To Calmer Seas..

Tru°North: A Story Forged Through Grief, Growth, and Grit

I was a sensitive kid. The kind that felt everything too much, cried too easily, and was constantly told to "toughen up." The world teaches young boys early that emotion is weakness. And if you're the soft one in a world that glorifies stoicism, you either learn to become hard or you get broken down by those who are.

I was bullied. Not just teased, but ridiculed for the way I felt things. So I adapted. I started to laugh at myself before anyone else could. I turned sadness into sarcasm, pain into punchlines. I numbed myself to avoid giving anyone the ammunition to hurt me. I learned to perform a version of myself that was untouchable. The class clown, the funny friend, the one who seemed like nothing ever really got to him.

But the truth? I was building walls. Brick by brick, joke by joke, I constructed a fortress around a very scared little boy. And like most fortresses, it eventually became a prison.

As I got older, I chased validation the way some chase success. My first real relationship cracked open the shell I’d buried myself in. For the first time, I allowed someone to see the real me. The scared, insecure, passionate me. But when that relationship ended, it felt like a betrayal not just of love but of trust. It gutted me. The heartbreak wasn’t just about her cheating, it was about all the pain I had worked so hard to bury rising back up like a flood.

I spiraled. Not outwardly. I didn’t scream or drink or destroy things. I turned inward. I got colder. I wore anger like armour. I leaned into violence when I needed a shield. I made my emotions untouchable by becoming someone who couldn’t be touched.

It was around this time that I found photography.

I didn’t know it then, but photography would become my sanctuary. A space between the shutter and the lens where time paused. Where everything else faded. Where I could give something to the world without having to explain it. It was the only thing that made me feel like I could capture time — hold it still, honour it, and give it back to someone else as a gift.

Then Graeme died.

He wasn’t just my friend. He was my brother in all but blood. The light to my darkness. The person who saw through my walls and loved me anyway. When he left, it was like someone switched off the sun. My thoughts became a monsoon. My grief, an endless tide.

I didn't know how to process it. I didn’t want to. So I tried to keep moving. But the grief would rise when I least expected it — in the silence between moments, in the click of a shutter, in the laughter of someone else’s memory.

Graeme’s death didn’t just hurt. It reshaped me. And I made a promise that day: when I had a son, he would carry Graeme's name. His legacy wouldn’t end with a funeral. It would be etched into the next chapter of my life.

When Zachary was born, he came into the world fighting. A NICU baby. A tiny warrior hooked up to more wires than any newborn should ever have to face. The consultants told us one night, gently but clearly, that they had done everything they could. That we were reaching the edge. If he didn’t start improving, he wouldn’t make it.

That night, I broke. For the first time in years, I cried — silently, alone, holding a paper bag of KFC, the smell making me sick with guilt. I prayed to a universe I wasn’t sure I believed in.

"Please. Let him stay. Let him make it. I will never ask for anything else. Just let him stay."

The next morning, Zachary turned a corner. The consultants were stunned. They said he was stable. We were back on track. Coincidence? Maybe. Divine intervention? I don’t know. But I’ve never stopped whispering into the universe since. Never for me. Always for him. For Becca. For those I love.

That night changed me. It rewired what I thought strength looked like. It taught me that real strength is found in surrender. In being present. In asking for help. In choosing hope even when logic says not to.

I returned to work after weeks in the hospital. My boss, who had promised I’d be looked after, had lied. I was on sick pay. Half my wage. Rent overdue. No warning. No apology. Just betrayal.

I didn’t get angry. I got out.

I resigned. My whole team followed. We were done being held down by someone who had no vision, no compassion. That week, I started building what would become my future. A business. A brand. A message.

Tru°North.

Born from grief, raised in adversity. It became the compass I never had growing up. The guiding star I hoped others might see when they were lost in their own storms. A place where creativity meets healing. Where photography isn't just art — it's therapy.

The lens became my lifeline. Each photo a way to say, "I was here. This moment mattered."

And in time, I began to heal. I still have bad days. I still wrestle with my own darkness. But now, I know where to go when the tide rises. I go to the viewfinder. To my son’s laugh. To my partner’s touch. To the safe space I built out of ashes and ocean.

This is Tru°North. This is me.

We weather storms, not because we have to, but because we were made to.

And if you're reading this right now, feeling like the world is too loud, too cruel, too heavy...

Please know: the storm will pass. And even in the fog, your compass still works. You just need to find your Tru°North.

Stay. Speak. Feel. You are not alone.

-Dean