My journey into writing started on the job. I was a senior creative and brand strategist in advertising, building stories for companies that wanted to matter. I loved it. I loved mapping out human behaviour, figuring out what people cared about, and turning all of that into something real.

What I never did was turn that lens on myself.

Not fully.

Not honestly.

Writing became my way of surviving my own thoughts. It helped me express things I never said out loud. Feelings. Fears. Opinions. The old wounds you pretend you forgot. The stuff you tell yourself you can power through.

What changed?

At first, writing was private. Purely functional. Put the thoughts on paper so they stop circling in your head. There was no plan to share anything because that would have felt insane. Vulnerability costs energy. Some days it costs every ounce you have.

Age teaches you something uncomfortable. The things you swallow do not disappear. They sink. They gather weight. You start believing your own lies.

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“It’s in the past.”

Sure. Until it isn’t.

We grew up in a world that treats pain like a burden. You keep quiet, pull your weight, and pretend you are impossible to break.

Hi. My name is Jason. Guilty as charged.

When you move through life, find a partner, buy a house, raise kids, you realize how many people rely on you being the strong one. Showing a crack feels reckless. Even with a solid relationship and good friends, it is unreal how much goes unsaid. You pack it all into your emotional carry on and hope the zipper holds.

By fifty, you do not have baggage. You have a full matching set, complete with check in.

So yes, I am a work in progress.

I am trying to practise what I preach instead of preaching what I am too scared to practise. I do not want to tell anyone how to live. I am sharing what I have learned, and I trust you to call bullshit whenever you need to.

I always felt like an outsider growing up. My family moved across Canada and Europe. Friendships were temporary. You meet people, you connect, you leave. That rhythm builds an odd skill. You learn to watch people closely. You learn to notice tone, reactions, patterns, moods. It becomes instinct.

And no, not in a creepy “hiding behind the jeans display at Walmart” way.

In the human, unexpected way that comes from being on the edge of every group you enter.

I never thought much about it until I got older. I am not saying trauma turns you into an empath. It can go either way. But in my case, it turned me into someone who pays attention.

The mind fascinates me. How two people can grow up in the same conditions and walk away with totally different wiring. How nature, nurture, chemistry, and experience twist together to form a person.

All of it shapes how we show up. As parents. As partners. As leaders. As humans who want connection but sometimes struggle to ask for it.

This article is not only about empathy, and it is definitely not about the girl who called me fat in grade nine, even though my brain stored that like a signed first edition.

It is about the threads that kept appearing in my private writing. The patterns I ignored until they insisted on being noticed. Design. Leadership. Loss. Curiosity. Joy. Shame. Connection. All of it pulled tight in ways I can finally see clearly.

And lately, those threads feel ready for something more.

Not a reveal.

Not an announcement.

Just a quiet step toward sharing the parts I kept to myself for a long time.

Something is taking shape.

Slowly.

Honestly.

And when it is ready, you will see it.