Healing sounds beautiful in theory. But in reality, it can feel like betrayal.

Not because you're doing something wrong. But because you're finally doing something true.

When you grow up in dysfunction, there’s an unspoken rule: Don’t talk about it. Don’t question it. Don’t make waves. Smile. Be grateful. Keep the peace.

So when you finally start to tell your story—even just to yourself—something happens: That old guilt creeps in. That voice whispers, "You’re being dramatic." Or "You’re throwing people under the bus."

But that voice isn’t your conscience. That’s the conditioning talking.

Because for years, silence was the price of belonging. And speaking the truth feels like you're breaking the contract.

But here’s what no one tells you: The contract was killing you.

You were taught to protect other people’s reputations over your own healing. You were expected to shrink your truth so others didn’t have to face theirs.

That’s not love. That’s manipulation dressed up as loyalty.

And healing? Healing is choosing to be loyal to the younger version of yourself instead. The one who needed someone to say: "That wasn’t okay. You didn’t deserve that. And it wasn’t your fault."

So no, you’re not a traitor. You’re not being cruel. You’re not rewriting history.

You’re just finally telling the truth. And the truth will always feel like betrayal in a family where lies were the glue.

But here’s the good news: You’re not betraying anyone by healing. You’re setting yourself free. And maybe—just maybe—you’re opening the door for someone else to do the same.

Opening: Back in 1995, I picked up two John Coltrane albums that would end up changing my entire approach to music: Giant Steps and A Love Supreme: Live. I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but these albums would awaken something deeper than musical inspiration. They introduced me to the idea that music wasn’t just sound. It could be spirit.

The Shift: I had always been drawn to intense, heavy music. But the moment A Love Supreme started, I felt something entirely different. Coltrane’s tone wasn’t just articulate—it was sacred. Patient. It felt like he was saying a prayer with every breath he blew into that sax. It didn’t hit me in the head or the ears first. It hit me straight in the soul.

And that was just Part I.

The Breakthrough: By the time Part II kicked in, I was floored. McCoy Tyner, Elvin Jones, and Jimmy Garrison created this space that felt completely outside of time. I remember literally crying the first time I heard it. And not just once. That piece has brought tears many times since.

What they played wasn’t just jazz. It was testimony. It was worship. It was divine.

Coltrane’s Journey: Coltrane wasn’t just composing music. He was healing. According to his wife, Alice, he spent as much time meditating and writing spiritual reflections as he did composing. After years of addiction and struggle, Coltrane had found something bigger than himself. And through that discovery, he created a body of work that still ripples through people’s lives today.

He didn’t just recover. He transcended. And he brought others along for the ride.

What It Taught Me: Coltrane taught me that music could carry spirit. That you could worship with a melody. That you could praise without words. That recovery, surrender, and divine connection could all be captured in tone, in rhythm, in silence between notes.

A Love Supreme wasn’t just a jazz record. It was an altar.

Closing: You don’t need to be religious to understand what Coltrane did. You just need to listen with your soul open. Because when someone plays with that kind of depth, it calls something out of you. 

Technically, I am poor. I have next to nothing. But I don’t feel poor. I feel wealthy. I feel like I have more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. Even when I had money, I never felt this fulfilled.

I know why.

Ever since I fully gave myself to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, things have only gotten better. I’ve always believed in God—even in the times I didn’t want to believe. Even when people told me it was bullshit or just my imagination, God made His presence clear in my life. I always felt something. There was always something weird happening.

One of those things: I was always told, when you’re having a hard time, go make someone else’s day a little bit better.

One day, I was in the store waiting in line. I saw a magazine on the ground. I thought, I’m gonna make someone’s job a little bit easier today. It was just a small gesture—just putting the magazine back on the shelf. But when I picked it up, a one-dollar bill fell out.

Just like that. A tiny reminder.

The Gear Lights That Came to Life

I once had a car where the gear lights didn’t work. They went out almost immediately after we bought it. For years, they stayed dark.

One night, I was talking to some people and God came up. It was a heavy conversation. I felt the Holy Spirit. I can’t fully explain it—it was just one of those moments where you know.

When I got back in my car that night and turned it on, the gear lights lit up for the first time in years. They worked—just like that. After a short time, they stopped working again.

You can call me crazy if you want. But I know what I saw. And I know what I felt.

A Window in West Oakland

Last year, I hit one of the darkest moments of my life. I was drunk, alone in my room in West Oakland. The window was dimmed and the curtains were closed tight. It was a cloudy, overcast day—barely any light in the room.

I sat there, feeling lower and lower, until I finally broke.

I begged God to help me.

Please, God. I’m tired of being like this. I’ll do anything. I’ll be your servant. I just need your help. Please. I’m done living this way.

Within minutes, the clouds broke.

The sunlight came in so bright it blasted through the curtains I had tried so hard to keep the sun out of. My room filled with light, and I felt a peace I rarely feel.

I picked up my guitar and started singing praise. I thanked God through that song. I recorded it on my phone.

The next day, I went to work. It was overcast again. When I got off work, I looked up at the sky and said, God, thank you for what you’ve done for me.

Right when I said that, the clouds separated again and sunlight hit me.

I wanted to hear that song I made the day before. I looked for the recording on my phone. It was gone. I had played that song at least three or four times the day before. I know it was there. But I couldn’t find it.

Was that a sign? I don’t know. All I know is what I saw. All I know is what I felt.

Faith, Doubt, and Critical Thinking

I know there are therapists and skeptics who would hear this and say, That’s just this bias or that bias. And that’s fine. Honestly, I like hearing that kind of stuff. It makes me think. It challenges me. It even makes me wonder if God exists sometimes. I think that’s healthy.

I think God wants us to think. He doesn’t want us to blindly nod along. That’s why He gave us brains. He wants us to wrestle with this stuff.

Of all the atheists I’ve met, I know one who actually has a convincing theory that maybe God isn’t real. But even if he’s right for a million years, I would still have faith in Jesus Christ.

Because after what I’ve seen in my life, after what I’ve felt, after fully giving myself to Jesus—
There’s no other way.