They will listen

This is not a fairy tale.

It’s not a neat story about falling down and getting back up, dusting off my hands, and walking into the sunset without looking back.

This is a story about scars—visible and invisible. About voices that whisper in the night, about the kind of pain that doesn’t just fade away because you want it to. It’s about choices that cut deep and the slow, grinding work of trying to heal them.

My name is Jaxon, and for most of my life, I didn’t believe anyone would ever listen to me. When I was younger, I thought I was destined for something great. I was smart, ambitious, full of energy. My parents believed in me enough to send me to a private boarding school, convinced it would give me a better future. For a little while, they were right—I thrived in that place. Books, classes, challenges, I loved it all.

But thriving has a way of making you stand out. And standing out has a way of making you a target. The bullying started with whispers and smirks, then with names that clung to me like burrs. Before long, I was isolated, mocked, and treated like an outsider. Every laugh in the hallway cut deeper than fists ever could. I screamed for help without ever opening my mouth. And no one listened.

At least, that’s how it felt.

So, I adapted. I numbed myself with alcohol, then with drugs, then with rage. I became the thing I hated—aggressive, reckless, cruel. And people noticed. They always notice the monster more than the boy behind it.

Eventually, my behaviour got me kicked out of that school. My parents brought me back home, and instead of finding peace, I carried the storm with me. Public school felt just as alien. The old flashbacks followed me through every door. Hatred grew inside me like a second skin.

Still, no one listened.

So, I screamed louder—through fights, through rebellion, through self-destruction. And when the noise didn’t work, I went quiet in the most dangerous way. There are moments in my life that I can’t erase. The hospital bed. The stitches. The night I almost let go for good.

But then—somehow—life gave me a reason to stay. Her name is Scarlett. My daughter.

Her laugh pulled me back from the edge more times than I can count. Her tiny hand gripping mine reminded me I still had a purpose. She gave me a reason to fight when I had none left for myself.

This story is about that fight.

It’s about music, the only language I’ve ever found that could hold the weight of what I’ve been through. It’s about late nights in makeshift studios, turning pain into rhythm, turning survival into verses. It’s about finding people who finally did listen—my parents, my friends in recovery, the strangers who stumbled across my tracks and found themselves in the words.

It’s about setbacks, too. The bills I couldn’t pay. The temptations that clawed at me when the world felt too heavy. The nights when relapse whispered louder than hope.

But more than anything, this is a story about learning to speak even when your voice shakes, and about discovering that someone—somewhere—will listen.

If you’re picking up this book, maybe you know what that silence feels like. Maybe you’ve been ignored, dismissed, or crushed under the weight of being unseen. Maybe you’ve begged in your own way—through anger, through silence, through the choices you regret the most—for someone to notice.

This book is for you.