If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why?
Some people say presidents, inventors, or famous leaders. Me?
I’d pick Tupac Amaru Shakur—2Pac.
Not because he was perfect. Not because I agree with every lyric, every decision, or every headline attached to his name.
I’d pick 2Pac because he was honest about the war going on inside his own chest—and that speaks to me more than any polished hero ever could.
More Than a Rapper
A lot of people only see Tupac as a rapper, or a thug, or a troublemaker.
If that’s all you see, you’re missing it.
He was a poet, a storyteller, and a loud, unfiltered voice for people who felt invisible. He rapped about things most people tried to pretend weren’t happening—poverty, racism, violence, addiction, broken families, and that deep feeling of being stuck in a life you didn’t ask for.
Songs like “Keep Ya Head Up,” “Changes,” “So Many Tears,” and “Dear Mama” weren’t just tracks—they were therapy sessions set to a beat. They were prayers from someone who didn’t feel welcome in church, but still felt God watching.
I relate to that. When you grow up with pain, trauma, addiction, and loss, you don’t always speak “polite.” Sometimes your truth comes out rough, angry, broken, and raw. That’s how 2Pac talked to the world. And sometimes, that’s the only way people like us know how to talk.
A Man of Contradictions (Just Like the Rest of Us)
One of the biggest reasons I’d want to meet 2Pac is because he was a walking contradiction—and so am I.
He could write “Brenda’s Got a Baby,” telling the story of a young girl abandoned and forgotten…
…and then turn around and make songs that sounded wild, reckless, and hard.
He could pour his heart out about loving his mama…
…and still struggle with anger, pride, and self-destruction.
That’s real life. Most of us aren’t one thing.
We’re not just “the good guy” or “the bad guy.”
We’re a mess of regrets and good intentions, faith and doubt, love and anger, sobriety and temptation.
I look at 2Pac and I see a man who was trying to carry the weight of his community, his past, his fame, his trauma—and he didn’t always know what to do with it. Same here. I know what it’s like to wake up and feel like you’re fighting your own mind. I know what it’s like to want to be better and still feel that old life scratching at the door.
If I sat across from him, I wouldn’t ask him to explain his contradictions. I’d tell him: “I get it, man. Me too.”
What I’d Want to Ask Him
If I had one sit-down with 2Pac, I wouldn’t waste time talking about the conspiracy theories, the drama, or who did what back in the day. I’d go straight to the heart stuff.
I’d want to ask:
How did you carry that much pain and still create? Because a lot of us shut down. We numb out. We get high, get drunk, disappear. But he turned his pain into art and into a voice that still speaks today. Did you feel loved, or just used? I’d want to know if he ever truly felt safe—around friends, around the industry, around himself. Because it’s one thing to be famous, and another thing to feel known. What would you say to the kids growing up now? The ones with broken homes, addiction in the house, violence on the street, and that voice in their head saying, “You’re never getting out of this”? I’d want to hear what hope sounds like from someone who knew how dark it could get. What did you want your legacy to be—really? Not the headlines. Not the documentaries. Not the myths. But the truth. What did you actually want people to remember when they said your name?
And quietly, I’d probably sneak in one more question:
Bro, did you ever feel like you were losing the battle in your own head? Because I’ve been there—with depression, addiction, suicidal thoughts—and I’d like to know how he fought it, even if he didn’t always win.
Why He Matters to Me
For me, 2Pac isn’t just a musician on a playlist.
He’s the voice that said out loud what a lot of us were too scared or ashamed to say.
When you grow up with trauma, you don’t always have the words. You just have this heavy feeling: something’s wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it. Then you hear someone like 2Pac talking about pain, injustice, losing people, and trying not to drown in the chaos—and suddenly you don’t feel so alone.
That’s why he matters to me.
He gave permission to speak honestly about struggle. He showed the world that tough guys cry too. He proved you can be broken and still be a blessing to other people.
That last one hits me deep. Because that’s kind of what I’m trying to do with my own life now—take all the pain, the addiction, the loss, the depression, and turn it into something that helps somebody else feel less alone.
2Pac, Faith, and the Fight Inside
Tupac’s relationship with God was complicated—and so is mine.
He talked about heaven and hell, sin and forgiveness, death and judgment, but from the perspective of someone who wasn’t sure he’d make the cut.
Sounds familiar.
I think if we talked, we’d end up on that topic. The whole “Does God actually still want someone like me?” question.
I’d tell him I’ve found some peace in knowing that God isn’t just waiting to zap me for my past. He’s been there in the darkest nights, when I was ready to give up, when I thought nobody cared. I’d tell him I’ve learned that grace is big enough even for the people who don’t feel like they deserve it.
And I wonder what he’d say back. I wonder if part of him was always reaching for that grace, even when the world only saw the tattoos, the chains, and the mugshots.
What Meeting Him Would Mean
Meeting 2Pac wouldn’t be about meeting a “celebrity” for me.
It’d be about meeting someone who understood:
What it’s like to grow up in chaos What it’s like to feel angry and sensitive at the same time What it’s like to hurt and still want to help others What it’s like to be both the wounded and the healer
I’d want to thank him—for the songs that kept people going, for the honesty that made it okay for guys like me to admit we’re not okay, for showing the world that vulnerability and strength can live in the same body.
And if I only had one sentence to say before I had to walk away, it might be this:
“You didn’t get to finish your story—but your honesty helped people like me keep writing ours.”
If you could meet a historical figure, it doesn’t always have to be a president, a famous general, or someone from a textbook. Sometimes the person who changed your world is the one whose songs got you through a night you didn’t think you’d survive.
For me, that’s 2Pac.
—Josh Bridges
YOU {R} NOT ALONE YOU HAVE A VOICE! 