There are days when the world doesn’t just feel off—it feels fake. Drenched in phoniness, gimmicks, fluff. A romantic droop. A soggy caricature of realness. And I can’t unsee it. I can’t pretend I don’t feel it. I look around and all I see is plastic performance—people playing roles, managing optics, running from anything that might actually require a spine.
Lately, I’ve been haunted by a recurring feeling. A dream brought it into focus.
Yann Guermeur—the CrossFit box owner who cut me off after my best friend Paul died—showed up in it. We were going on a road trip, and I popped into the gym. Everyone was about to leave. Yann looked at me like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t sent me a cold, robotic corporate email after I lost the one person who meant more to me than anyone else. He asked if I was coming. I told him no. I told him the truth: I’m not going to pretend anymore. I told him he was a coward. That he failed to show up as a human when it mattered most.
And then he defended himself. Gave excuses. That was the end of the dream.
But not the end of the rage.
It loops. I ruminate. I get wound up. Hours can pass in the thick of it—angry, hopeless, filled with violent thoughts I don’t want to have. And it’s not just him. The list is long:
I won’t name them all. Not here. Not now. But I’ve written their initials down.
- S.L., the first spineless CrossFit box owner who paid me £8/hour to coach—less than the cleaning lady.
- M.G., the ex who ghosted when I needed truth, and treated me like an inconvenience once I confronted her.
- V.B., the CTO who gave nothing but negative reinforcement and once said, “I know you work overtime Walter, but just so you know… it doesn’t count.”
- C.M., the IT manager who said, “No one wants to work with you, Walter,” and then coached me to fake being sick to mask the fact that I dared to connect with colleagues off the clock during a business trip—painting it as though I didn’t care about my work.
A graveyard of manipulative, cowardly, self-preserving actors who either blamed, abandoned, or gaslit me when I was already on the floor.
Each one has their own story. But the pattern is the same. Coldness. Evasion. Spinelessness dressed up as professionalism. Or fake love. Or “just doing their job.” When I needed truth, they gave protocol. When I needed compassion, they gave performance. When I needed presence, they vanished.
And I’ve been swallowing it all. Like a good boy. Like someone who doesn’t want to cause a scene. But deep down? It feels like being slapped over and over while being told to stay still.
And I ask myself:
Would calling them out help?
Would naming them publicly—saying “Don’t be like these people”—bring any peace? Or would it just turn the volume up, feeding the fire, leaving me more broken when they predictably stay silent or deflect?
Truth is, most of them will never acknowledge it. Not because I’m wrong—but because it would shatter the fragile image they’ve built for themselves. People like that don’t apologize. They rewrite history.
I debated naming names. I’ve written them. I’ve said them out loud. But I realized this post isn’t about vengeance—it’s about a pattern. The pattern of weak leadership, of emotional negligence, of manipulative silence. If the people who did this recognize themselves here, good. If not, the warning still stands: Don’t be like them.
So what do I do?
Do I let the gods handle them? Let time do what it does? Or do I take the fire I carry and use it—not to burn them, but to light the way forward for people who’ve been through the same kind of betrayal?
Because this pain, this fury—it’s not meaningless. It’s not just about vengeance. It’s about truth. It’s about calling cowardice what it is. About refusing to normalize the way weak people hide behind roles and rules to avoid facing what’s real.
I don’t want to be consumed by this anymore. I want to build. I want to channel. I want to write it clean. Not just vent it. I want to make their failures useful.
So maybe that’s what this is.
This isn’t a vendetta.
It’s a warning.
Don’t be like them.
Don’t trade your humanity for a badge or a job title or a façade.
When someone is grieving, show up.
When someone is vulnerable, don’t weaponize it.
When you screw up, own it.
Because silence is cowardice.
And cowardice leaves scars that don’t fade.
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