The truth about why I became a therapist

Therapy is Hard. How do I know? Because I needed it (and I only say that in the past tense temporarily). 

Growing up, Sheila Wortham was terrified to raise me. You probably have two questions: "Who is Sheila Wortham" and "Why was she afraid to raise you?" Sheila Wortham is my mom. At the age of  21, the single mother of two had seen firsthand the realities and dangers of raising a young Black man. Growing up in the hood, she didn't just see black men get killed, harassed by police, or jailed — she lived it.  At the age of 16 she lost her dad to tragedy.

A few years later, a still grieving Sheila made it her mission to find what she called: a positive, Black male role model for me AND to your surprise, I hated it. 

She searched tirelessly — for therapists upon therapists, mentorship programs (a success story that we'll discuss later), and sought her damnedest to find the RIGHT person. 

Every time I heard, the phrase "a positive Black male role model" my stomach turned. I hated the phrase, I hated that my mom didn't think I was good on my own,  and I hated that she didn't believe in her ability to raise me. 

Needless to say, Sheila was right about one thing, I needed someone. 

I found myself in and out of trouble for years. So much so that it was a surprise for people because they couldn't wrap their minds around how this good kid who got good grades was constantly in the principal's office. 

Life began to change when a couple people believed in me and breathed hope into this young lost kid. 

Life turned around as I skated through high school as the class clown and through college playing intramurals. But when it came time to graduate, reality hit.

I was a first-generation college student with hopes and dreams of law school—however, here I was in the final semester of my senior year  of college, realizing that I had done absolutely nothing to prepare for it. No LSAT. No applications. Nothing.

Out of fear—fear of the unknown, fear of leaving the comfort of school— fear of having to go back home to southwest Florida — I decided to find another option. I enrolled in a Master’s program in Higher Education Leadership at Valdosta State University, convincing myself that if I couldn’t be a lawyer, at least I could help students navigate their own paths.

Fast forward a few years, that decision cracked open doors I never expected. That Master’s program led to a job at LSU, which led me to another realization: I needed to do more. I needed to find a way to help people in a deeper, more meaningful way.

So, I pursued a second Master’s in Clinical Mental Health Counseling knowing that one day I would open my own counseling practice— something I never could have imagined 20+ years earlier when I was that lost kid sitting in the principal’s office.

Life finds a way of pressing the pause button every once in a while — just a couple of days ago, I got two phone calls. Both from mothers. Both saying nearly the same thing:

"I've been looking for a Black male counselor for my son."

I smiled.

Because I knew exactly why they were calling. I knew the fear in their voices. I knew the weight of their search. I knew EXACTLY what it was like to be that boy.

And now? I get to be the person I once needed.

3 Reasons why 2019 was worse than 2020

Dorothy. Shovondia. Clairmil.

Three names that may mean nothing to you but everything to me. Three loved ones, gone—one by one—in just three months of 2019. Three losses that sent me into a mental fog for nearly three years.

Dorothy battled Alzheimer’s for almost a decade. We knew she didn’t have long, but she fought for every single day she had left. That was just who she was. A fighter. Even as the disease chipped away at her memories, she held on, refusing to let go. Until she couldn’t anymore. She went first.

I called Von a couple days after, an excuse to talk after our disagreement in December. That short conversation would be our last.

Losing her shattered me.

Von was my built-in best friend—solid as a rock, strong like Superman, unshakable like an ox. She wasn’t supposed to leave. She wasn’t supposed to leave. She wasn’t supposed to leave.

Shock. Loss. Confusion. Shock again.

Waves of emotions that never ceased. Waves upon waves, crashing over me before I even had the chance to catch my breath.

After two weeks, the world moves on. People stop checking in. They stop asking how you’re doing. Maybe they don’t want to remind you. Maybe they don’t know what to say. Maybe they think grief has an expiration date. But it doesn’t. It lingers. It latches onto you.

Clairmil never forgot.

Our last conversation happened unintentionally at the same time Von and I always spoke—Friday at 4:30 p.m. I wasn’t okay. I didn’t want to talk—to him or anyone. I wanted the weekend to start so I could escape. But big bro knew my heart. He knew the one thing that would get me to engage: a conversation about investing for his family.

That was the last time we spoke.

Then he was gone shortly after.

This time, I wasn’t even able to feel the pain. I was numb.

