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The Common Denominator


The Common Denominator


Over the past few years, one of the hardest realities I’ve had to face is becoming the common denominator.


Not because I failed. But because I gave too damn much.


There’s been a trail of people walking out of my life—people I gave everything I had to. I extended more than I could afford—financially, emotionally, spiritually. I poured into others when I was empty, hoping they’d find their footing. I took care of them when I could. And I did my best to take care of them when I couldn’t.


They’ll tell it differently. But I know the truth. My wife knows the truth. The people closest to me have watched it unfold.


Recently, one of them—someone I once respected—called me the common denominator, like it was some kind of insult. And yeah, it stung. Deep. Because for a moment, I questioned myself. I looked around and thought, “Am I the problem?”


But then I realized—they said that not out of honesty, but because they couldn’t face their own reflection. They saw accountability as bullying. Responsibility as cruelty. And that’s when I knew—they don’t belong anywhere near my life.


Because yes—I am the common denominator.


I’m the one who showed up. I’m the one who stayed. I’m the one who sacrificed.


But the second I couldn’t carry it all anymore—when I had nothing left to give—they turned on me. The moment I set boundaries, the moment I asked them to carry their own weight, suddenly I was the villain.


It’s wild how people will drain you dry, then damn you for going dry.


They won’t confront you face to face. They’ll text. They’ll whisper. They’ll bad-mouth behind your back. But they won’t look you in the eyes and speak truth. Because deep down, they know.


They know what you gave. They just don’t want to admit it.


And that hurts. It fucking hurts.


Because they don’t see the sleepless nights. They don’t see the toll. And when you try to express it—try to be honest about the weight you carry—they say they get it, but they don’t. They hear you, but they don't listen. Because the expectation is still there. The expectation that you’ll keep bleeding so they can keep breathing.


But here’s where I own my part: I created that expectation. I said, “I’ll handle it. I’ll figure it out.” Even when I couldn’t. Even when I was dying inside. Because I thought that’s what strength was.


And yeah, kindness matters. But too much giving—when you’re running on fumes—can destroy you. And when it does, all that love for humanity turns to resentment. That anger builds. That hate creeps in. And suddenly the man who wanted to heal the world just wants to backhand motherfuckers left and right.


I’ve felt that. I still feel that.


But I also know that’s not who I am.


This pain—it’s the test. This rage—it’s the fire I have to pass through. Because this is where the rubber meets the road. Do I give in to hate? Do I let myself become jaded, bitter, cold? Or do I live out what I preach?


Do I turn this heartbreak into purpose?


The truth is... all of them—every single one—was a mirror. They showed me where I had work to do. They reflected parts of me I needed to face. Whether they choose to do the same? That’s not on me.


And yeah, it still fucking hurts.


But I’m glad I’m the common denominator. I’m glad I’m the one who carried it. I’m glad I’m the one who sets the tone, who leads the charge through the chaos.


Because that’s who I am.


And no matter what’s been taken, drained, or broken—I’m still here.

Still moving forward.

Still relentless.




 
 
 

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