The Duality of Me

I live in a world of dualities. I’ve spent much of my life captivated by human behavior—watching, listening, feeling energies. I became so good at reading others, yet avoided looking inward. Was I hiding from myself? I’m still not sure. But I do know that I have a deep understanding of how people behave and why—the coping mechanisms we create to navigate, and often avoid, our deepest wounds.

I’ve always wanted to show up for others, recognizing their pain, their triggers, the truths behind their façades. Yet somehow, I mastered the art of masking my own. I buried it so deep I convinced myself it wasn’t even there. I played the part, believing it was my true self, unaware of the walls and blinders I had built.

Like many of us, I had an optimistic and somewhat naïve view of the world—a kind, safe, and beautiful place. And it was, for a while. But reality always kicks in. The first hurt. The first time you realize the world isn’t pure. The first time you see yourself as anything less than perfect. Once that door opens, it never fully closes. The fractures come, little by little, and we all cope in different ways.

I ignored mine. Pretended it didn’t exist. Trained myself to paint rainbows over everything—or at least build walls high enough that I couldn’t see the storm. But that wasn’t enough. So, I learned to cope in other ways. I created strategic behaviors to pull my focus elsewhere.

Laughter. That was safe. People are safe when they’re laughing—nothing bad happens when people are laughing. So, I became the jester. It felt like a survival instinct, a way to keep the world at bay. But another part of me longed for deep connection. I wanted to be vulnerable but never felt safe enough to be. I didn’t know other kids who felt as emotional as I did. At least not on the inside.

The Shape-Shifting Years

Adolescence is a strange time—liberating and soul-crushing all at once. “You’re becoming you,” they tell us. But I see it differently now. It felt like I was becoming whatever was safest. Whatever role made me most likable.

So, I played many. I tested them out—preppy, jock, skater, clubber, and even a cowboy at one point. I watched how people treated me based on something as simple as my clothes. One thing I always had, though, was sports. I was good at them, and that gave me real confidence. But sports and vulnerability didn’t mix.

As I grew, I split into two distinct groups: my athletic friends and my spiritual friends. One side loved adventure and competition; the other loved deep talks and altered states of consciousness. They didn’t overlap, so I played the role that each moment required—stone-cold athlete in one space, sedated spiritual seeker in another.

The Shadow of an Older Brother

A lot of my struggles with identity came from having the coolest, kindest, most adored big brother. He was confident, charismatic, talented (still is)—everything I admired (and still do). And he took me under his wing, which isn’t always the case with older siblings. His friends became my extended family.

But it left me in his shadow. I was “Ty’s little brother,” “little Siddall.” And as a teenager, I grappled with the question: Who am I?

(I am eternally grateful for the man my brother is and the impact he's had on my life - I love you bro)

Like most teens, I tested out personas. I was all of them. I was the kindest, and at times, probably the cruelest. To anyone I hurt along the way, I am truly sorry. I projected my inner wounds onto you. I made you feel small. If any of those hurts linger, I regret it deeply.

A major part of my struggles came from the behaviors I created to protect myself—especially when it came to intimacy. It terrified me. I always knew, deep in my heart, that I never wanted to hurt anyone (in relationships) or make them feel uncomfortable in any situation. In trying to prevent that, I developed behaviors meant to keep both me and them safe. But those behaviors didn’t stop the hurt.

I’ve hurt so many along the way. I guess it’s impossible not to. Even with what I believed were the purest intentions, I still left a wake of pain behind me. The duality continues…

I’m truly sorry.

At the same time, being vulnerable and open with women brought me joy and a sense of acceptance—just not full vulnerability. I mastered the friend zone. I always had great relationships with women (thank you to all my amazing friends over the years for the late-night talks). Those friendships let me tap into my feminine side, have deep conversations about emotions and feelings. But I never let anyone truly close.

The moment I felt a real connection, I sabotaged it. Maybe my subconscious thought was: How can anyone reject me if I reject myself first? And it worked. I remember how romantic my heart was back then, and it breaks me now to know how much I kept myself from experiencing love. I built walls around my heart—walls made of unworthiness and fear of rejection.