I remember squinting my eyes, repeating What!? over and over again, as if saying it enough times would make it untrue. As if the words themselves would somehow undo reality. Even now, I still shake my head in disbelief.

Clairmil nor his family got the grief they deserved from me. Because every time I thought of him, I thought of Von, then I thought of Grams. I thought of loss. And when grief stacks like that, it doesn’t just get heavy—it buries you.

I needed safety.

I became a hermit, just like the ones Von kept. I disappeared into myself. I stayed that way for years—like a computer in safe mode: functional, but not really. Moving through life, but not living it. Numb. Empty. Never present. Searching for a way out of every conversation because all I wanted to do was be alone.

Depressed? Yes.  Hurt? Yes. But more than that, I was mourning.

I was sad. I was lost. I was confused.

Not questioning God. Never asking why. But deeply, deeply confused.

Then came COVID.

An excuse to isolate. To hide. To shut down. An excuse for unintentional space and distance.

COVID gave me that, but it also gave me a series of blows: a bad move, a terrible job, a toxic boss, two failed relationships.

Then, came peace. Finally—peace.

A new job. A new home. A return to myself. Self-love. Therapy. Therapy. Therapy.

Not just surviving. THRIVING.

Not just getting by. TRANSFORMING.

Not just existing. LIVING.

Being an Athlete at the Highest Level Isn’t What You Think

How do I know?

Because I see it. Every day. Up close and personal.

I see the awkward smiles pushing through crowds, searching for a familiar face—looking for safety.

I see the mornings that begin with 5:30am workouts and the nights that don’t end until after 9pm meetings.

I see the vultures circling.

I see the bright-eyed strangers who just want a glimpse, to get up close and personal.

I see the exhaustion.

I see the tired eyes stuck between craving calmness and chasing more.

Want a hot take?

Student-Athletes are the most vulnerable population on college campuses.

Even more than that.

Athletes—especially those from communities similar mine, those that we call “underserved communities” whose lives are shaped by generational trauma, poverty, and systemic disenfranchisement—are the most vulnerable people in the world.

Why?

Because they simply don’t know.

They don’t know who to trust.

They don’t know who to call.

They don’t know what to do—or where to go.

They don't know where to start. 

So they search for safety, hope, and direction in anyone and anything.

“Oh, you can help my son get to the league? You’ll have his best interest in mind? You’ll surround him with a positive support system and every resource imaginable?”

Yet, here he is, too exhausted to even take advantage of the moment you sold him.

So What’s the Myth?

From the outside looking in, athletes aren’t just admired—they’re mythologized.

We don’t see people. We see superheroes. We see: Superman. The Hulk. The Flash.

For male athletes, society paints you as the full package: tall, strong, dominant, a natural protector, a future lottery ticket. The golden ticket to generational wealth and prosperity —for your family, your community, your legacy.

For female athletes, it’s no different. You’re seen as powerful, desirable, confident, polished. You’re supposed to have it all together.

For both, the world is at your fingertips. 

You’re told you’re blessed. Gifted. Talented.

And because of that, life must be easy, right?

Wrong.

That fantasy only applies to a small fraction of athletes. Maybe 1 in 5, if that.

The rest? I mean the majority. Well, they’re navigating a system that doesn’t see them as people—just as performance tools. Assets. Highlights. ROI. Parlays. 

Why Do We Keep Failing Them?

Is it because athletic ability becomes a substitute for academic rigor?

Is it because we mistake a touchdown celebration for emotional stability?

Is it because their charisma convinces us they’re okay?

Do we become so starstruck by their physical gifts that we forget to ask about the person inside the helmet?

What about their home life?

What about the predators that surround them?

What about the anxiety and depression they’re too afraid to discuss?

What about them?!

We praise their strength but we ignore their struggles.

We minimize their pain—because we bask in their victory.

We forget they’re human.

Even more so… We forget they’re kids.

Athletes Aren’t Superheroes.

They bleed.

They break.

They feel.

But too often, temporary success becomes a replacement for lifelong development.

We don’t check in. 

We don’t ask the deeper questions.

We don’t hold space for their full selves.

So Who’s Failing Them?

Is it the athlete? The coach? The administrator? Society?

Or is it a combination of all of us?

We all play a role—whether we’re upholding a broken system or failing to disrupt it.

The Answer?

