I grew up inside stories that weren’t mine.
Stories about success, about love that never falters, about healing that comes easy, about self help that only asks you to listen. They were built to soothe, not to tell the truth. They skipped the nights when your mind screamed, the wounds that never close, the slow and brutal work of becoming someone new.
Comfort keeps you still. It holds you in place, trapping you in the sameness of today. Pain does the opposite. It tears through the stillness, shoves you off balance, and forces you forward. You don’t grow because you want to — you grow because pain leaves you no choice.
That’s why I write. Not for recognition. Not for money. I write because silence gnaws, because the scars demand to mean something.
My name is Michael Wargr.
The words here are not polished answers or gentle reassurances. They come from a life split open, from standing close enough to death to see without illusion, from a restless mind that pulls at every hidden seam and refuses to rest.
This is not a place for comfort. It is a place for unlearning. For tearing away the filters you were handed and looking at the world as it really is. It will feel wrong, and it should. Because clarity has a cost. For years it will tear at you. It will make you question everything and everyone until nothing feels solid. Yet if you carry it long enough, the torment burns out.
What remains is a peace you never thought possible.
The stories here will not comfort you.
They will break you open.
