His story isn’t clean. It’s messy. Human. Real. And that’s exactly why it hits. Augustine showed me that God isn’t looking for perfection, He’s looking for honesty. For a heart willing to turn around and come home.

Fitzgerald was the first writer who made me look at ambition and identity with honest eyes. He captured the hunger of wanting more, more life, more beauty, more meaning, but he also showed the cost of chasing illusions. His words felt glamorous on the surface but carried a warning underneath. A reminder that dreams can either build you or break you.

Thoreau was the first one who made me slow down and actually pay attention to my inner world. He talked about solitude like it was a discipline, not escaping life, but stepping far enough back to see it clearly. His words made me realize that simplicity isn’t weakness; it’s power. When you strip away the noise, you finally hear your own convictions.

Baldwin taught me how to write like a man who’s seen too much and still chooses truth. His words carried fire, pain, clarity, and love for the people, even when it hurt. He helped me put language to my own tension: being Black, being emotional, being spiritual, and still here.

He talked about God in a way that didn’t feel distant or philosophical, it felt personal. Real. Like someone speaking from experience, not theory. When he wrote about the Word, the Light, the Truth. He made me want to see deeper and live deeper. He understood Jesus not just as a man, but as the mystery behind all things.

Solomon was the first one who really made me think about wisdom and discipline. His words hit different. Simple, but heavy. He made me want to live with intention, build with patience, and actually fear God in a real way.

Ali was the first one who made me see confidence as a responsibility, not a performance. He didn’t just believe in himself, he lived it, trained it, proved it. Every word he spoke carried conviction, and every punch carried purpose. Ali showed me that greatness isn’t accidental. It’s built, revealed, and remembered, the kind of greatness that teaches you to stand tall, stay disciplined, and kick ass when the moment calls for it.

Whitman showed me how to write with a rhythm. His stuff felt alive, free but grounded. He made me realize that you can write like a man without losing your soul.