The yoga mat is still rolled up by the door, the scent of eucalyptus and lavender lingering in the room, but my mind was already moving. I had just finished a long, slow yoga flow—the kind where you’re forced to sit in the tension of a pose until your muscles scream for release. Afterward, I laid still and did some ‘breathe’ work while embracing the quiet, the kind of quiet that allows new thoughts in, just me listening.
Quiet air. That early morning silence that feels like God is already awake and waiting on you to finally listen.
As I asked myself deeper questions than usual this morning, I couldn’t help but wonder… when did we start believing that the only wins that count are the ones people can see? When did becoming “new you” start meaning we had to erase who we used to be? We’ve become a culture that wants the breakthrough without the breakdown. The promise without the process. The testimony without the tension.
But if the court has taught me anything—if life has taught me anything—it’s that authority doesn’t come from applause. It comes from endurance. You can’t command a group if you’ve never had to find your footing while the ground was shaking beneath you.
2025 was quiet like that. Not loud wins or headline moments, just deep, soul-stretching work.
It was the year I realized that the unseen work & choosing love—the prayers whispered through tired tears, the discipline when nobody was watching, the internal battles fought in the mirror—matters just as much as the visible wins. I learned that purpose outlasts applause every single time. Reflection isn’t a hobby; it’s survival. And I finally understood that remaining isn’t weakness. Remaining is strength.
It’s funny how maturity teaches you to honor what your younger self tried to outrun.
I used to think being a Point Guard was about controlling the game. Calling the play. Leading the team to the win. I didn’t realize God was quietly using that role to prepare me for the title of Coach. See, a player sees the play, but a Coach sees the person. And you can’t really see people until you’ve learned how to look at yourself without the jersey, without the title, and without the scoreboard.
Some mornings, my mind drifts back to that ten-year-old girl with the heavy heart and the basketball. My house was loud with the wrong kind of noise—addiction casting long shadows, and a weight of responsibility (sister and mother) landing on shoulders way too small to carry it. I remember the nights of hiding money behind light switches just to make sure we’d make it through the week. Everything felt unstable—except the rhythm of a ball hitting the court.
My father pushed me under those flickering ‘alley’ lights until my arm hurt and my eyes filled with tears. I hated the grind then. I thought he was being hard. Now I see he was handing me a survival kit. He wasn’t just teaching me a free throw; he was teaching me how to remain when everything inside you wants to quit.
That same intensity followed me onto every court I’ve ever stepped on. As a Point Guard, I learned how to lead in chaos and trust my instincts when fear tried to hijack my voice. The court became a mirror—showing me that the same grit that helped me survive my childhood was the same grit God would use to walk me into my destiny.
Somewhere between those streetlights and the elite gyms of the Nike EYBL, something shifted. Basketball gave me access. It gave me rooms I never imagined entering. The wins were loud, but the calling stayed quiet and steady underneath it all. I’ve traded the “hustle” of trying to make it out for the “vision” of knowing exactly where we’re going. That requires a different kind of surrender.
Lately, what’s been pressing on my heart is that this calling was never meant to stop with me. As Passion 4 Youth approaches its 10th year of service, I feel the weight and the beauty of legacy work. It’s about showing young people—especially our young girls—that discipline, faith, and consistency can change the entire trajectory of a life. Every conversation with a parent, every athlete who realizes they are capable of more than their environment told them—that is the real scoreboard.
Mastering the call means letting go of the version of leadership that only feels successful when it’s visible. It means trusting that obedience compounds even when no one is clapping.
So, here is my note to self for 2026, written in real ink, not highlight reels:
- Stay anchored.
- Lead with intentional love, not just convenient love.
- Protect your focus like it’s sacred.
- Keep building people, not just platforms.
- Remain faithful to the vision—even when it asks more of you than you expected.
If you’re stepping into this year feeling behind, overlooked, or just plain tired—hear me clearly: The game isn’t rigged against you. The King of Kings is still coaching your life. Your past isn’t a penalty; it’s the blueprint of your resilience. It’s proof you survived what was meant to stop you.
Stay on assignment. Stay in the work. Stay obedient when the noise gets loud. The world is simply waiting on the manifestation of what God has already finished.
And somewhere right now, a kid is bouncing a ball under gym lights… not knowing yet that they’re already becoming someone who will change the game for somebody else. That’s how legacy starts.
Quiet. Faithful. Unseen.
Just like this morning.