I’m a walking catastrophe exhibit. ADHD spins my brain like a fidget spinner on steroids, self-doubt’s my loyal hype man chanting “you suck,” and grief over my mom’s passing hangs around like an uninvited guest who won’t take the hint. Add PTSD, suicidal whispers, a bank account that’s basically a ghost, and depression’s heavy blanket, and you’ve got my life’s current playlist—zero chart-toppers, all deep cuts. But here’s the thing: I’m still alive. Still swinging. And somehow, in this apocalyptic soap opera, I’m scraping together the best version of myself, hunting for my place in the world, and sniffing out a purpose that doesn’t come with a manual. This article’s my own damn pep rally—no one else needs to read it. It’s here to slap me in the face with the truth: I’m winning, not because I’ve got my shit together (spoiler: I don’t), but because I’m still breathing through it.

You’re not just surviving—you’re winning, one chaotic, broke, beautiful day at a time. Keep at it, you magnificent bastard. – Shaun Norton

Living Mom’s Legacy, One Stumbling, Glorious Step at a Time

My guiding star right now is my late mom—her values, her qualities, her whole vibe. She was the living embodiment of love, strength dressed in a teacher’s patience, and I’m trying to channel that. It’s a sloppy imitation—ADHD means I’m halfway through a good deed before I forget why I started, and depression sometimes turns “be kind” into “stare at the ceiling for three hours.” But I’m in there, swinging. I’ll hold a door open, crack a terrible dad joke, or just not snap at the universe when it deserves it, all because that’s what she’d do. It’s not a Hollywood montage of her perfection; it’s me tripping over my own feet and still landing in her footsteps. Every day I pull that off, even a little, I’m winning—like a kid getting a “nice try” sticker from the toughest teacher. She’d approve, and that’s gold.

Dad Mode: The Chaotic Victory Lap I Didn’t Expect

Let’s zoom in on my MVP status: being a dad. I’ve got this beautiful family—kids who are somehow amazing despite my circus of a life. With bills piling up faster than the dirty laundry of three kids, and my brain doing the ADHD tango, I still make sure they’re fed, safe, and happy. That’s not just checking boxes; that’s a freaking marathon win. Last week, I was mid-financial meltdown—counting pennies like they’re rare Pokémon cards—and still pulled off a pancake breakfast with silly faces drawn in syrup. The kids laughed, the house didn’t burn down, and I felt like a superhero in sweatpants. Or yesterday, when I wrestled them into bedtime giggles despite a grief wave that had me zoned out all day. It’s not curing cancer, but it’s my chaos corner, and I’m ruling it. Self-doubt can shove it—I’m a dad who delivers.

The Hug That’s My Superpower

When the real dark hits—suicidal thoughts creeping in, PTSD throwing old ghosts at me, depression turning my skull into a fog machine—I’ve got a cheat code: my son. He’s this tiny tornado, a carbon copy of how my mom described me as a kid—sweet, kind, wild, bright, and a little unhinged in the best way. One hug from him, and it’s lights out for the bad stuff. I’ll be spiralling, convinced I’m a lost cause headed for the void, and he’ll slam into me with those little arms, all warmth and chaos. The noise stops. Grief? Muted. Suicidal whispers? Silenced. It’s not therapy or meds (though I’m not knocking those); it’s a five-second miracle. Last night, I was a wreck—and he just hugged me and said ‘I love you daddy’. Then I remembered: I’m still here. That’s a win louder than any bank balance.

The Dream That’s My North Star

And then there’s the big, shiny “why”—my purpose. I want to be a motivational speaker. Not some polished TED Talk robot, but a real, scarred-up human who takes this mess—grief, PTSD, all of it—and spins it into hope. I want to talk to the youth especially, arm them with what I’ve learned crawling through my own muck: how to keep going, how to laugh when life’s a dick, how to find joy when the world’s gray. I want to spread the love and positivity my mom poured into her classroom, keep her light burning through my voice. ADHD’s a nightmare for starting—my brain’s like, “Speech? Cool, but first, let’s reorganize the sock drawer”—and self-doubt’s got a megaphone: “You? On stage? You can’t do that, you will suck!.” But every time I picture it, that flicker of “maybe” grows. I see kids nodding, feeling less alone, and it’s fuel. I’m not there yet, but I’m dreaming it, and that’s a lifeline.

The Broke-but-not-Broken Chronicles

Let’s talk money—or the lack of it. My financial situation is like a comedy sketch: “Local Man Discovers His Bank Account Can’t Buy Coffee.” Strain’s an understatement— I’m rationing toothpaste like it’s the end of days. But here’s the twist: I’m still winning. I’ve bartered creativity for cash, stretched meals like a culinary MacGyver, and kept my kids from noticing the tightrope. Last month, I turned a single pack of chicken into three dinners—call me the Houdini of poultry. It’s not glamorous, but it’s grit. Financial stress can’t break me; it’s just another asshole boss I’m outlasting. I’m alive, my family’s fed, and I’m still chasing dreams. That’s a middle finger to the universe’s budget cuts.

The PTSD and Depression Tag Team—and Me Still Standing

PTSD and depression? They’re the world’s worst roommates. Flashbacks hit like uninvited reruns of my worst days, and depression’s like, “Hey, let’s nap through life.” Suicidal tendencies sneak in too, whispering exit strategies I don’t want. But I’m the landlord here, and I’m not evicted yet. I lean on my son’s hugs, sure, but also dumb stuff—like blasting psytrance (my ADHD jam) until my skull vibrates, or bingeing Failarmy to remind myself my life’s not *that* bad. Yesterday, I was a zombie, but I dragged myself to the couch, watched my kids play, and thought, “Screw you, brain—I’m still in the game.” It’s not pretty, but it’s defiance. Winning’s not always shiny; sometimes it’s just not losing.

The Grand Scoreboard: Alive = Victory

Here’s the bottom line: I’m still here. Through the ADHD circus, the grief tsunami, the PTSD ambushes, the empty wallet, and the depression fog—I’m upright. That’s not a consolation prize; that’s a heavyweight title belt. I’m raising incredible kids who shine brighter than my darkest days. I’m hugging my son and feeling my mom’s echo in his laugh. I’m dreaming of stages and spotlights, turning scars into stories. I’m not “fixed”—I’m a glorious mess, fighting tooth and nail. Every breath’s a win, every stumble’s a step, and every “fuck it, I’ll try” is a trophy. The world’s throwing boulders, and I’m dodging enough to stay in the ring.

The Pep Talk I Deserve

So, to me:
“You’re a trainwreck, dude, but you’re the driver of this tragedy train. Your mom’s cheering from the front row, probably stressing about your bank account but proud as hell. You’re not sipping martinis in Monaco—you’re serving mac and cheese with a side of hope, and that’s dope. Your kids are gold, your dream’s a rocket, and your hug-a-thon son’s a lifesaver. Purpose? It’s late to the party (thanks, ADHD), but it’s RSVP’d. You’re not just surviving—you’re winning, one chaotic, broke, beautiful day at a time. Keep at it, you magnificent bastard. You’re alive, and that’s the biggest ‘Yeah dude!’ there is.”