mother.
And that moment? It was everything.
A strange kind of relief. And unbearable pain. The guilt was immediate. The relief was temporary. It didn’t save me. Nothing did.
I remember staring at the ceiling the night I sent her the message. Wondering if I had failed her. Wondering if she’d be okay. Knowing she wouldn’t be. And knowing there was nothing left in me to give.
Then came February 2024.
I couldn’t function. The panic attacks started as a feeling that I was about to faint. That the room would tip sideways and take me with it. Eventually, the fear turned into pain—headaches, tremors, tightness in my chest. My body had finally said: “enough.”
I tried to hide it, like I always had. But this time, I couldn’t.
Every day that year felt like a battle against myself. Against my thoughts. I started isolating from friends. I didn’t want to bring my darkness into their light. I cut back on food just to survive. I cried every day.
I lost weight. I lost presence. I lost track of who I was.
I used to be the spark in the room. The joyful one. The one who could always find light in the dark. But something in me went quiet. I don’t know when it disappeared. I just know one day I woke up and it wasn’t there.
In the summer, I drove 17 hours to Montreal to clear out my old apartment. The one I shared with her. My partner. My home. I packed boxes in silence. Touched memories I wasn’t ready to feel. I left a version of myself there. I don’t think he came back with me.
A week later, wildfires forced us to evacuate. I left with four friends and ended up in a remote cabin—no water, no electricity, no cell signal. Ten days of nothing. Ten days of trying to breathe. Ten days of wondering if the city would still be there when we returned. I wasn’t sure I would be.
Then came August. My doctor signed me off for medical leave due to anxiety. My body couldn’t pretend anymore. But the insurance company denied it. No pay. No help. Just more weight. I spent two months trying to heal and falling deeper.
And all of this—years of survival—left me somewhere I never imagined:
$130,000 in debt.
Not from partying. Not from luxury. From holding a family, a partner, a mother, a life. From surviving. From being responsible. From doing the right thing.
And still—I’m here.
This is not a tragedy.
This is the truth of what happens when you give everything and life still asks for more.
I don’t want pity. I don’t need applause.
But I do want people to know: this happens. This is real. And sometimes the strongest people you know are quietly trying not to collapse.
If this feels familiar—if you’ve been the protector, the provider, the one who “never breaks”—
you don’t have to hold it alone anymore.
Tell your story. Let yourself be seen. We carry too much in silence.
I’m still learning how to breathe. Still learning how to ask for help. Still learning how to be held.
But the spark I thought I lost… it’s coming back.
Slowly.
Softly.
This time.
There’s so much I couldn’t include in a single post. A lot of moments, big, small, and everything in between, were left out. Not because they didn’t matter, but because some things are still too heavy to name… and others are just too many to count.
But if this resonated with you, if something in this made you pause, please feel free to share your own story in the comments. Or ask me anything. About any of it. I’m open. I’m not here to preach—I’m here to be real.
We carry so much quietly. Maybe this can be a place where we put some of it down together.