Built from the Ashes

Not every battle leaves visible scars. Some are stitched into your story. This is mine.

 By Jason Pedersen

I wasn’t made in comfort.
I was forged. Bent. Burned.
In the kind of fire that doesn't just scar you—it reshapes you.
People think steel is strong.
But they don’t know the strength it takes
to keep getting up when you’ve got no one to call.

I’ve learned the hard way—
that not everyone who shakes your hand
would catch you if you fell.
Some build ladders to climb with you.
Others wait for the moment they can kick yours out.

I’ve carried weight most men won’t talk about.
Loss that still echoes in my bones.
Lies told about me that spread like wildfire,
while truth smoldered in silence, unheard.

I’ve built things with my hands
while my heart broke quietly in the background.
Kept promises I made to ghosts.
And kept going long after the fuel ran out—
because quitting’s never been in my blood,
even if pain has.

You want to know what loneliness is?
It’s finishing a job at midnight,
knowing no one’s coming.
It’s pouring your soul into something,
only to be met with silence—or worse, betrayal.

But I’ll tell you this:

I don’t break easy.
I might bend. I might bleed.
I might scream into the void
where friends should have been.
But I won’t stop.
Because every scar I’ve earned is a reminder—
that I survived what others swore would destroy me.

So no, I’m not okay all the time.
But I’m still here.
Still building.
Still breathing.
Still believing that maybe, just maybe,
this road leads somewhere worth walking.

And until it does—
I’ll keep welding,
keep writing,
keep fighting,
even when no one’s watching.

Because I’m not here to be saved.

I’m here to rise.
Alone if I have to.
But never small.
And never silent.