Enough: The Day I Chose Strength Over Scars

Life.

Throughout our lives, we face challenges. We all get opportunities. We all have struggles.

But how many times have you looked at your life and said,

“For fuck sake—enough already!”

Or maybe mumbled,

“My shit show of a life just gave me a bonus round—who had ‘loved one has cancer’ on their bingo card?”

And here’s the gut-punch:

“I’m just fucking done adulting today.”

Let’s not even start on the people who say,

“God only gives us what we can handle.”

Yeah? Not today.

⸻

In 2017, my father ended his life.

At best, our relationship was complicated. Painful. Tumultuous.

I’ll never forget the call from my mother:

“Call your father. He wants to talk to you. He’s not doing well.”

I called.

He asked for forgiveness.

I gave it.

He left this world with peace… but I didn’t find mine until recently.

It’s been eight years. And now—for the first time—I see me.

And while that might not seem like much to most people, for someone who was abused by their own father, it means everything.

For years, I thought he was the villain looping in my head.

But here’s the truth I finally faced:

The real abuser… was me.

Read that again.

Let that sink in.

⸻

I find myself with a plate full of food—and life just keeps slapping more on.

Every time I try to clear it, something else gets dumped.

It’s not a break—it’s a test. And it’s relentless.

But now…

I finally see who I need in my corner.

And maybe more importantly, I see who never really stood in it.

⸻

The ones who should’ve nurtured me?

Protected me?

They looked the other way.

They let someone else break me—over and over again.

They ignored the calls I asked them to make.

They had chance after chance—and chose silence.

This isn’t self-pity.

It’s truth.

And the fact that I’m feeling this now, at 54, doesn’t make it less real.

It makes it finally real.

I’ve been surviving on scraps of hope, trying to rewrite a story that was never mine to fix.

But today? I’m done.

I’ve broken the cycle.

We don’t have to sacrifice our mental health on the altar of toxic relationships.

We don’t have to explain our pain.

We don’t have to wait for them to change.

Because here’s the truth I’m walking in now:

My empathy is a gift—not a requirement.

And if I choose to give it, it’ll come from my strength, not my scars.

⸻

And then there’s BBQ.

Learning BBQ is a lot like my life.

The fire is chaotic. You can’t control it. You have to let it do its work.

When you first try to cook with just fire and smoke, the variable isn’t the wood or the wind—it’s you.

You could be a cook for 30 years and still get burned.

The smoke blinds you.

The embers float through the air and scorch your skin.

You burn briskets. You dry them out. You fail.

You throw things away in frustration and doubt yourself.

You fight the weather, the wood, the wind—and even your own mind.

But still… you come back.

Because BBQ teaches you patience.

It teaches humility.

Resilience.

Perseverance.

For every F.A.I.L., you analyze.

You take notes.

You learn.

And if we never failed—we’d never grow.

Every time I light that fire, it could blow up in my face.

Literally.

So why do I keep doing it? Even when it’s 95 degrees with 90% humidity?

Because the end result is worth it.

The food is deep. Rich. Layered. It tells a story.

It’s peaceful.

The crackle of wood. The dance of the flame.

It slows everything down.

It lets me breathe.

It lets me see.

Cooking isn’t just my job. It’s not just my passion.

It’s how I’m learning to live.

It’s teaching me how to be a better version of me.

Because every scar—emotional or physical—has shaped me.

They remind me that I’ve walked through fire…

and I’m still here.