Seven Years Later.

If you watch the video attached to this newsletter, you’ll see me speaking.

You’ll see my hands moving. You’ll see conviction in my face. You’ll see intensity in my posture.

But you won’t hear a word.

And that feels fitting.

Because seven years ago, the most important conversation wasn’t happening out loud.

It was happening inside me.

The Room

Seven years ago, I sat in rooms that felt bigger than me.

Polished tables. Impressive histories. Decades of banking experience across from me.

And there I was a former foster kid, trained in social work and theology, being considered to lead a financial institution.

There was a conversation happening inside me.

No one could hear it.

But it was the loudest voice in the room.

Who do you think you are? You didn’t grow up around this. You weren’t groomed for this.What if they realize you don’t belong?

I smiled. I answered questions. I spoke about strategy and vision.

But internally, I was fighting for alignment.

The Pressure

Then the board meetings began.

For a period during those first few years, they were intense.

Not just intellectually intense identity intense.

There were moments I would pray before walking in:

“God, let me be authentic. Let me be fully myself in this room. Don’t let me shrink. Don’t let me perform.”

Because sometimes it felt like the shadow of my past entered the room before I did.

Not because anyone said it directly.

But you can feel it.

The subtle evaluation. The measuring. The unspoken question of credibility.

Would my lived experience count? Or would it disqualify me?

Would my nonprofit background be seen as strength or weakness?

Every time I referenced nonprofit experience, someone would gently remind the room:

“We are a for-profit business.”

As if purpose and profit could not coexist. As if lived experience had no market value.

I remember the first time we produced a Community Impact Report highlighting the good work the bank was doing.

Some pushed back hard.

“We’re not in the storytelling business.”

“We’re not in the community business.”

But I believed we were.

Because banking is never just about balance sheets.

It’s about people.

There were moments I felt pressure to show up in someone else’s mold.

But it wasn’t my mold.

And I knew if I tried to lead from someone else’s design, I would fracture internally.

So I prayed.

Not for confidence.

For courage to remain authentic.

The Calling

Seven years is a long time to do something you never felt fully prepared to do.

But it is long enough to grow into the call.

People often ask me:

“What gave you the confidence?”

The honest answer?

I didn’t feel confident.

I felt called.

I don’t know that I had the confidence to lead.

But I had the calling.

And calling will carry you into rooms your confidence would never enter.

My confidence wasn’t rooted in my résumé.

It was rooted in my faith.

If the door was open, then apparently I was prepared even if I didn’t feel prepared.

I trusted that God would bring the right people into my life to strengthen the areas where I was weak.

And He did.

Calling doesn’t remove discomfort.

It invites expansion.

And expansion rarely feels comfortable at first.

What Seven Years Taught Me

Over these seven years, I’ve learned the difference between preparation and readiness.

Reframe preparation. Preparation is not knowing everything. It is being willing to learn anything.

Reclaim authenticity. Leadership is not about fitting someone else’s mold. It is about stewarding your own.

Rename fear. What feels like insecurity is sometimes growth. What feels like exposure is sometimes elevation.

Those intense seasons did not break me.

They formed me.

They forced me to anchor deeper. To separate performance from purpose. To lead not from fear of perception but from clarity of calling.

Did you catch that?

Not from fear of perception.

From clarity of calling.

Seven years later, I am still walking by faith.

Still learning. Still stretching. Still honoring the gift placed inside of me.

For Those Standing at the Edge

I speak to people all the time who are considering their next move.

They hesitate because they don’t feel fully prepared.

They worry about how they will be perceived.

They wonder if their background disqualifies them.

You may never feel fully prepared.

But you can choose to be ready.

Ready to grow. Ready to stretch. Ready to lead authentically even when the room feels unfamiliar.

Readiness is not perfection.

It is posture.

And authenticity is not a liability.

It is leadership.

Reflection

Where are you shrinking to fit someone else’s mold?

Where are you waiting for confidence instead of honoring the calling?

What if the pressure you feel is not meant to reshape you into someone else but to strengthen you into who you already are?

Seven years later, I am grateful.

Not because it was easy.

But because I did not abandon myself in the process.

Sometimes you don’t need more confidence.

Sometimes you simply need the courage to remain who you are and walk into the room anyway.

