My parents were divorced by the time I was even conscious -

J. Cole, the poet of struggle and triumph, once spoke with a raw honesty that pierces the heart: “My parents were divorced by the time I was even conscious—like, I don’t remember them ever being together.” In these words lies not only the story of one man’s childhood, but the story of countless children across the ages, who grow not with the memory of unity, but with the reality of separation. His words reveal the ache of absence—not of losing what was, but of never having known it at all.

The ancients understood the sacredness of the family bond, and they honored it as the foundation of society. To see parents together was to see the first temple of stability, a structure upon which the child could build. But J. Cole’s confession unveils another kind of temple—one built from fragments, from broken stones, from the silence of what might have been. The child who does not remember unity must learn strength in solitude, and wisdom from emptiness. This is a different path, yet no less heroic.

There is a quiet grief in his reflection, for memory is the root of identity. To not remember parents united is to live without the image of wholeness. Yet within this grief lies also resilience. For many who walk this road find within themselves a deeper hunger: to create the stability they never knew, to forge with their own hands what was absent in their youth. Thus the child of divorce, though scarred, may rise with fierce determination, vowing to give to others what was denied to them.

History, too, shows us figures shaped by fractured homes. Abraham Lincoln, whose mother died when he was a boy and whose father offered him little tenderness, grew up in hardship and distance. Yet from this soil of absence grew a man of profound empathy, who sought to bind the wounds of a divided nation. His own fractured beginnings gave him the wisdom to understand division, and the longing to heal it. Like J. Cole, his story reminds us that separation does not end destiny—it shapes it.

J. Cole’s words also challenge the illusion that only wholeness breeds greatness. He shows us that the soul can rise from fragments, that beauty can emerge from brokenness. The absence of memory becomes its own kind of teacher, instilling humility, compassion, and an understanding of life’s imperfections. His art, forged in this fire, carries the honesty of one who has lived both without and within, both longing and striving.

The lesson here is profound: you are not defined by the unity or division of those who came before you. Your consciousness, your choices, your labor, and your love can build a new story, one that begins where theirs ended. Do not despair if your roots seem broken; for even from broken roots, strong trees can rise. Take the pain of what you did not have, and let it guide you toward creating what you long for in your own life and for those who depend on you.

Therefore, let J. Cole’s words be remembered as more than sorrow—they are a testament of resilience. Even if you cannot remember unity, you can build it. Even if you were born into absence, you can choose presence. The past may have shaped you, but it does not own you. From the silence of lost memory, you may raise your own song, and from the fragments of brokenness, you may forge an unbreakable strength. This is the wisdom of his confession, and the call to all who walk the same path.