Our Dad, Our Savior

They called him the "Prince of Darkness." The conservative media, the guardians of moral panic, & the parents who never understood us anyway—they swore he was pure evil: a Satanist, a monster singing devil tunes, a menace to the world & the destroyer of youth.

They were totally, embarrassingly wrong.

To us, the young, disaffected souls of Generation X, Ozzy wasn't the Devil; he was the Deity. He was the father figure who understood our pain, the preacher whose sermons were delivered through massive riffs & air-shattering screams. And contrary to the perpetual outcry, the true irony of Ozzy Osbourne's decades-long career is that the man constantly accused of being satanic was, in fact, a devout Christian.

The Misunderstood Man of God

The iconic bat-biting, the chaotic stage presence, the glorious mess of his rock persona—this was the rebellious costume that obscured a simple, steadfast truth: Ozzy was a man of God. He often incorporated religious symbolism into his work—whether it was Black Sabbath's early explorations of good & evil or his lifelong fascination with the metaphysical. It’s a known fact among those close to him that before every single show, the band would gather to pray, grounding themselves before unleashing the storm.

This wasn't a PR stunt; it was conviction. His "satanic" stage antics were pure rock theatre, a defiant middle finger to the establishment, not a genuine endorsement of the occult. Yet for decades, parents & pundits willfully mistook his rebellious persona for an authentic pact with the Devil, fueling the infamous Satanic Panic that defined much of the 1980s.

Generation X, the original skeptics, saw through the noise. We understood the difference between performance & reality. We weren't looking for a role model; we were looking for truth, & Ozzy’s theatrical rejection of societal norms felt more honest than any sermon delivered by those who judged us. He held up a mirror to the chaos, but he didn't create it. He simply wasn’t afraid to show the darkness we were already living with.

The Dad Who Never Left

Generation X is the latchkey generation—a cohort known for being ignored, overlooked, & rejected. We were the children of divorce, of workaholism, of parents who were physically present but emotionally unavailable. We were left to raise ourselves on MTV static, microwavable dinners, & a rapidly developing cynical worldview. We felt unwanted, like outsiders in our own homes, constantly seeking a place to belong.

Then came Ozzy. His music was a sanctuary, a loud, glorious shelter from the chaos & neglect. He was, to put it simply, Generation X’s Dad. While our biological parents were absent, emotionally unavailable, & simply incomprehensible, we could always turn to Ozzy. His voice, roaring out of the speakers, was always there—a constant presence, filling the silence of those empty houses.

We would crank him up full blast, bang our heads until our necks seized up, & throw the horns high into the air. That music—those cathartic, heavy anthems—didn’t corrupt our souls; they saved them. They were the therapy we never got, the hug we never received, the reassurance that someone out there understood the turmoil boiling inside us.

Consider a track like "Mama, I'm Coming Home," a song drenched not in darkness, but in vulnerability & yearning for connection. Or "Changes," Black Sabbath's haunting piano ballad about the pain of a dissolving relationship. These tracks spoke directly to the feelings of sadness & isolation that permeated our youth. He gave voice to the emotional turbulence that our own families had taught us to suppress. His music saved our hearts from bitterness & gave us a shared identity, a place to belong, a tribe forged in distortion & truth.

The Crater in Our Hearts

Generation X is defined by a fierce, almost defensive emotional closed-off-ness. We pride ourselves on our stoicism; showing emotion is a vulnerability we learned early on to protect ourselves from the pain inflicted within our own families. We don't cry, we don't do drama. It’s a defense mechanism built over decades of disappointment.

But then, Ozzy Osbourne died.

It hit us like a gut-punch that left us breathless. In an instant, that protective armor shattered. Generation X, the generation of dry eyes & ironic detachment, suddenly cried more tears than we have shown in our entire lives.

Ozzy’s passing didn't just leave a mark; it left a crater in the center of our collective heart. We knew it was coming—we always know the time is approaching for our heroes—but the shock is no less paralyzing. The silence left in the wake of his voice is louder than any amp he ever blew out.

In his death, Ozzy did something profoundly beautiful: he broke our hearts wide open. The tears are flowing, & that sadness is a good thing, a healing grief. It’s a collective mourning for the father who raised us, for the chaos that gave us comfort, & for the man whose music saved our souls.

From heaven, or another dimension, wherever he is now, Ozzy knew Gen X still needed him. His final act was to unite us once more in tears, reminding us that even the most closed-off hearts can still feel deeply.

Watch out, world. Generation X is crying, & we are not going to get over it. Ozzy, thank you for raising us.