Getting Back To Michael: A Journey in Self Healing & Self Respect
By Michael Kelman Portney
Michael was a brilliant child. From a very early age, it was apparent that he possessed a unique mind—sharp, curious, and deeply insightful. Those around him encouraged his creativity and intellect, nurturing his potential and celebrating his ideas. However, while his mind was supported, his emotional needs were often overlooked. This imbalance left Michael with a well-developed intellect but a hidden, unaddressed insecurity—a deep, unprotected part of himself he didn’t know how to manage.
As Michael grew older, he began to feel the weight of this insecurity, a constant reminder that, no matter how brilliant his mind, he could never quite escape the feeling of not being “enough.” He faced pressures he wasn’t prepared for, and in his own way, he began to lose hope that he would ever find the validation he needed from the world around him. Without fully realizing it, he made a small yet significant change—he began calling himself “Mike.” At the time, the change seemed minor, even cool, yet it would later become clear that “Mike” was the first offering, a subtle yet powerful way for Michael to harden himself against a world that offered no comfort for his insecurities.
Mike became Michael’s reflection of a world without hope. He was a version of Michael built to endure—a persona stripped of vulnerability and doubt. Unknowingly, Michael had found a way to answer his own insecurity by crafting Mike as a shield to carry his growing disillusionment. But within Mike, there was no true identity, no sense of grounding. It was as if Michael himself had retreated down to the size of a pinpoint, hidden deep inside a hollow, dark void—a vast emptiness within Mike where his true self once lived. This shift, though unconscious, became the first step in a much larger transformation.
As time went on, Michael solidified this persona. Mike became more than a nickname; he became a sacrifice—a version of Michael that could bear the weight of his own insecurities and withstand a world that reinforced them. Mike was designed to survive without needing anyone’s approval. He was designed to survive, period. And in a very significant way, that's all Mike was capable of doing. Mike had no other purpose. By offering Mike to the world, Michael created an iron exterior that could take on rejection and judgment without showing the sensitive, unsure side he felt unable to protect.
From the beginning, however, Mike was a heavy burden. While he served as a shield, he was also an anchor, pulling Michael down and keeping him from fully engaging with life. Mike could endure pain, but he had no inner depth—no “within” to offer the validation Michael craved. Inside Mike was that black, dark void, empty of true feeling or purpose, allowing Michael to function but never allowing him to feel secure or connected.
After years of living behind this persona, Michael reached a breaking point—a rock-bottom moment where he finally saw the cost of living as “Mike.” In a moment of profound epiphany, he realized that Mike, the very persona he had created to protect himself from insecurity, was now reinforcing it. By keeping his true self hidden and receding down to a pinpoint within a dark, empty shell, Mike had trapped him in a life without depth or connection. Michael had become a ghost in his own life.
But as Michael looked back on this realization, he felt not anger but a mixture of sadness and appreciation. Mike had done exactly what he was created to do: he had absorbed pain, shielded Michael from his insecurities, and allowed him to survive. In this bittersweet moment, Michael acknowledged that Mike, though now a burden, had been a necessary companion, helping him navigate a world he wasn’t yet prepared to face alone.
As Michael approached the moment of letting Mike go, he did so with the calmness and compassion of a manager walking out to the pitcher’s mound to take the ball. But as he reached the mound, Michael felt an overwhelming sense of bewilderment and embarrassment when he came face to face with Mike for the first time. When he’d created Mike, he’d drawn inspiration from the Fonz, from Elvis—icons who seemed untouchable, images of unbreakable cool. But the figure standing on the mound was not the untarnished, greased-back rebel he’d once imagined. What Michael saw was something else entirely: a bloated, exhausted shadow of that strength—a figure more closely resembling Elvis in his final minutes. A far cry from the king he once was.
