Pigeonholes Are for Pigeons.

People love boxes.

It helps them sleep at night.

But here’s the problem…

I don’t fit in a fucking box.

I’m 6’6”, 240 pounds.

Built like a grizzly bear that eats young children for breakfast.

Covered in tattoos, bearded, & sweary.

Resting face like a thunderstorm.

I walk down the street, and people cross it.

Not a polite sidestep - full-blown Frogger across traffic like I’m holding a chainsaw.

It’s surreal.

Like I’m radioactive.

Too close and they’ll spontaneously combust.

Most days, I shrug it off.

It’s a survival instinct, I get it, we all have it.

And let’s face it - the world is full of dickheads.

But every now and then, it gets to me.

Like when I see a mum pushing a pram…

Or an old couple enjoying their slow, sacred shuffle…

That’s when I’m the one that crosses the road.

Not because I’m dangerous - because I don’t want them to feel afraid.

I carry the burden of their assumption so they don’t have to.

They get to keep their comfort. I get to swallow the stereotype.

And here’s the punchline:

I. Am. Not. A. Terrorist.

Behind the Beard.

You see a big, tattooed, scowling bloke stomping down the pavement.

What you don’t see is this:

That face that looks like I’m plotting your doom? It’s probably just me trying to solve a deeply important conundrum:

…Would you rather fight 1000 duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?…

That’s where I’m at mentally.

Not rage. Not violence.

Just existential poultry math.

Here’s more you don’t know…

I cry during the stampede in The Lion King. Every. Damn. Time.

I donate to charities when I can, even if I’m skint.

I used to live next to a crack addict called Justin. Our deal? Five cigarettes for one go on his washing machine. I respected the trade. He respected the cycle.

And then there’s my daughter…

My world.

The thing I look forward to most is reading with her.

Our go-to book? The Tiger Who Came to Tea.

It’s a straight-up banger. And yes, I’m convinced the cat you see on the penultimate page is the tiger in disguise. Don’t @ me.

It’s in My Blood.

My old man - Nick Hopkinson.

Known as Hoppy or Hoppyman. The original gentle giant.

He was the size and shape of a big fridge.

Hair like a haystack with unresolved trauma.

Dressed like Stig of the Dump crossed with Dame Edna.

But kindness carved into his DNA.

Unbreakable, unshakable kindness.

And he knew what people saw when they looked at him: “tramp,” “weirdo,” “threat.”

So he leaned into it. Used it as a filter.

If your first instinct was to judge him by his appearance?

He’d saved himself the trouble of getting to know you.

You failed the test.

You saw the cover and didn’t bother opening the book.

We all say, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

But let’s be real - covers sell.

Designers obsess over them. Test them.

Pick the right colour, font, finish; because people do judge.

We do it with products too.

Buy the perfume in the tin can because the bottle looks cool.

That’s it. That’s the logic.

Packaging over substance.

Form over function.

Surface over soul.

And you wonder why the world’s so broken?

The Mental Health Mask.

Now we hit the raw nerve.

You know why there’s a stigma around mental health?

Because we’ve been trained to fear it.

You see it in films - the wild-eyed villain with a tragic backstory and a knife.

In the news, “Man with mental health history…” as if that explains everything.

Lazy storytelling. Toxic assumptions. Repeated until it becomes gospel.

So let’s debunk some classic bullshittery:

“People with mental illness are dangerous.”

“Depression is weakness.”

“Addiction is a choice.”

“Therapy is for the broken.”

You know what that is?

Bullshit. Absolute bullshit.

Here’s the truth…

Mental illness can look like the dad reading ‘The Tiger Who Came to Tea’ for the 400th time.

It can look like the bloke who makes everyone laugh at the pub.

It can look like someone building a business, smashing targets, and going home to cry in the shower.

It can look like me.

My Story.

In 2004, I shattered.

Diagnosed with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and bipolar.

I moved back in with my parents.

I couldn’t step outside without spiralling into a full-blown panic attack.

At one point, I genuinely believed I was dead. A ghost. Floating through life invisible, untouchable, forgotten.

Recovery?

It’s still ongoing.

And that’s okay.

Progress isn’t linear. Healing doesn’t punch a clock.

But here’s the thing:

Through my mental illness, I became better.

More self-aware.

More compassionate.

More patient with others - even the dickheads.

Am I fragile?

Dangerous?

Less capable?

Fuck no.

Stop Judging the Package.

I won’t list my creds.

If you need receipts to respect me, you’re not my audience.

But I’ll say this…

If you’re the type to judge, stereotype, and write others off based on surface-level bullshit; may you trip and fall down a deep well.

Not to be cruel.

Just to give you space to sit in the quiet and maybe, just maybe, unlearn your bullshit.

Maybe you’ll realise that you can’t know a person by their beard or tattoos or posture or voice.

Maybe you’ll understand that people are more than packaging.

We Are Not What You Assume.

We are contradictions wrapped in skin.

We are wounded and healing.

Hard and soft. Angry and loving.

Fierce protectors and fragile artists.

So next time you catch yourself labelling someone -

Stop.

Because pigeonholes are for pigeons, bro.