The Leap at 46

The world has stopped. Streets are empty; the news is just numbers. Out there it’s an apocalyptic movie; in here it’s me and my six-year-old in an empty apartment. Divorce papers still fresh on the table—a stack of legal ash where love used to be. The silence doesn’t comfort; it interrogates.

Months ago we were finally pointing the right way. I was acing my Game Design master’s at Full Sail in Orlando. Money wasn’t abundant, but it wasn’t scarce. I had what most men dream of: a loyal wife, a beautiful little girl, and three months left before graduating at the top of my class.

What the flying fck happened? It was only months ago.

Morning hits heavy in this new life. By day I log into my “career,” which feels less like a job and more like a Google Meet coffin—endless decks, practiced smiles, slogans that mean nothing to anyone, least of all me. Corporate “creativity” is as authentic as a plastic sandal. I was never meant to dedicate my life to this charade. So what the hell happened?

That question ricochets around these walls like a drunk moth. I try not to play the blame game, but some nights the game plays me. The truth: I didn’t choose this path. It was handed to me—and that’s as deep as I’ll go into that mud pile. Let’s just say my personality, skills, and odds of success were ignored when it came time to decide my professional future. And I bought it—hook, line, and noose.

And on I went—straight into decades of absurdity. A game designer and musician running loose in the corporate world? Come on, man—half a brain would know better. Now, decades later, I’m still sweeping up the debris.

And yet… something stirs inside (read with Raziel’s voice). A cigarette ember glowing in the dark, refusing to die. I’ve always wanted to build worlds people could play in—and write the soundtracks to those worlds. Nights I’d lie awake with excitement at what I could make. That dream kept getting denied, again and again—unless I rebel.

What if I took this silence, this doom-soaked vibe, this pandemic-shaped void, and made it a beginning?

I’m terrified, obviously. No roadmap. I’m 46—too late to begin, too early to quit. It feels insane to step off the curb now, with the world shut down. But the thought won’t leave. It stalks me at 2 a.m., pounding like a war drum: this is your only chance (read with Splinter’s voice).

Maybe I’ll fail. Maybe the world will laugh. Better to stumble into the unknown than keep pretending I belong in a suit of someone else’s making.

So here it is—a decision, scratched down in the dark of a global pandemic: I’m going after it. Game design. Music production. Better to leap from the tree than rot on the branch. (That’s me now.)

Fear and excitement—turns out they wear the same trench coat.