The Hardest Thing
What is the hardest thing you could possibly do?
At first glance, the question sounds either trivial or impossibly vague, right? Don't worry, though—no one's talking about Herculean tasks or Ironman challenges. Nor am I peddling some Hollywood tear-jerker cliché, hands clasped to chest, voice quaking, and whispering: “The hardest thing was watching my child shiver in a fit of fever.” Ugh. None of that fake, deep-sounding but ultimately empty bullshit.
No. My question is: have you ever truly asked yourself, no audience to impress, just you and that inner voice of yours, what single act would gut you the most? Personally, I'd never asked. Life, however—or God or the Universe or whatever you want to call this strange and shared experience of ours—answered me anyway.
Back in 2023, I believed I had myself figured out. I held one truth to be unshakable—I knew who I was. Instead of giving me pause, hard questions hardened the core of my identity. I like to view the essence, ego, the me as a recipe perfected over one's lifetime. I'd simplified mine down to two ingredients. One, an eye for judging character and two, an insatiable appetite for introspection. I’d stress-tested both ad nauseam and always reached the same conclusion. When each or even both buckled, their failures only strengthened the whole. As my favorite Rwandan proverb says: Ibuye ryagaragaye ntiriba rikishe isuka, which you could translate to: A stone that is revealed will no longer break your hoe.
My shields of introspection and observation served me well until, like rust on stainless steel, the impossible happened. First, spider-web fissures spread across armor I’d sworn was indestructible. Then, one day in the spring of 2024, I glanced up and the sky was ablaze. In a matter of seconds, in the aftermath of a single conversation, the colorful chaos that was my life was ember oranges, angry reds, and choking grays of a meteor roaring to earth... only seconds from impact.
I see you rolling your eyes, thinking I'm engaging in sensasionalism or being a drama queen. So, you're probably wondering. What was the hardest thing?
Well, it wasn't the cold realization that my back was against the wall, that in the end, life doesn’t always sort itself out. It wasn't when the hubris of overconfidence caught up, pissed like there was no tomorrow, and intent on exacting revenge. Hell, it wasn’t even the voiceless rage, faithless prayers, or the humiliation of having to trade pride for survival.
The hardest thing was admitting that Black Hawk was down behind enemy lines, with no exfil on the horizon. It was standing under a rickety bridge that stank of sour sweat and stale urine, my hands and clothes black with grease from a bike chain that had slipped for what felt like the hundredth time in the last kilometer. It was the blink-of-an-eye thought of throwing the bike into the canal—and going in right after it. It was the shame that followed; that only the thought of my children’s fate turned what came next into a dry, hollow chuckle instead of a darker spiral.
It was hearing, from loved ones and circling vultures alike, the many layers of how broken I’d become, and resisting the reflex to argue, deflect, or joke it away. No wit. No bravado. The hardest thing was sitting in the wreckage and, for once, denying four decades of conditioning—ignoring what every boiling nerve screamed. Fight back. Defend. Surrender nothing. It was accepting that, after one battle too many, the apex predator had fallen; its bone-shaking roar reduced to the mewl of a stray cat.
And still keep going.
This may read like a one-man pity party. It isn’t. It's not about the breakdown either. It's not even about the struggles, betrayals, or battles that were the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. This story chronicles how I got to the edge of oblivion, stared deep into the abyss, and stepped back before, to quote Nietzsche, the abyss could stare back. It's a story about one life in the billions that roam this Earth.
I needed help the way a drowning man needs a lifeline, but like a mute staring at a bustling shoreline, unable to ask, beg, or scream for help, I flailed my hands as fast as I sank. Seeking help has never come naturally. Still doesn’t. This story is also about how I had to battle myself all over again when, at last, someone noticed the churning waters, rallied a rescue team, and threw that lifeline.
Among innumerable other subjects, this is a tale about rediscovering the blind spots of a mind that once thought it had mapped itself completely, learning to recognize the cracks that complacency had sealed over, and storing them in what I call the introspection vault. It’s about choosing to walk with humility and curiosity, following in the steps of Belgium’s own JCVD on the road to awareness.
Yes. That’s it. All of it, from the moment I spotted that roaring meteor to a few weeks before I began writing this prologue—that was my hardest thing. But, make no mistake. Although spotting the enemy is often the hardest part, the fight that follows is no walk in the park either. My fight still rages on. But the silver lining of rock bottom is that it crowns you the ultimate underdog. After all, who doesn’t love a good underdog story where, against all odds, our dashing hero emerges victorious?
There’s a poster in my living room, a gift from a dear friend. It says, “One percent better every day.” All bold contrast, its large white letters floating on a field of black, the message as stark as it is serene. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it—but so what if I am? Isn’t that what mantras do: boil the noise away until only what matters remains? More than once a day, I glance at the poster, breathe, and commit once more to a steady walk, one step at a time, eyes forward.
The Five Stages
When journeying through parts unknown, it helps to have the right tools. I’m fresh out of compasses, but I’ve done the next best thing short of handing you one. I’ve divided my life into five stages that fade and feed into one another. Think less oil and water with their clean-cut boundaries, and more the concentration gradient that forms when syrup is poured into water and left to rest. Each stage echoes a phase in the life cycle of a legendary sword, from raw ore, through the violent transformations of the forge, to the quieter existence of a shield fashioned from the weapon's shards, whose purpose is to protect.
Ore (1984 — 1995)
Ore is the rawest form of any metal. At this stage, it holds all its potential, its inherent nature being the only constraint on its trajectory. Childhood is the same. Undefined, malleable, time on your side. It’s pure possibility.
Forge (1995 — 2002)
Heat, hammer, and the forger’s care separate metal from slag. Early adulthood pressures and parental guidance play a similar role for people, setting most of us on tracks we’ll ride for years.
Blade (2002 — 2013)
Alloyed, tempered, and sharpened, the metal takes its intended form. It acquires a purpose and an edge. At this stage, one builds a career or starts a family. We are at the apex of our abilities.
Shards (2013 — 2024)
Not every blade survives battle. Some deform, others chip, a few shatter. Relationship implosions, brushes with death, family losses—life offers no shortage of trauma.
Shield (2024 — present)
Most swords rust where they splintered. A fortunate few have their shards gathered, melted, and reforged. From fragments, they take shape again. Scarred and tempered anew, we too can rise from our ashes, mighty once more.
The Method
To explore these stages, each chapter follows a specific pattern. Since I fancy myself a storyteller first, I’ll start by doing what we storytellers do. I'll tell you a damn story. Each will follow the same protagonist, Gabriel, who happens to have one or two things in common with yours truly. Gabriel's creation allowed me, for reasons I'm not certain I understand fully, to infuse a measure of objectivity into the events at the center of each story.
Following each tale, I will step in with my own voice and current perspective to reflect on that memory. I intend this part to feel like a late-night conversation between you and me, two old friends reminiscing over an anecdote I've just shared. You’ll have to forgive me for hogging all the conversation, of course, but I was told you are a great listener.
There will be, from time to time, the occasional poem interspersed as an interlude, but these will be few and far between.
This constant shift between anecdote, story, and echo is what drives this memoir, constellation of ramblings, or however you, dear reader, dearest friend, want to name it.
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