Honestly, I've never had anybody with 'Teen Mom' ever be

Hear the words of Dakota Meyer, a warrior and a man who has walked both the battlefield of war and the stage of public life. He spoke with disarming honesty: “Honestly, I’ve never had anybody with ‘Teen Mom’ ever be anything but great to me. Except the editors – they suck. Everybody from the crew, I love them, they’re like family to me... I’ve never had a problem with any of them. Except the editors.” Though spoken with humor, these words conceal a truth deeper than jest: the difference between lived reality and its shaping by those who control the story.

For Meyer praises the crew, those who worked beside him with care and respect, treating him with kindness, making the burdens of filming lighter. He calls them family, for in their daily labors they became companions, sharing the hardships of long hours, bright lights, and the strain of exposing personal life to the gaze of the world. In them he found humanity, loyalty, and connection. Yet he turns sharply upon the editors, those unseen hands that take reality and cut it into fragments, weaving a tale that may not reflect the fullness of truth.

This conflict between experience and portrayal is ancient. In the days of Rome, generals returning in triumph were painted and sung of by poets who reshaped their deeds for glory—or for shame. What was remembered was not always what was real. So too in our age of television, where the editors hold the power once held by scribes and historians: the power to decide what is shown, what is hidden, and how a man is remembered. Meyer’s complaint, though pointed, echoes this eternal struggle—between the man who lives his story and the ones who retell it.

Consider the story of Richard III, whose reputation was shaped less by his deeds than by Shakespeare’s pen. To some, he was a capable king; to others, a villain deformed in body and soul. The truth lies somewhere between, but history remembers the edited tale. This is what Meyer names when he speaks against the editors: not merely that they cut scenes, but that they cut truth, leaving a shadow of reality rather than its fullness.

Yet let us not hear only bitterness in his words. For they also shine with gratitude—for the crew, for the bonds forged, for the warmth of people who became family in an industry too often cold. It is a reminder that in any endeavor, there are those who labor faithfully beside us, unseen by the public eye, whose friendship and respect are worth more than reputation. To honor them, as Meyer does, is to remember that fame is fleeting, but brotherhood endures.

The meaning of his words is thus: in life, you will meet two kinds of people—those who share your burden honestly, and those who reshape your story for their own ends. One brings you strength, the other brings you frustration. You cannot always control the latter, but you can choose to cherish the former. By speaking so plainly, Meyer teaches that loyalty and truth are found not in appearances, but in relationships built upon respect.

Therefore, my child, take this lesson: be wary of those who control your story, but hold close those who labor beside you with kindness. Do not measure your worth by how you are edited, spun, or portrayed, but by how you live and by how you treat those around you. Fame may twist the truth, but those who truly know you—your family, your friends, your companions—are the ones who matter.

So let Dakota Meyer’s words echo with both humor and wisdom: “I love the crew... they’re like family... I’ve never had a problem with any of them. Except the editors.” Take it as a reminder that truth is not always found in the story told to the world, but in the bonds you forge and the life you live. And if your story is ever edited unjustly, let your character be the truest editor of all.