Rise AgainResilience

The world often celebrates success. But the stories that stay with us most begin with struggle. There are moments in life that divide everything into two chapters: the life you thought you were going to live, and the life that finds you instead. If you met me today as an author, speaker, entrepreneur, mentor, and founder of the Breath of Life Foundation, you might assume my journey has always moved in a straight line. That purpose came early. That faith was easy. That every dream unfolded according to plan. The truth is far more beautiful and far more painful. My story didn't begin on a stage. It didn't begin with a book. It began on the vibrant island of Haiti, where beauty and hardship often lived side by side, a place filled with resilience, rich culture, and extraordinary people who learned to find joy even when life offered very little. Looking back now, I realize that the little boy growing up in Haiti had no idea where life would lead him. But now, I can see that every chapter, even the painful ones, was preparing me for a purpose far greater than I understood.

Before I ever understood the meaning of resilience, I experienced absence. My father had left Haiti for the United States in search of a better future for our family. Growing up, I didn't know him the way most children know their fathers. I knew him through stories, through cassette tapes carrying his voice across hundreds of miles, through occasional phone calls made to a neighbor's house because we didn't have our own telephone. Every time the phone rang, hope filled the room. His voice reminded me that somewhere beyond the horizon, a father was working to build a future he hoped we would one day share. I didn't meet him in person until I was ten years old. Then, at thirteen, my world changed forever. My mother died unexpectedly. Nothing prepares a child for that kind of loss. One day, you have someone whose love feels as constant as the sunrise. The next day, they're gone. The questions came faster than the answers. Why? What now? Whom was I becoming without the two people whose presence had shaped my earliest years? Grief has a way of making even familiar places feel unfamiliar. There were days I felt lost. Confused. Alone. There was an emptiness inside me that no words could fill. Yet even in those painful years, seeds were quietly being planted, seeds of compassion, perseverance, and empathy for people carrying invisible burdens of their own. Years later, I would realize that some of the people I felt called to serve weren't strangers at all. In many ways, they reminded me of the little boy I once was.

While loss shaped my heart, another remarkable woman shaped my character. Every summer, long before my mother's passing, I spent time with my grandmother. Those summers became some of the happiest memories of my childhood. She taught me practical things that most young boys never think much about, like how to cook, wash clothes, iron, make my bed, clean, and take responsibility for myself. But the greatest lessons had nothing to do with household chores. I will never forget the powerful standard she modeled for me: "Everything about you says something about you." She taught me that kindness costs nothing but can change everything. She showed me that respect is something you choose, not something you demand. My grandmother modeled integrity when no one was watching and lived compassion before she ever spoke about it. She taught me that serving people isn't a weakness. It's a strength. Looking back, I realize she wasn't simply teaching me how to become independent. She was preparing me to become a servant leader. Those quiet summers became the invisible foundation beneath every leadership role I would one day hold.

On March 12, 1998, I woke up feeling something I had never experienced before. It wasn't ordinary sadness. It wasn't fear. It was an overwhelming darkness that settled over my mind and spirit in a way I couldn't explain. At school, I found myself writing one word over and over again: Grace. I didn't know why. My friends noticed something was wrong. Teachers noticed. The school nurse noticed. They tried to help me through the day. But the battle inside me continued. Then everything happened in moments that would forever divide my life into "before" and "after." I ran into the street. A car struck me. I kept running. Then I found myself beneath a ten-wheeled truck loaded with concrete. People screamed. Prayed. Cried. Strangers fought for my life as if I were family. Doctors later described my injuries as catastrophic. I lost an enormous amount of blood. I fell into a coma. At one point, my breathing stopped. The medical team believed there was nothing more they could do. Then something happened that I can only describe as the grace of God. Just as they were preparing to leave the room, I regained consciousness. The first words I spoke were: "Jesus, you're the only one who stands by my side." Those words surprised everyone in the room. One physician later said something my family would never forget: "This man will not die until God says so." Recovery didn't happen overnight. For more than a month, I lay flat on a hard wooden board, just as my doctor instructed, without a mattress, supported only by a sheet. Healing was slow. Painful. Uncertain. Yet one verse became my anchor: "I will not die but live and will proclaim what the Lord has done." That experience changed more than my body. It changed my understanding of life. I no longer believed I had survived by accident. I believed I had been preserved for a purpose.

