The Art of the Glitch

Why My 2026 Is Written in Stone

(And Why It’s Okay That It’s Broken)

If you look closely at the image above—really closely—you’ll see it.

It’s there in the text carved into the stone wall. A line repeats itself. "In silence. You cross boundaries, in silence. You cross boundaries..."

Technically, it’s a mistake. It’s a glitch in the digital matrix, a hiccup in the software that created the image. In a previous life, the version of me that existed five or six years ago would have seen that error and frantically tried to fix it. I would have scrubbed it, photoshopped it, or discarded the image entirely because it wasn't "perfect." I would have worried that a flaw in the presentation meant a flaw in the man presenting it.

But I’m leaving it there. I am letting it stand.

Because if there is one thing I have learned in my fifty-two years on this planet—and specifically in the hellscape of the last six years—it is that life does not allow for edits. You cannot Photoshop the trauma. You cannot crop out the betrayal. And attempting to present a perfect, polished façade to the world when your foundation is cracking is not strength. It is exhaustion.

As Brené Brown so famously taught us, vulnerability is not weakness; it is our greatest measure of courage. It takes infinitely more bravery to stand in the light, point to your scars, and say, "This is where I broke," than it does to pretend you are unbreakable. There is a liberation in exposing your own flaws. When you own your story—the ugly, the messy, the glitchy parts—you strip the power from those who would talk about you behind your back. You have already said it. You have already owned it.

And I have a lot to own.

The Descent

The unraveling began in 2019. Losing my mother to breast cancer wasn't just a loss of a parent; it was the loss of gravity. She was the anchor. When she passed, the tether snapped, and I began to drift into a darkness I didn't know existed.

We like to think that homelessness is something that happens to "other people." We tell ourselves it’s a result of bad choices, of addiction, of laziness. We lie to ourselves to keep the fear at bay. The truth is, the distance between "respectable citizen" and "homeless" is razor-thin. It is a series of dominoes falling, one after another, faster than you can catch them.

I lost everything I owned. Not once, but twice. I watched the accumulation of a life—the mementos, the clothes, the books, the identity—evaporate.

I found myself navigating the shelter system in the middle of a global pandemic. I was becoming homeless within a homeless shelter, caught in a bureaucratic nightmare while my lungs fought off COVID-19. It was a double-whammy of existential dread. You learn very quickly in those moments who you are. You learn that dignity is not something given to you by a system; the system is designed to strip it away. Dignity is something you have to claw back, inch by inch, breath by breath.

The Betrayal

But the universe, it seemed, wasn't done testing my resolve.

I eventually surfaced. I moved into a beautiful new home here in Bloomfield, CT. I thought the storm had passed. I thought I was safe. I opened my heart and my home, believing that after so much loss, I was due for some light.

I entered into a relationship. I trusted. And that trust turned into a danger I could never have possibly imagined.

We need to talk about Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). And we need to talk about the fact that it happens to men. It is real, folks. The resources for male victims of domestic abuse are scant to none, and it is a crying shame. It is a silent epidemic because men are taught to be stoic, to be the protectors, never the victims.

I can’t talk too much about the specifics due to ongoing legal issues. But I will say this: I have been victimized twice over. Once by the abuse itself, and again by the system. When I sought help—when I reached out for the protection of the law—I was the one arrested. I was the one charged.

My lawyer limits what I can say, but I can tell you this: I have spent my entire life practicing nonviolence. It is a core tenet of my belief system. It is the bedrock of my soul. To be accused of the very thing you abhor, to be put in handcuffs when you were the one seeking safety... it throws you for a total loop. It shatters your faith in justice.

But it also does something else.

The Sleeping Giant

This experience—the grief, the homelessness, the illness, the betrayal, the legal persecution—it didn't kill me. Though there were nights I feared it might.

Instead, it opened my eyes. It stripped away the illusion that the system works. It showed me the deep, festering injustices that plague our society, from the way we discard the unhoused to the way we profile victims of abuse.

It awakened a sleeping giant within me.

For a long time, I was floundering. I was surviving, but I wasn't living. But this latest trial has given me my raison d'être back. I have seen the bottom. I have seen the glitches in the matrix of our society. And I have decided that I am not just going to survive them. I am going to fight them.

2026: The Year of the Boundary

Which brings me back to the image. To that man carving his manifesto into the wall.

2026 is a personal year. It is the year I reclaim my energy.

Look at the words on the wall: "You stress me, I disappear. You bring unnecessary drama, I'm gone. You show fake support, I distance myself. You disrupt my peace, I block access. You underestimate my growth, I move in silence."

This is not just a resolution. This is a survival strategy.

I am taking this coming year to prepare myself for the tasks that lie ahead. There is a great deal of work to do. I am steeling myself, making myself whole again. I am finding inspiration in a friend who has launched a nationwide campaign—someone I have deep admiration and respect for, who gave me purpose when I was lost. I will be helping her, and in doing so, I will be helping myself.

But I cannot do this work if I am drained by toxicity. I cannot fight for justice if I am fighting battles in my own living room.

So, the boundaries are going up. Not walls to shut the world out, but filters to let the right energy in.

The Call to Community

There is so much ahead in the coming year. I see so many possibilities opening up for us, but only if we are willing to do the hard work.

We need to band together. We need to come together as a community, to heal, to become whole once again. We are a fractured nation, a fractured state, and many of us are fractured individuals. We cannot fix the macro if we do not fix the micro.

So here is my line in the sand: If you’re not interested in healing—if you are here for the drama, the conflict, the chaos—goodbye. I don’t have the time or the energy for you. It is just that simple.

But if you are willing? If you are interested in healing your community, your friendships, your neighborhood, your town, and your state? If you want to build a world where the unhoused are seen, where victims are believed, and where justice is actually just? Then let’s get this done.

The Light in the Dark

As I prepare to take these steps, I need to express something that might seem surprising given everything I've just written: I am grateful.

I am grateful for all the trials and tribulations of these past few years. They have steeled me for the tasks ahead. They have proven to me that I can persevere in the face of extreme pain and hardship and still come through with a smile on my face, with joy in my heart, and laughter in my soul.

Those dark moments—when I was reaching for a bottle of pills, or lying in a hospital bed trying to find a reason to remain on this planet—taught me a critical lesson. I learned that turning to darkness is never the answer. It is never an option for me. The only path forward is through positive energy, love, and hope. That last shred of hope was what I clung to when I didn't think I would make it. It is what got me through, and I know now that love and hope are what will heal us and get us through whatever crises we face in the future.

Let’s make 2026 the year of our personal recovery. Let’s find the space where we can find positive energy, the positive vibes where we can support one another. Let's embrace our glitches, our repeated lines, our scars, and our flaws, and use them as the map to find our way back to each other.

Follow me on X, Facebook, and LinkedIn. I will be posting updates from this blog as we move forward. The sleeping giant is awake. The chisel is in hand.

Let's start carving. And to you, Robin McGehee—let's do this!

Thank you, and above all else, I'm grateful to have you with me on this journey into 2026.