Mike stood on the mound, defiant in his raw disgusting glory, looking down at Michael. He was fat and bald. He was ghastly white and drenched in sweat, his eyes sunken and lifeless, and surrounded by two deep, dark shadows. His chest heaved defiantly with every long breath, rattling and wheezing and spitting up chunks. Mike had never asked for help—he was not designed to ask for help. In fact, he was designed *not* to, enduring inning after inning without relief, taking every pitch and every bruise with a hardened resolve.
It was as if, for the first time, Michael saw the toll of each pitch and every inning that Mike had taken on his behalf—the relentless endurance, the scars, and the exhaustion masked by Mike’s unwavering determination to protect him. At that moment, Michael understood that he had spent the last 30 years of his life living an 8-year-old's perception of strength. Michael felt a profound sadness and responsibility, but also an appreciation for all that Mike had endured without any relief or support. Mike was a shell of his former self, yet he was prepared to keep fighting until his last breath: he simply didn’t know how to do anything else.
Michael knew now why Mike had never found comfort in being called 'resilient.' To Mike, the word was empty, a well-meaning misinterpretation of his unyielding existence. There was no pride in his survival; there had never been a choice. He was resilience and recalcitrance made flesh, a shield fashioned out of necessity, not glory. His only ability: to take a beating and keep going. In truth, resilience had only ever meant one thing to Mike—that he could not break, even if it killed him.
Just as a manager acknowledges a pitcher’s effort before taking him out of the game, Michael honored Mike’s role, knowing his time was over. There was a deep, unspoken respect for the relentless determination Mike had shown. Michael’s mournful, sorry eyes met Mike's icey, determined glare as Michael stepped onto the mound and reached forward for the ball, relieving Mike for the first and last time. Mike smirked, hesitating momentarily, then placed the ball into Michael’s hand, and collapsed into a beaten pile of armor.
Michael looked down at the ball in his hand, surprised by it's immense weight. The seams were frayed. The once bright leather was torn, and stained with age, and dirt, and blood. He tightened his grip, and as he did, a pulsing beat thrummed through his fingers—heavy and relentless, like a war drum echoing in the silence. The pulse filled the air, each beat loud and insistent. As Michael held on, the pounding softened, each beat steadying, calming, until the pulse faded into something quiet and sure. Michael deposited the ball into his jacket pocket, then gazed upon the pieces that needed to be picked up.
As he reclaimed his identity, Michael came to an important truth: he could no longer dismiss his name. For so long, he had disliked the sound of “Michael,” finding it too formal, too distant. He had preferred the simplicity and coolness of “Mike,” viewing it as an escape from the parts of himself he didn’t want to confront.
But now, Michael understood that his name was part of who he truly was, a name that carried both his brilliance and his journey. Embracing “Michael” became symbolic, a way of fully reclaiming his identity and respecting the vulnerable, complex person he had hidden for so long. To honor himself, he needed to honor his name. In this acceptance, he found a renewed sense of strength, rooted in his full self.
As Michael moved forward without Mike’s armor, he quickly came to a profound understanding: if he wanted validation, it couldn’t come from the world or be absorbed by a shield—it had to come from within himself. He recognized that the world wasn’t going to give him approval, so if he wanted acknowledgement and respect, he would have to create something worthy of them. He would have to build something undeniable, something that embodied both his brilliance and the insecurities he had learned to carry for so long.
This realization shifted Michael’s focus from looking outward for approval to finding purpose in creation. He knew that to find lasting validation, he must build something meaningful. This wasn’t merely about external recognition; it was about creating a legacy, something that captured his journey, his strengths, and even the insecurities he had finally accepted. Building this would be his validation—a legacy that reflected his true self and gave purpose to his story.
Free from the weight of Mike, Michael became sharp, focused, and driven. His words were like a blade, cutting straight to the heart of truth with a precision born of clarity and experience. When he spoke, it was to assert his own understanding and compassion. He no longer lingered in long confrontations or debates; resolving to use his time wisely. He knew that he may not have as much time as Michael as he did as Mike.
Now, he introduces himself as Michael. His friends still call him Mike, but on the page, as with the baseball, he signs simply as M. Portney.
