Meek Mill spent much of the last two years trying to understand how a ghostwriting bombshell dropped mid-Twitter rant could backfire so tremendously. Less than 140 characters completely changed his trajectory. When he exposed Drake as a Quentin Miller mouthpiece, he couldn’t have anticipated the blowback—“Charged Up” and “Back to Back”—would send his career spiraling. Long after the matter was closed he was still rapping about it constantly, as if dazed and trying to make sense of what happened. Many deemed the series of Drake disses, which would come to include the “Summer Jam Screen” moment and “Summer Sixteen,” as resounding losses, the type rappers don’t recover from (ask Ja Rule). Earlier this year, the other shoe dropped: Meek and Nicki Minaj unceremoniously split after two years of dating, and the subs went flying in song. Minaj invited Drake to send stray shots at Meek on “No Frauds.” These moments have come to define Meek for many who were only casually invested in the first place. He is continuously addressing these setbacks because no one will let him forget about them.

His third album, Wins and Losses, assesses what it really means to be defeated. In an interview with Atlanta’s Streetz 94.5, he clarified the album’s ambitions: “I just wanted to give people a real perspective of my life, what we call wins and what we call losses. I lost my case, we lost Lil Snupe, Chino lost his brother. Where we come from, that’s a loss. When you talk L’s and W’s, you get an L, that mean you got life in jail. It’s critical. It ain’t what they talking about.” Much like his major label debut, Dreams and Nightmares, his new album juxtaposes rap dreams and hood realities, but draws more deliberate distinctions. He recognizes rapping as salvation from street life, not some gladiatorial clash inside an echo chamber. Meek makes the case there’s more than one way to win, and that being bested in the rap coliseum isn’t nearly as devastating a blow as seeing close friends die. Subliminal shots don’t hit the way real ones do. The album is a comeback by any measure, honest and gripping.

Rap is largely a perception game (as Meek’s MMG boss can attest to), and on Wins and Losses Meek attempts to change his narrative using a different perspective. Here, he isn’t Drake’s also-ran or Nicki Minaj’s ex; he’s the ultimate underdog, a battle-rapping corner boy who came from nothing and gained everything. “I just made like 20 Ms, they say it’s an L (what?)/Niggas prayin’ that I fall and I wish ‘em well,” he raps on “Issues,” making light of his perceived misfortune and those who want to see him fail. The message is even clearer on “1942 Flows”: “I done seen all these niggas try to downplay my dreams/So I’ma give it to ‘em every time I’m on the scene.” Chasing dreams is Meek’s guiding principle. He’s always been about triumph in the face of adversity. He finds solace in knowing he’s achieved all he set out to, and that he wasn’t even supposed to be here.

Aside from trading in his Rolex for a Patek, and Maybachs for Wraiths, Meek settles back into his usual rhythm on Wins and Losses. He wasn’t rapping poorly on his 4/4 EP or his DC4 mixtape, but Drake had taken up so much space in Meek’s consciousness (and ours) that he was dictating many of Meek’s raps and how people chose to listen to them. Across 67 minutes and 17 tracks, Meek gets back to what he does best, diagramming a tumultuous life lived—praying for bricks, prison stints, starting out broke and earning millions, losing a brother and memorializing him in ice. He sees stunting as a salute to the dead. “Rockin’ all this ice, I’m just tryna hide my scars tho/Somethin’ bout that Wraith and them lights, how them stars glow/Give me motivation,” he raps on “These Scars.” Alongside Young Thug on “We Ball,” a sparse thumper driven by Thug accents, he laments lost comrades, vowing to honor them and provide for those still living. “Heavy Heart” indicts betrayers and defiantly challenges naysayers. He’s sharp and adrenalized, even in mourning.

The most moving Meek bars use success as a lens through which to understand misery, reflecting on a distressing past, measuring the distance between fame and struggle, and finding the overlaps. It is a constant balance, as displayed on “Heavy Heart”: “Shit I’d rather work and walk ‘fore I ride luxury with niggas that don't fuck with me/I’m startin’ to hate this fame shit, look what it done to me.” Wins and Losses considers the trappings of celebrity better than any other Meek project. There is never a sense of calm in his raps; he’s always on edge. You get the feeling that recent events have left Meek not knowing who to trust, and his music carries that anxiety.

Some songs are rehashes, like “Connect the Dots,” a Rick Ross collaboration that evokes past team-ups like “So Sophisticated.” And “Ball Player” is just one of a handful of tracks that should’ve gotten the axe; redundancy is an issue on the album, as it is on any Meek album (so much so that twice he addresses listeners critical of his endless Rollie raps). He operates in finite space at polar extremes: agony or exuberance. But Meek does challenge himself, and those who suggest he’s merely a shout rapper, on Wins and Losses: “Fall Thru” slathers on the Auto-Tune for a more chic sound; “Open” packs rapid fire flows into a muted sex jam; “Young Black America” turns a heavy sample of JAY-Z’s “Blueprint (Momma Loves Me)” into a chilling 13th audiobook. When tested to come up with his most insightful work and justify his missteps, he delivers compelling alternate truths. Wins and Losses shows the rap game is much harder to score than one might think.