Writers 
WHEN WE CELEBRATED OUR DESTRUCTION.
I've slept with girls.
There was a time in my life when the things we celebrated were actually the things destroying us.
Growing up as a teenager, my friends and I had a strange culture among ourselves. We called it “body count competition.” It was simply a way of counting the number of girls we had slept with. The higher your number, the more respect you seemed to get among the boys. To us, it felt like achievement. It felt like maturity. It felt like something to be proud of.
We would sit together after school and gist. "How many?" "Who’s next?" We laughed. We gave each other nicknames. We acted like we were kings.
Looking back now, I realize it was nothing but a race toward self-destruction. We weren’t growing up. We were breaking down. And we didn’t even know it.
Around that same time, I began smoking weed at the age of 14. What started as experimentation gradually became a habit. At first it felt exciting — something rebellious, something that made us feel grown. Pass it around. Laugh. Feel "high" and "free."
But freedom that costs your health is not freedom.
It quickly got out of control.
There were several times the smoking became so intense that my body could not handle it. My chest would tighten. My heart would beat so fast. I would panic.
I ended up in the hospital multiple times because of it. My system would react badly, and my health would crash. I would lie on that hospital bed, 14, 15 years old, with an IV in my arm, wondering "how did I get here?"
My parents didn’t know the full story. My friends just said "he’s sick." But I knew. Deep down, I knew I was paying the price for choices I thought were "cool."
The worst part wasn’t the hospital. The worst part was the emptiness after.
After the high faded. After the girls left. After the boys stopped clapping for your "body count."
You’re left alone with shame, with fear, with a body that’s tired.
One day I asked myself: "Who am I becoming?"
Is this the man I want to be? Is this the story I want my children to hear one day?
That question saved me.
I’m not here to preach. I’m not perfect. I still have scars from those years.
But I’m here to say: the things we clapped for were the things killing us.
Respect that comes from hurting people is not respect.
Maturity that comes from destroying your body is not maturity.
If you’re 14, 16, 20 and reading this — please hear me.
You don’t have to prove yourself with your body.
You don’t have to prove yourself with weed or alcohol or pain.
Real strength is saying no when everyone is saying yes.
Real maturity is protecting your future self.
I’m grateful I’m alive to tell this. Grateful for second chances. Grateful that God and a few people didn’t give up on me.
Today I choose a different kind of "count."
Not body count.
But peace count. Health count. Growth count.
Don’t celebrate your destruction.
Choose life. Choose you. ❤️