Maybe the answer starts with a mindset shift:

Stop seeing the athlete first,

Stop seeing the product and result, and

Start seeing the person.

The one who’s scared.

The one who’s overwhelmed.

The one who’s growing and figuring it out in real time, on one of the brightest stages in the world.  

This isn’t about excuses.

Nor is it about deflecting accountability or dismissing responsibility.

It’s about raising the bar for everyone—but doing so with love, care, and compassion.

In an era where social media magnifies every misstep and “twitter fingers” hides behind their phones in grandma’s basement, ready to berate and cancel young athletes for five-second decisions—we need to do better.

We need to look beyond the highlight reels.

We need to remember the person inside the jersey.

Growing up, style ran in my family in ways I didn’t fully understand until I made it my own.

From an early age, fashion was a part of my life. What I didn’t realize at the time was that in her brief stint in college, my mom had majored in fashion, and years later my sister would follow her path, double majoring in Fashion and Psychology at Clark Atlanta, a decision I wouldn’t fully appreciate until much later.

Fashion became personal as I started discovering my own style. As a child, we didn’t have much, but fashion quickly and easily became my outlet. In high school, I spent a lot of time around my mom’s job at United Way, pretending it was a class elective for On the Job Training, though I often skipped school when I wasn’t there. Whenever United Way received boxes of unsold Izod polos, my mom would bring them home for me to pick through, no matter the size or color. Around that same time, Kanye popularized layered polos with popped collars, while Nelly and the St. Lunatics made backward jerseys and crisp white Air Force 1s iconic. Since I couldn’t afford the clothes I wanted, I learned to make the most of what I had. So there I was mixing Ye and Nelly in my own attempts at style, pairing a fresh polo with crisp white Forces as my staple look. Even before the yellow “Live Strong” bracelets became a trend, I wore knockoff Nike hair ties as bracelets to match my outfits, and people constantly asked me where I got them. The answer was simple: the Dollar Store. Other times, I would coordinate colorful visors from Walmart with my outfits. Being the youngest in the household also taught me the importance of taking care of what was mine. I washed and ironed my clothes so they always looked fresh, scrubbed sneakers with hotel bar soap, a trick I still use today, and kept white shoes spotless with a touch of bathroom cleaner.

That foundation carried me into the next stage of my life. In 2012, when I moved to Georgia for graduate school, I discovered fashion on another level. I met a group of brothers who were always a step ahead of the curve. Whether it was Polos, Jordans, or Cole Haan tassel loafers, they were consistently dressed and pressed. What I realized was that fashion wasn’t just about clothes for them, it was a gateway into late-night conversations about growth, vision, and the lives we wanted to build as husbands, fathers, doctors, and professionals in corporate America. Those conversations built an everlasting brotherhood that still exists today.

As I transitioned into my professional career, fashion followed me to LSU. At first, I leaned into the Eurocentric standard of pressed shirts, ties, short hair, and clean-shaven faces. Then 2020 happened. Like many, I adjusted to “business on top, sweatpants on the bottom,” experimenting with a beard and longer hair. Returning to in-person work and transitioning into collegiate athletics pushed me to embrace a new philosophy. I wanted to be myself and do what I loved: professional yet casual, fashionable yet comfortable. The more comfortable I became with myself, the quality of my work, and trusting my coworkers, the more freedom I felt to experiment with my style. I tried new things, not to fit in, but as an extension of my growth and confidence. While I never truly cared about blending in, I understood the importance of balance between professionalism and my preference for subtle, clean, elegant looks that reflect both individuality and authenticity.

What I love about fashion is that it reflects who you are. When Coach Prime coined one of his most famous lines, it struck me deeply, first as a young athlete and later as a professional. To be the flyest, the sharpest, the most put-together always meant something. Either you showed up with your A-game, or you didn’t show up at all. I live by the belief that how you do anything is how you do everything. My style has always been a way of saying without words: I’m here, I’m prepared, and I expect the same in return.

Clothing speaks before you do. For me, what you see is what you get: confidence, boldness, elegance, and sophistication. But beyond that, fashion is also a way to honor your culture, express your individuality, and show that professional attire doesn’t erase who you are. Fashion is about more than style. Fashion is about embracing authenticity, creating space for everyone to show up fully, and redefining what professional elegance can look like for you.

COMING SOON

COMING SOON