I’ve been hospitalized with asthma more times than I can count.
My body’s marked with scars from countless falls I’ve taken. Those are just the physical ones—the mental ones are buried deep. I grew up with chaos as my constant companion.
I was a nerd before nerds were cool, chunky when “husky” was the polite way to say fat.
My mom’s battled severe health issues for over 35 years; I had to say goodbye to her once, but she’s still fighting.
I was the poor kid in a school full of rich ones.
I’m Black, African-American, Negro—take your pick.
There’s more, but some of it I’m not ready to share. Yet.
I know people who have it worse—no parents, immigrants in strange lands, no roof over their heads, mental health struggles, cancer.
I’m not here to compare. I’m not here for sympathy.
I use everything life throws at me to fuel my work and workouts.
Even though from a financial standpoint, I could coast for the next decade, I hustle like I’m one shift away from eviction.
When I look in the mirror, I’m still that husky kid. So, it’s time to work out for hour number three today.
The better life gets, the harder I push. More hours working, longer runs, heavier lifts—it’s just how I’m wired.