I in Me | Me in I
From Pain to Purpose
The Mirror Between
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.
Author’s Note: The Image
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.
At its center is a semicolon — the simplest symbol of infinite meaning.
It says: this story doesn’t end here.
It pauses.
It breathes.
It continues.
Beneath the phoenix, the tree takes root — the living bridge between earth and sky. Its roots intertwine with the mind; its branches reach toward the unknown. It embodies the same truth as the title itself: that we exist both above and below, seen and unseen, broken and whole, simultaneously.
The eye sees the world.
The brain perceives the soul.
The tree connects them.
The phoenix transforms them.
And the semicolon ensures the story never ends.
All of it together forms the language of becoming —
a living symbol that whispers the truth I have come to know:
That we are both the storm and the seed,
the ash and the flame,
the I and the me.
And just like the phoenix at the center of it all,
we rise — again, and again, and again.
The Light on the Hill
For Brandon
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.
Chapter One
The Story in My Name | Michel with an “S”
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my name. Not because I disliked it, but because it never felt accidental.
Ryan Taylor George Michaels.
Four names. Four steps. Four pieces of a story I didn’t yet understand.
Whenever someone saw my full name written out, they’d pause and grin.
“Four names, huh? You trying to sound important or something?”
I’d laugh and offer my go-to line:
“Yeah, I’ve got four first names. I just wish my last name didn’t have an S at the end so I could actually say that.”
It was a lighthearted joke — but I meant it.
I always felt like that little s was holding me back from something symmetrical, like a note that didn’t quite fit the chord.
Years later, I learned how wrong I was.
The Discovery
It started with a genealogy test — one of those at-home kits where you mail your DNA and wait for digital leaves to sprout on a family tree you never knew existed.
I wasn’t looking for much. Maybe a surprise or two. Maybe nothing at all.
But when the results came back, one thing stood out:
Albanian.
I remember staring at the word.
Albanian?
That wasn’t in any story I’d ever been told.
So I called my dad.
He wasn’t surprised. He told me his grandfather — Nikoli Michel — was the one from Albania. Nikoli came to America carrying his name, his language, and a quiet pride in where he came from.
And then my dad told me something that made everything click.
Michel with an “S”
Nikoli Michel cared deeply about his name.
He thought about how it sounded, what it represented, and how it would live on after him.
At some point, he decided to change it — adding an S to the end, turning Michel into Michaels.
He said Michel sounded too much like he had two first names. He wanted something fuller. Stronger. More balanced.
He probably never imagined that one small letter — the simplest curve of ink — would ripple forward through generations and become a symbol his great-grandson would one day spend decades decoding.
That decision mattered.
Because my great-grandfather cared enough about his name to change it. He cared enough about how he would be remembered to reshape it.
And the men who came after him cared enough to keep that legacy alive.
The Line Continues
My great-grandfather Nikoli named his son George Michaels, Sr.
George Michaels, Sr. then passed that same name to his own son, George Michaels, Jr.
Two men. One name.
A straight line of identity and pride.
When my dad — George Michaels, Jr. — found out he was having a son, he wanted to carry it one step further.
He wanted to name me George Michaels III.
But my mother didn’t agree.
So they compromised.
Instead of giving me the exact same name, she gave me something new — a name that honored both tradition and individuality.
That’s how I became Ryan Taylor George Michaels.
She gave me George as my second middle name, right after Taylor. And just like that, I ended up with two middle names — where my father and grandfather had none.
The irony still moves me.
The men before me simplified their names to feel balanced, while I inherited complexity to find mine.
It’s as if each generation was unconsciously shaping a pattern — simplify, carry, expand — each step creating the balance the last one sought.
Legacy, Not Burden
For a long time, I thought legacy was heavy — a burden passed down through generations, each of us dragging the last person’s choices behind us.
Now I see it differently.
Legacy is a thread — something we can choose to weave with intention.
Each name, each story, each letter carries meaning. And if we look closely enough, we can see how the pattern forms.
That single s my great-grandfather added became a bridge — linking a man who wanted simplicity, a son who carried it quietly, and a grandson who would one day search for its meaning.
The Albanian Thread
Tracing my ancestry back to Albania gave that bridge another layer.
The country’s very name comes from Alb — meaning white, bright, light.
Its people hold a sacred word: besa — faith, promise, a vow to keep one’s word no matter what.
That struck me deeply.
If I could summarize the spirit of my life so far, it would be that:
faith, promise, and keeping my word — even when everything else fell apart.
It felt as though something ancient had been living quietly in my blood all along — a light that refused to go out, passed through generations, hidden inside a single letter.
What I Found in My Name
After learning the truth about Michel and the story of that s, I wondered if I’d ever change it back — return it to how it once was.
But that thought didn’t sit right either.
Because Michel is the past.
Michaels is the continuation.
That s is where my story begins — not where his ended.
I realized I don’t need to change my name to honor them. I only need to carry it forward — with love, understanding, and purpose.
Now, when someone asks how to spell my last name, I smile and say:
“It’s Michel — with an S.”
Not to correct them — but to remind myself.
That little letter is a symbol of the bridge I stand on — between generations, between stories, between pain and purpose.
Reflection
It’s strange how something as small as a letter can hold so much meaning. But that’s how life works, isn’t it? The smallest choices ripple the farthest.
My great-grandfather added an S because he wanted to feel whole.
My grandfather and father carried that name proudly, gifting it to me with quiet reverence.
And I’ve spent my life learning what it means.
Now I see it clearly:
Every name tells a story.
Every letter holds a legacy.
And the light of who we are is often found in the smallest details — like an S that turned Michel into Michaels, and in doing so, gave me the story of who I am.