While the Community Celebrated, I Was Learning to Breathe Again

I’ve never really spoken about this out loud. I’ve carried it quietly. Prayed through it. Worked through it. And in some ways, I’m still working through it. But I believe it’s time.

I remember the season my life turned sideways, the world kept spinning — but I stood still.

It started August 2018.
My father passed away.
He was my guy. My sideline presence. The man who never missed a game, even if he was running between two homes and juggling his own life. I used to look for him in the bleachers before every tip-off — and he was always there. Always cheering, even on my worst days. That’s the way he loved me.

But life didn’t slow down. Basketball fall league had started, and I leaned in, because the gym was always my safe haven. We started the season, set our goal to get back to Tournament of Champions and win.

We were deep in the middle of the season. My girls were focused, determined, still nursing the sting of the previous year’s loss in the TOC finals. We set high standards in practices, treated every game like it was win or go home— but then the tragic loss of my mother came, and everything stopped. For me at least. 

Less than 6 months after my father, January 2019.
My Mother gone.
Mommy used to call me her rock. I had carried so much of her, from my childhood into my grown-up life. She depended on me for stability, and I always made myself available for her even when I knew my cup was bone-dry. Losing her felt like losing a piece of my heart. That ache? It burned every inch of me.

I remember sitting in my car before telling the girls. I was wiping tears, rehearsing how to say the words out loud.
“My mother died yesterday.”
Saying it out loud felt like swallowing glass.
I prayed, hard: God, please. Give me strength. Don’t let me break down in front of them.

When I walked through the back of that locker room, their faces told me they already knew something was wrong. And with a shaking voice, I told them.

Their response? Pure love.
They hugged me, they said, “We got you.”
No questions. No heavy expectations. Just… love.

That moment healed a part of me I didn’t even know was bleeding. Therapy offered me some clarity.

I was terrified to go back to practice after my mother’s funeral. Terrified I wouldn’t be able to fake my strong face. But when I stepped in the gym, they clapped. Smiled. They gave me back pieces of myself.
I felt held. Appreciated. That changed me.

We went on to do something historic — 34 wins, zero losses, a championship run and legacy no other girls’ team in New Jersey has done. It’s an amazing achievement, that I am so proud of. Holding the trophy, standing mid-court (Rutgers University) surrounded by warrior nation was everything we had worked for.

But for me, it was bittersweet. Experiencing the journey with players and coaches I love, it became my daily rhythm. My permission to breathe. It revived me, one practice at a time.

The season ended.
There were no more games, no more timeouts, no more locker-room chatter.

Just me and my grief. And the quiet.

Then, December 31, 2019 — another gut punch.

A text. Samaad was killed.
I immediately saw his face, those bright eyes, that smile that soften my heart. My heart ached.
He found me back in 2015, looking for skills, but we found so much more. He found belonging. Someone who saw him. And I found a reminder of why I coach.

He text before Christmas, saying he lost his way, depressed, frustrated and wanted to get back in the gym.
He needed guidance. Wanted to be in space he felt encouraged.
He wanted to fix things, rewrite his wrongs.

We made plans. After New Year’s. But he never got there.
Bullets don’t pause for hope. They don’t wait for redemption.
They just… take.

I was so angry.
So heartbroken.
I felt cheated — like he’d been cheated, like his mother had been robbed.
I was asked to read at his funeral on January 11, the same day my mother passed the year before. It felt like a cruel test of strength.

And I stood there asking God:
How many more? How do we heal the aching young hearts? How do we redirect pain into intention?
How many more mothers have to carry the pain of burying their sons?

Samaad wasn’t perfect, but he was trying. Trying to find his way. Trying to be better. Trying to grow up. He needed more time. He was only nineteen.

Our journey cracked me open in a way I can’t fully describe. The call-out for help, setting up a time day and never getting the chance to support nor guide his journey.

I realized — our kids don’t just need skills & drills (sport). They need mentors. They need spaces where they feel seen. Where someone believes in them, even when they doubt themselves.

They need encouragement, yes — but they also need life guidance too.

I made a promise to Samaad I’d keep showing up. That I’d speak louder, love harder, advocate more fiercely.

Looking back, I understood how God placed beautiful people around me — from my players/assistant coaches — to my village — to my wife; to remind me that I was never truly alone.

My girls showed me what grace looks like when you’re breaking.
My friends & family reminded me that strength is not about pretending.
And God… God gave me just enough hope to get up every day.

I’ve learned that healing isn’t about forgetting.
It’s about letting love find you — again and again — until you remember who you are.

I am grateful — grateful for what I went through, for what it taught me, and for where it has led me. I’m thankful to God for every opportunity to keep doing what I love, but doing it with meaningful intention.

The heartbreak and the triumphs have drawn me closer to my purpose, closer to my faith, and more connected to my spirit than ever before. I’m not who I was before all this — and for that, I give thanks. Because from the ashes of loss, God helped me rise, reminded me to choose love, and showed me that every day is a new chance to walk in grace, on purpose, with my whole heart.

I share this now because I was able to push through and I want you to push through.
—your story matters. your journey matters.

I didn’t just arrive at this place of peace.
I fought my way here. Through grief. Through doubt.
Through nights that broke me and mornings that asked me to lead anyway.

While you’re in the storm, you don’t feel strong. You just feel tired.
But strength is not about holding it all together.
It’s about allowing yourself to be loved, especially when you feel unlovable.
It’s about choosing healing when pain feels more familiar.

That’s what the ’25 ‘Choose Love‘ journey is about:
Choosing to lead with love.
To let others pour into your cup when yours is bone dry.
To remember that even when life wounds you, love will find you.

Because love — real, raw, imperfect love — will always meet you right where you are, and teach you how to breathe again.