It’s hard to believe that Ozzy Osbourne is truly gone. The world feels quieter without him, even though his music will never stop roaring. Ozzy left us on July 22, 2025, at the age of 76, after years of courageously facing Parkinson’s and countless health battles. Just weeks before his passing, he sat on a throne in Birmingham, his hometown, performing one last time with Black Sabbath during their Back to the Beginning farewell concert. That moment—his final bow—was Ozzy to the core: unbroken, defiant, and larger than life.
My first meeting with Ozzy wasn’t in person—it was through music, and it changed me. It was Paranoid (1970), the Black Sabbath album with “War Pigs” on it. I remember blasting that record while my dad was moving out of the house we shared with Emily and Lesleigh in Michigan. Probably not the best soundtrack for that moment, but I was 14, trying to process life with a half-formed brain. I’d already been through so much—moving from South Africa to England to America, losing a mum, gaining a stepmum—all in just a few years. I think Ozzy’s voice, raw and wild, gave me permission to be angry, to feel, to exist loudly.
My second memory is one I can’t help but laugh at now. I bought another Black Sabbath record while out with Carrie. She was embarrassed, and we ran into some kids from school who thought the album was so weird. But that was the thing about Ozzy—he was never meant to blend in. He was meant to stand out, and if you loved him, you didn’t care what anyone thought.
By 1989 or 1990, Ozzy had gone solo, and I was flying back to England with a cassette of Blizzard of Ozz (1980). I played “Goodbye to Romance” on repeat for the entire flight. That song became the soundtrack to my journey, to all the turbulence—both in the air and inside me.
There were so many Ozzy moments over the years. Tamsin was a huge fan too. So were Steve, Evan, Paul, and Eric. And let’s not forget my 21st birthday party, where I decided playing Sabbath at full blast was the perfect idea—and you know what? It was.
Ozzy’s music wasn’t just heavy metal—it was rebellion, emotion, survival. He embodied chaos and heart all at once. He was proof that no matter how dark life gets, you can still find your voice and scream your truth into the world. There will never be another like him.
Rest easy, Prince of Darkness. The world is forever louder because you were here.
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