Loyalty, Betrayal, and the art of becoming

Loyalty. Trust. They sound like relics now, things belonging to a past where people shook hands on business deals and meant it, where love wasn’t measured in Instagram likes or Snapchat streaks. But I come from people who spoke the truth even when it cost them.

My father, for example, was declared dead twice. Not metaphorically—literally. Once by bureaucratic incompetence, once by deliberate sabotage. His social media hacked, his name dragged, labeled a traitor, a pro-Iran sympathizer, the kind of fiction that governments, bored trolls, and social climbers thrive on. You’d think a man falsely declared dead once would get a pass the second time, but no. Turns out truth doesn’t grant immunity. If anything, it makes you a target.

This is where I come from. My upbringing was less "normal childhood" and more "artistic experiment." Art was never just expression—it was survival. Creation was the only form of control we had. I was shaped by colors, ideas, and the knowledge that if you’re going to exist, you better do it fully.

Then life happened. People happened. Betrayal wasn’t a singular event—it was a pattern. I believed in people. Always. I looked at them and saw potential, even when they saw an opportunity to manipulate. Friends, lovers, colleagues—some took advantage, others simply walked away. And yet, I kept believing, kept assuming sincerity. It earned me a reputation: naïve, straightforward to a fault. Because in a world that celebrates deception, honesty is treated like a weakness.

But I couldn’t afford weakness. Not after being unemployed for a year. Not after being disowned six times, after losing the person I loved most. I made a promise—to myself, to my mentors, to everyone who had been selfless when they had nothing to gain from me—that I would become something greater. Not for revenge, not for validation, but because I had to.

So I did. From a childhood where chocolate bars were a distant dream to buying my own car at 26, I built something out of nothing. Became the person people needed, the one who got things done. And in the process, I lost something—maybe the ability to be “normal,” whatever that means. I don’t walk, talk, or act like everyone else. I wish I could. Instead, I became the pragmatic role model, the corporate chess master, navigating a world that demands calculation over sincerity.

And relationships? They became another game. Modern love is curated through filters, performed through text bubbles and disappearing photos. Loyalty is a currency inflated beyond its value. I never mastered the art of being "cool" or "charming," never cared to. But I learned this much: sincerity is a liability in a world that thrives on performance.

Still, there’s no time to dwell. It’s 7 AM soon, and the corporate world waits for no one. So, I close this with the same thought I wake up with every morning—success is not an end, but a means. A way to prove that no matter how the world tries to shape you, you still get to decide 

who you become.