This page is not a finished book.
It is a living work.
What you’re reading here is the unfolding of a story—my story, yes—but also a reflection of something many of us carry quietly: the experience of being shaped by pain, fractured by systems, relationships, and silence, and still choosing to search for meaning instead of surrendering to bitterness.
Rather than releasing this book all at once, I’m choosing to share it one section at a time.
Before a single word was written, there was an image.
Not just a design — but a mirror.
A reflection of everything I in Me | Me in I was meant to hold: awareness, embodiment, endurance, and rebirth.
The cover is the soul of the story before the story begins. Every line, every symbol, every spark of color was chosen with intention. This is not decoration — it is a map.
At its center is the eye: the physical “I,” the part of me that sees the world as it appears. The eye represents the observer — the one who looks outward, the consciousness that gathers experience. But behind that sight lives another vision: the mind, depicted through the form of the brain, intertwined with roots and light.
That mind — the inner “I” — is where everything truly happens. It is the quiet space of awareness beneath the noise of thought. If the eye is how I see, then the mind is how I perceive. Together, they form the bridge between the outer “me” and the inner “I.”
The “I” is the unseen root system — the deep mind, the spiritual awareness that anchors everything. The “me” is the visible tree — the lived self that feels the weather of the world. One grows in darkness, the other in light, but they are not separate. When storms bend the branches, the roots still hold. When the roots draw in wisdom, the branches reach higher.
That is the conversation between I and me — between the life within and the life lived.
The way I’ve come to understand it:
The “I” is the roots, reaching deep into unseen soil — the subconscious, the divine within.
The “me” is the branches, reaching outward — my body, my actions, my lived experience.
When the storms come, the branches feel them first. They shake, they bend, they break. But every gust, every wound, is also felt by the roots. And it is from that inner foundation that the tree grows stronger, wiser, more aware.
That is what I in Me | Me in I means.
The “I” within me — the awareness, the inner self — is always connected to the “me” the world can see.
And the “me” in I — the life I live, the body I inhabit, the storms I endure — always feeds back into that deeper knowing.
They are not separate.
They are the same life, viewed from two directions.
Rising through that duality is the phoenix, wings unfurled in motion.
The phoenix represents transformation — the self refined by fire, the truth that destruction and creation are not opposites, but two halves of the same miracle.
Before my story began, there was you.
You arrived on February 25, 1991 — a light born against all odds. They said you might not see more than a few weeks, but heaven had other plans.
You lived thirteen months to the day — a number whispered through time, a symbol of endurance, mystery, and divine design.
Brandon — the beacon on the hill.
Frank — the free one.
Ryan — the humble king.
Michaels — the protector who stands before God.
Your name reads like a prayer stitched into eternity, a map of meaning guiding those who follow.
They say souls like yours do not fade — they finish their lesson early and begin teaching from beyond the veil. Sometimes I wonder if the courage in me, the defiance of every dark night, is your spirit still burning on.
Our parents spoke your name with gentleness — a note of grief and grace intertwined. Though I never heard your laughter, I feel it in the quiet between my breaths. You are the chapter before mine — the still note that begins the song. The hill that catches the first light of morning so the rest of us can find our way.
Your numbers tell a story only heaven could write:
2–25–91 to 3–25–92 —
thirteen months of borrowed time,
thirteen months of pure light.
And I came six months later, as if your spirit lingered just long enough to lead me here.
When I trace the letters of your name beside mine, I see a pattern — your light shaping my voice, your strength filling the spaces between every word I write.
So this book begins, and ends, with you —
the brother I never met, but always knew.
The light on the hill
that showed me where home was.
