A sexually abusive stepfather warps your sense of safety early. Not in a dramatic Lifetime-movie way, but in a constant background hum of vigilance. You learn that home is not neutral ground. You learn that adults are not automatically protectors. You learn to read rooms the way other kids read comic books. Who’s walking how. What that tone means. Whether tonight is a hide or endure night. That skill sticks around. As an adult, it can look like anxiety, hyper-awareness, or being “great in a crisis.” People will compliment that without realizing it came from surviving one.

After fifty years of clocking in, it finally hit me. I’ve been working since I was thirteen—scrubbing dishes at Woodfisher’s Seafood in DeLand for a buck twenty-five an hour—and I haven’t stopped since. Ten years in the Navy, decades more behind desks and deadlines. Somewhere along the way, “hardworking” stopped being a compliment and started sounding like a diagnosis. This isn’t about quitting. It’s about realizing I’ve already proved my point. Fifty years is enough.