KING Bee With ADHD

Behind closed doors, the example they tried so desperately to be was not the example they lived.
I learned very early that religion and character are not the same thing. A Bible in your hand means nothing if love, compassion, honesty, and accountability are missing from your heart.
The greatest lesson my family unknowingly taught me wasn't how to follow people—it was how to recognise the difference between genuine faith and a performance.

Some people preach holiness in public and practice hypocrisy in private. Keep the act—I know the truth. I don't need to expose you. Your actions already do.... That's why I decided the Poisonous relations even by blood .. I have no shame or guilt declaring you Non in existence cous my peace is worth sacrificing toxic waste.

Synergistix Interg8...!!!!!!
The Synergistix Interg8 session served as a clear reminder that individuals can grow through mental, spiritual, physical, and socio-emotional fitness, and that these four areas are deeply interconnected. Each one reinforces the others, and together they contribute to the development of a stronger, more balanced person.
As I reflected on the system and the value it offers, I also became more aware of my own boundaries. I have no interest in engaging in unnecessary workplace drama. My approach to forgiveness is to release the matter completely and move forward without holding on to resentment.
I also made it clear that I have no interest in forming personal relationships within my workplace. I prefer to maintain professional boundaries. What I did commit to is being fully present, as that is part of my responsibility to the institution, and consistently giving my best effort will always reflect my character.
For me, this experience confirmed that growth is not only about learning new systems, but also about underlining thn this idea just popped out from no where 🤔 This would most definitely be an amazing idea to create my own Synergistic Interg8... And thn that's was basically what I did 😂 and I took parts out that works for me .. coz I can tell y'all being graceful is no more I got no more DNA to be a rescuer no-more , ive identified that all resources is depleted because of that mannerisms that almost cost me my whole existence . But even appreciating the journey to the unknown and figuring out onces perpous. .

Chapter 26: Adulting Should Come With a Refund

Nobody warned me that becoming an adult meant pretending you know what you're doing while silently hoping nobody notices you have absolutely no clue.
One minute you're convinced you've got your life together. The next minute you're standing in the kitchen, opening the fridge for the fifth time, hoping a full meal magically appears.
I've walked into a room and completely forgotten why I was there. Then I walk back out, remember what I needed, walk back in... and forget again. At that point, I just accept that whatever I needed obviously wasn't meant for me.
Then there's talking to yourself.
I used to think it was strange.
Now I realize it's the only way to have a meeting where everyone agrees.
And don't even get me started on grocery shopping. You go in for bread and milk, leave with snacks, cool drinks, and something you don't even remember putting in the trolley... but somehow you forgot the bread.
Life is wonderfully messy.
Sometimes the laundry is winning.
Sometimes the dishes are giving motivational speeches from the sink.
Sometimes the to-do list becomes a "maybe tomorrow" list.
And honestly... that's okay.
I've learned that not every day has to be perfect. Some days, just getting out of bed, putting on clean clothes, and remembering where I left my keys deserves a standing ovation.
Life doesn't have to be perfectly organized to be beautiful. Sometimes the funniest moments come from the chaos, the mistakes, and the unexpected detours.
So these days, I laugh a little more at myself.
Because if I can't laugh at the mess, I'll spend my whole life trying to clean up a masterpiece that was never supposed to be perfect.
King Byrone Goldberg

Chapter 26: The Peace That Boundaries Brought

There was a time when I believed that saying "no" made me selfish. I thought protecting my peace meant I was abandoning the people who needed me. I carried guilt for choosing myself because I had been taught that sacrifice was the greatest form of love.

But I was wrong.

Real love does not require you to destroy yourself so that others can remain comfortable. Real love respects boundaries. It values honesty over obligation and peace over appearances.

The hardest lesson I ever had to learn was that not everyone deserves unlimited access to my life. Some people only knew the version of me that always said yes, always forgave without change, and always carried the weight that belonged to everyone else.

When I changed, they called me different.

They were right.

I am different now.

I no longer chase acceptance. I no longer explain every decision I make. I no longer feel responsible for fixing people who have no desire to change. My peace is no longer negotiable.

Setting boundaries did not make me lonely—it revealed who truly loved me. The people who respected my boundaries stayed. Those who benefited from my silence walked away.

For the first time in my life, I understood that losing people is sometimes the price of finding yourself.

Today I choose peace over approval, healing over guilt, and truth over tradition. My life no longer belongs to the expectations of others. It belongs to God and to the person He is shaping me to become.

That is the freedom I fought for.

