Lincoln, Nebraska.
White. Almost entirely white.
White neighborhoods. White classrooms. White churches. White everything as far as I could see. I did not choose that life. I was a baby. But I spent the better part of two decades trying to figure out how to live in it.
My parents loved me. That was never the question. What was missing was the preparation. Nobody had given them a map for what I would face, and nobody had given me the language to tell them what I was carrying.
I'm telling you this because I want you to understand where I was. And what I needed.
What I already knew.
Every Sunday morning I knew what was coming before we even pulled into the parking lot. Trinity United Methodist Church in Lincoln, Nebraska. White walls, white faces, and me. I was somewhere between eight and twelve years old during the years that stand out the most, and I can still smell that building. I can still feel every set of eyes in that Sunday school room landing on me the second I walked in.
Nobody had to say anything. I already knew what I was. I was the only one.
I wasn't thinking about the lesson. I was already planning my escape before the hour even started. Between Sunday school and the main service, they'd open the fellowship hall, and that's where I found the only comfort that room had to offer me. Cookies and punch. I'd grab as many as I could hold. Not because I was hungry. Because it gave me something to do with my hands. Food was always my friend in those moments.
That's the part I want you to sit with. Not because I know what your child's experience looks like. But because I knew mine, and I never said a word about it. Not once. The fact that you're here tells me you're the kind of parent who wants to know.
"I used to stand in front of the mirror and cry. I didn't know what I was looking at. Nobody around me looked like me. Nobody talked about it. And after a while, the silence started to feel like an answer."— Michael Gaither
Read that again. Then ask yourself: does my child have someone in their life who sees them fully and reflects that back with pride? Not tolerance. Not curiosity. Pride.
What an explosion is actually saying.
I was twelve years old the summer everything came out at once. My mom raised her voice at me over chores. That was all it took. Something left my body in that moment. Whatever I had been holding together just let go all at once.
I threw lamps. I knocked over chairs. I went into the kitchen and broke every dish I could reach on the floor. I emptied the refrigerator. I was screaming so loud I lost my voice. My mom ran outside to the front yard. I chased her and shoved her into the bushes. A neighbor yelled at me. The police caught up to me running down the street. I ended up in a mental health facility in Omaha. My parents had dropped me off and left.
Now I hated them even more.
That explosion had nothing to do with chores. What came out that day had been building for years. I was tired of explaining my family to every person who looked at us sideways. I was tired of the stares. I was tired of working so hard every single day just to get through spaces that were never built with me in mind. I was a twelve-year-old boy who had no choice in any of it, paying the price for decisions I had no say in.
So if you're ever in a moment like that one, I need you to slow down before you ask how do we stop this. That is the wrong first question. The right first question is: what has this child been carrying, and how long have they been carrying it alone?
The difference one person made.
After Omaha, I came back home and eventually started at Lefler Jr. High School. That's where I walked into a PE class and met Mr. Tim Carroll, the first Black teacher I had ever had in my entire life. He was also my basketball coach.
From the moment I met him, I felt something I didn't have a name for. I just knew that when I was around him, I didn't have to explain myself. I didn't have to shrink. He accepted me exactly as I showed up, good days and bad ones.
I became a good student that year because I wanted him to be proud of me. That was the whole reason. That same year I also found my first real Black friend. His name was Antwan. His family gave me something I had never had before: a close-up look at a Black family just living their lives. Between him and Mr. Carroll, I had two anchors that I had never had before. And I started to stabilize.
I don't know what your child's experience has been. I know what mine was. One person who looked like me changed the entire direction of my life. I want parents to sit with what that means.
Why this studio exists.
I am not a researcher. I am not someone who read about this experience and decided to write about it. I am the child. Everything in this studio, the guides, the coaching, the conversations, comes from what I lived, not what I studied.
I also want to be clear about something: I am still healing. This is not a story that wrapped up neatly. The work I did on myself to get to this place is ongoing, and the clarity I bring to this studio came through years of processing, not through arriving at some finished version of myself. This is not a finished story dressed up as expertise. It's a living thing. And I think that matters.
What I have here is not a list of things you've done wrong. It's what I needed my parents to know. You're here now, and that already means something. This studio exists to go deeper with you.