Throughout my life, people have made assumptions about me. Some were off-base, reflections of their own projections. Others? I can’t deny—I planted them myself, deliberately, with a kind of quiet calculation. There’s something undeniably powerful in shaping the narrative before others can write it for you. In this way, I’ve used misdirection not unlike a battlefield tactic—subtle, deliberate, and, at times, Machiavellian. Control perception, and you control expectation. Control expectation, and you gain leverage.
But not all of it was a calculated move. Sometimes I simply went left when the world leaned right—not to be contrarian, but because I felt something real pulling me in that direction. Often that spark of interest was genuine. Yet with time, I’ve come to realize that even what seemed like authentic choices were often tangled with pre-existing ideas about who I thought I was supposed to be. I saw myself through a lens—distorted by past pain, past praise, past roles—and I let that lens decide what fit.
Sun Tzu wrote in The Art of War, “Every battle is won or lost before it is fought.” That line has haunted me in ways I didn’t fully grasp until recently. Preparation is everything, he said. Strategy beats strength. And there’s truth in that—especially in a world where survival often comes down to reading the room faster than anyone else, adjusting your posture, your tone, your answers—before you even know the question.
But if the key to victory is preparation, what happens when you find yourself preparing for wars that never come?
The constant readiness—the exhausting hypervigilance—becomes its own prison. A war room with no exit. My mind has long been a battlefield, stockpiled with what-ifs and imaginary confrontations. I built defenses against people who never attacked, drafted arguments for debates that never sparked, prepared my heart for betrayals that never materialized.
And it’s not without cost.
Mental warfare takes a toll—on sleep, on peace, on the body itself. Where the mind goes, the body follows. And when the mind lives in a perpetual state of pre-conflict, the body learns to carry itself like a soldier always waiting for the call. Shoulders tense. Breath shallow. Moments pass, but presence is lost.
Still, there’s something in me that refuses to accept that this is all I am or all I’ll ever be. I know I can change. I’ve broken harder things in life than bad habits. I’ve rebuilt my body. I’ve fought death and learned to walk again. So, yes, I can retrain my mind. Not to let my guard down—but to stop standing watch when there is no threat. To recognize that not every conversation is a test, not every silence a snare.
If preparation is power, then knowing when not to prepare is wisdom.
The truth is, some battles are worth fighting. But many never needed a warrior. The version of me that thrived in chaos doesn’t have to be the only version that exists. I don’t need to win every imaginary war. I don’t need to be exhausted just to prove I’m ready.
What I need now is presence. Intention. The
courage to lay down the armor when the battlefield only exists in my own mind.
The habits I’ve lived by were learned—and that means they can be unlearned. Replaced. Rewritten. Every day I move forward, I can choose not to be defined by past strategies, but by present clarity.
That, perhaps, is the most important victory of all.
Life after door kicking. 