An Apology, A Reckoning, and Hope

By James Ransone

I want to speak directly and clearly—to those who’ve followed my work, those who’ve seen my posts, and those who may have misunderstood or even turned away.

I want to apologize.

Not to clean up an image or to play damage control. But because I know that some of what I’ve put out into the world—especially online—has come across in ways that were confusing, harsh, even harmful. And I need to take responsibility for that.

I’ve always used humor as a kind of armor. Trolling, sarcasm, irony—these became survival tools for me, especially when I didn’t know how else to respond to pain. Part of what brought on the swinging was the way people dug into my deepest wounds and made sport of them. When something you carry with shame becomes someone else’s punchline, it twists something inside you. So I swung—with my words, with deflection, with attitude.

At the same time, I was in the middle of navigating the painful process of trying to get a public school teacher removed for having sexually abused me when I was 12. This was happening at the same time people were mocking me about Ken Park—a film that left a deep, complicated scar on me. The weight of that trauma—and the fight for justice—was heavy on me, even as I tried to carry on.

People have messaged me about Ken Park like it’s a meme, not something I’ve carried with shame and pain. They’ve made jokes about it that I didn’t know how to respond to—so I responded with noise. With defense. With performance.

And in the middle of all of that—while I was trying to process things I hadn’t dealt with for years—I became a father.

Fatherhood cracked me wide open. It made me see myself with a level of honesty I’d been avoiding. It made me want to become someone my child could look up to. And with that came shame—shame I didn’t even know was still living in me.

And that shame mixed with pain, and that pain turned into paranoia. I started seeing threats where there weren’t any. I started believing things that weren’t real, or at least weren’t true in the way I thought they were. I said things I shouldn’t have said. I made accusations I can’t stand by. And I hurt people. Even if I didn’t name names—even if I thought I was being cryptic or clever—I know some of what I said had an impact I didn’t intend.

And through it all, I kept hearing from people. Messages. Comments. Not just jokes. Not just criticism. Some of them were cruel in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

People told me they hoped my children would die. That my wife would leave me. That I’d rot.

And that… broke something in me.

I don’t say that for sympathy. I say it because people need to understand what it’s like to be in the middle of your own reckoning, trying to figure out who you are and how to grow—and have strangers online send you messages like that.

I reacted. Sometimes badly. Sometimes publicly. I used the wrong tone. I lost sight of how I sounded. I lashed out when I should have stayed quiet. And I confused a lot of people.

So this is me saying: I’m sorry. Not just for being misunderstood—but for being careless. For not taking more time to sit with my pain before speaking it out loud. For saying things in ways that weren’t rooted in love, or truth, or responsibility.

I’m not above criticism. I’m not beyond getting it wrong. I’m just someone who’s trying—imperfectly—to move toward healing. To become someone my son can be proud of. To speak from my heart without letting fear or ego lead the way.

If you were hurt by my words, even indirectly—I ask your forgiveness.

Thank you to those who didn’t look away. Who offered grace when I didn’t know how to ask for it. Who reminded me that healing isn’t always clean or linear, but it is possible.

I believe in redemption. I believe in being remade—not through performance, but through surrender. I’m learning that repentance isn’t about saying the right thing—it’s about returning. Returning to God. To love. To the truth that even in the ruins, something holy can still rise.

In the midst of all this, there’s been the quiet image of Mary—Our Lady, Undoer of Knots. A gentle sign that no knot is too tight to be loosened. That even what feels beyond repair can, in time, be unraveled with patience and love. I’ve been attempting to untangle some of these knots—foolishly at times, and poorly—but still trying. Her presence doesn’t rush or force. It reminds me that grace works quietly, and that hope often begins in the smallest untangling.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I know I want to live in the light. I want to be a good steward of what I’ve been given: my family, my voice, my story.

Please pray for me, if you’re the praying kind. And if not, I still thank you for reading this. For seeing me.

With humility,
James

P.S.

I’m trying to move forward with a more open heart—learning to live with compassion, curiosity, and trust in the quiet work of grace. Organizations like Interfaith America, which bring souls together across different faiths and backgrounds, remind me that healing and unity are possible. I share this as a small act of hope—an invitation to anyone else seeking to untangle their own knots, one at a time.