What We Choose After the Fall: Exploring Redemption in Literature and Life
Falling doesn’t mean you’re lost—it means you’re human
The Path of Redemption
We all face moments when we stumble — moments when we fall short of who we want to be, or when life knocks us down unexpectedly. Literature has always reflected this struggle: from ancient myths to modern novels, the theme of redemption weaves through the stories we tell, asking a timeless question: What will we choose after the fall?
In my books Unbroken Legacy, and The Journey of an Acorn, characters wrestle with this very question. But redemption isn’t just a fictional theme — it’s a living, breathing force in our everyday lives. Whether we’re confronting past mistakes, healing from deep wounds, or learning to rebuild trust, the path of redemption invites us to step into transformation, one choice at a time.
In this post, I want to explore how the redemptive arc plays out not only in stories, but also in the real human journey — and how, after the fall, we each have the power to choose something new.
“…after the fall, we each have the power to choose something new.”
Redemptive Arcs in Unbroken Legacy
Redemption in this story comes in many forms:
Horatio, one of rhe protagonists and Isabella’s father, loses himself to fear—but finds the courage to reclaim his power, his lineage, and his name.
Rich Wratched, a man once ruled by impulse and bitterness, finds the strength to break free from the identity he built around pain.
Sweet Pea, a companion which Isabella created, realizes that pleasing his mother isn’t the same as doing what’s right—and chooses love and intuition over control and fear.
Even Isabella, the brave heart at the center of the tale, must redeem herself—not for something she did, but for what she forgot: her power, her purpose, her divine seed.
And Horatio’s father, who sacrificed his freedom to prevent the Beast from overtaking his wife, ultimately returns—despite years of absence and the pain it caused—to help break the dark legacy that haunted his family. His redemption is one of silent strength: acknowledging what he missed, and choosing to stand beside his son in the final hour.
And redemption isn’t just for the characters. It lives in Monsterville itself—a world shaped by imagination and infected by fear. A place still capable of healing, still becoming what it was meant to be.
In this story, redemption is not about becoming someone else.
It’s about remembering who you truly are—and choosing to return to that truth.
The Journey of an Acorn: A Parable of Growth
In my award winning book The Journey of an Acorn, the acorn is prevented from growing like the others in the forest. At the beginning of the story, the oak from which it had fallen, prevented it from becoming independent. When the acorn called out for help to a squirrel to take him away, the oak tree swung with its branches ,and the other animals became scared to help.
“An acorn will become stunted when planted in soil with no nutrients.”
Eventually, the acorn, feeling helpless, cracked, planting its roots into the ground. But the oak tree smothered those roots, constricting it with its own , and took up all the water and nutrients for itself. An acorn will become stunted when planted in toxic soil where there is no nutrients But the oak tree didn’t care. Because it did not wish for the acorn be become independent. The oak tree wanted to control the acorn, just as it had always done. Yet, the acorn still managed to persist and ask a girl for help to move into a pasture where it can feel the sun’s love on its face. Despite those hardships the acorn did become a great oak tree, and it did have its own acorns which it mentored. So they could eventually become strong oaks too. And the lesson is that no matter what struggles you might face in life, you can overcome them, and pave the way for the next generation to thrive.
“…no matter what struggles you might face in life, you can overcome them, and pave the way for the next generation to thrive.”
The Soil We’re Given
This theme of redemption isn't just something I wrote into the story—it’s something I’ve lived. Just as an acorn will not grow in soil without nutrients, a child will not grow without being nurtured by a parent. Like many people who grew up in toxic environments, this is my story. I am that acorn who struggled to grow early in life.
As a parent, I’ve made mistakes. Some small. Some that felt too heavy to name. And many of them—if I’m honest—weren’t even my mistakes to begin with. They were echoes from my own childhood, passed down like a script I didn’t even know I was reading from, a script I received from my mother which said, “Your need for safety doesn’t matter. None of your emotional needs matter. Your feelings are insignificant. What you think, feel, and say is unimportant. You need to cater to what I need, and if you don’t, you will be punished. You are just an extension of me. I own you; your beliefs, your values, and your soul belong to me. Comply or you will be abandoned. Comply if you want to receive love.” This programming has had a deeply negative impact every aspect of my life.
“As a parent, I’ve made mistakes. Some small. Some that felt too heavy to name. And many of them—if I’m honest—weren’t even my mistakes to begin with. They were echoes from my own childhood, passed down like a script I didn’t even know I was reading from…”
My relationship with my mother was like being connected by an energetic umbilical cord going in reverse, taking all the nutrients from me and going to her. It felt like the bond between us drained me — as if the lifeline meant to nourish me instead pulled everything from me to sustain her. My mother was not emotionally stable, and neither were the men she attracted into her life. My home was a toxic environment, where there was a lot of drugs, drinking, chaos, and abuse.
“My relationship with my mother was like being connected by an energetic umbilical cord going in reverse, taking all the nutrients from me and going to her.”
