I’M STILL HERE: My Story of Falling, Fighting, and Finding My Way Back
If you would have told me years ago that one day I would be standing in front of people telling my story, not because I was proud of everything I had done, but because I survived it, I probably wouldn’t have believed you.
Because my story isn’t pretty. But it’s mine.
And today, I’m not ashamed to tell it.
I was 13 years old when I started getting involved in things I had no business being involved in. I remember helping my older brother bag up large amounts of marijuana. I didn’t understand where that road was going to take me.
At 15, I found out I was adopted and started spiraling out of control. I was kicked out of school and sent to DJJ.
I ended up going through what felt like every DJJ facility in South Carolina. When I got out, I didn’t know how to live life the right way.
I knew how to survive.
And there is a big difference between surviving and living.
I started selling drugs. I started depending on other people. I eventually moved to New York, and instead of changing my life, I learned how to sell drugs better.
Then I came back home and hustled even harder.
Until one day…I got shot.
I almost died.
You would think almost losing my life would have been enough to change me.
It wasn’t.
I got better. And I went right back to the same life. I started robbing.
In 2005, I went to jail and stayed there until 2006. I got probation and tried to move forward.
Then something happened that should have changed everything. I became a father. I had my first daughter. Then I went back to jail. I had another little girl. Then I went back to jail again. Eventually, I had a third daughter.
Three little girls. Three reasons to change.
But I was still fighting a battle inside myself that I didn’t know how to win.
Then DSS got involved. I refused to take another drug test. And my children were taken from me on the spot.
That broke me.
But instead of asking for help, I lost myself. In less than a year, I caught 24 felony charges. I received eight years in prison. Eight years to sit with myself. Eight years to think about every decision that had brought me there.
But prison didn’t magically make me a different man.
A few months after I got out, I lost my mom. And that pain sent me right back into trouble. I bonded out and ran to Florida. I lived on the run for a while. Eventually, they caught me. I went back to jail for eight months.
When I got out, I was on probation and had time served. I got married. For a while, I was doing good.
Then my marriage ended. I lost being with my kids. I became homeless. There were times I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from.
And when you’re sitting there with nothing, the wrong decision can look like the only decision.
So I robbed Strawberry Hill.
This time, I was looking at a life sentence. My entire life could have been over. But there wasn’t enough evidence to convict me the way they wanted.
Another chance.
I went to work at Brown Packaging. I was trying. But the old me was still there. The hustler. The survivor. The man who had learned that if something went wrong, you handled it the way you always had.
Then I heard about Turn90.
And something changed.
I got accepted into the program. I completed it. And somewhere along that journey, I started realizing something: I didn’t have to keep being the person I had always been.
Turn90 didn’t erase my past. It didn’t make my mistakes disappear. It didn’t give me an easy road.
It gave me tools. Tools to communicate. Tools to ask for help. Tools to deal with problems. Tools to handle setbacks.
And most importantly…it taught me that asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s strength.
Today, I work for Turn90.
Think about that.
The same person who once didn’t believe he had a future is now helping other people find theirs. I know what it’s like to be the person sitting across from somebody wondering if anyone believes in you. I’ve been that person. And now I get to be the person telling somebody else: “I believe in you.”
But even now, my life isn’t perfect.
I’ve had two different skin cancers removed. I’ve had spinal cord surgery through the front of my neck. I’ve had periods where I couldn’t work. Being out of work caused me to fall behind on my bills. I’ve asked for help. Sometimes the people who wanted to help didn’t have the money to help.
And you know what?
I didn’t go back to the streets. I didn’t run. I didn’t destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
I used the tools I was taught. I kept asking. I kept working. I kept pushing.
And that’s when I realized something.
Recovery isn’t just about staying away from drugs or crime. Sometimes recovery is learning how to respond when life gets hard. It’s learning that you can be broke without becoming a criminal. You can be angry without becoming violent. You can be hurt without destroying yourself. You can fail without giving up. You can have a setback without going back to your old life.
And believe me…I’ve had plenty of setbacks.
It’s easier to do the wrong thing. It really is. The wrong thing can feel quick. The wrong thing can feel familiar. The wrong thing can feel like the only option when you’re desperate.
But doing the right thing? That’s hard.
Doing the right thing when nobody is watching? That’s hard.
Doing the right thing when you’re hungry, broke, angry, scared, or hurting? That’s really hard.
But I’m learning how.
I’m still learning. I’m still making mistakes. I’m still trying to become a better father. A better man. A better employee. A better person.
I’m not standing here pretending I’ve got it all figured out. I’m still a work in progress.
But there is one thing I know today that I didn’t know before.
My past doesn’t get to decide my future.
The 13-year-old kid who helped bag drugs doesn’t get to decide who I become. The 15-year-old who got kicked out of school doesn’t get to decide. The man who sold drugs doesn’t get to decide. The man who got shot doesn’t get to decide. The man who went to prison doesn’t get to decide. The man who ran doesn’t get to decide. The man who became homeless doesn’t get to decide.
I do.
And today, I choose to keep moving forward. I choose my children. I choose my future. I choose to work. I choose to ask for help when I need it. I choose to help somebody else when I can. And I choose to believe that there is still something good ahead of me.
Amy…I want to say thank you.
Thank you for the tools you’ve given me. Thank you for seeing something in me when I couldn’t see it in myself. Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
And thank you to Turn90 for giving me an opportunity to become more than my record. Because my record tells you where I’ve been. It doesn’t tell you where I’m going.
I can’t change my past. I can’t get those years back. I can’t undo the pain I’ve caused. I can’t change the mistakes I’ve made.
But I can make sure those mistakes mean something.
I can use my story to help somebody else. I can show somebody who thinks they’re too far gone that they’re not. I can show somebody who’s struggling that asking for help is okay. I can show somebody who’s been knocked down that getting back up is possible.
Because I’m living proof.
I’ve been locked up. I’ve been homeless. I’ve been hungry. I’ve been hurt. I’ve been lost. I’ve lost people I love. I’ve lost my children. I’ve lost myself.
But I found something I never thought I’d find. I found a reason to keep going.
So if you’re sitting here today and you think you’ve messed up too badly…if you think your past is too ugly…if you think nobody could ever believe in you…
I want you to hear me.
I was you.
And if I can still be standing here today…then you can get back up too.
I’m not perfect. I’m not finished. I’m not going to pretend that everything is easy.
But I’m here. I’m working. I’m learning. I’m growing. I’m helping. I’m loving my children. I’m trying.
And every day I wake up and choose the right thing, even when it’s hard, I win another battle against the man I used to be.
I’m still a work in progress.
But I’m not the man I used to be.
And for the first time in my life…I’m proud of the man I’m becoming.