WHEN DARKNESS CAME

I CAME CLOSER TO LOSING MYSELF THAN ANYONE KNEW!!

There are some battles a man fights in silence. Battles nobody sees, because he has learned how to smile when people are watching, keep moving when life gets heavy, and say he is all right when the truth is that he is barely holding himself together.

I know those battles because I have fought them.

My name is Terrance J. Fields, but many people know me as 7King. Before the name, before the crown, before I discovered a purpose in grilling and inspiring others, I was a man carrying pain that I didn't know how to put down. I was a man trying to understand why life could be so difficult, why loss could cut so deeply, and why sometimes the people who appear strongest on the outside are fighting the hardest battles on the inside.

I was born in Blakely, Georgia, with spastic diplegia, a condition that affected the way I moved. Growing up, I learned early that my journey would not always look like everybody else's. There were challenges with my body, moments of frustration, and times when I wondered whether people could see the person I was beyond my physical limitations. I had to learn how to keep moving even when moving wasn't easy.

But some of life's hardest battles have nothing to do with the way your body moves. Some happen in your mind, where nobody else can see the struggle.

For a long time, I thought I understood pain. Then I lost my mother, Willie Nell Freeman.

My mama was my rock, my encourager, and one of the people who believed in me when I struggled to believe in myself. Losing her changed something inside me. The world continued turning, people continued going about their lives, and the days kept coming, but my world was no longer the same. Her voice became a memory. Her laughter became something I had to reach for. Family gatherings and holidays reminded me that somebody important was missing.

I was still here, but there were times when I didn't feel fully alive.

People often say that time heals all wounds. My experience taught me that grief doesn't always work that way. Sometimes, time teaches you how to carry the hurt while you figure out how to keep living. Sometimes, you can go through the motions for years without realizing just how much pain you've buried inside yourself.

I prayed, but I also questioned God. I wanted to understand why I had to lose someone who meant so much to me. I struggled with feelings I didn't always know how to explain, and the longer I carried them, the heavier they seemed to become.

I didn't know how to make the hurt stop. I didn't know how to get back to the person I had been before loss changed me. And eventually, I reached a point where the darkness became more than I knew how to handle.

One night, I was alone in my shop.

I was crying, overwhelmed by my thoughts, and struggling beneath a weight that had become unbearable. I had reached a place where I questioned whether the world needed me anymore. It is difficult to explain what happens inside a person when pain begins to convince him that there is no way forward. The mind can become a place where every disappointment gets louder, every loss feels permanent, and hope seems so far away that you can no longer imagine reaching it.

That night, I was in that place.

I had a Glock in my hand. My thoughts were racing, and I whispered, "Lord, I'm sorry."

I pulled the trigger.

Click!

Nothing!

I tried again!

Click!

Still nothing!

And then, through the darkness surrounding me, I heard a voice on the other side of the door.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

 It was my daughter.words that I will never forget.

She didn't know what was happening inside that shop. She couldn't see the depth of my despair or understand how close I had come to losing myself. She was simply a daughter calling out to her father.

But I heard her.

In that moment, I was forced to confront something bigger than the pain consuming me. There was a child on the other side of that door calling for her daddy, and I was still there to hear her.

I believe God reached me through my daughter's voice. I believe that in a moment when I could barely see beyond my suffering, He reminded me that my life still mattered. I cannot explain every part of what happened that night, but I know that I survived it. And I know that I was given another opportunity to live.

I had come closer to losing myself than anyone knew.

But my story wasn't over.

The next morning didn't bring some magical transformation. I didn't suddenly wake up without grief, without questions, or without struggles. The pain I had carried for years did not disappear simply because I had survived one terrible night. I still had to face myself. I still had to learn how to live with my loss. I still had to find a way to move forward when my mind tried to pull me backward.

Surviving was one thing. Finding my way back was another.

So I started small.

Some mornings, all I could manage was sitting on the edge of my bed and whispering, "Thank You."

Thank You for another day. Thank You for another breath. Thank You for another opportunity.

Those two words became an anchor. I began to understand that I didn't have to figure out my entire life in one day. I didn't have to have every answer before I took another step. I simply had to keep trying.

My physical challenges were still there. My grief was still there. Some days were harder than others, and there were moments when the negative thoughts returned, telling me I would never be enough. But I began answering those thoughts with two words of my own.