But here’s the thing—my childhood wasn’t only trauma. That’s what makes writing these posts so hard. It’s also what made healing so confusing. My father was not a perfect man. But as a father, he was loving, gentle, patient, and kind. Some of my best memories come from the world he created for me. When I needed comfort, it was my dad’s lap I climbed into. When I had nightmares, it was his voice that calmed me. When I was scared or overwhelmed, it was his presence that made me feel safe. My father was my best friend.
He made me feel seen and loved and cherished in ways that are hard to describe. He nurtured my desire to explore the world, supported my interests, and always made me feel like I belonged. And that’s what makes the pain so devastating.
“My father was not a perfect man. But as a father, he was loving, gentle, patient, and kind.”
Because when he died, I lost my protector. I lost the only place where my nervous system ever knew peace. I didn’t just lose a parent—I lost my compass. I lost the part of my life that helped the rest of it make sense. After that, everything started to spiral.
So when I talk about trauma, it’s not because there was no love. It’s because the love made the loss that much more profound. The love made the silence harder. The love made me fight harder to hold onto who I was.
I remember the times when it was the middle of the night and I would hear my mother scream for her boyfriend to get off of her, and she would call out for me to help. I remember feeling helpless, terrified, and completly overwhelmed. So I hid under my blanket. But I also didn’t want to help her. I knew in my heart that I didn’t belong with these people. So I cried out for my dad to take me away from there. “Dad, I need you. Where are you? Please take me away with you.” My dad never answered me when I cried out to him. There was just emptiness. At first I pleaded for his help. And then I pleaded to God to bring him back. And eventually, I began to believe that there is no God.
“My dad never answered me when I cried out to him. There was just emptiness. At first I pleaded for his help. And then I pleaded to God to bring him back. And eventually, I began to believe that there is no God.”
Becoming the Oak Tree
My mother taught me that we don’t talk about what happens behind closed doors. But now that I have children of my own, I see how devastating that silence truly is. Now I ask myself, “How could a parent do this to their child? How can a mother subject her child to this repeatedly, and not leave? And I believe the answer is simply that a parent who would do this, is not capable of understanding that her child had emotional needs separate from her. And that is something that as an adult, I have come to accept.
“We all have greatness in us, and our struggles give us the opportunity to reveal that greatness.”
The trauma from my childhood, and my father’s absence left an emptiness in my own heart. And as I became older, I spent a long time trying to fill that emptiness in destructive ways, so I could be whole. But the beauty of redemption is this: you don’t have to stay stuck in what was handed to you. You can rewrite the script.
We all have greatness in us, and our struggles give us the opportunity to reveal that greatness. We need to remember that we were chosen by God and given our challenges for the purpose of refining us, so our light can shine on the world, so our flower could unfold, and the fruit we have to offer the world could be brought forth.
Becoming the Hero I Once Needed
Now, as I parent, I am working hard to rewrite the script for my children, so they don’t have to carry the family curse of unhealed wounds. My daughter has special needs. And her behaviors can be very challenging. I remember one time I took her to cemetery for my grandmother’s Yahrzeit, which is the one year anniversary of her death. There were several highly emotional speeches from family members which were overwhelimg for her. After the car ride home, she ran into the park across from my apartment. She was flailing on the ground and yelling, and she was biting herself to try to calm down, and I had to hold her down. I needed to carry her back to the house.
This tantrum went on for over an hour. And eventually, I managed to get her outside the door of our apartment. She was biting my arms, and trying to bite herself, and I hugged her so she couldn’t do any damage to me or herself. I just kept saying, “I love you, I love you. It’s okay, I love you.”
And she kept screaming, “Let me go, let me go.” After a while, she became quiet. And I released my grip, and as I did, she said, “hold me daddy.” Then she held my hands and put them back on her.
She needed me to feel safe. And I knew it was God who put me through all of the pain in my life, so I could grow into the man I needed to become to help my own child. The hero I had so desperately called out to as a boy, turned out to be me. I became the hero I had been waiting for.
“The hero I had so desperately called out to as a boy, turned out to be me.”
And you need to know that no matter what gets in your way, no matter if you have no one in your family to support you, that you can still work on yourself and be your own hero, and you can be a hero for others, and spread hope and love. A difficult season in childhood doesn’t have to stop you from living your life.
I’ve worked hard to do that—for myself, and for my children. I’m still working at it. The cycle has shifted. There’s more laughter now. More truth. More softness. And in those moments, I see that redemption isn’t about being flawless. It’s about showing up, again and again, with a heart willing to grow.
That’s why I wrote Unbroken Legacy—to remind myself, and maybe you, that even through the darkest shadows, we can always find our way back to truth.
“…even through the darkest shadows, we can always find our way back to truth.”
🌿 The Power of Choice After the Fall
Redemption is never guaranteed — in stories or in life. It’s not handed to us just because we’ve suffered, failed, or fallen. It arrives only when we choose it.
Whether we’re characters in a novel or people walking through real heartbreak, redemption begins when we stop clinging to what broke us and start moving toward what heals us. It doesn’t erase the past, but it transforms its meaning. It allows us to become something new — not because we forget what happened, but because we decide to live beyond it.
So, after the fall, the most important question becomes: What will you choose now? Because your past may explain your pain, but it doesn’t have to define your future.
“…your past may explain your pain, but it doesn’t have to define your future.”
