What if your 8-year-old self walked into your office today?
Would they be amazed by the view, or confused by the silence in your soul?

When I was eight, my idea of fun was throwing rocks in alleyway battles.
Food was often on my mind, not snacks for pleasure, but meals for survival.
I wasn’t thinking about college. I wasn’t thinking about corporate boards.
I certainly wasn’t thinking about serving on national commissions or leading complex organizations.

I was just trying to make it through the day.

I remember those nights as a young boy, cold and hungry, staring at the empty oven that was used to heat the apartment up, wondering if this was it, if this was all life had for me. I didn’t have language for “vision,” but I had daydreams. I imagined something different. Not better, just different.

Second grade was hard.
I didn’t go to school as often as I should have, and when I did, I struggled.
Miss Vaughn, my teacher, held me back.
And to this day, I’m grateful she did.
Because I wasn’t ready.
I needed someone to see me, to slow things down long enough so I could catch my breath.

Back then, my world was narrow.
I saw the world on a small screen, TV characters like Erik Estrada from CHiPs and J.R. Ewing from Dallas.
But even then, there were unspoken rules: people like me didn’t get to be J.R.
People like me didn’t sit at those tables.
At least, that’s what I thought.

But here I am today.

I lead.
I sit on corporate boards.
I engage with government, business, and nonprofit leaders across the country.
I speak into systems that once tried to silence me.

I’ve built a life of purpose, influence, and impact, not because I knew it was possible, but because I held onto one thing: imagination.

If you can create it in your mind, you can carry it in your heart. And what you carry in your heart, you can bring into the world.

I get emotional when I think about how far I’ve come, not because I’m surprised I made it, but because for so long, I didn’t even know where I was going.
I just knew I had to keep going.

There were moments, boardroom moments, where I questioned if I belonged.
When I heard my inner 8-year-old whisper: “This room wasn’t built for you.”
But then I remembered: that little boy survived worse. He had no title, no degree, no platform, but he had vision. He had hope.

Through public victories and private struggles, I’ve stayed the course.
And that’s something I’m deeply proud of.
Not the titles. Not the accolades.
But the fact that I didn’t quit.
That I kept walking,even when I couldn’t see the path.

And now, I want to ask you:

What would your 8-year-old self think of you now?

Would they be proud?
Surprised?
Disappointed?
Would they even recognize you?

Maybe your version wasn’t food insecurity.
Maybe it was doubt.
Or loneliness in a crowd of people who didn’t get you.
But I bet there’s a version of eight-year-old you that still remembers what it’s like to dream without limits.

The little boy in me would marvel.
He’d whisper, “We did what?”
He’d remind me that the journey isn’t just about ambition, it’s about faith to hold onto something better and imagination to believe it’s possible.

The little boy in me didn’t dream of a legacy, but now I know: our lives can be ladders for someone else’s climb.

You may feel stuck right now.
You may feel unseen, undervalued, or off-course.

But hear me:

Tomorrow is a new day.
And we need what you’re meant to contribute to the world.

We need your vision.
Your voice.
Your story.

Because someone else’s imagination is waiting on your example to wake theirs up.

So let me leave you with this:

What would your 8-year-old self be proud of, or disappointed by?
And more importantly, what would they dare you to imagine next?

You’ve come further than you think.
Now imagine what happens when you lead from that little kid’s courage.
Because someone, somewhere, is watching you, and learning how to dream.

🟦 Join the Conversation

What would 8-year-old you want you to remember today?
Drop a comment below or connect with me on LinkedIn to keep the conversation going.