There are seasons in life when the future seems hidden behind an impossible horizon. For me, that horizon was called America. Growing up in Haiti, America represented more than another country. It represented opportunity, education, freedom, and possibility. I dreamed of becoming a man who could build something meaningful, not simply for himself, but for others. I believed that if I could one day reach the United States, I could gain the knowledge, resources, and experience to become the kind of leader who could return hope to places that desperately needed it. That dream became a prayer. And eventually, that prayer became an obsession. For years, I prayed that God would open a door no human being could open. I had no political influence. No wealthy relatives waiting for me. No guaranteed pathway. In fact, years earlier, I had already been denied a U.S. visa. Every visible circumstance seemed to say no. But something had changed inside me after surviving the accident in 1998. When you've looked death in the face and somehow lived to tell the story, impossible begins to lose some of its power. I had learned that God often works outside the limits of what people call reasonable. Then one evening in February 2003, after leaving a conference at my church, something happened that would change the course of my life forever. I believe God spoke clearly to my heart: "You are leaving Haiti on February 24, 2003, and going to America." There was only one problem. Nothing about that promise made sense. I didn't have a U.S. visa. I didn't have enough money for the trip. I had no connections, no invitation, no roadmap—nothing except faith. Most people would have called it impossible. I chose to call it a promise. In the days leading up to February 24, something else happened that challenged me even more. As little as I had, I felt God asking me to give it away to help people who were in greater need than I was. Every rational instinct resisted. How can I give away the little I have when I'm trying to leave the country? But faith has a way of asking us to loosen our grip before God fills our hands. So, I obeyed. Little by little, I gave. And little by little, God provided, sometimes through unexpected people, sometimes through opportunities I never saw coming. Even on the day I was scheduled to leave Haiti, people continued blessing me in ways I couldn't have planned. Looking back now, I realize God wasn't simply providing for a trip. He was teaching me a lesson that would shape the rest of my life: Provision often follows obedience. On February 24, 2003, exactly as I believed God had promised, I left Haiti. My journey to America was anything but ordinary. I did not possess a U.S. visa. I traveled with Panamanian and Mexican visas, and the extraordinary story of how I ultimately arrived in the United States is one I have chosen to tell in full in my future memoir. Some stories deserve more than a few paragraphs. They deserve an entire chapter. Leaving Haiti was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. As the plane lifted into the sky, I wasn't just leaving a country. I was leaving the streets that had shaped my childhood, the people who had prayed for me, the memories of my mother, the laughter of my grandmother, the friends who had become family. Everything familiar slowly disappeared beneath the clouds. I remember feeling excitement and grief at the same time. Hope and uncertainty. Confidence and fear. I carried only a few belongings. But inside my heart, I carried an entire nation. Even today, no matter where life takes me, Haiti never leaves me. It lives in my prayers. It shapes my decisions. It reminds me why I do what I do. Because home isn't just where you're born. Sometimes, home becomes the reason you spend the rest of your life serving others.

When I arrived in America, success was never my destination. The purpose was. Like many immigrants, I worked hard, learned constantly, and looked for opportunities to build a better future. Eventually, I became an entrepreneur. Opening my automobile dealership wasn't simply a business decision; it was part of a much bigger vision. Long before I sold my first vehicle, I had already decided what mattered most to me: helping people who had been overlooked. Feeding families who were hungry. Educating children who had been born into circumstances they never chose. Caring for older people who had been forgotten. Creating opportunities for people who had none. Business, for me, was never about luxury. It was about leverage, a way to build something strong enough that it could become a blessing to countless others. That conviction has never left me, and it's the same conviction that shapes the work I do today. When the dealership opened in 2019, I believed I was finally stepping into that vision. For a while, everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. Then life reminded me that purpose is rarely built on comfort. Before the dealership eventually closed, my office was broken into. Checks disappeared. Cash disappeared. My safe was stolen. Important business records vanished. Years of work suddenly felt fragile. I remember standing in the middle of what remained, trying to process the loss. It wasn't only about money. It was about watching a dream begin to unravel. Eventually, the dealership closed. From the outside, it looked like failure. Inside, it felt like heartbreak. There were moments when I questioned everything. Had I misunderstood God's direction? Had I failed? Was this the end of the dream? Those questions became even heavier as financial pressures mounted. After fighting for years to avoid it, I found myself walking through bankruptcy, not once, but again, after doing everything I knew to keep the business alive. The process was humbling. It forced me to confront disappointment, redefine success, and surrender the illusion that my worth could ever be measured by a balance sheet. "Failure has a way of stripping away everything temporary until only what is eternal remains." And that's exactly what happened. Somewhere in the middle of losing what I had built, I discovered something no one could take from me: purpose. Business had never been my identity. Speaking wasn't my identity. Even writing books wasn't my identity. My identity had always been found in something much deeper, helping people believe that no matter how many times life knocks them down, they can rise again. Looking back now, I don't see those painful years as the chapters that defeated me. I see them as the chapters that prepared me. Every setback taught me greater compassion. Every disappointment taught me humility. Every closed door deepened my faith. And every beginning that looked like an ending became another reminder that God was still writing my story.