Those wounds still surface in my life today. They have created hurts even in my current relationship. I'm deeply sorry for the hurts I've caused. But I will never stop working on it.

That’s the duality. I know my heart is pure, yet I have also been the embodiment of past hurts—shame, guilt, unworthiness. What’s the point of understanding human behavior if I can’t even see how my own trauma manifests? How I show up and hurt others without realizing it?

Smoke & Mirrors

I feel energy—other people's energy. I read people. And that can be overwhelming. I used to take on the pain I perceived in them, absorbing it as if it were my own. Alcohol helped me exist in high-energy environments without feeling completely consumed. But even then, I needed an escape.

Looking back, I wonder if that's why I loved smoking when I drank. I never smoked sober, but smoking gave me an excuse to step outside—out of the bars, the parties. And for a long stretch of my teens and twenties, that's where I always was: at a bar, at a party. Stepping outside to smoke meant fresh air, a quieter space, fewer people. And the best part? Those people were usually drunk too.

Drunk smokers are a special kind of human. Emotional, vulnerable—like me. And they love to talk. Some of the most raw, unfiltered, deeply human conversations I’ve ever had were with strangers on patios, sharing a cigarette and a moment of truth. Those encounters felt like little band-aids on my own wounds, just for a moment. Hearing others talk about their pain, their doubts, their shame—it made me feel less alone. But it was fleeting. Because the next day would come, and the mask would go back on.

Joking, sarcasm, always chasing the next “good time”—but really, it was just numbing. Hoping to either forget my own pain or recreate those deep connections, but within the safety of intoxication. I was rarely alone. As we got older, campfires and hot tubs became my favorite places. Outside, surrounded by friends, alcohol loosening the emotions, joints pulling us deeper into creativity, cigarettes keeping us going. Those are my favorite memories—the ones I didn’t drink too much to forget. Where the deepest and darkest parts of ourselves could be shared, but in a way that still felt safe. And immature. Because all it took was a simple “I don’t remember much from last night” to erase that vulnerability and put the armor back on.

When I finally saw how much harm I had done to myself by shape-shifting for others, the pendulum swung. I harbored resentment, anger. I laugh about it now—not because the pain wasn’t real, but because I see how backwards my thinking was. I blamed others for not knowing the real me, even though I never showed them. Because truthfully, I didn’t know myself.

I was mad at people for loving the characters I had created to win their affection. And that’s what makes me chuckle now. How could I expect them to love the real me when I hadn’t even met him yet? When I didn’t love him yet?

I chose to change. To show up differently in the world. And how could I be mad at people for being thrown off, or even hurt by the fact that someone they loved was suddenly rejecting the version of himself they knew?

To anyone I hurt in that process, I’m sorry. I hold love in my heart for every person I’ve called a friend. I loved you more than I loved myself. I still carry that love. But I see now—I was the one hurting me. And I’m sorry I put that on you.

Firefighting: The Ultimate Duality

Firefighting brought another layer of this duality into my life. I was blessed with amazing crews—brotherhood, teamwork, purpose. It reminded me of team sports, with a little more openness to deep conversations. But there were limits.

The reality of the job meant you had to keep your armor on at all times. One moment, you’re joking around at the hall, sharing meals, living together. The next, you’re witnessing horrors most people will never comprehend. The trauma wasn’t daily, but I wasn’t great at not personalizing the calls. So, I buried it.

And when burying wasn’t enough, I found humor. Dark humor. The kind that keeps demons at bay. That protects you. That lets you keep going when everything inside you wants to stop. You had to dissociate.

But for me, it became impossible to stay true to my heart in that environment. I justified it all by telling myself I was showing up for people in the way I would want someone to show up for me. But that didn’t stop the hurt. It didn’t stop the scar tissue from forming around my heart.

I’ll come back to that.

Returning to Love: Navigating the Duality Within

I've always wanted to be a better version of myself—to show up as my best in this world. But it's confusing because there are so many versions of me out there. To some, I'm the kindest, most mindful person. To others, I'm a monster built from hate. I'm learning not to own either extreme because, in truth, I'm a bit of all of them. And I’m trying to be okay with that.

