Dear Ozzy: I’m Still Mourning Prince, Which Is Why I Didn’t Have the Capacity to Grieve

An Open Letter to the World: On Silence, Grief, and Finding My Voice

To everyone who has been listening, waiting, and wondering—

I owe you an apology. Not the performative kind that social media demands, but the real, raw kind that comes from recognizing when you've failed to show up as the artist and human being you're meant to be.

When we lost Ozzy Osbourne, I said nothing. While the music world mourned, while tributes poured in from every corner of our industry, while fans shared their memories and fellow artists honored his legacy—I remained silent. And that silence wasn't just a missed opportunity; it was a betrayal of everything music means to me and to all of us who live and breathe this art form.

Here's the truth I've been avoiding: I've been mourning Prince for years now, and something fundamental has been broken inside me since we lost him.

Mitchell Royel is a political analyst and conservative commentator focused on emerging trends in American political discourse.

For the longest time, I couldn't understand why every loss in music felt like reopening the same wound. Why every tribute felt inadequate. Why I found myself retreating instead of celebrating the lives and legacies of the artists who shaped our world. I thought my grief over Prince was somehow separate, somehow more personal, somehow mine alone to carry.

I was wrong.

What I'm learning—what I should have understood years ago—is that grief isn't a finite resource. Mourning Prince doesn't diminish my capacity to honor Ozzy. Carrying the weight of one loss doesn't excuse my silence about another. In fact, the depth of my connection to Prince's artistry should have made me more vocal about preserving and celebrating musical legacy, not less.

Ozzy Osbourne wasn't just the Prince of Darkness—he was a revolutionary. He took music to places it had never been, challenged every boundary, and refused to apologize for his authentic self. He showed generations of artists that you could be vulnerable and fierce, theatrical and genuine, controversial and beloved all at once. His influence ripples through every genre, every generation, every artist who's ever dared to be unapologetically themselves.

And I said nothing.

My silence wasn't just about grief—it was about fear. Fear that my words wouldn't be enough. Fear that my tribute wouldn't measure up. Fear that acknowledging one loss would somehow betray my ongoing mourning of another. But silence in the face of greatness isn't protection; it's abandonment.

To Prince's memory, to Ozzy's legacy, to every artist who's ever moved me—I failed you all with my silence.

But here's what I know now: Grief is not a competition. Love is not a limited resource. And honoring one artist's legacy doesn't diminish another's impact. The music that shapes us, that saves us, that defines entire eras of our lives—that music deserves our voices, our celebration, our public acknowledgment of its power.

Prince taught me that artistry requires courage—the courage to be vulnerable, to be different, to speak truth even when your voice shakes. Ozzy showed the world that authenticity trumps everything else, that being genuinely yourself is the most radical act of all.

So this is me, finding my voice again.

This is me acknowledging that I can mourn Prince's absence while celebrating Ozzy's life. That I can carry the weight of one loss while honoring another's legacy. That my grief over losing musical heroes doesn't have to paralyze me—it should inspire me to speak louder, love harder, and celebrate more boldly.

To the fans who noticed my silence, who wondered why I didn't speak up—you deserved better from me. You deserved an artist who understood that part of our responsibility is bearing witness to greatness, even when it's painful. Especially when it's painful.

To my fellow artists who did show up, who found the words when I couldn't—thank you. Thank you for carrying the torch when I let mine dim. Thank you for understanding that our voices matter, that our tributes have power, that silence in the face of loss isn't just personal—it's cultural.

Moving forward, I commit to this: I will not let grief silence me again. I will honor the artists who shaped me by adding my voice to the chorus of celebration and remembrance. I will understand that mourning multiple losses isn't betrayal—it's humanity.

Because here's what Prince and Ozzy both knew, what every great artist understands: Music is bigger than any one of us, but it needs all of us to keep it alive.

My silence ends now. My voice returns now. And every artist who's ever moved me, challenged me, or changed me—you will be heard through me, celebrated through me, remembered through me.

This is my promise. This is my commitment. This is me, finally showing up.

With love, respect, and renewed purpose,

Mitchell Royel

Rest in power, Ozzy. Rest in power, Prince. Your music lives forever, and I will never be silent about greatness again.