I come from nowt fancy,
no silver spoon, no soft start,
just bills on the side,
cheap tea,
and people with tired hearts.
Working family blood,
where love showed up rough,
where money was short,
but pride still stood up,
even when life got tough.
I learnt early,
men don’t fall apart,
not where I’m from.
You bite your tongue,
crack a joke,
swallow the lump,
then act like your chest
isn’t coming undone.
You go to work.
You graft.
You lift.
You carry.
You pay.
You smile when asked,
because “I’m fine”
is quicker than explaining the day.
I’ve had childhood come at me
with both fists swinging,
too young to understand
why home felt more like surviving.
I’ve known fear in rooms
where I should’ve felt safe,
known hunger,
known shame,
known that look on a grown up’s face.
The one that says,
don’t answer back.
Don’t breathe too loud.
Don’t be a problem.
And still,
somehow,
I grew.
I grew like weeds through concrete,
ugly as fuck,
but still finding a way
to split the road.
I’ve had grief kick my ribs in,
then ask me to stand straight.
Lost people I loved
and carried the guilt
like it came with my name.
I’ve read things
no brother should read,
seen words on paper
turn into pictures
my brain didn’t need.
I’ve had nights
where sleep wouldn’t come,
where my head ran laps
round every bad thing
I’ve ever done.
I’ve had my mind go feral,
unmasked and loud,
ADHD tearing through me
like a dog let out.
Autism making sense
of a life that never did,
while CPTSD sat in the corner
grinning,
like, remember this shit?
I’ve had burnout hit hard,
blackouts,
body saying enough,
while I still got up
because stopping
was never built into us.
I’ve had doctors talk hearts,
genes,
risks,
family history,
and all I heard was,
of course,
another bastard mystery.
The meds that might calm me
could mess with my chest,
so I’m left with a brain
that won’t shut up
and a body begging for rest.
I’ve had work test my morals,
had to speak when others stayed quiet,
because I can’t watch wrong happen
and pretend I don’t see it.
I’d rather be hated for truth
than liked for being spineless.
I’ve had love go wrong,
trust turn thin,
and still stood there
holding the bits again.
I’ve seen the world try
to get at my kids too,
seen danger come smiling
through screens
like evil learnt Bluetooth.
There’s no rage like a dad’s
when something threatens his child.
That’s not anger,
that’s instinct
with its teeth out wild.
I’ve been broke.
Proper broke.
Count the coins,
stretch the shop,
pretend you’re not hungry
so the kids get enough.
I’ve done tired.
Not “need a nap” tired.
Bones full of cement,
brain full of riots,
heart full of fire.
And through all that,
people still expect men
to be pillars.
Nobody checks
if the pillar is cracked,
as long as the roof stays up.
So you keep your back straight.
You keep your mouth shut.
You take it on the chin,
then laugh like,
yeah mate,
standard stuff.
Bleed quiet.
Break private.
Be useful.
Don’t frighten anyone
with the truth
of what lives behind your eyelids.
But what doesn’t break you
doesn’t always make you stronger.
Sometimes it makes you sharper.
Sometimes colder.
Sometimes funny as fuck
at the worst possible moment.
Sometimes it makes you hard to love,
hard to read,
hard to help.
It makes you sit in your car
before going inside
just to get hold of yourself.
But it still makes you.
It made me stubborn.
Made me loyal.
Made me see bullshit
before it even opens its mouth.
Made me stand in storms
with no coat on,
because I knew my kids
needed a house.
They needed me
to be the place
life couldn’t smash through.
So I became it.
Not perfect.
Not calm.
Not always sane.
But there.
Every morning.
Every school run.
Every bill.
Every worry.
I gave them what I never had,
not with money,
not with magic,
but with presence.
With graft.
With rules.
With daft jokes.
With love
that didn’t vanish
when life got heavy.
And now look.
My eldest,
military strong,
standing tall
with her own fire lit.
The kind of woman
who walks into life
like she knows
she belongs in it.
My middle girl,
in college,
building her future
with her head screwed on,
proof that cycles can end
even when the past drags on.
My youngest lad too,
in college,
growing into a man
with respect in his bones,
not left to fight alone.
Three kids.
Three lives.
Three decent humans
out there doing good.
That’s my medal.
That’s my mansion.
That’s my name carved in wood.
Not the nights I nearly cracked
but still turned up alive.
My greatest achievement
is simple as that.
I took every fucked up thing
life threw at my back,
and somehow,
some bloody how,
I gave them a start
that never looked like my past.
So let the world call me rough.
Let it call me too much.
Let it say I’m hard work,
too blunt,
too guarded,
too fucked.
I know what I built
with shaking hands
and no instruction.
Still gave them better than my start.
I raised three amazing adults
from the wreckage of me.
And that’s not survival.
That’s construction.