Some people are born into opportunity. Others are born into survival.

For me, survival came first.

My father was just 22 years old when he was murdered. He sold drugs. He lived in the streets. And for a long time, that was the world I knew. The streets weren’t abstract—they were right outside my door, calling to me every day. They promised quick money, fast respect, and a kind of power that felt impossible to reach through schoolbooks or long hours at a job.

My father wasn’t just my dad—he was my example. And like most kids, I wanted to be like him. The problem was, his path led straight into danger. Growing up, I saw friends fall into that same cycle. Some were locked up. Some were buried. And at times, I wondered if I was destined for the same.

But just as my father’s life ended, something else began for me. I had enrolled at Eastern Michigan University. At the time, I didn’t realize what a turning point it would be. I stepped onto that campus carrying grief, confusion, and a deep anger at the world. My dad was gone. My role model had been taken. And the temptation of the streets only grew stronger the older I got.

But college gave me space—space away from the corners, away from the noise, away from the cycle that swallowed so many young men I knew. It wasn’t easy. There were days I questioned if I belonged. Nights when the weight of bills, loneliness, and the pull of “easy money” almost convinced me to quit. But each class, each semester, became a battle I won.

College wasn’t just about lectures and exams. It was about perspective. Professors who challenged me. Mentors who encouraged me. Friends who showed me different possibilities for life. For the first time, I began to see myself not as a statistic, but as a man capable of building something better.

And slowly, I changed.

Now I stand here at 27 years old: a Black man with no criminal record. A man with a bachelor’s degree. A man who chose differently, even when the odds, the examples, and the expectations said I wouldn’t.

By the circumstances I was born into, I wasn’t supposed to make it this far. By the numbers, I wasn’t supposed to graduate. By the world’s assumption, I was supposed to become another tragedy.

But I didn’t.

And while college isn’t the only path to success, it was my path. It gave me the tools, the time, and the determination to break free from what claimed my father. It gave me the chance to live long enough to dream.

So when I say I’m winning at life, I mean it with every ounce of my soul. Winning isn’t about being rich or famous. It isn’t about avoiding struggle or pretending pain never happened. Winning is about survival. It’s about resilience. It’s about standing in the sunlight when so many thought you’d never leave the shadows.

I’m 27. I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m proof that no matter where you come from, you can choose a different ending to your story.

You cannot convince me otherwise—because I know the truth: I am winning at this game we call life.