Hey!
I’m Jack Rose. Mild-mannered fiction writer by day, slightly less mild-mannered non-fiction writer by night.
If you like fictional stories that leave you feeling transformed by the last word, then I’m your writer! Or if you’re simply looking for words to help you heal and grow, I write non-fiction too.
But before you read any of my other stories, I want to tell you my story…
Ever since I was little,
I’ve wanted to be a superhero.
Growing up, I loved watching Saturday morning cartoons with my brother. We’d sit on an old green and gray striped futon with our eyes glued to the television screen, fully immersed in the characters and stories of shows like Ben 10, Justice League, Teen Titans, and Batman: The Animated Series. I’d get all fired up watching my favorite heroes, and the thoughts would fill my head:
“I want to be just like them: strong, courageous, and kind; larger than life; able to save anyone, anywhere, and anytime.”
Yes, I even wore costumes to the grocery store with my mom.
As I grew up, these stories—and many more like them—have sparked my love for fiction writing. They’ve also shaped me into the man that I am today, for better and for worse.
Like a real superhero, I’ve always tried to give my 110% in all areas of my life. For a time, I felt like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do by putting on my mask and powering through life’s obstacles all by myself. Though it was too much to handle at times, my tendency was to ignore the pain and keep fighting anyway.
I had to be the bulletproof, infallible guy who could help everyone and get the job done, no matter the cost. I had to rise above being “just Jack” and become superhuman.
After all, that’s how my favorite heroes did it, and I wanted to follow in their footsteps. But I was inevitably confronted with the reality of their path.
It’s a cardinal rule:
All heroes need an origin story.
In 2023, my world burned around me. I parted ways with my first love. I lost two family members to grueling illness, and my trust was breached by a friend I’d given everything to help.
Like before, I put on my mask and tried to power through, but the strain was finally too much. No matter how badly I wanted to control my situation, no matter how hard I fought to protect my loved ones, there wasn’t a single thing I could do in the end.
I felt powerless—a hero’s worst nightmare.
I lost my center, my resolve, and—at times—my own sanity. But, as broken as it was, I didn’t lose my heart. By accepting this powerlessness, I’ve slowly been able to piece myself together and start on a new path of healing and self-discovery.
Walking this path, I’ve reflected on my past actions. In certain ways, I’ve been the furthest thing from heroic. Trying to hide my flaws and mistakes, I’ve made many mistakes and told many lies. Trying to push myself and please everyone, I’d lost sight of my core values and damaged many relationships I cared about. Many of my acts of kindness have stretched me far beyond my limitations; I’ve never been good at being saved, asking for help, or backing down from a person in need.
I’m making an effort to humbly accept my own limitations and be authentic with my words and actions. There are days where it feels like I’m rebuilding from nothing, and I find myself discouraged by the path ahead of me. There are days where I fear I’ll never be able to change, and it makes me want to give up entirely. But I fight anyway with the full support of my awesome family and friends.
And—after everything—I’m still trying to be a hero. Just not in the way I’d thought of before.
Be brave, my friends.
There’s no heartache a pen and paper can’t help.
Writing has always been my outlet. When my thoughts and feelings run too deep, and my burdens weigh too heavily on me, I sit down at my desk, grab a pen, and let the words flow. It helps me discern which of my thoughts are true and which of them aren’t. It helps me understand the world and my place within it.
But most of all, writing is a lot of fun to do. I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else, and here’s why:
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the real heroes aren’t the invincible guys and girls in spandex who inspired me on Saturday mornings; they’re the perfectly imperfect human writers who created those heroes. Throughout my life, people from all walks of life—most of whom I’ve never even met—have entertained me, touched my heart, changed my perspective, and saved me from quitting life a number of different times by using nothing but a pen and the loose ideas floating around inside their heads.
Writers and heroes are one in the same. I see now that I don’t need to put on a mask, sling webs, or leap tall buildings in a single bound in order to help people. With just a pen or a keyboard, I can potentially help anyone, anywhere, and anytime by being “just Jack.” And if anything I write here as I fight my own battles is able to help you, then that would make me the happiest man alive.
Through writing, I’ve become my own hero.
I still hope to become one of yours too.