I used to feel everything. Too much. A shift in someone’s tone could ruin my whole day. One careless word, and I’d spiral into overthinking — questioning myself, replaying conversations, holding on too tightly to things that shouldn’t have held that much weight. I let the world get under my skin — way too easily. I thought that was just who I was.

Then April came. And everything changed. I lost my Aba — the only person who truly understood me. He didn’t need words. He could look at me, just once, and know something was off. He’d come straight to me and ask, “What’s wrong?” — no hesitation, no pretending. That kind of love doesn’t exist twice. And now, it’s gone. His absence forced something in me to shift.

Because here’s the truth: You either grow a thicker skin by choice — or life will build one for you.

Brick by brick.

Pain by pain.

Especially after you lose someone irreplaceable.

I didn’t want to harden. But grief doesn’t ask for permission. It teaches you. It changes you. Now, I move differently. Not colder — just clearer. Clear on what matters. Clear on what I feel. Clear on what I will no longer carry. I protect my peace — not because I’m numb, but because I’ve felt it all. And I know the cost. People say I’ve changed. They’re right. Because once you’ve felt real loss —you stop breaking over temporary things.

And the truth is:

His name still stirs fear in the hearts of the corrupt—whispered even in rooms he’s long since left.

He made me soft. His absence made me strong. Now I am both. And I don’t apologize for it.