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A smudge to clear the air, then straight into the truth: Chad’s boyhood was loud with conflict and even louder with silence. He grew up between homes and expectations, carrying the weight of abuse he didn’t have words for until he finally told his mother. What follows isn’t a tidy redemption arc—it’s a lived map of detours, from city streets and school suspensions to the Nova Scotia Home for Coloured Children, where staff and community offered real care, structure, and the first sense of belonging.
We walk through the flashpoints: a violent confrontation with a stepfather, the pull of group homes that felt safer than home, and the slow work of therapy. Mentors step in: a therapist who sticks, a social worker who advocates, foster parents who push and protect. Out west, the story widens—mountain trails, cross-country skiing, and the Duke of Edinburgh award. Volunteer hours turn into dignity. Music, sport, and ceremony stitch together a calmer centre. Along the way, Chad finds identity in motion: black community gatherings, Mi’kmaq teachings on family, drums he builds with his hands, and a practice of collecting feathers and prayers that keeps him grounded when old storms rise.
This conversation is about more than survival; it’s about choosing what gets to speak for you. We talk ADHD, the institutional habits that both shielded and shaped him, and the moment he realized he didn’t have to let anger narrate his life. The takeaway is practical and human: mentorship matters, structure heals, community saves, and ritual sustains. You’ll hear the messy parts, the funny parts—apple wars and yard boxing—and the quiet parts where gratitude finally has room to breathe.
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