FORGIVENESS

Forgiveness has never been simple for me. It’s a lifetime conversation — between what I’ve survived and what I can’t forget.

Some things come naturally to certain people — whether through circumstance or simply their nature. I’ve noticed that, in many areas of my life, I’ve found myself moving toward the front of the pack. What I’ve done once I got there has always depended on my will — and on how I’ve seen myself.

I think often of my high school years, when I ran cross country. I wanted to be one of the top runners in the state. At the time, I was leading my team — and looking back, that was more than enough. After I left, more runners began to rise, putting in work, finding their own drive. I don’t take full credit for that, but I do believe it speaks to the quiet power of influence — and to one of my favorite movies, The Butterfly Effect.

Running meant everything to me as a young Black boy who came from very little. It was where I first began to love myself — where I learned to show up for me. Cross country became an act of faith, self-discovery, and conversation with my own spirit. Even though I didn’t accomplish every goal, that essence — that drive, that connection — still lives through me today.

Growing Up Too Early

I was born to very young parents. Looking back, I can see how I tried to fill the gaps I saw in them — believing it was my responsibility to hold things together because no one else would.

I was the class clown, always trying to make people laugh. But behind every clown, there’s often deep sorrow — a truth that reminds me of Robin Williams. I grew up surrounded by conflict and immaturity. Even as a child, I could sense that my mother wanted to be loved and my father wanted to be adored.

I spent a lot of my childhood trying to bring families together, trying to fix what I saw was broken. I carried shame about my home life and envied the stability I saw in others. I longed for my father’s presence and grew up ignoring that he didn’t want me. That shame turned into lies — small ones, just to impress people who wouldn’t stay.

But what I was really chasing wasn’t approval — it was belonging. I wanted to be loved for who I am, not who I could be for someone else — loved through my highs and my lows.

People say a woman can’t raise a man. That may be true for some — but I’ve never believed that all stories are the same. My mother raised two men who are relentless, respectful, caring, and beautiful — inside and out. We know what it looks like when the feminine isn’t valued, because we saw the consequences of that in real time.

On an energetic level, the masculine is here to protect the feminine. I don’t believe there’s much more discussion to be had based on that statement alone.

Most men, in my observation, are too bullheaded to admit they don’t have the answers — especially about women. You’ll find men desperate for recognition before you’ll see it in women. I say that not from bitterness, but experience — and maybe a little joy, because I know I’m not wrong.

Healing, Judgment, and the Journey Inward

Through my healing journey — especially within yoga, meditation, and holistic wellness — I’ve learned how often I judge myself. I compare my stillness to others, my teaching style to other instructors. Losing sight that the goal isn’t perfection — it’s connection.

I’m working on my meditation certification, drawn to the self-taught, introspective path. But even now, I sometimes feel echoes of my childhood — the need to minimize myself to fit in, or to become a punching bag just to belong.

I recently listened to a man share how he used to run a drug business before becoming a meditation teacher. And while it’s beautiful that he’s transformed, my first thought was the damage left behind to others through his business. Healing isn’t always tidy — and it isn’t always fair. But what about accountability?

When I speak about the things that come naturally, I think about those of us who have been healers our entire lives — those who were living this path before it became something that could be marketed or admired.

I struggle with that. I probably always will. But when I meet other instructors who understand without me having to overexplain, it grounds me that I’m often speaking with the wrong people.

I know that my work is just beginning. I don’t want my fitness and wellness practice to be filled with slogans. I want it to be lived truth — for those of us who’ve been ostracized, silenced, or overlooked.

The Weight of the Body and the Truth of Color

Lately, I’ve been in a lot of physical pain. My spine feels more misaligned than usual, my neck stiff, my left side aching — pain that traces back to 2010. There isn’t a day that passes where I move without feeling a pull. And while it’s physical, it’s deeply emotional too.

This is what happens when people “don’t see color.” My body still carries the trauma of being unseen, unprotected, and unheard. Of being run over — literally — and then having my truth denied in court. I didn’t lie on the stand. I didn’t run myself over. But society’s refusal to face its own bias has left me with pain that wakes me up from sleep — crying to God for a moment of peace.

Too many times, people have stood by silently while I was disrespected, even abused — and then told me to “take it on the chin.” And while I’ve seen others fight back, I often fear my own anger. It runs deep — rage, grief, and disgust — and I don’t want to be consumed by it.

Forgiveness, Rage, and the Myth of “Letting Go”

I’ve tried to make peace with those who’ve hurt me — to have honest conversations, to make things right. I expect them to meet me halfway, even when I know that’s unrealistic. Sometimes, I feel that living with it means I should be the one extending the olive branch.

In wellness spaces, people love to say, “Just forgive. Let go.” But I often wonder — what have you really experienced? Because forgiveness sounds different when you’ve been crushed, dismissed, or silenced. I’ll never minimize someone else’s pain, but I notice how quickly energy shifts when I share mine.

Healing hasn’t made me perfect. There are days I hate who I’ve become in the name of my healing. But I’m grateful for the people who stayed — the ones who didn’t fix me but showed up anyway. I tell them I’ll make it right someday. And I mean that. But it feels unfair that I’ve kept them waiting for the day I finally redeem myself.

So when do I rise? When do I really let go?

The Divine and the Demand for Justice

During a recent yoga practice, a thought came to me: A god wouldn’t let me experience this much heartbreak for no reason. There has to be purpose in it.

Why do I walk with a limp? Why do I wake up in pain? Why can’t I breathe sometimes? These aren’t random. They’re reminders of what I’ve survived — of what others refused to face.

The energies that guide me — the divine, Kali included — didn’t call me just to heal myself. I was called to speak. To illuminate. To ensure the message lands.

I can’t minimize my pain to make others comfortable. My story isn’t meant to be neatly packaged for consumption — it’s meant to wake people up. Until I receive justice, until my voice is truly heard, peace will never mean silence.