Peace After the Storm

A Legacy Reflection by FTF Proof™

It’s raining in Savannah.

Dinner is on the stove — steak, rice, sweet peas.

Music plays low in the background.

Big Scarr. Mario Judah.

I don’t listen to these songs to escape.

I listen to them to remember why I didn’t go back.

Last year, my grandfather died on my birthday.

Tonight, I’m sober.

I’m married.

I’m at peace.

That’s when I realized my life — and FaceThyFear™ — had changed.

Where I Came From

There was a time when silence scared me.

I needed noise — substances, chaos, movement — just to feel okay.

Being alone with my thoughts felt heavier than being lost.

Back then, I didn’t have much.

No car.

No clear direction.

But even then, God was working quietly.

Long before I was ready to listen.

Now, I wake up with purpose.

I work a steady job.

I’m learning a trade.

I’m trusted.

I’m accountable.

Life doesn’t feel rushed anymore.

It feels stable.

The Music That Keeps Me Grounded

Some songs don’t pull you backward.

They hold you in place.

Face It by Big Scarr is one of those songs.

“I usually get high to heal all my problems /

But that shit ain’t work, gotta talk it out.”

That line tells the truth most people never survive long enough to admit.

Getting high doesn’t heal anything.

It just delays the pain.

Big Scarr knew the truth — and that’s why his death hurt.

He was honest. Talented. Aware.

But awareness without distance from chaos is still dangerous.

I don’t listen to that song wishing I could go back.

I listen because it reminds me why I left.

Never Again by Mario Judah grounds me in a different way.

“Never again will I fall for your lies…”

That song isn’t anger.

It’s a boundary.

When he sings, “But I guess I’m the one to blame,” and then answers himself with a quiet nah — that moment matters.

That’s responsibility without shame.

Ownership without self-destruction.

That’s where real recovery lives.

Love, Faith & Leadership

I have a woman who believed in me while I was still figuring myself out.

We’re eight years apart, but we meet in the middle through patience, faith, and honesty. She trusts my leadership — not because I control anything, but because she feels safe beside me.

That kind of trust is sacred.

We were married on November 7th, a date she chose because it sits close to my sobriety anniversary.

This year marked three years sober from alcohol.

Our relationship isn’t built on my past.

It’s built on what I chose to face.

Healing the Bloodline

I’ve seen what broken homes and untreated pain can do.

Too many families fall apart by choice.

Too many kids learn numbness before they learn peace.

That was almost my story.

Peace shows up quietly now.

Rain tapping the windows.

Dinner shared.

My cat — who showed up on our doorstep the day we moved in — curled between us like he’s always belonged.

Sometimes I lie in bed with my wife and feel a calm in my chest I never knew growing up.

If I could purr, I would.

That’s what peace after the storm feels like.

Legacy — My Grandfather

When I told my grandfather I was getting sober, I didn’t know how he’d respond.

I told him about alcohol.

About cocaine.

About how tired I was.

He didn’t interrupt me.

He didn’t lecture me.

He just listened.

That was who he was.

To the world, he was Henry Pannell — a community builder in Princeton, New Jersey. The man the Henry Pannell Learning Center is named after.

A place built so kids had somewhere safe to go after school.

Homework instead of trouble.

Guidance instead of neglect.

But to me, he was the man who believed in me while I was still becoming.

His wife stood beside him through all of it — offering the same steadiness and care. Together, they didn’t judge me.

They made room for change.

He saw me quit alcohol.

He saw me quit cocaine.

He didn’t leave this world wondering about me.

I lost my grandfather on my birthday last year.

Since then, that day means something different.

It’s no longer just about celebrating life.

It’s about continuing it well.

What Legacy Means to Me Now

I don’t serve the community the same way my grandfather did.

I don’t have a building with my name on it.

But I honor his legacy by living differently — by staying sober, choosing peace, breaking cycles, and showing that healing is possible when people are met with dignity instead of shame.

Legacy doesn’t repeat itself.

It moves forward.

Closing Reflection

I used to tell stories to survive.

Now I tell them to show what survival can become.

God didn’t just save me from addiction.

He gave me back the vision I almost threw away.

I’m sober.

I’m married.

I’m settled.

I’m building a life that doesn’t require escape.

My grandfather built a place where children could learn.

I’m building a life where peace can live.

Different work.

Same legacy.

I’m still here.

And I’m not done.

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