What if nobody likes it

What if my family doesn’t approve

What if old classmates see it and judge me

What if it flops

What if it confirms my worst fear.

That inner voice is loud. And it’s convincing. And most of the time, that voice is the biggest critic we’ll ever face.

Yes, there will always be opinions. And yes, constructive criticism is part of putting anything into the world. But the nastiest, most discouraging voices online usually come from fools who aren’t creating anything themselves. They are spectators. Hiding, Commenting, and Projecting. Meanwhile, the real battle is internal. The voice that tells you not to post, or try to be seen.

It takes courage to be yourself and to create. Whether you hear crickets or go viral, neither defines the value of what you made. Viral doesn’t always mean good. Silence doesn’t mean failure. There are a lot of factors we can’t control. What we can control is whether we show up anyway.

The clock is ticking. Every day we’re closer to the end of our story. And the real question isn’t whether people approved. It’s whether we emptied our cup. Whether we said what we had to say. Whether we created what was in us to create. Whether we lived as ourselves or as a version shaped by fear.

Your biggest critic is you.

And every time you press post, you’re learning how to quiet that voice.

If you want the world to be better, you start with yourself. He even admitted, I’ve been a victim of a selfish kind of love. That line hits because the mirror exposes us.

Money does as well. It is a magnifying glass. The mirror is a truth teller. It shows you exactly who you are. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. And the thing most people never say out loud is this. Many of us are more afraid of the mirror than we are of clowns, poverty, heartbreak, or even death. Because the mirror shows you the work you still have to do. It shows you where you are not healed. That is accountability in its rawest form.

Wallo talked about this on the Mel Robbins podcast. Most people only use the mirror for vanity. Not to check in with themselves, but to check what other people might think of them. Not wearing something because you like it, but because you are worried about strangers you will never meet. Fixing your hair or face for approval from people who barely notice you. Living for an imaginary audience that does not care about you at all. We spend so much time trying to impress people that we do not even stop to ask who we are when nobody is watching. Most of our fear of the mirror is not about our looks. It is about the truth that stares back.

For me, learning to face that mirror has been some of the hardest work of my life. The last few years have forced me into it. I had to stop running. I had to stand there and see myself clearly. When relationships showed me where I was impatient, easily irritated, or still healing, that was the mirror. When life exposed my insecurities or my growth edges, that was the mirror. And instead of hiding from it, I am learning to let it teach me. I am learning to see myself without shame. I am learning to make real changes. Not for applause and not for the world. For the man in the mirror. Because at the end of the day, he is the one I have to live with. And he is the one I am committed to transforming.

When I sit with that, I realize he was ahead of his time. That interview was in the 90s, and it applies even more to our generation. Today we chase algorithms like they’re oxygen. If we don’t go viral, we assume that we aren’t good enough. If we only get a few likes, we start to question our value. We forget a simple truth: the numbers aren’t always as important as we make them.

Finding our core audience and impacting one person at a time… that’s what’s important. As a creator, strategist, and writer, I’m learning the same lesson. I don’t need everyone to like it. I just need it to reach the people it was intended for. One person at a time. One real connection. One moment of clarity.

That’s branding at its core. Not pretending to be somebody I’m not. No gimmicks. Just presence and authenticity.

Whether it’s your clothing line, art, a podcast, a movement, your storytelling, a personal brand, or a company, it doesn’t need to reach millions of folks to matter. It just needs to reach someone. And it needs to be authentic.

If we can do that and repeat it, one person at a time, the numbers will take care of themselves. The work will reach who it’s meant to reach. But we have to stop downplaying our value just because the numbers don’t scream that we matter. We do.

Mr. Rogers wasn’t talking about branding, but he gave us the blueprint.

Be present.

Go deep.

Reach one person at a time.

That’s how you build something that lasts.

A bunch of blessings, lessons, setbacks, and surprise wins, all teaching me the same thing. Growth isn’t pretty, but it’s necessary.

I used to think growth kinda felt like a straight line.

Now I know it’s more like driving through a city you’ve never been to, experiencing potholes, wrong turns, detours, red lights, and the occasional breakdown on the side of the road.

But no matter what, you still keep moving toward the destination.

That’s what I’m learning to do, to keep moving forward.

I’m learning how to sit with myself more.

