In this world, there are two kinds of people: those who try, and those who mock the ones who do.
You gave it your best shot. Maybe you missed. Maybe the crowd laughed. Maybe your hands shook, your voice cracked, your knees buckled—but damn it, you stood up and you tried. That matters.
You put yourself out there. And that takes more guts than most people will ever know. The ones sitting in the back, pointing fingers, smirking with their small little lives—they never took the swing. They never stepped into the ring. They’ll never understand the courage it takes to chase something real. Something that matters. A dream.
But you do.
You walked into the storm. You bet on yourself. You believed for a moment that you were made for more—and you acted like it. That’s not weakness. That’s not foolishness. That’s strength. That’s rare.
There’s no shame in fighting for something you want. There’s no shame in reaching, even if your hands come back empty. The shame belongs to those who never reach at all. Who sit with dry hearts and read more hollow ambition and throw stones at anyone brave enough to climb.
They’ll say you failed. Let them.
Because failure means you were in the game. You stood where few dare stand. They mock because it’s easier to laugh than to leap. They scoff because your courage holds up a mirror to their cowardice.
That’s why they hate you.
Not because you lost—but because you had the nerve to try.
And you’d do it again, wouldn’t you? Even knowing the cost. Even knowing the pain. Because there’s something check here noble in the pursuit. Something clean. The world can keep its comfort and quiet. You’d rather die with blisters and stories than sit in silence wondering what might have been.
So walk proud.
You carry something they don’t: a scar, maybe—but also a soul that dared to live. A man who tries is already twice the man of one who never did.
And in the end, they won’t write songs for the critics. They’ll write them for the fighters.
For men Vulnerability like you.