And I’m sitting in the corner office.  At the table, if only physically.  And they begin to introduce themselves by the names of prestigious colleges they have attended and friends that connect them from States and countries I have not visited and Boards I do not sit on.  Here, I realize, there are borders – and I’m not sure if they are internal or external or even borders at all.  But if a border is wall – it is up and I am holding my ear to it trying to learn about the other side.  Me and them – we took different paths – they, the well-thought out, planned approach and mine the fighting path, the surviving path, the dirt under your nails, bags under your eyes, affirmation reading, prayer seeking, cross your fingers, push through no matter what path.  And all of our paths have led us to this table where I don’t belong. Borders.  Borders no one talks about.  Borders I continue to reinforce with silence and self-doubt.

I wrote that while sitting in a small cafe in Chicago in 2016, just before applying for the Surge Fellowship.

In the Story of my Life, there will be a before and after Surge.

I grew up in the hood in Chicago – Humboldt Park USA – to Carlos and Christina Neris.

On the day I was born, my father – a Latin King – had my name tattooed in old English across his left arm – with a crown to dot the eye, of course.

In our neighborhood he was known as Nut Nut – what’s interesting about being Nut Nut’s daughter is that I grew up in the hood, but not of the hood…couldn’t get off of the front porch

He was my protector.

My father took his own life just 2 years before I started the Surge Fellowship – he was only 53. The coroner’s report indicated a single self-inflicted gunshot wound as his cause of death – but I know better.

The truth is it wasn’t one wound – it was many.

His story is a familiar one – grow up in poverty, be black or brown, join a gang to feel a sense of belonging, get arrested, become a felon – get thrown away. 

One issue begets another – can’t find a job, inability to provide for your family, feel depressed, turn to alcohol and drugs – take your life. 

He died of shame – and I am his legacy.

(also known as, Embracing Discomfort: The Path to Fulfilling Your Purpose)

I’m thinking about what it means to move into action.

I can’t help but reflect on the unrealized brilliance that exists in so many of our communities. Everyone has that one uncle who, between sips of rum and billowing smoke, shares his dreams. We all have that elder who looks back in old age reflecting on dreams deferred. Vision.  We aren’t short on vision, but execution is a pilgrimage. So many never make it out alive.

And so I’m thinking about moving into action and considering the advice I’d give my little girl self. I would tell her to step into it. To have courage. I would remind her that no one can think like she thinks, no one can do what she is predestined to do in the earth. I would tell her to work for it —- to embrace discomfort. I would remind her that discipline is better than motivation and that anything worth attaining doesn’t come without sacrifice. I would tell her to do it for an audience of one. 

I would remind her that the road map is already in her and that all the fellowships and accomplishments won’t shift her into her purpose if she doesn’t move. Leap. Take the chance. Seize the moment. Bet on her.