How to find peace in the silence instead of running from it.

How to let joy come from within instead of searching for it somewhere else.

How to be proud of who I’m becoming without standing on a high horse about it.

I’m grateful for the growth I didn’t always ask for but clearly needed.

Thankful I can look in the mirror and say, I’m evolving in real time.

Not for applause, or a storyline, but because I’m responsible for my own mental health.

That Rumi quote has been sitting with me lately:

“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world.

Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.”

That’s where I am right now.

Still a student of life, still learning, still evolving.

Still embracing the challenges instead of running from them.

Thankful I get another day to become a better version of me.

I don’t need to defend my life online. But here’s the truth: anything I’m learning, I try to live out. Do I get it right every time? Hell naw. It’s a process. It’s step by step and moment by moment.

One of the hardest things in life is admitting you might be the problem. That the way you were raised, the culture you grew up in, the music that shaped you, the church sermons you heard, it all shaped you in ways that were toxic. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

The second hardest thing? Doing something about it. A lot of people know better but never do better. It’s easier to say “that’s just how I am” than it is to put in the real work.

So for me, this isn’t about proving I’m an “ally.” That word is earned, not claimed. This is about trying to show up different. Different in my friendships, in conversations with men, in how I love and lead in real life, etc.

It’s messy, humbling and earth shattering. But I’d rather be honest about the wrestle than fake about the progress. It truly is one day at a time.

And you can’t out grind your trauma.

You can’t swipe your way into peace, joy, or healthy relationships.

Money is simply a magnifying glass. Whatever is in you whether it is love, hate, honesty, or lies, Money will only make it bigger. It will become more visible and loud. Your toxicity will continue growing.

That’s why so many people with success on paper still feel hollow in their own skin. They chased a bag, but their shadow was still standing there, following them home every night.

Your demons don’t care how many hours you worked this week.

Your trauma doesn’t care about your new title or the zeroes in your bank account.

If you avoid the work, they’ll just be waiting for you like a shadow that never leaves.

The real work looks different.

It’s therapy that you actually tell the truth in.

It’s journaling that isn’t for show and goes deeper than “today was fine.”

It’s humbling yourself enough to ask for help, to apologize when you’re wrong, to listen without getting defensive.

It’s building real boundaries, learning emotional regulation and facing the parts of yourself you’d rather keep buried.

None of that can be bought.

And none of that can be faked.

Because the only thing worse than living with your demons…

is spending your whole life running from them and still finding them waiting for you in the mirror.

You may chase a bag but just know, your demons ain’t far behind.

You think winter’s over. The sun starts coming back. You’re finally breathing again. Then out of nowhere… snow.

That’s what it felt like when I lost my friend Jerry in sixth grade.

We were just kids. One day he was here—laughing, playing, being a kid. And the next day, he wasn’t.

No warning.

No goodbye.

Just… gone.

I still don’t grasp what death really means.

It just does not make any sense to me.

It’s like this big ass pill you’re supposed to swallow and I’ve choked on it more times than I care to count.

Prince had a song called Sometimes It Snows in April. It’s my favorite from his catalogue.

It’s from the Parade soundtrack, which is also the soundtrack to his movie Under the Cherry Moon, where he plays a character named Christopher Tracy, and the song is like a goodbye letter to him. It’s from the perspective of his lover, Mary.

But really, it feels like a goodbye letter to anyone you’ve ever loved and lost.

“Sometimes it snows in April. Sometimes I feel so bad.”

“All good things, they say, never last.”

“Sometimes I wish life was never-ending…”

That song hits me every time. Because grief doesn’t come with a manual.

Just when you think you’re fine, it sneaks back in—quietly, like snow falling in spring.

So if you’ve ever felt that—if you’ve ever missed someone out of nowhere—you’re not crazy.

You’re alive.

And remembering them? That’s still love.

Even when it hurts.

—

Von Frasier

Storyteller | Writer | Creative Brand Strategist | Nostalgia King

Have you ever been ghosted? Or maybe someone slowly pulled away, got quiet, or started acting brand new—and somehow, you were still expected to fix it? They stopped calling, stopped showing up, and when you asked what was wrong, they either said “nothing” or gave you vague, half-answers. But deep down, you knew that It wasn’t really about you. They didnt want to face the person in the mirror.

