Trailer

No Version Left starts with the pieces that did not make it back. This trailer introduces a raw and deeply personal podcast about grief, addiction, identity, survival, and the cost of carrying pain in silence. It is not about having all the answers. It is about finally telling the truth before there is nothing left to hide.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:45

This video is not a video for sympathy. And it's not a video because I want people to ask me how I am, or because I think my story is anything good or better than anyone's. It's not.

SPEAKER_01 0:59

It's just my story. And I'm doing this because I think it's time that we actually talk. Because if you asked me before how I was, I've said I'm good. I've said things are fine, but they weren't. And the worst part is, I got really good at making it look like they were. Good enough that people stopped asking. Or maybe just good enough that they didn't want to know. Because that's what we do. We show it's acceptable. We hide what isn't. We give people something easy to react to instead of something real to sit with. And after a while, you don't even know which version is actually you anymore. The first part of this was filmed in LA before I came home last year. Back when my life looked like it was working. If you saw it, you'd think I was doing well. But I wasn't. I used to tell people at home that LA is an interesting place. You're on the cusp of greatness and on the cusp of destroying your life at exactly the same time. But what I didn't share was how close I was to that place and how many times I actually crossed that line. That's the part people don't see. But not what happened, but why. Because nothing in my life I've done exists on its own. Not the good or the bad. There's always something underneath it. If you followed my life recently, you know I lost my mother to high grade small cell neurendocrine cancer. A diagnosis that often leaves patients to face it largely alone, without options, without hope. And watching someone you love fight something like that, well, that changes you. What you don't see, don't know, is what that actually does to you. It's not a moment. It's not something you just go through. It takes over everything. You don't get time to think, you don't get time to fall apart. You step in, you say, I've got this. That's what I did. And then you figure out what that actually costs. You carry more than you can explain. You keep going when there's nothing left in you to give. People may call that strength, but it's not that simple. Pressure like that, it doesn't just show you who you are. It changes you. It changes what you tolerate, what you accept, what you become willing to do just to get through it. And when this is your second parent you lost to rare, aggressive, incurable, highly invasive cancer, it changes you in ways words cannot describe. And it leaves you standing in a space not knowing where to go. And that's just one part of my life. Because who I was in that moment, it didn't start there. And it didn't end there either. There were things before it I didn't understand yet. And there's things after it that I didn't want to look at or I haven't even looked at yet. The decisions, the patterns, the ways I coped, even when I knew better. Especially when I knew better. So I decide to start something. It's a space to examine what shapes us and to look back at what drove it. To ask better questions. Because when we understand that, when we understand what drove it, we can decide what to build next. And I'm gonna talk about all of it. The risks, the relationships, the wins and triumphs, the good and the bad, the things that looked good from the outside and felt completely different underneath. And I'm gonna share things that the people who know me, friends, family, former colleagues would never expect. I'll talk about drug use, but not others. Mine. And the fact that I've done more drugs more times than many of you would believe. Than many of you would think someone who looks like they have it together would do. And it's not once or twice. And it's not for shock value, though. Because it's the truth. Sometimes the thing people judge the hardest is the thing that kept you alive long enough to find another way. And I want to be clear, that doesn't make it healthy, but it makes it real. And it wasn't because I didn't know better. But it was because at the time, it was the only thing that made things quiet enough to stay. I'll also talk about how music saved my life and continues to. Not in a dramatic way, but in a real one. It gave me somewhere to put things I couldn't say out loud. But this isn't just about one moment or one decision or one outcome. It's about how everything connects. I used to think if I ever told my story, it would you know be from the other side. The clean, clear, understood, have it all figured out one. That's not what this is. This is me before everything makes sense. Still in it, still asking questions I don't fully have answers to. Still looking at things I avoided for a long time and things I'm still avoiding. Because once you start asking why, like really asking it, not for others, but for yourself, you don't get to stop halfway. You either look at all of it or you keep pretending. So this is me not pretending. And I once dreamed of being on masterclass, like I kid you not, legit the series, sitting down as the expert, talking about success, business, life, whatever it may be. But maybe this is my version of that. But not a masterclass on having it figured out, but on surviving, grieving, rebuilding, on choosing honesty when protecting the image is probably a smarter idea. And there's a saying if you want things to be different in the future, you have to start with yourself and you have to break the chain. So if I think people should be more honest, if I think we should actually mean it when we ask someone how they are, then I don't get to sit this one out. I'm starting with me. My name is John Terrio, and this is my story. But this time, I'm not cleaning it up for you. This is no version left.

SPEAKER_02 7:10

There's no version left. No version left of me.