I stood at a payphone in New York City, holding the offer letter in my hand. It was the summer of 2004, and I had just finished my investment banking internship at Credit Suisse. I couldn’t stop looking at the paper. A full-time offer. A signing bonus. For the first time, it felt like everything I had worked for was real.
I dialed my mother’s number.
“Mother, you are not going to believe this. Credit Suisse just offered your son a full-time job in investment banking.”
There was a long silence. You could hear a cotton ball hit the ground.
Then she said, “You have to come home. Lindell shot Sysha in the face five times.”
Sysha is my older sister. She helped raise me. Lindell was her ex-boyfriend and the father of her three children.
My body went numb. My chest tightened like someone had punched through it. The phone slipped out of my hand and hung by the metal cord. I grabbed the side of the booth to steady myself and tried to breathe, but nothing felt real. My legs felt weak. I could feel tears building, but they didn’t fall. Everything just stopped.
A week before that phone call, life felt like it was finally moving in the right direction—but that only makes sense if you understand where I came from.
By the time I was eighteen, I had moved eighteen times. My family and I lived in a rundown studio apartment with one bed, a refrigerator, a hot plate, and no stove. There was no bathroom door, just a hanging sheet for the toilet and tub. Roaches, rats, flies, and mice fought us for space and food. At one point, fifteen of us squeezed into that studio. We slept on the bed and floor, taking turns sharing a blanket. Sometimes we slept on top of each other or in shifts. We moved constantly and got by on little.
In our eighteenth home, we finally had an old stove that barely worked—it felt like a luxury then, but it was just another sign of the instability I was trying to outrun. That was my reality leading into that summer in New York City.
That same weekend, I bought my mother and my sister—both single mothers—their own appliances. I bought them refrigerators, brand-new stoves, and washers and dryers for their homes. I wanted them to have something that wasn’t just functional like that eighteenth stove, but something that represented a new chapter. The money I earned wasn’t just mine; it was meant to improve our lives. I rented an old limo and took my nieces and nephews to the arcade. We spent hours playing games, then went to a Chinese buffet. We ate everything from fried frog legs to beef and broccoli, and enjoyed the night.
I remember thinking, this is what progress feels like.
Then I dropped everything to return home.
In that moment, two realities collided. On one side, I had an opportunity that could change my life. On the other side was the life I came from, where violence and instability could interrupt everything without warning. Nothing prepares you to hear that your sister—the one who helped raise you—has been shot five times in the face.
I had experienced instability before—poverty and eighteen moves were constant—but this forced a decision. I had to decide whether I was going to be broken or overcome the odds. That decision was built on everything I had lived through. Life does not wait for you to be ready; it forces you to respond. You do not choose the timing of hardship, but you do choose how you handle it.
People talk about resilience, but not enough about the mental toll of constant trauma. When you navigate between progress and crisis, it shapes how you think under pressure. You develop discipline beyond motivation. You do not have the luxury of waiting until you feel ready; you have to process pain without letting it control your actions. You have to stay focused when everything around you is unstable.
That phone call did not introduce me to adversity; it clarified how I needed to respond. I had a responsibility to my family, my future, and the standard I was building. Mental health is a part of that. For people from my background, it is not optional. You have to process trauma to continue to execute.
My sister’s passing devastated my family. Many experienced depression, and all my siblings would eventually struggle with suicidal thoughts. I never considered suicide because I had been working on my mental health since my freshman year, taking advantage of counseling at Bowdoin. Nurturing environments like school and church also strengthened my mindset. Community and family events fed my belly and soul, praying for me nonstop while keeping me laughing the whole time.
The summer of 2004 demanded that I grow up. It was when I stepped into manhood.
That phone call changed everything, but it did not stop my progress. It reinforced mental strength, emotional control, and disciplined action. You do not control what happens to you, but you control how you respond.
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