A Mindful Hustlers Mental Health Memoir- By Santonio Peterson

They say the first people who are supposed to love you are your parents.

But what happens when even that love is a lie?

I was abandoned at three years old—left like a forgotten memory. Tossed away before I even had the chance to build one. No man to look up to. No father to guide me. And the woman who birthed me? Gone. Just a ghost I never met. That kind of emptiness don’t show up on your face—it shows up in the way you love, the way you trust, the way you break in silence.

They threw me in the system. A product on a shelf waiting to be picked.

And at 15, I was adopted—not because I was loved—but because I was a government paycheck. You know what that feels like? To be a dollar sign. A statistic. A monthly deposit.

This woman who took me in, my so-called “mother,” didn’t nurture me—she tormented me. She didn’t raise a son; she raised her fists. Constant, daily physical and emotional abuse. And no one checked in. No one knocked on the door to see if the boy they placed here was still breathing or just existing.

I was beaten, belittled, blamed for everything that went wrong in that house.

But one day, I snapped.

That rage? That fire? That unspoken trauma that built up for years? It erupted. I finally fought back—and when I did, I became the “violent one.” I became the problem. She called the authorities, had me kicked out. The woman who got paid to protect me tossed me into the street like trash, and the system never asked questions.

I was homeless at 15. Sleeping on couches. Sleeping on sidewalks. Town to town. Cold nights. Hungry bellies. Days without showers. No stability, no identity, just a soul trying to survive.

And the people who gave birth to me? They thought I was “safe.” Thought I was in a warm bed and good hands. That was until my brother and sister found me on Facebook at 21. That’s when they realized I wasn’t “adopted”—I was abandoned twice. First by blood. Then by the system that claimed to save me.

Let me break this down clearly:

No parents.

No check-ins.

No support.

No man to teach me how to be a man.

So what did I become?

A street disciple. A hustler of heartbreak. A quiet warrior trained by survival, not love.

I had to learn early that tears don’t feed you. That showing weakness got you stomped on. That asking for help only opened you to more rejection.

And if you’re a man like me reading this—you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Society tells us:

“Don’t cry.”

“Man up.”

“Figure it out.”

“Tough it out.”

But what they don’t tell you is that bottling up pain turns into rage. And rage turns into revenge. And when that revenge isn’t directed at others, it turns inward—self-destruction.

I turned to what I thought were solutions:

Drinking to forget

Sex to feel something

Drugs to numb the screaming in my soul

Fighting to feel power, because deep down, I felt powerless.

All those were just masks. Masks that kept the trauma hidden but never healed.

Here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud:

You can’t love others when you were never taught what love looks like.

You can’t trust when your whole life was built on betrayal.

You can’t sleep peacefully when your memories scream louder than the silence of the night.

But somehow—God never left.

Even when I cursed Him. Even when I blamed Him. Even when I told Him to go to hell—He stayed.

And I know some of you reading this have done the same. Yelled at the sky. Punched walls. Blamed God for everything. And yet… here you are. Still breathing. Still fighting. Still standing.

That’s not weakness. That’s proof of purpose.

—

Real Stats You Need to Know:

1 in 7 men report experiencing severe depression, but most don’t seek help.

Suicide is the second leading cause of death for men under 50.

3 out of 4 suicides in Canada are men.

Most men with childhood trauma are never diagnosed, but carry the scars into every relationship, job, and moment of silence.

—

This chapter is not for pity. It’s for power.

This is me—Santonio—telling you that your scars are sacred, and your survival is not a shameful thing.

I was abandoned. Abused. Forgotten.

But God didn’t forget me.

He watched every blow I took. Every night I cried in silence. Every bruise I hid. And somehow, through the darkest nights—He kept my heart from going completely black.

You are not weak for hurting.

You are strong for surviving.

You are stronger for still standing.

Let this be the beginning of your healing—not because I’m a doctor, but because I’m a soldier who lived through the same trenches.