Five years ago, I wrote a letter called, “America Whooped My Ass And I Still Smile.”
It was raw. It was vulnerable. It was the truth of a young Black man, sitting in a wheelchair after being shot by police, trying to figure out how to hold anger and hope in the same hand.
Today, five years later, I’m still smiling—but this smile is different. It’s stronger. It’s wiser. It’s been weathered by more hard conversations, more losses, more moments where it felt like the weight of being Black in America might crush me. But it didn’t. It can’t.
This letter is part two—because the story isn’t over.
I spoke with my mentor and his wife at the Urban League of Greater Pittsburgh’s annual gala—two people who embody Black excellence at the highest level. People who have led with grace, intelligence, and heart. But even they, with all their strength and wisdom, admitted they’ve nearly reached their breaking point. That conversation sat heavy on my chest. If they feel this pressure, this frustration, this exhaustion… what about the rest of us? What about the young leaders trying to carry entire communities on their backs, while dodging policy attacks, microaggressions, and open violence from an administration that seems hellbent on breaking us?
I know that weight. I carry it, too. But I’ve learned something important—both as a Black man and as a wheelchair user. I’ve learned that I can’t expect the world to make room for me. The world will not adjust its structures, its attitudes, or its barriers out of kindness. I walk—or rather, roll —into every room expecting to have to advocate for myself. I expect to be overlooked—or to be looked down on—literally—as able bodies tower over me. I expect to fight for space. And when I find that someone has made room? I am grateful. But I never get comfortable. Because comfort can make you forget that the world wasn’t built with you in mind.
Black people, we’ve known this for generations. This country was not built for us—it was built on us. And yet, we have created beauty, brilliance, and culture from the cracks in the foundation. Out of adversity, we birthed the blues. Out of oppression, we gave the world jazz. Out of pain, we painted masterpieces. Out of struggle, we choreographed movements that made the world stop and watch. Strength and joy are not luxuries for us—they are survival tools. They are part of our DNA. Epigenetically, the joy and strength our ancestors cultivated in the face of terror now live in us as instinct—a coded reminder that we were born to overcome, to create, and to thrive.
I still have anger. I won’t lie about that. But I point it in the direction of healing. I aim it at change. I use it to fuel action, not destruction. And I urge you to do the same.
We are living through a time where the attacks on Black bodies, Black voices, and Black futures are loud and relentless. The anxiety, sadness, and fear are real. But so is our power. So is our resilience. And resilience is not just about getting back up—it’s about dancing while you do it.
It’s about laughing, even when the world tells you there’s nothing funny. It’s about loving deeply, even when you’ve been taught to protect your heart at all costs.
Some of our finest leaders are tired. Some of our strongest are feeling weak. And I get it. I see you. But let this be a reminder: you were built for this. Our ancestors survived worse with less. We are not just their descendants; we are their wildest dreams in motion. They handed us the torch, and yes—it’s heavy. But it’s also holy. We have a spiritual obligation to rise—we’re anointed.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know: we’re in this together. None of us are meant to carry this weight alone. Check on each other. Hold each other. Laugh together. Cry if you need to. But then, stand tall (or roll forward) with your head high, your heart open, and your joy intact. Lift your head up, fix your posture and remember who you are.
The reality of our existence is this: the world will not make room for us. So we build our own rooms. We write our own music. We tell our own stories. We smile—not because we’re naïve, but because joy is rebellion. Joy is protection. Joy is proof that we are still here, still whole, still unstoppable.
I’m not writing this letter from a place of defeat. I’m writing it from a place of power. A place of community. A place of faith in us.
America is still whooping our ass—but I promise you this: we will smile louder, move smarter, build stronger, and love harder. And in doing so, we will thrive.
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