Dragons I’ve Faced.

MHRA | February 2026

No intro for this one, just walk with me.

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I’ll be honest, one thing I gotta do is stop downplaying my accomplishments, or like myself.

I don’t know if that rings true for anyone else or if you could relate.

I don’t know if it’s the picture or manifesto we was taught was being ‘humble’, not braggadocios or cocky—but what if it was really as great as it was professed to be?

What if the conviction was verified and not unfounded?

What if my list of hard earned accomplishments wasn’t merely delusion, even if there isn’t no medals or many mementos besides memories and pictures and not buildings erected?

Even if they appear only as footsteps in the sand in the memory of my own or others in the book of life—my life—they still count.

I still played the cards at hand the best I could.

I honestly did.

I licked my wounds when I fell, sucked it up, and kept moving, even when my pursuit to the precipice was borderline abusive.

Like, let’s face it, Rich, you’ve bested the odds many times.

Like remember, you purchased multiple acres at 20, right?

Who does that, straight off the muscle, not a hand out?

Or when you picked up and basketball at 12/13 and years later played across the country, let alone European tournaments against academy pros.

Then over to the States just before COVID turned the world cold and the ball stopped bouncing.

Or the 4 months you spent on the trading floor at a capital fund at Canada One in the heart of Canary Wharf, overlooking IBM and Citibank,

where you were doubted then was dubbed the dark horse,

and used your name to market their schemes.

And pestered you after your departure for months,

where you learned that optics isn’t everything,

let alone witnessed the emptiness of the pursuit of monetary gain.

Their entire lives was centred round charts and statistics and screens.

All they saw was r:r’s.

They weren’t present in their lives; their loved ones would get the least of them.

All for what—the false sense of this thing we call the pinnacle of success.

Maybe we ought to redefine these metrics.

Maybe not for the world, but at the very least for ourselves.

Like, what do you wish to leave behind?

What impact are you after?

Do you wish to touch the people?

Aid those in need?

Embark on the arduous journey to fix the world we live in?

Beatify the canvas you were given, with time so limited?

Some masterpieces to 20 years, others 75.

Some left unmarked.

Un-lived.

Maybe it’s the habit of competitors comparing themselves to the next man.

All ex-athletes are obsessive with performance and tangible metrics;

we analyse and dissect it, be it the path, the footsteps, the gracefulness, the touches…

You’re only as good as the last game, the last showing—but that isn’t the same with life, is it?

There isn’t a crowd, packed out stands, or a stadium, let alone an arena.

Maybe a select few.

But only you have the best seats in the house.

So maybe make the show worth watching back, even if it’s a one-man viewing.

I still remember the endless film sessions, reflecting on what could’ve been done better.

The endless hours.

1am bedtimes.

5am I’d wake, straight to the 24hr gym to lift then head to school.

I never spoke about it.

They never knew.

That mamba mentality—I bet he would’ve been proud too.

Shoutout to Eric Thomas and those ray lewis edits that carried me through, let alone Inky Johnson,

their stories, their conviction, their infectious audacity to transcend their realities.

Those moments where you hit rock bottom and the only way is up.

The moments where the image of who you’d become in front of you is torn apart.

Every door closed brings you closer to the right one.

It all makes sense in hindsight, that where the stars align and the you can trace the constellations in the night sky.

It’d be a short, uneventful book if everything was handed to the protagonist after one anticlimactic conflict that makes the need for a resolution redundant.

I remember writing those bs, baseless stories in primary school, kindergarten, or elementary—whatever you call it where you’re from—just to kill time in English class.

Every detour and experience is either a lesson or a blessing,

and oftentimes you’re just yet to realise if it’s either or.

I was blessed enough to realise that certain fields weren’t for me.

It wasn’t my story, but I wasn’t afraid to try,

and even when I was, I said fuck it and dove into the fire.

My last name may not be pendragon,

but I have faced a couple dragon’s—the greatest one being myself.

As time winds down on my remaining idle time, where the pace will soon pick up, and my days will be jam packed again,

looking back over the past 10 months I’ve grown so, so much.

I’ve learnt the art of surrender—my toughest lesson that I’m still learning—but the hardest parts are over,

and I’ve slowly begun to live, for myself this time round, even if it’s merely the minutia.

Even if a series of unfortunate events brought me to this version of myself, more aligned, more me, a throwback to seventeen-year-old me.

I’m doing a lot of things I envisioned but was afraid to do back then—going hard for myself this time round,

for you’re your greatest project till the kids come around and still.

We’re proud of you, Rich.

We all are.

Just keep pacing, day by day.

The gardener’s approach, remember?

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