That’s when mirroring becomes necessary. Mirroring is when you stop chasing, over-explaining, and rescuing people who don’t want to rescue themselves. You stop carrying all the emotional weight. Not to punish them, but to protect and prioritize your peace. Instead of arguing, you reflect. Instead of fixing, you pause. Instead of begging, you breathe.

You know it’s time to mirror someone when you’re doing all the emotional labor, and they keep creating distance but still expect closeness. When they want you to be consistent while they stay confused. When their silence becomes a strategy, and your presence becomes a burden. In those moments, you don’t need to fight for clarity. You need to reflect the energy back and let them meet themselves in the mirror.

That’s exactly what Kendrick Lamar did with his song “Mirror.” After being gone for 1,855 days—five years and one month—Kendrick returned with Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers, not as a savior, but as a man finally choosing himself. And on the final track of the album, he doesn’t drop a flashy verse or heroic message. He just says: “I choose me. I’m sorry.”

That line isn’t selfish, it’s sacred. Because after years of being the poetic therapist, the mascot for pain, Kendrick stopped performing. He stopped bleeding for fans who wouldn’t bandage themselves. He held up a mirror to his audience, to the culture, to the system. He called out a world that praises vulnerability but punishes honesty. A culture that wants healing—just not the uncomfortable kind. A community that claps for survival but goes quiet when you ask for rest.

And through it all, Kendrick reminds us: “Sorry I didn’t save the world, my friend. I was too busy building mine again.” He wasn’t abandoning us. He was protecting his peace. And in doing so, he mirrored the uncomfortable truth many folks don’t want to hear: if you won’t do your own work, you can’t expect someone else to carry it for you.

So if you’re in a season where you’re done over giving, performing, and explaining yourself to folks who don’t listen—know this: you’re not being cold. You’re holding up a mirror. And the right people? They won’t run from it. They will accept accountability.

Tonight, the spotlight belongs to the women.

WWE Evolution 2025 — only the second all-women’s Premium Live Event in company history — isn’t a gimmick. It’s a breakthrough. And it’s long overdue.

Women in this county have only had the right to vote since 1920 — just over 105 years ago.

Until the 1970s, a woman needed her husband’s permission just to get a damn credit card. 🤦🏿‍♂️

Now they’re headlining wrestling shows.

They’re dominating in the WNBA, UFC, boxing.

We have a woman Vice President.

So no this isn’t about hype.

This is about legacy and evolution.

As someone who grew up loving wrestling — and now builds stories for a living — I’m watching tonight with both pride and clarity.

Because this moment isn’t just about title belts or TV ratings.

It’s about possibility.

Somewhere, a little Black girl is watching this — legs crossed on the floor, eyes wide.

She’s not just imagining herself in the crowd.

She sees herself in the ring.

And maybe for the first time, she doesn’t have to wonder if she belongs.

She knows.

And this moment didn’t happen by accident.

It’s built on the backs of women who were silenced.

Women who were told they were too soft. Too loud. Too emotional. Too much.

Women who kept showing up anyway.

Tonight is for them.

And for every woman building her own stage — whether in sports, business, activism, or art.

To the women in the ring tonight — you’re not just wrestling. You’re reclaiming.

You’re storytellers. Architects. Revolutionaries.

And to anyone watching — especially the ones who’ve been told their story doesn’t matter:

Remember this.

No role is too bold.

No stage is off-limits.

No dream is too far.

You are not waiting for permission.

You are writing history.

That was me with this quote from Kobe Bryant. I’m paraphrasing, but the message stuck:

Everybody loves the end goal—winning the championship, getting the job, going viral, publishing the book.

That’s Z.

And everybody knows how to start—posting the first piece, buying the camera, signing up.

That’s A.

But the real battle is everything between B and Y.

That middle part? That’s the lonely hours, the no-likes, the ‘am I even good at this?’ That’s showing up when no one’s clapping.

And learning to clap for others when they win—even if they got what you’ve been praying for.

I’ve been on both sides:

Times I went viral and felt unstoppable.

Times I posted something I loved, and it barely got seen.

Times I celebrated folks who were thriving while I was barely scraping by.

But I’m learning not to get too high or too low.

