The weight of time crushes me differently these days. Three days. That’s all it took to shatter my carefully maintained control. First, Liam Payne’s death (17 October 2024) in that lonely hotel room in Buenos Aires. Then, Sir Chris Hoy’s terminal diagnosis (20 October 2024). And with Liam’s burial taking place on 20 November 2024, the two completely different tragedies struck at the very core of my deepest fear – dying before my children know the truth.
As the weight of time bears down, I’ve always told myself I wasn’t afraid of death. Even in my darkest moments, like that day in March 2021 at the Aspire Centre in Qatar, searching for a high point (thank God the Aspire Tower was locked: I spent the night walking around the Aspire Centre from 9pm to 5:45am, crying non-stop, overwhelmed by negative thoughts and the fear of losing my kids). It wasn’t death itself, I feared. But now? Now I’m terrified.
This was the day that nasty, evil slag told me to leave the house. Did I just say the ‘S’ word? Yes, I did. If you check the definition, you’ll see it’s not a ‘bad’ word but simply describes a person who sleeps with multiple people. I think I’ve earned the right to use it.
Liam’s story hit first. Found alone in that hotel room, surrounded by alcohol and medication. The room was destroyed in his final moments. I recognised something in his isolation, though our methods of coping couldn’t be more different. I’ve never touched alcohol – a promise I made to myself at age 10 and kept for 36 years. No drugs, no smoking, no womanising.
Instead, I punish myself with what society deems “healthy” – punishing training sessions, endless walks covering nearly 160km a month, and intense HIIT sessions that push me into the red zone. In many ways, I sometimes wish my chosen poison wasn’t the so-called ‘healthy’ kind. Sure, it keeps me balanced and floods me with endorphins. Still, it’s a relentless taskmaster—demanding every ounce of energy and willpower I can muster. At times, I envy those who succumb to the pull of sinful pleasures—vices that whisk you away to another realm, quiet the chaos, and smother the pain in a haze of numbness.
The nights are the worst. I wake to tear-soaked pillows, my Garmin recording the spike in stress levels as my unconscious mind replays the trauma of losing my children. During the day, I can control it. Yoga and meditation help me choose when to think about them. But sleep strips away that control.
Then came Chris Hoy’s news. He thought he had a simple shoulder pain from lifting weights. Instead, terminal cancer spread through his bones. It struck me like an articulated lorry – we never truly know what’s happening inside us. Just like during COVID, when perfectly healthy people vanished without warning. Any of us could drop dead tomorrow.
That’s what terrifies me now. If I die today, Sara Talia wins. She’s been poisoning our children’s minds, painting me as this despicable human being. Yes, I’m countering it by posting facts and evidence online, but if I drop dead tomorrow? There’s nothing left to challenge her lies.
I gave up everything for those children. My career, my dignity, enduring Sara’s coercive behaviour and bullying because I knew she wasn’t maternal. Everyone saw it. Then she did the unthinkable – that sham divorce behind my back, exploiting international law in ways that give paedophiles more rights than me as a loving father.
The legal teams say I could win if I contested it, but the weight of time works against me. But at what cost? £50,000 I don’t have. That’s why every blog post and every piece of evidence matters. It’s all there for my children to find one day. Because everything on my laptop? If I die today, no one can access it. Her lies become their truth.
How do you cope when someone attacks your character with lies? I’ve won awards for helping others at university. I’ve lived honestly and tried to be a role model. I could handle anyone else believing her lies – but my children? They’re my legacy. They’re why I made every decision and why I became the person I am.
These three days of heartfelt events have forced me to face my greatest fear. It’s not the dying that scares me—it’s dying before this is resolved, before my children know the truth before I can counter the poison she’s fed them. It’s like that line from Hamilton: “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”
I see Chris Hoy facing his diagnosis with dignity, his children by his side. They’ll know their father’s truth. Then I think of Liam, alone in that hotel room in his final moments. Two different endings, but both have their own truth intact. What about my truth? What happens to it if I die today?
That’s why I can’t stop writing and documenting. Every fact and piece of evidence needs to be public and undeniable. Time isn’t guaranteed. COVID taught us that. Chris Hoy’s diagnosis hammers it home. Any day could be our last.
So I keep walking my endless kilometres, pushing through those punishing training sessions, writing these posts. Not because I’m afraid of dying but because I’m terrified of dying before my children know who their father really is. Before they understand why I made the choices I did. Before they know the truth.
The weight of time presses heavier each day. But I have to bear it. I have to stay alive. I have to keep fighting. Because dying isn’t what scares me anymore – dying before my children know the truth does.
If such an ending were to come, there would be only one victor: Sara Talia. As long as I draw breath, I will endure this torment—the relentless pain and sadness that shadow my days. Perhaps she should seek God’s favour once more and pray for my death, for only then might she escape the justice that steadily marches her way.