This is the introduction of the book I am currently writing — about half way through. I was led to share, however unorthodox it may be. The work of creating a system that drastically improves the lives of children we are blessed to serve, is a serious and urgent matter. So, this is this week's blog 😊 .

Here is a 2 minute read of an exert.

This is not just the story of my life—it's the story of what's possible when we dare to believe in the potential of every child. On the surface, it may read as a journey from student to executive leader, a narrative arc that moves from poverty to position. But beneath that arc is something far more complex. This is a journey of becoming—of navigating life's steepest climbs with nothing but grit, love, and vision. It is the story of finding light in dark places, of being unseen and unheard—and deciding to lead anyway.

This is a story about what happens when a teacher notices a child who has stopped raising her hand, when a mother reads fairytales by the light of an oil lamp, when a brother's misdiagnosed potential becomes the reason a sister steps into advocacy with fire in her bones. It's about love that fights, leadership that listens, literacy that liberates. And above all, it's about what's possible when we choose to lead with heart.

Education is not neutral. It never has been. It is personal. It is political. And for those of us who grew up navigating homelessness, hunger, and systems never designed for our success, it is often the only path forward. For me, education wasn't a ladder—it was a lifeline. The only thing stronger than the systems working against me was the belief that I could rise beyond them.

I was one of those children.

I know the sting of being overlooked, the ache of growing up in subsidized housing where electricity was a luxury, not a guarantee. I can remember walking into the house, flipping the light switch, and nothing came on. My mom—usually embarrassed—would turn it into a story, spinning magic out of hardship. "We're pioneers tonight," she'd say gently, lighting oil lamps like it was part of an adventure. She tried to shield us from the shame, even keeping it from her own mother. But after a couple of days, my grandmother would call, sensing something wasn't right. And just like that, our electricity would be turned back on—rescued by love, persistence, and the quiet heroism of family.

I know the sound of whispered prayers through thin walls and the weight of scarcity that sits in a child's backpack alongside their notebooks and dreams. That weight wasn't just emotional—it was literal, filled with the invisible burdens of worry, anxiety, and uncertainty. Each day, I carried not only books and homework but the quiet pressure of trying to appear unbothered, of masking how hard it was to concentrate when you weren't sure what would be for dinner. This didn't happen often, but it did happen. And when it did, it hurt. That backpack held more than supplies—it held the ache of survival and the hope that education might one day lighten the load.

Every Saturday, my grandmother and my Aunt Kat would drive nearly an hour to pick up my mom and take her to the grocery store. It was their weekly ritual—a lifeline of support and dignity. They never let her go without. Their quiet commitment reminded us that we were never truly alone, even when times felt desperate. I remember the WIC deliveries that showed up outside the apartments—big blocks of cheese, cartons of milk, and those boxes of Wheaties I hated to eat but did. It wasn't embarrassing for any of the children in my complex because we all got those deliveries. It was just part of life. It was survival shared in community, and there was no shame in that.

But there was an escape. That escape was literacy. I know what it means to find refuge in books—to turn pages when the world around you feels like it's closing in. And I know what it's like to succeed while someone you love—someone who was just as worthy—falls through the cracks.

My brother Kevin was one of those children.

Life became increasingly difficult in our apartment in South Park for one of us, my mother faced an impossible decision. Kevin, already struggling with the weight of our environment, encountered a terrifying moment in middle school when a knife was pulled on him. He found himself in countless fights and suspensions—things he didn't have to experience in my mom's friend Sissy's home or in Lorain.

Recognizing the dangers surrounding him, my mom made the courageous choice to send him to live with her sister Sharon, her husband, and their three sons in Akron, Ohio—a place she hoped would offer him more safety, structure, and stability. And for a time, it worked. He found some peace, surrounded by our three cousins and a more predictable routine. He found the model of a father through my Uncle Mel—a man who, at 90, is still very much a father to me. Kevin found the structure he needed in my aunt and uncle’s home. There were meal times, and limits to things, and strict rules for curfew- "You better be in this house when the streetlights come on." And he did. They all did.

The tug of feeling like she was choosing a place over her son, something shifted in my mom. She knew something had to change. So, she enrolled in community college and, for the first time, secured a job that paid a true living wage. She had always worked—relentlessly, regardless of how little we had—but this was different. This job offered stability, not just survival. It's the kind of breakthrough that so many living in poverty never reach, worn down by systems that make giving up feel easier than pushing through. But my mom didn't give up—and I'm endlessly grateful that she didn't.

My mom moved into her first house on the Hilltop, a house we were happy to rent. A poor working-class neighborhood, but it was simply wonderful. It was a stark contrast to the WIC deliveries, the sirens, the fear of going into "The Gardens", an even more violent neighboring complex, and the gross smell of monthly extermination.

It was even better because this change brought Kevin back to Columbus at sixteen. I was elated—and so was my mom. My brother was bigger and stronger now, and now we had a "protector." And he was all of that to us. But that weight—and the pressures from the neighborhood came with its own set of issues—just new people. And here we were with another shift.

Within a short period of time, Kevin was cutting classes, hanging out with his friends, talking to girls—a true moment of adolescence. I can remember my mom walking joyously to my parent-teacher conferences while dreading Kevin's. His teachers would always blast her with negative scenarios—Kevin didn't do this. Kevin didn't do that. Except for his French class. He liked her. She saw him. He got an A in her class while failing nearly the rest.

