Embrace Difference

Putting my thoughts on wax holds both an empowering feeling, yet also apprehension. We applaud our once-in-a-lifetime radical thinkers. But when it comes to the people in our everyday lives, their ideas are too often dismissed — because they don't have the status, the following, the title, or the education we've been taught to revere.

Why is that?

As a child, the names in my household were Angela Davis. Malcolm X. Fred Hampton. W.E.B. Du Bois. They were the ones who made it possible for me — a young Black girl growing up in Daytona Beach, Florida, going to private Christian schools and standing on the foundation of my grandparents' accomplishments — to have it just a bit easier than it would've been thirty years earlier.

As I grew older and developed an interest in the arts, my ears perked up whenever Warren Buffett spoke about taxing the wealthy. I watched Leonardo DiCaprio, after decades of waiting, use his Oscar moment to call for climate action. And I admired Andrew Garfield and Jonathan Glazer when they risked discomfort to stand firmly for humanity, no matter who might take offense.

Radicalism in the U.S. is everywhere, but we've learned to coexist with extremes that drive us apart. Too often, we accept our fate too quickly, even when there's still room for change.

This goes beyond race, religion, politics — it exists everywhere. If you want change in your child's school district, show up at city hall. If you want your company's culture to improve, offer suggestions instead of complaints. If your household feels stuck, set clear expectations instead of yelling when things go wrong.

The flip side of this mindset is resignation. It's the voice that says, "it is what it is."

And one thing you'll learn if you follow along — nothing is what it is.

Being your own genesis means believing your life starts and ends with you.

I have two children, so I don't mean this in a legacy sense — I mean it literally. Your current life begins and ends with you. Regardless of what my parents did or didn't give me, the experiences they lived, the joy and the trauma they may still carry — none of that has to be attached to my being. In the same way, no matter the foundation I set for my babies, the wealth I build for them, or the wisdom I pass along — I can only pray they follow through in whatever way benefits them most, whatever way makes them happy.

So why waste a single breath saying, "it is what it is"?

I'm not trying to be a motivational speaker here. I'm just sharing the thoughts I've carried since I was a child — the same thoughts I hope to instill in my own children, if I can't give them anything else.

When I was 7 or 8, I begged my mom to buy poster boards so I could pitch my latest business plan to her and my grandma. I'd find manufacturers, build a site on Weebly, outline my margins — the whole thing. Every few months, I had a new idea. Then came novels, and with them film adaptations I'd pitch to my middle school teachers — why I thought teachers could bankroll a movie with no budget and no plan, I'll never know.

By 20, I'd already launched businesses in beauty, baked goods, clothing, financial services, even catering. Every one of them made money — $600 in a day at seventeen felt like a fortune — but they all fizzled out. My mind loved to build, create, and launch. But it wasn't yet disciplined enough to scale or sustain.

Meanwhile, life was heavy. By ten, my childhood was filled with financial strain, a hostile divorce, custody battles, and bouncing between my mom and grandma. I think I went to ten schools. My mom never had a career. My father was unkind. My grandma sacrificed everything she and my grandpa had built just to keep us afloat. I wrestled with depression and had no outlet. I ended up in an abusive relationship, became a mother at 21, lost all my savings, and fell deep into debt trying to support myself, my partner, and my child.

But I still found my way to six figures at 22. As a single mom with no safety net, no help, and no roadmap.

So when I say I believe in writing your own story, I mean it. To call it an understatement almost feels too small.

I hope this blog, if nothing else, reminds you to believe in yours.