February 2026

Who Am I? That’s a question I’ve sat with for a long time — not because I don’t know the answer, but because I’ve learned that the answer keeps evolving. Still, some things about me have always been constant. And if I’m going to tell you who I am, I think the best place to start is where I come from. I was born and raised in the inner city of Buffalo, New York. If you know Buffalo, you know it’s a city of grit, heart, and resilience — a place where people show up for each other even when the circumstances make it hard to show up for themselves. Growing up there shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. But before Buffalo shaped me, my parents did. My mother is an accountant who, even while raising a family, continued to pursue her own education. Watching her balance the demands of motherhood with the discipline of continued learning taught me something I couldn’t have read in any book — that growth doesn’t pause for life, and life doesn’t have to pause for growth. She modeled excellence quietly and consistently, and that stuck with me. My father’s story carries a different kind of weight. He grew up in the deep South during the thick of civil injustice — a time and place that denied too many Black men and women the basic right to build a future on their own terms. He wasn’t able to finish high school or go to college. But he refused to let that be the end of his story. He taught himself, worked hard, and forged a career as a building engineer entirely on his own merit. His journey is a testament to what determination looks like when the system gives you every reason to give up and you choose to keep going anyway. Together, they poured into each other, and they poured into me — along with my sister and my much older brother. They kept us active in extracurricular activities and grounded us in faith through church. They didn’t just provide for us; they invested in us. They made sure we had structure, community, and a foundation of values that no circumstance could take away. When I think about where my drive comes from, it starts there — in the home they built and the example they set every single day. That foundation pushed me further than many people from my neighborhood had gone. I earned an engineering degree from Rochester Institute of Technology. Getting there wasn’t easy — it required sacrifice, sleepless nights, and a stubborn refusal to quit when things got hard. RIT challenged me intellectually in ways I never expected. It taught me how to solve problems systematically, how to think critically, and how to thrive in environments where I was often one of the few people who looked like me. Those experiences didn’t just shape my career — they shaped my character. Professionally, I am someone who is always growing. I believe that complacency is the enemy of progress, and I hold myself to a standard of continuous improvement. Whether it’s developing new technical skills, expanding my knowledge of my industry, or taking on challenges that push me outside of my comfort zone, I am driven by a deep desire to be excellent at what I do. Growth isn’t just a career strategy for me — it’s a lifestyle. But here’s the thing: professional achievement was never the real goal. My true passion is people. Specifically, it’s about influencing, uplifting, and walking alongside people — especially those who come from places like the one I grew up in. I know what it feels like to wonder if someone like you can make it. I know what it feels like to not see yourself reflected in the rooms where decisions are made and futures are built. And I know how powerful it can be when just one person steps forward and says, I made it, and so can you. That’s what I want to be for my community. Not a distant success story, but a living, breathing example that the inner city of Buffalo is not a ceiling — it’s a foundation. The same streets that tested me built me. And everything I achieve, I carry those streets with me. I also believe that influence isn’t just about inspiring words. It’s about showing up consistently, being of service, and making the kind of choices that create pathways for others. It’s mentoring the young person who reminds you of yourself. It’s being transparent about the struggles, not just the successes. It’s using every platform, every room you enter, and every opportunity you receive as a chance to open a door wider than the one you walked through. So who am I? I am a product of Buffalo’s inner city who refused to be defined by its limitations. I am a reflection of my parents love and example. I am an engineer with a degree from RIT and a relentless hunger to keep growing. I am someone who believes that the measure of success isn’t what you accumulate, but who you lift up along the way. I am still becoming — but everything I am becoming, I am becoming on purpose.