Because real growth lives in B through Y.

That’s where the process happens.

That’s where the lessons live.

That’s where the character builds.

It’s easy to fall in love with the dream.

But can you fall in love with the grind?

And here’s the truth—some people won’t “make it.” Some will never go viral or get the attention they dreamed of. That’s how life works. But ask yourself: Do you love what you’re pursuing? If you don’t, then the B to Y process will smash you. Some are burnt out because they chose to do something they don’t actually love.

And if that’s you? It’s okay to pivot. It’s okay to change paths. You dont have to continue lying to yourself.

Some have been creating and it feels like no one sees you—I totally get it.

Just know that don’t give up just because Z feels so far away.

You can, once again, fall in love with the reason you started.

Let the process be enough for you, today.

Even if no one claps—clap for yourself.

Lunch pail in hand.

Let’s go to work.

I was a misogynist.

Not the “beating women” kind. Not the “I hate all women” kind. But the everyday, normalized, subtle kind. The kind that hides behind “manhood,” locker room talk, and church sermons. The kind that gets passed down like family recipes—from music, movies, school, and even love.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even know it.

That’s how deep this thing goes.

See, misogyny is not just hating women. It’s believing—deep down—that men are more important. That our voice matters more. That our leadership is better. That our emotions are facts, but hers are drama. That when we raise our voice, it’s strength, but when she does it, she’s “crazy.”

It’s in the jokes.

It’s in the silence.

It’s in the way we say “not all men” when a woman shares her pain, just so we don’t have to look in the mirror.

Misogyny is in the water.

And I was swimming in it for years.

Here’s what I’ve noticed:

Growing up as a 90s kid, I saw it everywhere. In rap lyrics. On the playground. In the barbershop. In church. And the dude who was sleeping around? He was a legend. The girl who did the same? She was “for the streets.”

That was normal. Celebrated, even.

And when women spoke up about how unfair that was? I listened to respond—not to understand. I was debating, not learning. I thought I was being logical. But I simply wanted to be right and have the dominant position. I wanted to put her in “her place” so I didn’t have to deal with the guilt.

I wasn’t being a man.

I was hiding behind ego.

This stuff runs deep.

Misogyny didn’t just show up.

It was taught.

It was rewarded.

And being a man, I didn’t have to understand.

I could simply continue doing me and ignore the issues. I could simply ignore the guilt.

And that right there?

That’s the privilege.

As a Black man in America, I know racism all too well. That feeling of being overlooked, misjudged, or feared just because of the color of my skin.

But as a man, I’ve been able to ignore the pain of Black women—the double oppression they carry.

They face racism and sexism.

They are judged twofold.

Their battle of being heard, believed, and trying to find safe spaces where they can simply exist.

Let me be real with you.

Most men don’t think they’re misogynistic because we think it has to look extreme. Like abuse or assault. But it’s also interrupting her. Mocking her. Controlling the money. Dismissing her ideas. Expecting her to shrink so you can feel big.

I’ve done that.

I’ve watched that.

I’ve been in rooms where that was normal.

Guilty as charged.

I am doing the work—and there is much more work to be done.

Because recovering from misogyny starts with one thing:

Humility.

You gotta admit the water you’re swimming in before you can dry off.

If you’re a man reading this…

Ask yourself this:

When’s the last time you really listened to a woman?

Not to debate.

Not to fix.

Not to explain.

Just to understand?

If you don’t think you’re part of the problem, you probably are.

I say that with love. With truth. Because I needed someone to say it to me.

We all need to bring ourselves to the front of the congregation.

Admit our part.

Do our work.

This is not me trying to speak for women.

This is just me sharing my experience out loud.

One confession at a time.

A heavy day.

A victorious day.

I honor the ancestors.

The ones who fought, fled, endured, and dreamed us into existence.

The ones who never made it to freedom, but made sure we could.

And I don’t just honor them today—I honor them every day I choose to be free.

But freedom ain’t just about a whip or a plantation.

Some of us are still enslaved.

To systems.

To expectations.

To image.

To people.

We wear chains made of public opinion.

Dress for validation.

Post for applause.

Chase money to prove we’re worthy—then stay in rooms we hate just to feel important.

We’re slaves to performance.

To relationships that drain us.

To being liked.

To being right.

