Damon Williamson

Last night, I was sitting in my flat in London, strumming my old guitar. It's the same one I had back when I was a teenager in that small town in the north. I was just messing around with some chords, nothing serious, when I realized how far I'd come from those days.

Back then, music was my escape. We didn't have much money, so I taught myself to play using YouTube tutorials, writing songs in my bedroom while the rest of the world seemed miles away. I’d post my tracks online, not thinking much would come of it. But then, one of them went viral. Everything changed so quickly after that—record labels, studio sessions, the album that went straight to number one. Before I knew it, I was on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans, my name plastered across billboards.

At 27, I've seen and done more than I ever imagined. But it’s a strange life. You’re always surrounded by people—fans, photographers, everyone wanting a piece of you. And yet, it’s incredibly isolating. For a while, I embraced the chaos. The endless parties, the women who came and went like clockwork, the constant rush of being in the spotlight.

Then came the scandal. A woman claimed I’d gotten her hooked on drugs, that I’d ruined her life. It was plastered all over the papers, the kind of story that can sink you if you’re not careful. The allegations didn’t stick, but it made me step back and really think about what I was doing with my life.

I went home for a while, back to my parents’ place. It felt like stepping into a different world—one where fame didn’t matter, where I was just me, not the pop star everyone thought they knew. I spent weeks there, reconnecting with the person I used to be, the kid who played guitar just because he loved it.

Now, I’m trying to figure out what’s next. I’ve been given a lot of power and privilege, and I know I haven’t always used it wisely. I don’t want to be that guy anymore, the one who lives the cliché. I want to be better, more responsible with the platform I’ve been given.