And I will never surrender it again. King Byrone Goldberg

Chapter 25: The Man Who Chose to Be My Father

People often say that being a father is about blood, but my life taught me something different. A father is the man who chooses to stay, chooses to protect, and chooses to love.
My mother's husband never had children of his own, yet he chose my sister and me as his own. He stepped into a life that wasn't easy. He inherited our brokenness, our fears, and the wounds of our past, yet he never treated us as someone else's responsibility. He became far more than my mother's husband—he became her protector.
He stood beside her through life's hardships and gave her the safety, stability, and security she deserved. In doing so, he also became my sister's father and mine. Although we were not his biological children, he never treated us any differently. He chose us. He loved us. He guided us, disciplined us, protected us, and raised us as his own. Fatherhood is not measured by blood but by the sacrifices a man is willing to make. He accepted a role he never had to take on, and he carried it with honour, strength, patience, and unconditional love.
He wasn't perfect, but he was perfectly placed in our lives. He rescued us. He gave us a home filled with protection, stability, and the kind of love we had never truly known before.
To understand our story, you have to understand where it all began.
My grandmother left my grandfather because of what she believed was God's calling upon her life. That decision became the foundation upon which our family's story would be built.
My grandmother worked away from home for most of her life and only came home on weekends. She did this faithfully until she was sixty years old. During the little time she spent at home, her greatest focus remained the church and the calling she believed God had placed on her life.
I will never deny the good she accomplished. She dedicated her life to serving others, leading thousands of people to Christ and becoming a woman deeply respected within her community. Her influence deserves to be honoured.
But every testimony has another side.
My grandfather believed he was losing his family—not to God—but to a system that demanded greater loyalty than it did to the family itself. Whether others agree with him or not, that was his experience, and it shaped the rest of his life.
My mother was his princess.
Even after the separation, he never stopped loving her. I remember him arriving with bags of fresh fruit and vegetables on his back. He never came empty-handed. He was careful with money. If I asked him for five rand, he would smile, distract me with a conversation, and secretly search his pockets for the smallest coin he could find. Looking back now, those moments make me laugh.
His chocolate sweets, the fruit he brought, the vegetables he carried, and simply his presence are memories I will cherish forever.
I also remember the day my grandfather came looking for my mother after hearing she had moved into her own home. By then, her relationship with my stepfather had become serious. As only a father could, he spoke firmly—but lovingly—to the man who would become responsible for his daughter and her two children.
From that day forward, my stepfather stepped up.
He honoured that responsibility.
He became my mother's protector.
He became my sister's father and mine.
He loved us as though we had always been his own.
He eventually became a grandfather to a little girl who absolutely adores him. Through every challenge, I never witnessed him abuse my mother. Instead, I witnessed patience, understanding, sacrifice and unconditional love. He understood her wounds. He understood the trauma she carried. Most importantly, he loved her in the places where life had hurt her the most.
As I grew older, I also began to understand my mother.
Throughout my childhood she protected my sister and me from the pain she carried. She made sure we experienced the love and security she herself had longed for as a little girl.
She wasn't only a daughter.
She became the rescuer.
While my grandmother faithfully served the church and communities, my mother quietly carried responsibilities at home. She helped raise her younger siblings. She became the dependable one. The helper. The peacemaker. She carried burdens beyond her years, yet those sacrifices were rarely recognised.
She became strong because she had to.
She became resilient because she had no other choice.
Yet beneath that strength was a daughter who had also longed to simply be loved by her mother.
That longing never truly disappeared.
Instead, she hid it so well that my sister and I never realised the depth of the pain she carried.
Everyone eventually built successful lives and legacies, and for that I thank God. But success does not erase pain.
Scars that are never acknowledged can never truly heal.
It is easy to tell someone to forgive or not live in the past when you are not the one carrying those scars.
As I reflect on our family's story, I realise that sometimes faith communities can unintentionally decide which stories are acceptable to tell and which ones remain hidden. When painful conversations are avoided to protect a narrative, healing becomes difficult.
Eventually the cracks appear.
What was once hidden beneath the plaster becomes visible.
The person who finally walks away is often called the problem instead of someone asking why they had to leave.
As I have reflected on my family's story, I have also come to understand my mother's decision.
I do not believe God expects my mother to carry a responsibility she is no longer emotionally able to carry. My grandmother is now elderly and frail, and age has changed her awareness of the world around her.
How do you care for someone in the way they need to be cared for when you never experienced that same mother-daughter relationship yourself?
How do you heal wounds that were never given the space to heal?
My mother is not acting out of hatred.
She is responding from a lifetime of pain that was never fully acknowledged.
God knows her heart.
God knows every sacrifice she has made.
God knows every burden she has carried.
Those who judge her should first take their questions to God. They know the history. They know the wounds. They know what has shaped the woman she became. Sometimes people judge a decision without understanding the lifetime behind it.
It took me twenty-one days to discover who my family really is.
Not during celebrations.
Not during success.
But during my own health struggles and life's greatest trials.
That was when I truly came to know my Christian family. I respect them. I honour the good they have done. But respect does not always mean agreement.
I can honour people while disagreeing with beliefs, traditions, or systems that I believe have caused pain.
This chapter is not written to condemn anyone.
It is written to tell the story as I have lived it.
My grandfather, Oupa Jerry, is no longer here to tell his side of the story.
His voice has fallen silent.
But the memories he left behind still speak.
I still remember the chocolate sweets, the fruit and vegetables on his back, the little coins he searched for in his pocket, and the fierce love he had for his family.
As I have grown older, I realise that perhaps what I inherited most from him was not his stubbornness, but his courage to stand for what he believed was true.
I am not my mother.
Her journey is her own.
But perhaps I carry a part of my grandfather's spirit.
The courage to ask difficult questions.
The willingness to speak honestly.
The strength not to hide from uncomfortable truths. King Byrone Goldberg