The worst times in your life may secretly be the best, and the best times may turn out to be the worst.

No, your eyes aren’t deceiving you — and yes, that sentence bends the brain a little. But if you’ve lived long enough, you’ve probably wrestled with this strange truth yourself.

Let’s call it the dangerous good times.

A little less than a year ago, I quit my full-time job to become a full-time writer. My wife nearly fainted on the spot. But for nine months, I lived the dream. People imagine writers sitting at their desks all day, bleeding genius onto the page — and while some of that is true, the reality is far messier.

My days were filled with everything except writing.
I saved the actual writing for the evenings, when distractions slept and the world went quiet.

The mornings were for the hustle:
Designing book trailers.
Sharing stories on social media.
Engaging with readers.
Writing short form pieces for Medium, since Amazon Novella isn’t available in South Africa (shame on you, Amazon).
Rebuilding my entire website.
Reviewing books.
Posting those reviews.
And trying — somehow — to keep a career alive on fumes and faith alone.

I even dodged a nearly catastrophic scam from a vanity publisher who saw a vulnerable indie author and smelt opportunity. I tested their sincerity by querying literary agents who dismissed my memoir with criticism phrased so elegantly it felt like poetry… if poetry hated you.

After that, I embraced my label with pride:

Indie author. Indie publisher. Owner of my mistakes and my miracles.

And something beautiful happened during that time.
I gained readers — slowly, quietly, one by one.
A few authors, giants in my eyes, cheered me on.
Reviews trickled in.
Sales — tiny as they were — gave me sparks of joy.

My first royalty payment was $2.34.
I took a screenshot and printed it. It hangs behind me like a medal.
It wasn’t about the money.
It was about the proof:

I did the impossible. I became a full-time writer.

And while I was stumbling through that difficult season of my life, I decided to write my memoir. To peel myself open and see what spilled out.

The early sales were startling — which explains the scammer circling me like a hungry shark.

But despite the chaos, something magical was taking shape.
Authors supported me.
Readers cheered for me.
My books — my stories — were finally being read.

Yes, the banks wanted my head.
Yes, my car was nearly repossessed.
Yes, I ate humble meals at the end of each month.

But I was alive.
I was writing.
I was me.

And then… my wife intervened.

God bless her beautiful heart — she is fierce when she’s afraid.

Every hour, my inbox swelled with job vacancies she sent me. She’d look at me across the table with a stare sharp enough to give a pirate goosebumps.

But I understood.
Women see us differently.
To her, I wasn’t just her husband — I was the breadwinner. The safety net. The person she needed to rely on.

I tried to reassure her; she would not budge.
And so, to keep the peace, I applied for jobs — thinking I was buying time.
I didn’t realize how in-demand I actually was. If I had, I might have negotiated double.

Still… it felt unfair.
A few years ago, she had burned out. Collapsed. Lost herself.
I stood by her every second of every fading day.
She switched careers, studied remotely, and I paid for it — proudly.
I supported her through two and a half years of transformation.

Later, when her father passed away, I held her through months of grief until there was nothing left of me.
I did it gladly. Without regret.

So when she refused to support my dream with the same devotion, it broke me.
I felt unloved, unseen, unappreciated.
I felt betrayed — yes — and even conned.

But because I am who I am, I would still do it all again.

Eventually, I packed up my writing desk and returned to corporate — that buzzing nest of snakes in suits, slithering through fluorescent hallways. Everything I had built collapsed within weeks. And so did I.

My mental health spiraled
I returned to the clinic.
Not for the first time.
This time, I stayed longer than expected.

When I came home, I spent three weeks recovering.
And then I worked — relentlessly — to rebuild the connections and momentum I’d lost.
Ads helped… but ads are cold. Mechanical.
They can’t replace the warmth of a reader reaching out, saying,
“I loved your story.”

I spend three to four hours a day in traffic now.
Three to four wasted hours I once spent writing.
Sharing.
Creating.
Living.

And perhaps this is why I miss those “dangerous good times” so painfully.
Scraping by on coins.
Fighting every day to survive.
But alive in a way I haven’t felt since.

Maybe, just maybe…
the bad times are secretly the best.
We just don’t realize it until they’re gone.

If you’ve read this far, say a prayer for me — to whoever your God is.
And if you have a similar story, please reach out.
I’d love to hear it.
Maybe I’ll even share it on my blog.

Until next time.
If there is a next time.
Maybe.