The Man I Buried and the Man I'm Building

THE MAN I BURIED

There was a version of me who knew how to walk into a room.

He could talk to almost anyone. Military guys. Music majors. Band geeks. Frat guys. Old friends. Strangers. He could read a room quickly and adjust. Sometimes that looked like confidence. Sometimes it looked like leadership. Sometimes it probably was.

I was a fraternity president. An AFROTC cadet officer. Someone identified as a leader. Someone who could move through different groups and feel, at least for a while, like he belonged.

But I don’t think that version of me was as grounded as he seemed.

A lot of what looked like confidence was really adaptation. A lot of what looked like charisma was scanning. A lot of what looked like ease was people-pleasing with better posture. I was very good at becoming what the room seemed to want.

And there were consequences to that.

I was not always careful with people. I was not always honest. I liked being wanted. I liked feeling impressive. I liked the proof that came from attention, especially romantic or sexual attention. There were times I let charm outrun character. There were times I confused being desired with being valuable. There were times I hurt people and then had to sit in the wreckage of what I had done.

That is hard to admit cleanly.

Not because I think I was evil. I don’t. But because I can see now that the old version of me had appetite without enough ethics. He had social ease without enough self-knowledge. He had leadership energy without enough internal grounding to carry it well.

So at some point, I buried him.

I didn’t just try to become more mature. I tried to become safer. Smaller. More controlled. Less driven by desire. Less likely to create damage. Less likely to be reckless.

Some of that was necessary.

Some of that was fear.

The lesson should have been: learn integrity, boundaries, honesty, and discipline.

Instead, I think I decided that desire itself was dangerous.

So I buried more than the recklessness.

I buried the confidence.

…the ease.

…the appetite.

…the ability to take up space.

…the part of me that could lead.

…the part of me that wanted to be seen.

…the part of me that wanted to be wanted.

And I called that maturity.

But it wasn’t maturity. It was self-erasure.

The man I buried was not all bad. That is the complicated part. He had life in him. He had nerve. He had range. He could enter rooms. He could talk. He could lead. He could make things happen.

But he did not yet have the character to carry his own force.

That is why he had to change.

But he did not have to die.

I buried him because I didn’t trust myself to refine him.

Now I am trying to retrieve what was useful without resurrecting what was harmful.

THE MAN I’M BUILDING

I am not trying to become the old version of me again.

That guy was not free. He was hungry for proof. He confused attention with worth. He confused adaptability with presence. He confused charm with integrity.

I am also not willing to remain the overcorrected version of me.

The harmless man.

The man who waits,apologizes for wanting anything, who calls self-erasure loyalty, the man who makes himself smaller so nobody else has to feel uncomfortable.

That man is not virtuous.

He is scared.

The man I’m building is the third option.

A man with appetite and ethics.

He is allowed to want things.

He is allowed to want success.

He is allowed to want love.

He is allowed to want attention.

He is allowed to want his work read.

He is allowed to want a stronger body.

He is allowed to want creative freedom.

He is allowed to want a life that feels bigger than survival.

He is allowed to want to be seen.

He is allowed to want.

He is allowed.

But he is not allowed to use people as proof.

He does not manipulate.

He does not hide behind charm.

He does not tell people what they want to hear just to keep access.

He does not confuse chemistry with permission.

He does not use loneliness as an excuse for chaos.

He does not create messes and then call them passion.

He can feel desire and still choose his values.

That is the part I am learning.

The man I’m building can walk into a room without scanning for who he needs to become. He can be interested without performing. He can be direct without being aggressive. He can ask for what he wants without apologizing before the other person even answers.

He does not buy reciprocity.

He does not soften every sentence.

He does not hide behind curiosity.

He does not make himself small and then resent people for not noticing.

He says:

“I wrote this.”

“I’m proud of it.”

“I think it has an audience.”

“I’d like to send you the first ten pages.”

“I want this.”

“I need help.”

“That hurt.”

“I’m not available for that.”

“This matters to me.”

And then he survives the silence that follows it.

The man I’m building treats his body like something he lives in, not something he apologizes for. He trains. He moves. He eats like someone who respects himself. He sleeps. He uses his voice. He learns to be seen without immediately turning away.

He does not need to become a fantasy version of someone else.

He needs to become embodied.

He needs to become honest.

He needs to become disciplined enough to carry force.

Because force without discipline made me reckless.

But discipline without force made me disappear.

The man I’m building has both.

He is confident, but not careless.

Direct, but not cruel.

Charming, but not manipulative.

Ambitious, but not performative.

Strong, but not armored.

Visible, but not starving for approval.

Faithful to his values, but not dead inside.

He is not trying to prove he is good by needing nothing.

He is good because he tells the truth, keeps his word, owns his desire, respects boundaries, and acts with integrity even when nobody is watching.

That is the man I am building.

Not the old version.

Not the buried version.

The real one.