The last few months have been a slow-motion knife fight — not the cinematic kind with slow spins and flashy disarms, but the real ones: short, ugly, and draining. I’ve been walking through a fog that feels like it wants to choke me out. Conflict has crept in from corners where there shouldn’t have been any. The kind of emotional attrition that doesn’t explode — it leaks. Quietly. Constantly. Until you’re left sitting in a room you used to like, wondering why everything echoes now.

On top of that, I’ve been clawing my way back from shoulder surgery. Regaining use of my right arm wasn’t just physical — it was personal. That arm is part of how I write, how I train, how I work. Losing it meant losing pieces of how I express myself. Thankfully, the healing has gone well, and I’ve been cleared to return to work. But let’s not kid ourselves — I’d love to make self-protection and writing my full-time living. That’s the dream. But I’ve also got rent to pay and a kid to raise, and dreams don’t deposit themselves in checking accounts.

Still, even in the wreckage, there’s momentum.

Syriennion and I recently sold our first two Gieles to members of the public, along with a Taskmaster. That might not sound like much to someone scrolling past on their phone, but for us, it’s everything. These tools aren’t about profit. They’re not cash grabs. We’re not pushing product just to see our names etched into metal. We’re doing this to provide people with functional tools that will work when they need them — tools made with intent, history, and hard-won understanding.

And as with every season, people come and people go. Some continue to grow the distance between us — quietly or dramatically — while others double down and work to strengthen the bond. I’ll always be grateful for those who walk beside me, but I will never try to keep someone around who doesn’t want to be here. I’ve done that before. Bent over backwards. Ate crow. Laughed at things that weren’t funny. No more. Let them drift — I’ve got my hands full with the ones still in the fight.

What we’re not doing is recycling the same tired designs. We’re not taking a prison yard sketch and calling it “innovation.” We’re not part of the echo chamber selling people a costume for a life they’ve never lived. You know the type: filtered photos of knives tossed onto a dashboard next to a vape pen, a $300 flashlight, and an unloaded pistol. Hashtag #everydaycarry. Hashtag #warriorlifestyle.

It’s all fun and games until someone realizes this “lifestyle” people cosplay on Instagram cost real families everything. Some of us didn’t choose the streets — the streets chose our family tree long before we got a say in it.

Now it’s packaged, polished, and monetized. You can order trauma cosplay and have it shipped overnight. And the people who lived it? Who crawled through the blood and the grief and the silence? They’re supposed to clap politely from the sidelines?

No.

This isn’t bitterness. It’s exhaustion. It’s watching something sacred be turned into a skit.

I’m not here to gatekeep pain, but I am here to protect truth. That’s what Hooks, Jabs, and Sarcastic Stabs was always about. We tell it how it is — sometimes through clenched teeth, sometimes with a wink, but always with conviction.

So if you’re still reading, thank you. I know this one’s a little raw. That’s where I’m at. Not polished. Not strategic. Just honest.

We’re still swinging. Still writing. Still building. Not because it’s glamorous — but because it’s necessary.

—Coltsfoot