Who am I?

It is ok to be human.

When you strip away all the noise and distractions in life and reduce your decisions to the fundamentals of survival, you begin to see that your actions and reactions are deeply rooted in your core moral upbringing. As Gandhi once said, “Morality is the basis of things and truth is the substance of all morality.” When everything else is gone, what remains is what you know—because it’s how you were shaped to navigate the world.

It’s okay to be human. The truth is, we’re not all created equal—not in our experiences, our opportunities, or our paths. Have you ever set something in motion, dreamed boldly, only to talk yourself out of it before it had a chance to grow? Have you ever imagined a version of yourself living a life that felt like your true calling—one that exists in some other universe, just out of reach?

We all long to be accepted, to go further, to do more, and to become the best version of ourselves—because deep down, we know we were meant for something more. Sometimes, our aspirations lift us above the weight of reality, even if only for a moment. And then, we remember—we’re human.

But if you’ve ever doubted your dreams, take a moment to pause and truly listen to yourself. Tune in to your core values—the moral compass that has always guided you. Let that truth resonate through you like a finely tuned frequency, vibrating through every part of your being until it moves you to tears. And in that moment, you’ll know—those tears are real. And nothing else matters but what is right.

You’re probably wondering—what the hell am I talking about?

Here’s the truth: we’re all human. Accept that. Now, walk with me for a moment. See the world through my eyes. Feel what I’ve felt. Maybe then, you’ll understand what I’m trying to say—without me having to say it.

I’m not the fastest. I’m not the strongest. I’m not the smartest. I’m not the best at what I do. I’m not popular. Most people don’t even know I exist. I’m not rich. I don’t have all the time in the world. I fail—often more than once. But I am human. And that’s enough. Because I am me.

I was born small. I grew up introverted, with strict parents and not much money. I wasn’t allowed to play baseball with the neighborhood kids if I didn’t get an A on my homework. Most of my clothes came from the church thrift store—those were my “new” outfits for the first day of school. I got picked on. I got into fights. I was knocked unconscious once. I fought for my life during a gang riot after the Rodney King unrest. I was invisible to the popular kids. I didn’t get the same chances others did.

At 17, I enlisted in the Navy—125 pounds soaking wet. My uncle asked why I didn’t apply to the Naval Academy. He said Senator Rice would’ve given me an appointment. I told him I wanted something I earned on my own.

Life as an enlisted sailor was tough. Long hours. Constant studying. Physical training. Less than six hours of sleep a night. I failed my first B school. Lost my qualifications. Started over. Failed again—this time for violating safety protocols during a mass casualty drill. Back to day one. But I kept going. I requalified. I passed.

When I hit the ceiling of my enlisted career, I applied for an officer program. My captain approved it. I started over again. College was brutal. I took the placement exams five times just to get in. I studied hard. Failed. Tried again. Repeated that cycle until I succeeded.

In my senior year, I joined a team to design a robot for a national competition. I proposed a bold, unconventional idea. The team voted against it. They told me I should go solo—so if I failed, I’d fail alone. So I did. I worked for months. Slept two hours at a time. Scrapped designs. Rewrote code. Started over again and again. Until one day, it worked. My robot came to life.

Then I got a call—from a Navy captain. He asked if I wanted to study at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey. No application. Just a call. I said yes. I studied signal processing and applied science for Naval Mine Warfare. I redesigned my robot using eigenvalue derivatives and swarm logic based on missile guidance theory.

Somewhere in there, I flew to D.C. to interview with Admiral Donald for the Nuclear Power program. He rejected me. That dream ended. I moved on.

I returned to the fleet. Served 15 years. Then a life-threatening injury ended my career. I was medically retired. I owe everything to the staff at the Naval Hospitals in Jacksonville and Portsmouth. They helped me walk again. Helped me find purpose again.

I rebuilt myself. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.

So when people ask me why I work long hours, why I push myself when others clock out and go home—I tell them this:

I do it because it’s the right thing to do. Because that’s how I’ve lived my life. That’s how I’ll always live.

You will fail. Get over it. But don’t let failure stop you. Get back in the game. Try again. And again. And again. Until you get what you want—or life gives you a new purpose.

Be fearless in a world full of unknowns. Be the kind of person who’s truly alive.

Be human.