The Death of the Chosen One

My mom once told me of a story of when I was a baby, and a friend of hers came to visit her soon after my birth. She looked at me—a newborn with so much life ahead of him—and she told my mom I’d be someone very special in this world. As parents love to do, my mom has repeated this story to me several times.

This story, however well-intentioned it was, caused a distortion in me, one I wasn’t ready for. It was the foundation for a passive identity I would soon begin to carve for myself. The older I got, the stronger this passive identity became. I was raised to resemble a “respectable young man”— manners, eye contact, and a firm handshake. I was praised for these virtues, which only strengthened that passive identity.

I was told I was destined for greatness—but that alone does not make a great man. Cause-and-effect is too powerful a force, and no one is above it. In the end, it’s our choices that create us.

The more agency I had over my life—over my choices—the more things began to veer off course. At eighteen, those choices could be easily dismissed, explained away by immaturity. But if you keep making the same mistakes, eventually the compounding effect leads to devastation.

For so long, I didn’t value the power of choice, and I couldn’t see how I was destroying my sense of self-respect with each personal betrayal.

Worst of all, I thought things would just work themselves out. I had this deluded belief that I would just wake up one day and “Jon, The Chosen One” would assume control, fix all the mistakes I’d made, and I would just suddenly become this ideal, special version of myself that had been promised.

But that’s not how it works—not even close. The universe isn’t under any obligation to reward us, and praise from others never held the power to move me in the right direction—only I ever did. I’m grateful for the virtues I adopted because of my upbringing, but they were never enough to make me into the man I wanted to become.

I thought greatness would find me by happenstance—that, by a stroke of divine luck, I would fall into it. But how many people do you know who, no matter how many years pass by, are still immature, stuck in time, and seemingly incapable of growing or ever taking responsibility for anything in their lives? I was raised by a man like this, and yet, I thought I was different.

Maybe this piece is proof that I am different. But reflections aren’t enough. You can’t think your way out of a hollow life. Insight is simply the map. Ultimately, you must choose to take the steps. And if you choose to remain in place—grasping to comfort—entropy takes over, and the result is a slow decay of the soul. My depression isn’t some romantic sadness; it’s an audit, the constant tally of my failures. It’s the weight of having no self-respect left to lean on.

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Self-respect can be faked for the world, but never for yourself. No matter how much you try to buy into the delusion, you always know the truth.

Those who love me can sing my praises—calling me strong, resilient, a good man—but there is a dissonance in my soul. No matter where I hide, I am still there, the man who lacks self-respect, making choices antithetical to the person others believe him to be.

The virtues others see in me don’t mean enough if I don’t respect myself. For too long, I used self-pity to avoid that truth, but the delusion eventually collapsed around me. Now, all I see is the wreckage of a man I don’t entirely recognize, and I think that’s okay.

I understand now that you can’t optimize your way out of a hollow soul. A morning routine isn’t a reformed character. In other words, minor renovations won’t fix a rot this deep. It’s time for a total rebuild.

Driven back upon myself, I can no longer hide behind a comfort that doesn’t work. The lies of my unearned virtues have wilted in the pit of my reality, leaving love as the only remaining catalyst for my salvation.

I’ve never had an issue with falling in love. However, I’ve never been very good at standing in it. Instead, operating like finding someone who loved me back was the end of the journey. As if feelings alone are enough to keep the connection alive.

But true love isn’t a feeling you fall into; it’s a commitment you stand in. It’s a choice—scratch that—it’s a continuous choice.

Growing up, instead of examples of true love, I saw the fickle kind society peddles like a grifter—the kind that’s reactive and too often, passive. It’s a love that waits to be struck by Cupid’s arrow. We want the enrapture without the effort, and when the delirium finally fades, we assume the love is gone.

The biggest issue with placing love in the same bucket as the rest of our emotions is that feelings are, in fact, fickle—they change like the weather. I used to wonder: If love is just a feeling, then what’s the point?

People often jump into relationships searching for an antidote to their emptiness, never factoring in that a lasting union requires you to give of yourself. But how do you give if you’re nothing but an empty shell? How do you stand in love when your tank is empty? Even the most broken among us can be ushered along by infatuation. It takes no effort to let passion consume you.

That’s not the hard part. The hard part is enduring—surviving the siege not just from outside the castle, but from within the walls as well.

Those rare couples who make it to “til death do us part” don’t make it because a lifelong passion carried them to the finish line. They make it because they choose each other. They choose to stay. They choose to change, and they accept when the other person changes, too. They choose to honor the promise—and they do it again, and again, and again.

The daily choice to stand in love is a heavy one, and it becomes an impossible weight to carry when the relationship is merely a crutch—a way to avoid yourself and run from your own emptiness. Love has too often been my survival mechanism as I used the light from another because I couldn’t deal with the shadows I carried.

My issue isn’t a unique one, but eventually, you have to decide when enough is enough. I never intended to hurt anyone, but like an addict outrunning their own demons, all that mattered in the moment was the sweet embrace of relief and comfort.

But the true relief—the true remedy—is to face the darkness. For me, that darkness manifested as self-loathing fueled by a complete loss of self-respect. To truly love another person—to weather those storms together—you need that self-respect. You need to care enough to make yourself whole. And you have to be willing to face your own shadows.

Joan Didion wrote that people with self-respect accept the risk that “the venture will go bankrupt”—that the relationship could end despite your best efforts—or that the “liaison won’t be a holiday.” Accepting that risk is the very sign of love enduring. It’s what separates love from the expansive, fickle pool of our other emotions.

I’m at the end of a road I’ve walked in a zombified state. I am finally lucid, forced to confront my delusions, and I’ve had to accept that my struggles cannot be explained away by my trauma alone. It was, instead, a persistent lack of self-respect that slowly turned the shades of my heart and soul darker. Now, with the veil drawn, I must do the work that fortifies my sense of self.

I see clearly the choices that led me here—the ones I’m not proud of, the ones that pulled me away from the man I want to be. The further I’ve stretched, the more the cracks have formed, making it impossible to love myself and, in turn, making it even harder to love another.

I don’t hear enough people talk about character, but without it, can we ever be decent? Without the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life, every external “fix” is merely a shitty paint job on a dilapidated home.

Love has been commodified, turned into just another cog in the machine of consumerism. But love is an art in the purest sense. I choose to stop being the passive collector watching the installation, ready to pay for the thrill of the initial purchase. Instead, I want to be the artist. I want to get my hands dirty. I want to endure the pain required to create a masterpiece.

I am not the hero of a prophecy. I am a flawed human being. I am not that 'special' child anymore. I am just a man who has to work for the impact he wants to make. That starts with self-respect and continues with a disciplined love for myself. From there, I can finally show up and give the best of myself to those I love.

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