We were young, loud, and starved for something real. Not the kind of “real” you read about in textbooks or hear in polite conversation. We needed the kind of noise that could silence the chaos inside our heads, the kind of sound that felt like it had dirt under its fingernails and blood on its knuckles. Our band was scrappy—just a bunch of half-grown kids chasing distortion pedals and cheap highs, rehearsing until the neighbors banged on the walls or the amps gave out. Nights would end with cigarette breaks, chai in cracked glasses, and a silence that hung heavier than the smoke.

It was during one of those cigarette breaks that Waseem—my brother in riffs, in rage, and all things holy and unholy—pulled a disc out of his torn bag. It was scratched, half-faded, and had one word smeared in black marker like it had been written during an exorcism: SABBATH. He didn’t explain. Just handed it to me like it was sacred and muttered, “Play it loud. And don’t just listen. Feel it.”

That night, I lay flat on the floor, headphones plugged in, lights out, heart wide open. The opening riff of War Pigs didn’t just play—it cracked the ceiling open. And when that voice came in—Ozzy’s voice—it wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t perfect. But it hit me like the truth. Raw, blistered, truth. The kind you don’t hear anymore.

It was more than a performance. It was a present. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone—he was trying to survive.

There was something so deeply human in his delivery. Not trained, not polished, just unfiltered emotion laid bare. It felt like someone was singing from the same dark pit I was stuck in. Screaming, but not for help—screaming with me. And suddenly, I wasn’t screaming alone.

And then there was the band. My God, the band.

Tony Iommi didn’t play guitar—he commanded it. Riffs that felt like molten iron being poured straight into your veins. Geezer Butler’s bass wasn’t just background—it was heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat. And Bill Ward, behind the kit, didn’t just keep time—he dragged time through the dirt and made it beg. These weren’t songs. These were spells. Thunderstorms in 4/4 time.

But Ozzy… Ozzy was the center. Not because he outshone them—but because he carried their weight with him. Every lyric, every howl, every slurred syllable—he bled for it. And it made you want to bleed too. Not out of pain, but out of relief. Out of finally feeling seen.

At that point in my life, I was a mess. Depression isn’t poetic when it’s real. It’s a leech that sticks to your soul. Addiction was more than a phase—it was a language I was fluent in. Some nights, I’d sit by the window, smoke curling into the sky, thinking I wouldn’t make it through the night. And then No More Tears would come on. And something in that song—something I still can’t name—would anchor me. Just enough to hold on till morning.

Ozzy never told you it would get better. He never lied. But he was there—in your headphones, in your bloodstream, in your darkest hours. He gave us something better than optimism. He gave us honesty. And through that honesty, hope.

He never claimed to be a hero. He never wore a crown. But for all of us who didn’t fit, who didn’t shine, who didn’t have the words—Ozzy was the voice.

And Paranoid—God help me—that song still wrecks me. Every time that riff kicks in, I’m seventeen again, scared out of my mind, but finally feeling like maybe, just maybe, someone else out there gets it that it’s okay not to be OK. That you can be broken and still be.

He’s gone now. And the silence he leaves behind is almost unbearable. But it’s also filled with something else—something heavy and holy. Because right now, somewhere in a bedroom lit by the dull blue glow of a laptop screen, some kid just hit play on Paranoid for the first time. And he’s scared. And confused. And lost in his head. But for those three minutes and thirty-one seconds—he’s not alone. Ozzy’s there. Whispering. Screaming and holding the line.

You don’t have to meet someone to know them. I met Ozzy every time I needed a reason to stay. Every time I needed someone to scream for me when I couldn’t scream for myself.

So here’s to him. To Ozzy. To every busted mic and blown amp and bloodied lyric.

To the band that didn’t just change music—but changed me.

Rest loud, man.

And thank you for giving chaos a sound, and giving kids like me the strength to survive it.