People often ask me why I write. The answer isn't found in a publishing contract. It isn't found on a bookshelf. And it certainly isn't found in a title. I write because I know what it feels like to wonder if life will ever get better. I know what it feels like to lose someone you love, to carry questions no one seems able to answer, to dream about a future that appears impossible, to stand in the middle of failure and wonder if you've come to the end of your story. I've lived through moments that could have defined me by pain. Instead, they taught me something far more valuable: every scar has a story, every setback carries a lesson, and every person, no matter how broken they may feel, still has purpose. That's why I wrote Rise Again, not because I have all the answers, but because I have walked through enough valleys to know that hope is real, resilience is possible, and sometimes the chapters we would gladly erase become the very chapters that help someone else keep going. If my words can help one person refuse to give up, if one reader chooses to hope instead of despair, if one life changes because they realize their story isn't over, then every difficult chapter I have lived was worth it.

Some organizations are created in boardrooms. Others begin with business plans. Breath of Life Foundation was born on my knees. In January 2010, as the world watched the devastating earthquake that struck Haiti, I watched with tears streaming down my face. Entire communities had disappeared. Families had lost everything. Children wandered without parents. The suffering felt unbearable. As the images came across the television, I found myself asking a simple question. "God... what can I do?" Then I prayed a prayer that changed my life. "If you can use me... I am available." That prayer became the beginning of Breath of Life Foundation. I didn't start the organization because I thought I had all the resources. I started because I couldn't ignore the need. Over the years, that mission has grown beyond anything I imagined. Today, our work reaches vulnerable children, families, and elderly individuals in Haiti—supporting more than 250 students with essential school supplies and mentoring over 50 children every year—while here in Tulsa, we've fed more than 3,000 unhoused people. People sometimes ask why I care so deeply. The answer is personal. As a young boy, I experienced loss. As an immigrant, I understood uncertainty. After losing my business, I came frighteningly close to losing everything myself. I know what it feels like when the ground beneath your feet seems to disappear. Those experiences forever changed how I see people. I don't see statistics. I see stories. I don't see problems. I see potential. I don't believe anyone should be defined by the worst chapter of their life—because I know what it feels like to need someone who believes tomorrow can be better than today. Serving people isn't simply something I do. It's become part of who I am. Whether I'm mentoring a young leader, encouraging someone through failure, helping a family in Haiti, serving a meal to someone experiencing homelessness in Tulsa, or writing another page of a book, the mission remains the same: To restore dignity. To awaken hope. And to remind people that their life has immeasurable value.

When people remember my life, I don't hope they remember how many books I wrote, how many businesses I started, or how many stages I stood on. Those things have value, but they are not the measure of a life. I hope people remember that I cared. That I listened. I showed up when someone needed encouragement. That I believed in people before they believed in themselves, and that I consistently sought opportunities to help others discover their own. Success comes and goes. Titles change. Achievements fade. But the lives we touch continue long after we're gone. If there is one thread woven through every chapter of my journey, from a little boy in Haiti, to surviving an accident that should have taken my life, to leaving everything familiar in pursuit of an impossible dream, to rebuilding after painful setbacks, to falling to my knees and founding Breath of Life Foundation, it is this: our lives become most meaningful when they are lived for something greater than ourselves. I have learned that courage is not the absence of fear. Faith is not the absence of questions. And resilience is not about never falling. It is about choosing, again and again, to rise. That is the heartbeat of my story, and the heartbeat of every book I write, every message I share, every person I mentor, and every life I hope to touch and serve. Because I believe your story is still being written. No matter where you've been, no matter what you've lost, no matter how many times you've fallen, there is still another chapter waiting to be lived, still hope worth holding on to, still a purpose waiting to be discovered, and still a future that can be more beautiful than your past. Because the most powerful stories are not about people who never fell. They are about people who refused to stay down. And that's why I still believe, with all my heart, that no story is beyond redemption. Because perhaps this is the chapter where you begin to believe your story isn't over, either. If any part of my story resonates with you, I invite you to read Rise Again and continue the journey with me.