This is the story of a woman named Maebelle Adams—my grandmother, my hero, and the foundation upon which so much of my life has been built. She didn’t wear a cape or stand in spotlights. But she wore resilience like armor. She worked with her hands, loved with her whole heart, and lived with a quiet strength that shaped everything around her.

Grandma Maebelle spent her entire life working hard—not just for herself, but for her family and her community. She cleaned houses with dignity and determination. She raised children, lent a helping hand to neighbors, and poured every ounce of energy she had into making a better life for the people she loved.

When I was just a kid, she used to say something to me over and over:
“Eric, you have to work twice as hard as everyone else to get ahead.”

At the time, I didn’t understand. I thought everyone started the race from the same starting line. I thought fairness was a given. But as I grew older, I began to understand what she had known all along: that the world doesn’t always treat people equally. That sometimes, the weight you carry isn’t one you chose—but one that was handed to you, because of how you look or where you’re from.

Maebelle had faced those burdens her whole life. She’d been denied jobs. Opportunities. Respect. But she never used that as an excuse to stop trying. She didn’t let it define her—she rose above it. She didn’t have much money, but with perseverance and pride, she bought her own home. It may not have looked like much to some, but it was hers. It was stability. It was power.

In every scrubbed floor, every packed lunch, every prayer whispered before dawn—there was love. And sacrifice.

And because of her, I had a chance.

Maebelle Adams passed away on February 18, 2018. That day still stings. But what brings me peace is knowing I got to share something with her before she left.

I had just graduated from college—something she never had the opportunity to do. She was too weak to attend the ceremony, so I came to her bedside, knelt down, and held her hand.

“Grandma,” I whispered, “I did it.”

She looked at me and smiled. A soft, knowing smile. No words were needed. In that moment, everything she’d endured—all the struggles, all the sacrifices—they meant something.

They had bloomed into a future she helped create.

I carry her with me in everything I do. In how I work. In how I love. In how I lift others up. Her story reminds me—and maybe it’ll remind you too—that strength doesn’t always look like success on paper. Sometimes, it looks like a woman who refused to be broken. Who changed the world by changing just one life at a time.

So, if you’re reading this, stay inspired.

Someone before you paid a price so you could stand taller. Honor them with how you rise.