Hi, I'm Max.

I started this blog to share the world from my perspective. And for a while, I did that, my thoughts, my takes, my version of things. But what I didn’t do was share the deeper side. The parts that don’t make for easy reading.

The parts like this.

I wrote something once that reached more people than I expected. More of you felt it than you’d probably admit. That wasn’t an accident. I wanted it to land. Because we live in a world built on perception, and I decided I wasn’t interested in sharing the version of me you’ve made up, I wanted to share the one I actually live with.

So why am I introducing myself again?

Because the harder things tend to matter more. Not to everyone, but to the ones who need it.

I’m Max. Simple. But not simple at all.

Lately, life has been something I can only really describe as burnout… continued. Not the dramatic, once off kind. The quiet one that lingers. The one that becomes part of your daily life whether you like it or not.

I’m more aware of it now. I can catch it happening. I don’t spiral the way I used to. But it’s still there. And if I’m being honest, it probably always will be.

I find myself thinking about the “old Max” a lot. The version of me that didn’t spend two years unpacking everything, PTSD, mental health, physical health, all of it. And as strange as it sounds, I miss being unaware. I miss not knowing.

The last piece I wrote came from anger. I was exhausted from being judged for things people couldn’t see. Leaving the house wasn’t simple. There was pain I couldn’t explain, anxiety that didn’t make sense, and a constant sense of overwhelm that never really switched off.

And then there’s the memory.

Or the lack of it.

Entire months missing. Blank spaces where things should exist. Not remembering things I used to do every day. That’s something you can’t really explain to someone unless they’ve felt it themselves.

These days, I’m more social. A bit more “fuck it” about life, because if I’m not, I’ll disappear into it again. But even that comes at a cost. Some days the only thing that helps is getting in the car and driving. No destination. Just movement. Just feeling something. Sometimes that means crying with no real reason, just letting things out that don’t have words.

Ironically, I did all of that in a BMW that felt as unpredictable as my life at the time. And maybe that’s why moving into a Mercedes felt like more than just changing cars, it felt like choosing a bit of stability for once.

Something steady.

Because for a long time, nothing was.

The hardest part of all of this isn’t the experience itself, it’s admitting that I’m not as strong as people think I am. It’s the comments, the judgement, the offhand remarks that stick longer than they should. The way your mind takes those things and turns them into something heavier at 2am when you’re lying awake questioning everything.

And the truth is, most of it isn’t even intentional. People have their own things going on. I get that. I’ve been that person too.

But when you’re already carrying something heavy, even the smallest thing can feel like a lot.

I’ve always had a mind that doesn’t let things go. If I decide I’m doing something, I’ll do it. Especially if someone tells me I can’t. That’s how I ended up doing things like 75 Hard, not because I needed to, but because someone said I wouldn’t.

And I proved them wrong.

But the problem is, I don’t know how to stop. I push until there’s nothing left, pick myself up, and do it again. Until eventually, I didn’t.

I just stopped.

And that’s where things changed.

Because when you stop, you’re left with everything you were running from.

Perception plays a big role in all of this. From the outside, it probably looks like I’ve got everything together. The car, the clothes, the routine, it’s all there. But what people don’t see is how much energy it takes to maintain that version of myself.

It’s easier to look put together than to explain why you’re not.

So yes, I’ll walk into Virgin Active, parked in a white Mercedes, Longchamp in hand, looking like I’ve figured things out. But what you don’t see is the version of me that sat crying for hours before that, trying to pull it together just enough to show up.

That version is real too.

And most days, it’s the one holding everything together with the same determination as the balloons in Up, barely, but enough to keep going.

The question I keep asking myself is why this feeling hasn’t gone away. It’s been almost two years. I’ve done the work. I’ve tried to do the right things, for the right reasons. I’ve put people first. I’ve pushed myself in ways I didn’t think were possible.

And still, something lingers.

Maybe it’s because growth doesn’t come without breaking something first. Maybe it’s because becoming someone new means losing parts of who you were. Or maybe it’s just that healing doesn’t run on a timeline.

What I do know is this, life isn’t as put together as we pretend it is. Most people are just getting through it in their own way.

And sometimes, all it takes is a bit of understanding. A bit of patience. A small moment of kindness.

Because the reality is, the people who look like they have it together are often the ones holding on the tightest.

So if you’re reading this and you feel lost, or stuck, or like you’re falling behind while everything else keeps moving, you’re not alone.

Not even close.

We just don’t talk about it enough.

But we should.

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