The Name That Wasn't Mine

When I sat down to write The Name That Wasn’t Mine, I didn’t do it for accolades, attention, or even closure. I wrote it for the people who matter most to me—my wife and our three beautiful children.

For most of my life, identity felt fragile, like a name that could be given, taken, or rewritten by others. I grew up with chaos, uncertainty, and a haunting question: Who am I? But somewhere along the way, through the storms and silences, I discovered the answer. I am a husband. I am a father. And those roles are not just parts of me—they are the anchors that keep me steady.

I dedicated this book to my wife because she is my constant. She has been the light in my darkest chapters, the peace I didn’t know I needed, and the one who reminds me that love can be safe, steady, and unconditional. Without her presence, this story would have remained locked away as a collection of painful memories instead of being transformed into testimony. She gave me the courage to write, but more importantly, she gave me the courage to heal.

I also wrote it for my children. I never want them to grow up wondering where they come from or who they are. I want them to know that the cycles of pain and silence can be broken, that love is not something you have to earn through suffering. They are the best parts of me, the proof that my story didn’t end with trauma—it continued with transformation. This book is my way of saying to them: you will never have to question if you are loved, wanted, or enough.

Writing this book was not easy. It meant revisiting memories that still sting, putting words to wounds I once buried deep. But it was necessary. Because when I look at my wife and children, I see the life I once thought was impossible. I see a legacy worth leaving—one of honesty, resilience, and love.

This book isn’t just my story. It’s a promise to them.