The Crazy Train of Life:

I was born in 1984.

Two of my favorite uncles introduced my parents, and both of them were really into the music scene in Oregon (yes, connected to things like the Grateful Dead and the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies, for context). They were also very into wrestling. Often, both of these uncles, who were my favorites when I was a kid, would babysit me.

I was exposed then to music from artists like Jerry Garcia, The Doors, Kansas, John Cougar Mellencamp, Fleetwood Mac, Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne, Megadeth, Metallica, White Zombie, and countless others. I could go on and on forever. Because I was in such proximity to this world, I was also exposed to the WWF (now WWE).

My two favorite wrestlers wound up becoming Andre the Giant, especially because of The Princess Bride, Hulk Hogan, and later the Undertaker.

I later came to regret my appreciation of Hulk because his real-life personality was trash, and that broke the illusion of his greatness for me a long time ago.

Ozzy Osbourne, however, had a lasting impact—and never once did I ever feel he was scary, horrible, or an agent of evil. He was larger than life, and yet just a regular guy. His music truly made up the soundtrack of my life.

Who would I be without those moments that led to my appreciation of art and music—the backdrop of memories and moments that I know many others also shared?

That’s why people mourn him.

The legacy he left wasn’t a rift of pain and sorrow, but one of smiles, laughter, and music you could feel in your bones and spirit.

Terry, however, his mask and persona, the one he sold to the public, were crafted for self-profit and ego. And it wound up blowing up in his face when the world realized it was just an act.

The difference between Ozzy and Hulk is as wide as the Pacific Ocean—and the loss, equally as deep.

Ozzy never wore a mask.

He didn’t need to. What you saw, shaky hands, black eyeliner, slurred syllables, and all, was the truth.

Hulk sold us an image, a persona, a polished façade built for profit and adoration.

But Ozzy?

He sold us a feeling.

He gave us his madness like a gift wrapped in riffs and howls. And now, as we rumble forward on this Crazy Train called life, we do so without the original conductor.

It feels strange. It feels hollow. It feels real. Because somewhere in all that noise, he gave us permission to feel, unapologetically, loudly, and without shame.

Ozzy reminded us that broken didn’t mean worthless. That wild didn’t mean wrong. That you could be misunderstood and still be loved. His voice, imperfect, unmistakable, was a call to arms for every misfit, every outcast, every person who ever felt too weird, too much, too loud, too emotional.

He told us: Be all of it. Be loud. Be chaotic. Be yourself.

When the world felt unrecognizable, his songs grounded us. When we lost people we loved, when we faced heartbreak or grew up too fast, his lyrics were there, like an old friend riding shotgun in the car, saying nothing and everything at once.

Watching the world say its final goodnight to the Dark Prince felt like saying goodnight to all those memories, too, the ones made in backseats and basements, at bonfires, in bedrooms, and on long drives home from nowhere.

It’s a reminder of our mortality, a flash of truth that even legends fade from the stage eventually.

But that’s why living fully, like Ozzy did, is so vital.

Because when you live with fire in your soul, the memories don’t fade. They don’t become meaningless. They matter. They echo.

Through his music, he touched our lives, and with it, the magic of that message.

He lives on, immortal, in every beat of rebellion and every whispered lyric passed from one generation to the next. He is the feeling we chase when we turn up the volume and lose ourselves in the sound.

And that? That kind of legacy never dies.

It just echoes on in the reverb.