At one point, the pendulum swung from people-pleaser to entitled selfishness, teaching me the value of not caring so much about others' opinions. It always swings too far at first, but now, I’m finding balance—showing up as my true self while embodying the kindness and love I know are within me.

Since COVID, this has become even more present. If you've followed my journey, you know I left my career in a very outspoken way. I've always had a "conspiracy-minded" view of the world—thanks to my cousin Dave and my uncle, who opened my eyes early on. But back then, the darkness felt distant, separate from my safe little world. I was the jester who loved deep conversations, but my outspokenness was mild. That changed drastically from 2017 onward.

My voice grew louder, not always in alignment with my highest self. I saw the world’s darkness creeping in, dividing people, creating enemies out of neighbors. My frustration turned to urgency, then to anger. But beneath it all, my intention was always love. I wanted to help, to wake people up. I just didn’t know how to do it constructively at first.

Online, I screamed from the rooftops. At home, I built a life rooted in love and mindfulness. But the weight of my moral and ethical injuries at work changed me—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Panic attacks took hold. My anger boiled over as I watched lies destroy lives. I was both love and hope—fear and destruction.

When the world turned on me, I held my ground. I stood with the Canadian truckers, witnessing an outpouring of love and unity—only to see us vilified and erased from society for simply asking for dialogue, for choice. I lost my job, friends, family, and basic rights. I was labeled, ostracized, and told I was the problem. But I didn’t back down. How could I? Especially when they came after the children—the least affected yet the most burdened.

I know people were scared. I hold space for that. But I also know there were deeper agendas at play. Through it all, I am returning to love. I wish growth was clean and linear, but it's not. There's pain buried inside me, but there’s also love calling me home.

I’m learning to surrender, to stand in my power, to trust that love is enough. The armor is still close by—for now. But every day, I try.

The Breaking Point

Something shifted this fall.

After years of burying it all—ignoring, numbing, pretending—I couldn’t carry the weight anymore. The walls I had built around my wounds started to fracture.

I projected at first, lashing out into the abyss of the internet. It spilled into my day-to-day life. The transition from warrior to protector at home was rough. I had spent so long operating in survival mode that I struggled to step down. My behaviors no longer served me, but I didn’t know how to let them go.

And now? I’m breaking down. It’s all surfacing at once. It’s too much. I’m overwhelmed. The protector in me wants to shove it all back down. But it’s destroying me.

I feel like I’ve spent my life trying to be seen, heard, understood. Isn’t that what we all want? But we approach it in the most backward way—destined to fail. We end up proving the very things we fear: I’m not lovable. I’m not worthy. No one cares.

I built walls to protect myself from rejection, but all I felt was rejection. I pushed intimacy away, only to feel a deeper loneliness. It’s a cycle. One I’ve repeated over and over.

Owning My Shit

I’m done playing the victim. I’m done avoiding responsibility for the pain I’ve caused myself and others.

I don’t pretend I created all of this turmoil inside me. But I am the only one who can face it.

I don’t know exactly how to let it out without letting it consume me. But I do know this: I am trying. Every day.

I know I have immense love inside me. It’s calling me home. It’s asking me to surrender, to step fully into my power. To trust that love is enough.

I still keep my armor close—old habits die hard. But I’m working on it.

But I take full responsibility for transmuting it into something beautiful. Something raw and vulnerable to share with this world. I think we need more of that. To see each other. To hear each other. To understand one another.

That’s why I’m writing this. To find my way back to me. I reread what I write. As often as I can. Especially these truly vulnerable discussions. Because I’ve not looked at them in the past. Every time I reread it, it softens the pain and hurt that comes up. Gives perspective to the WHY I am the way that I am. Awareness and a WHY to the hurts I’ve caused others. It allows me to be softer with me. Because I would grant literally everyone else that grace.

I hope you give yourself that grace. Because you deserve that as well.

One heart, one love.

—James Joseph Siddall