My mom, desperate to save her son, sent him to live with my father—a father who I adore and will share more about in this book, but also a father who was absent. A father who I didn't know and had very few memories of. My brother was completely different. He remembered the family holidays, trips going fishing, and my dad's advice—which I got to appreciate later in life. This seemed like the best answer. So, she asked my father if Kevin could live with him in Fredericksburg, VA, and my dad accepted. I can remember my mom crying in the bus station, as she sent Kevin on the Greyhound and Kevin looking dejected.

But it wasn't long before Kevin was back. His challenges didn't work with my military father. There were certain expectations that had to be met, and before too long, Kevin was back with us on the Hilltop.

At nearly 18, he became a father—actually, that was one of the better things that happened to him. But still, the outside environment—the streets, the peer influences, the systemic inequities—offered louder promises and fewer protections. The opportunities that should have been within reach were nowhere to be found, and the pull of survival over education became too great to resist. More distractions, more danger, and more false promises. By the age of nineteen, he was convicted of drug distribution and sentenced to prison—three to five years. We were devastated.

I carry vivid memories of driving with my mom to visit Kevin in prison. I was only thirteen, but I'll never forget the cold feel of that entry room, the way we had to be searched, and the judgment that sometimes lingered in the eyes of the guards. It was a routine soaked in humiliation—waiting, being processed, sitting across from someone you love while trying to pretend it felt normal. It didn't. It felt heavy. Unnatural. Unjust. And even then, I knew—no child should have to witness their brother behind bars. No young man should be lost to a system that never tried to fully understand him.

My brother Kevin's story changed everything for me. His path into the criminal justice system wasn't a single misstep—it was a series of missed opportunities. I wanted to do something about it—to change things for him and for every young man I saw crushed behind bars. At first, I thought I would become a lawyer. But I realized that by the time I got there, it might already be too late. I knew I needed to be on the front lines—to be the person for children that my brother never had.

Kevin was, simply put, a brilliant man—misunderstood and mislabeled—who as a child, encountered classrooms that saw behavior but not brilliance. While Kevin was an excellent reader, the pressures of growing up in an environment—and an outside world—where literacy wasn't celebrated or reinforced shaped his path differently. He made a different choice—not because he lacked potential, but because the outside environment offered few pathways where that potential could thrive. His incarceration wasn't a personal failure. It was a systemic one. And it exposed a painful truth: if we fail to see a child, we do not just fail their education—we fail their future.

Kevin's story gave me a calling I could never walk away from. It is why I believe with unshakable urgency that literacy is not a luxury—it is a right. Because when a child can't read by third grade, their world begins to narrow. And too often, that narrowing becomes a sentence—sometimes literal, always life-altering.

The distance between those who overcome and those who are punished by the judicial system should not be so wide.

But it is—and that is more than unfair. It is the tale of two people: one navigating successfully, one not. One a girl. One a boy. Same home. Different outcomes.

Why did I achieve what he couldn't? It certainly wasn't because of intelligence. I often say my brother was more intelligent than I will ever be. The difference was the environment. Frankly put, it supported me more—not inside the home, but beyond it. And that made all the difference.

I was always supported and admired by teachers. I was accommodating and a hard worker; I listened and followed directions, while my brother challenged information. Yet, he was the same one who would go into class after cutting all week and ace the test—literally.

But I was studious. I looked the part. Education didn't just change my life—it saved it. It should have saved Kevin's too. But it didn't. Things were much different for me.

From my earliest days in Head Start to the hallways of an under-resourced high school, from Denison University to The Ohio State University, each milestone was more than a credential—it was a victory. Not a solitary one, but a collective triumph made possible by every teacher who saw me, every mentor who poured into me, every door that opened, and every obstacle that tried to close behind me. I've taken the stairs—every single one. And while some steps were steady and sure, others were taken on bruised knees with borrowed courage. But I climbed. And I carry the belief that our children can too—if we're willing to build the stairs and hold their hands as they rise.

That's why this book exists.

This book is part memoir, part manual. It's a mirror for those who've walked a similar path, a map for those still finding their way, and a movement for those ready to lead differently. It is a collection of lived experience and hard-won lessons, shaped by joy and sorrow, systems and stories. It will take you from the quiet heartbreak of unrealized dreams to the loud triumph of a school turnaround. From the classroom to the central office. From trauma to transformation.

You'll meet the people who shaped me—my mother, my brother, my family, my mentors, my friends, and my students. You'll walk with me through the painful truths and powerful breakthroughs that define real leadership. And you'll see how, when we root our leadership in love and truth, we don't just change policies—we change lives.

This book is for the educator losing sleep over a student they can't reach. For the new teacher, teaching in an environment starkly different from their own. For the policymaker who's forgotten the faces behind the data. For the child who still wonders if they belong. For the principal who dares to dream beyond compliance. For anyone who still believes that equity isn't just a word—it's a commitment we renew every day.

Because while this is the story of one girl's journey, it echoes the lives of millions—children still waiting to be seen, welcomed, and understood. Still waiting for someone to say: "You belong here. You matter. I see you."

Let this book be a mirror—for reflection.

Let it be a map—for direction.

Let it be a movement—for change.

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