Sometimes You’re the Pigeon, Sometimes You’re the Statue There’s a phrase that’s been rattling around in my head lately: “Sometimes you’re the pigeon, sometimes you’re the statue.” This is a phrase my mom always used to explain difficulties in life. In fact, she still uses it today. As she explains it, “sometimes you get sh*tted on, sometimes you do the sh*ttin”. It’s one of those sayings that sounds almost flippant at first, but the more time I spend in the working world, the more I realize just how accurate it is. If you’ve never heard it before, the idea is simple. Some days you’re the pigeon—flying high, calling the shots, maybe even causing a little chaos. Other days, you’re the statue—standing there, exposed, taking whatever comes your way. And in my experience, work has a particular way of cycling between these two extremes with zero warning. It can be very humbling. Last week, I was the statue. Some projects I’d poured hours into got picked apart and I had a host of new tasks added with what seemed to be little support. Feedback came from every direction, much of it contradictory, and suddenly I was fielding criticism for decisions I didn’t even make. I left that night feeling like I’d been pelted from all sides, wondering why I even bothered trying so hard. The effort I’d put in seemed invisible, but the perceived shortcomings? Those were on full display. Then Friday rolled around. Same job, same desk, but somehow I was the pigeon. A presentation I’d been nervous about landed perfectly. The work I thought might go unnoticed got genuine recognition. Problems that seemed insurmountable last Friday suddenly had clear solutions. It wasn’t that I’d suddenly become more competent overnight—it was just the way things aligned. Here’s what I’m learning from this maddening cycle: the statue days aren’t always a reflection of your abilities, and the pigeon days aren’t always earned. Sometimes it’s timing. Sometimes it’s politics. Sometimes it’s just the mood of whoever’s evaluating your work that day. The expectations placed on us can shift like sand, and what was celebrated last month becomes a problem this month. That’s a hard pill to swallow when you’re someone who shows up and tries to do good work. You want to believe that consistent effort leads to consistent results, that being under-appreciated is the exception rather than the rule. But the reality is messier. Some weeks you’ll carry the weight of unrealistic expectations and wonder why you’re the only one who seems to notice the goalposts keep moving. Other weeks, you’ll catch a break you didn’t expect and wonder if you actually deserved it. The uncomfortable truth? Both days are part of the deal. The wins and losses, the recognition and the criticism, the days when everything clicks and the days when nothing does—they’re all woven into the same career fabric. Resisting that reality only makes the statue days hurt more. So what’s the silver lining here? Maybe it’s this: when you’re the statue, remember that pigeons don’t fly forever. When you’re the pigeon, stay humble because you’ll be back on that pedestal soon enough. The emotional roller coaster is exhausting, but it’s also proof that nothing stays the same. The bad days pass. So do the good ones. The goal isn’t to avoid being the statue—that’s impossible. The goal is to not let those days define your worth or convince you that the effort doesn’t matter. Because on the days when you’re the pigeon, you’ll be glad you didn’t give up when things felt impossibly hard.   Some days you get hit. Some days you soar. Most days, you’re somewhere in between, just trying to show up and do your best with whatever hand you’re dealt. And honestly? That’s enough. Some of the images I chose not to use, but couldn’t help but share

Finding Community at Kings Korner I recently attended my first King Korner meeting, and it was exactly what I didn’t know I needed. Kings Korner is a gathering space for young Black Men to come together in authentic community. We shared our wins and celebrated each other’s victories, checked in on our physical, mental, and emotional wellbeing, and opened up about the areas where we need support. The vulnerability in the room was powerful—brothers being real about their struggles and their triumphs. What struck me most was the genuine connection. I met so many incredible people, each bringing their own story and energy to the space. In years past, I would have kept to myself, stayed in my comfort zone, and missed out on this entirely. But 2026 I am saying yes to new things, making myself available to experiences and connections I might have previously avoided. This meeting reminded me how essential community is. We’re not meant to navigate life’s challenges alone or celebrate our wins in isolation. Kings Korner created a space where Black Men can be fully seen, supported, and encouraged—something rare and invaluable. I’m grateful I showed up. Sometimes the things we need most are waiting just outside our comfort zone.