I celebrate the fact that a little orphan boy could go on to do some amazing things, with a lot of support from a lot of people. I pray for our country and for the world that we may see clearly, that we may understand history will judge us, and that we may continue the unfinished work of making room for all people. That aspiration is not new. It is the cornerstone of this country.

I’m grateful for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and for the men and women who sacrificed so much

so that I could even write this post,

so that I could glimpse what’s right in a world that once insisted I accept what was wrong,

so that I wouldn’t need permission to speak,

so that my presence wouldn’t be restricted or monitored,

so that my dignity wouldn’t be conditional,

so that foster care wouldn’t define me,

so that poverty wouldn’t confine me or shrink my imagination,

so that trauma wouldn’t finish me or have the final word,

so that survival wouldn’t be my ceiling or my identity,

so that I could be educated when education was once withheld,

so that I could attend schools and colleges that were once closed to people who looked like me,

so that I could learn without being told I didn’t belong,

so that I could work where I chose,

so that I could lead not just labor,

so that I could lead a bank when leadership in financial institutions was once unthinkable,

so that my background wouldn’t disqualify my calling,

so that shared economic prosperity could be more than an idea it could be built,

so that we could build businesses, create wealth, and do it in rural, suburban, and urban communities,

so that ownership wouldn’t be limited to a few zip codes or demographics,

so that opportunity could be multiplied not rationed,

so that we wouldn’t just consume what the world produces,

so that we would make things, real things, plants anchored in cities, communities producing what the country and the world need to survive and thrive,

so that I could live in any neighborhood I choose,

so that red lines wouldn’t determine my address or my future,

so that my home wouldn’t be dictated by fear or exclusion,

so that I could walk into rooms without explaining myself,

so that my voice wouldn’t need to be softened to be heard,

so that my faith could be practiced freely and openly,

so that my children could inherit more than resilience,

so that they could inherit agency, ownership, and possibility,

so that freedom wouldn’t just be remembered but lived, stewarded, and multiplied.

And with all of that freedom comes responsibility.

I feel personally responsible for helping people gain an economic footing but also for telling the truth that nothing is handed to any of us. Freedom does not remove accountability. It sharpens it. We are all responsible for the decisions we make with what we’ve been given.

The weight of stewardship sits heaviest for me in economics and finance. I believe we could do so much more if we lifted the lid, if we partnered more creatively with one another and with the broader community. Shared prosperity doesn’t happen by accident. It requires intention, courage, and collaboration.

I often think about wasting freedom the same way I think about wasting oxygen. It isn’t just careless, it’s deadly.

If we don’t act, the next generation risks being locked out, not because they aren’t capable, but because they haven’t fully reckoned with the economic reset that artificial intelligence and technological change will bring. Preparation, ownership, and adaptability will matter more than ever.

When my children and others who come after me, look back, I want them to say I did the best I could with what I was given. That I didn’t make excuses. That I had flaws, for sure but I ran through the tape.

I’m focused on leaving banking better than I found it. On creating alternative ways for leaders to gain knowledge, perspective, and confidence—so their growth doesn’t have to be as hard or as narrow as what many of us experienced.

Success beyond my life looks like someone recalling my name and saying it had a positive impact on them, and on society.

One of the things I love about this country is that, despite the pain and the confusion, we have always had a process. A way to challenge injustice. A system imperfect, yes but one that allows grievances to be heard and legitimacy to be pursued. Courts matter. Institutions matter. Accountability matters.

What concerns me is how often we confuse access with ownership, and presence with power. We’ve done well corporately—but too often we haven’t figured out how to convert that success into ownership, either individually or collectively.

Civil rights, for me, have always been about both justice and economics. Equality on paper means little if it isn’t practiced in rooms, in decisions, and in opportunity. The question isn’t what’s written, it’s what’s built.

Because of the sacrifices of those before me, I refuse to stop moving, stop growing, or stop pushing for excellence. I refuse to stop pushing for accountability among individuals, institutions, and the systems we operate in.

The most faithful way I can honor Dr. King’s legacy today is to carry forward his message around economics ensuring more people have access not just to financial literacy, but to financial resources that help them go to the next level.

There is a lot happening in our country and in the world right now. And in this season, each of us has a responsibility. To ensure our voices are heard. To stand up. To march. To invest. To build. To support what we want to see go forward.

Because this freedom doesn’t just belong to us. It belongs to what we choose to do with it.