Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

Kid Cudi arrives at federal court in Manhattan on May 22, 2025, ahead of his testimony in Sean “Diddy” Combs’s trial.

He wore a black leather jacket, white T-shirt, and blue jeans — surprisingly casual for court.

Cudi:Yeah, I remember that night like it was yesterday. Cassie called me — middle of December, way past midnight. She was freaked out. Voice shaking. Told me Diddy found out about us.

She kept repeating:

“I don’t know what he’s gonna do... I don’t know what he’s gonna do.”

Then she says — she gave him my address.

Said it slipped out in the middle of a fight.

Man…I didn’t even think. I threw on clothes, got in my car, picked her up. We dipped to the Sunset Marquis. Tried to lay low.

Not long after — my phone rings again. It’s Capricorn Clark, Diddy’s assistant. She’s in tears. Says:

“He made me get in the car. We’re at your house. He’s looking for you.”

Prosecutor:

What did you do?

Cudi:Left Cassie at the hotel. Heart racing, drove straight home. Called him on the way.

He picked up. I yelled:

“Motherf*er, are you in my house?”**

Defense:

Objection, Your Honor!

Judge Subramanian:

Overruled. Jury may consider it as context. Proceed.

Cudi:He didn’t deny it. Didn’t apologize. Just calmly said:

“I just want to talk to you.”

When I got home, the place was wrecked. Christmas gifts torn open. My dog — locked in the bathroom, shaking. Cameras twisted. He’d been there. No doubt.

A few weeks later, my dogsitter calls:

“Your car is on fire.”

I rushed back. My Porsche 911 was torched. Interior melted. Roof blown open. And on the passenger seat? A burned bottle with a rag in it. A Molotov cocktail.

Prosecutor:

Did you report it?

Cudi:Yeah. Cops came. Took photos. But nothing came of it. No arrests. No leads. But I knew.

Prosecutor:

Did Mr. Combs ever mention the car?

Cudi:Yeah. We met at Soho House a few days later. He stood there like some Marvel supervillain. Offered me water twice — weirdly polite.

Said:

“We were homies. You knew that was my girl.”

I told him:

“She said you were done. I took her word for it.”

Then I asked:

“What are we gonna do about my car?”

He stared at me and said:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cold as ice.

Defense:

So you're suggesting my client — without evidence — committed arson?

Cudi:I’m saying what happened. What I lived. What I felt.

Prosecutor:Did he ever apologize?

Cudi:Yeah. Later, he saw me again. Said:

“I want to apologize for everything.”

It caught me off guard. And yeah — maybe it gave me some peace.

But peace didn’t bring my dog back to normal. Didn’t fix the fear. Didn’t bring back the car.

Until next time,

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

I come from St. Lucia.

A place so beautiful it looks like a dream. But dreams don’t put food on the table.

When I was in seventh grade, I stared out the classroom window and saw a school of whales swimming by.

It was a view people fly thousands of miles to see. But for me? That window wasn’t an escape.

It was a reminder. A reminder that beyond that ocean, there was something bigger waiting for me—if I had the balls to go get it.

My father worked at a five-star resort for 25 years. It was modern-day servitude—smiling, nodding, catering to the world’s elite, knowing that one wrong move could get him tossed out like garbage. No pension. No security. Just a cheap watch and a handshake on his last day.

I watched that happen. And I decided, that will never be me.

From the age of ten, I knew I had to win at the game of money.

I started where most broke kids do—hustling.

Flipping textbooks in high school. Running a window-cleaning business in college. Selling hoodies online until the business hit six figures… and then crashed because I didn’t know how to sustain it.

Then I found copywriting.

A skill that let me print money with words.

I started on Elance for $10 an hour, writing anything people would pay me for. I clawed my way up.

And yeah, I went on to write for some of the biggest names in the industry—Tony Robbins, Ramit Sethi, Neil Patel, Agora.

That’s what I used to tell people when they asked what I did.

But I don’t give a f**k about any of that anymore.

For too long, I measured my success by other people’s names. By the people I worked for. By the validation of being in their orbit.

But I’m Anton M***********g Volney.

This is Permission to Be M***********g Powerful.

And I don’t need anyone else’s stamp of approval.

The success markers I once clung to? They mean nothing to me now.

Because I know my message has value. I know the power of what I have to say. And that’s all that matters.

So if you’re here for more copywriting tips, more “how to land clients” b******t—this ain’t that.

I’ve outgrown that game.

This is about owning your power.

Standing on your own two feet and creating your own name.

Not because someone else recognizes you.Not because you worked for the right people.But because you decided—no one owns you.

Until next time,

Dancer, Writer, Buddhist.

Permission to be Powerful is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.