"Not today."

I prayed. I reflected. I began setting small goals and recognizing that even the smallest victories mattered. I asked God for strength, not because I had stopped hurting, but because I wanted to learn how to keep going despite the hurt.

Slowly, I began looking for the pieces of myself I thought I had lost.

One of those pieces was waiting for me outside, near a grill.

When I was younger, I watched my grandfather around the fire. I remembered the charcoal, the smoke, the food, and the way people gathered together. Back then, I didn't fully understand everything those moments were teaching me. I was simply a boy watching his grandfather work, seeing people come together over a meal.

Years later, those memories called me back.

I began grilling again, and something about the process gave my mind room to breathe. The sound of food sizzling against hot metal, the smell of smoke rising into the air, and the steady work of tending the fire gave me something positive to focus on. For a while, I could concentrate on what was in front of me instead of everything that was hurting inside me.

I cooked for my family. Then I cooked for neighbors. What began as something familiar slowly became something meaningful.

I was creating again. I was connecting with people again. I was discovering that there were still things I could do, still gifts I could develop, and still reasons to get up and keep working.

The grill became more than a place to prepare food. It became a place where I could think, reflect, pray, and begin rebuilding.

I started to recognize that my life still held possibilities I hadn't considered. I could take something I loved and use it to bring people together. I could build something from my own experiences. I could encourage someone else who might be struggling to see any good in their circumstances.

Then, in 2017, I entered my first local grill-off.

I remember showing up with a small setup and determination. Other competitors had equipment and resources that made their setups look impressive. I didn't have everything they had, but I had my faith, my willingness to work, and the desire to see what I could accomplish.

When they announced me as the winner, I could hardly believe it.

That victory meant more to me than a trophy. It reminded me that my life still had room for achievement, joy, and new beginnings. The man who had once questioned whether his life mattered was standing there with proof that he could still create something worthwhile.

I began embracing the name 7King. To me, the number seven represented completion, and the crown became a symbol of the man I was striving to become. It wasn't about pretending to be perfect or claiming that I had conquered every struggle. It was about faith, perseverance, and the belief that my broken places did not have to disqualify me from building something meaningful.

I was still growing. I was still learning. I was still working through the things that had brought me to my knees.

But I had begun to understand that my past did not have to dictate my future.

Looking back, I know that grilling did not erase my grief, and faith did not mean I would never face another difficult day. My journey was not a straight line from darkness to light. Finding my way back meant taking one step, then another, and learning to recognize purpose in places where I once saw only pain.

I still remember my mother. I still remember the night in my shop. I still remember the voice that called me back to the moment when my life could have ended.

Those memories are part of me, but they are not all of me.

I am also the man who kept going. The man who returned to the grill. The man who discovered that he could use his experiences to encourage others. The man who learned that a life can hold pain and purpose at the same time.

I cannot tell you that faith makes every problem disappear. I cannot promise that grief will follow a schedule or that tomorrow will always be easier than today. What I can tell you is that the darkest moment of your life does not have to be the final chapter of your story.

Sometimes, the way back begins with a prayer so small that nobody else hears it. Sometimes, it begins with the voice of someone you love. Sometimes, it begins with simply getting through one more day and allowing yourself the chance to discover what that day might hold.

If you are reading this while carrying a pain you have told nobody about, I want you to know something: you do not have to face that pain alone. You do not have to pretend you are strong every minute of every day. Reaching out for help is not weakness, and struggling does not mean your life has lost its value.

There is more to you than what hurt you. There is more to your story than what you have survived. And even if you cannot see the next chapter right now, that does not mean it cannot be written.

I once came closer to losing myself than anyone knew.

But I am still here.

I am still learning. I am still building. I am still becoming the man God has called me to be.

The darkness was real, but it did not get the final word.

My journey from broken to crowned is not a story about a man who never fell. It is a story about a man who found a reason to keep getting back up.

And if there is one thing I hope you carry with you after reading my story, it is this:

You are not finished simply because you are hurting. Your story is not over simply because you cannot see the way forward. And the chapter that nearly broke you does not have to be the chapter that defines you.

My name is Terrance J. Fields. Many know me as 7King.

I came close to losing myself.

But by the grace of God, I found my way back.

And my story is still being written.

— Terrance J. Fields