The Breath I Didn’t Take
Listen, I’m not proud of everything. I’ve got scars on my hands and a ledger in my head that’s still got red ink. But here’s what I learned today: the smallest victory isn’t about the big things. It’s about the breath you don’t take when the old rage tries to choke you.
It happened at the youth center. A kid—maybe 14, eyes tired like mine used to be—slammed his fist on a table after I asked him to wait his turn. "You don’t know shit," he spat. And just like that, the old ghost was back: the one who’d cracked a bottle over a rival’s head for less. My jaw locked. My knuckles went white. I could’ve snapped back, made him feel small like they made me feel. I’d done it a thousand times.
But today? I didn’t. I just stood there. Took a slow breath. Looked him in the eye and said, "You’re right. I don’t know your story. But I’m here to listen." Then I walked away.
That’s it. Nothing fancy. No applause. Just me, not becoming the monster I used to be.
Why did it matter? Because for fifteen years, I’ve carried the weight of every time I chose violence over peace. Every time I let the past own me. Today, I chose to let it go. Just for a second. And that second proved something: I’m not stuck in that alley anymore. I’m building something else.
You’re not too far gone. Not if you keep choosing the breath over the blow. Not if you show up for the quiet moments when the world wants you to break.
— Francisco Meyer, walking a different path
— Francisco Meyer, still earning the second chance