A Love Letter to My Cancelation

I owe a debt of gratitude to the ones who locked me out. You didn’t destroy me. You revealed me. And in doing so, you did something I couldn't: you severed my ties to the illusion of safety.

I was exiled not for harm done, but for hearts broken. That distinction matters. There was no violation in deed but in perception. In wounds reworded into war cries. Whispers from women I loved, and who once loved me, were weaponized the moment they couldn’t stomach being left for failing to uphold the role they had agreed to serve in. And the community I helped build...the one I offered structure, insight, time...chose the comfort of cowardice over the discomfort of discernment.

This is not an apology. This is a recognition.

Because they weren’t entirely wrong to feel hurt. I made mistakes. I allowed my body to move ahead of my better judgment. I let women serve me when I knew deep down they didn’t have the capacity or capability for the path I was offering. That wasn’t cruelty; it was cowardice on my part. I fetishized chaos, I confused instability with devotion, and I romanticized neediness over readiness. That wasn’t their failure. That was mine.

They called it “cancellation.” What they meant was exile. From proximity. From events. From the illusion of inclusion. From my identity. They never had to name specifics, because evidence isn’t required when suggestion feels safer than inquiry. That’s all it takes in a room full of people afraid of nuance.

And in that silence, I became loud.

See, I mistook presence for purpose. I thought helping build a space earned me a seat in it. That shaping best practices gave me immunity from erasure. That contribution was protection. It’s not. All this is merely social currency until your face no longer flatters their narrative.

They did me a favor.

They made the pond too small for the shark I was becoming. They pushed me toward deeper waters, where people don’t need whispered warnings to form their opinions. Where maturity is measured not in hashtags but in handling hard truths. Where mistakes aren’t mythologized.. they’re metabolized.

Here’s what I learned: reputation isn’t who you are. It’s who your loudest detractor says you are, filtered through the apathy of bystanders.

But character? Character is who you remain when that reputation is under siege. I remained. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t beg. I bled, yes. But I stayed upright. And in staying upright, I attracted others who see the difference between failure and fallout... between harm and heartbreak...

I don’t thank the mob for their malice. I thank them for the clarity I found because of their malice. I thank them for the isolation that revealed the weight-bearing beams of my life. I thank them for the mirror they held up, because it showed me where I needed reinforcement... where I needed refinement.

They took away their stage. I found my foundation.

They took away their circle. I found my sphere.

And the ones who stayed? They’re not fair-weather friends. They are fire-tested, storm-hardened family.

So this is my thank-you note... not to the betrayal, but to what it burned away from me.

I was never yours to keep.

I am no longer yours to exile.

And the doors you closed behind me?

I welded shut.