To being needed.

And sometimes…

we’re not just enslaved by others.

We’re enslaved by the version of ourselves we think we have to be.

Today, I’m reflecting on all the invisible plantations we still live on.

The algorithm.

The culture of comparison.

The pressure to be the “right kind of Black.”

The “hustle or you’ll fall behind” gospel.

The idea that softness makes you weak.

Let’s be honest:

A lot of us want freedom,

but we still want to control other people.

We trap our partners with guilt.

Trap our friends with expectation.

Trap our children with unhealed wounds.

We confuse love with ownership.

So this Juneteenth, I’m asking a different kind of question:

Where in your life are you still not free?

What part of you is still performing for approval?

What part of you has never known silence without fear?

What does it look like to be free inside?

Because if we’re gonna celebrate liberation,

we can’t just look backward.

We have to look inward.

Freedom is not just the absence of chains.

It’s the presence of peace.

And our ancestors didn’t just dream of survival.

They dreamed of wholeness.

So today, I celebrate.

But I also reflect.

And I recommit—

to being free in my mind, my relationships, and my purpose.

That, too…

is how I honor them.

Not out loud, of course. This was an internal thing. Boys like him didn’t have the awareness or the words for that kind of hope. But every time he watched Boy Meets World, or some old love movie, something inside him whispered:

“That’s all I need. That’s what’ll fill the void.”

He grew up in a broken home—the oldest of four.

A mom who tried.

A father who was unalived before they ever got to shoot hoops in the driveway or swap stories over late-night cartoons.

In his family, marriages didn’t last.

The word “divorce” wasn’t foreign—it was inherited.

So somewhere between Saturday morning cartoons and Sunday sermons, he made a quiet vow:

Get this right.

He believed marriage would make him a man.

That commitment was the crown.

That if he loved hard enough, prayed hard enough, stayed loyal enough—

it would never fail.

But one day, the boy—now a man—stood in a quiet room and realized:

It was over.

And here’s the thing nobody tells you about that moment:

It doesn’t feel like freedom.

It feels like failure wearing a suit and tie.

What surprised him most wasn’t the sadness.

It was the clarity.

It was the moment he realized he couldn’t point fingers anymore.

Not at his past.

Not at his partners.

Not even at the generational curses he swore he was breaking.

No.

The only person left to face…

was me.

That’s when I knew:

It was me who came into love with unhealed trauma hiding behind ambition.

Me, with ego disguised as “loving husband.”

Me, with expectations I never clearly communicated.

Me, trying to outsource emotional labor I’d been avoiding inside myself.

Looking back, it’s been some years since the divorce—enough time to sit in the silence, do the inner work, and stop protecting my image.

Divorce didn’t break me.

It revealed me.

And I finally understood something:

It’s not staying married that makes you a man.

It’s being humble enough to admit you need help.

It’s taking ownership of your flaws, peace, patterns, and healing.

It’s learning that love is not a reward for pain endurance.

(There’s no certificate. 🤣)

And that staying in something broken doesn’t make you brave—it makes you stuck.

You know what else I learned?

That I had never really met myself outside of a relationship.

I was always becoming someone’s man, someone’s protector, someone’s purpose—but never my own.

I kept trying to be enough without ever asking:

Enough for who?

It took divorce to teach me how to love myself.

To rest without guilt.

To cry without shame.

To stop performing manhood and just be human.

My father never lived long enough to pass down his wisdom.

So if my son ever asks what I’ve learned, my advice is simply this:

Don’t chase a relationship to fix your loneliness.

Don’t put pressure on another person to fill your void.

Do the honest work. Sit with yourself.

(If you can’t be alone with you, then why should anyone else want to?)

Learn your triggers. Name your fears.

Be someone you would want to be married to.

And please…

Confront your ego before you say “I do.”

There was a version of me that had to die.

The one who performed strength instead of living in truth.

The one who thought love was earned through suffering.

The one who was addicted to being needed instead of being known.

That man is gone.

And in his place is someone real.

Still healing. Still growing. Still worthy.

Not perfect. But present.

Today, I’ve learned to be grateful.

Because what I thought was a breakdown…

was really a breakthrough.

And I needed it.

Badly.

That boy is now a man.

And that man is me.

Michael Rubin, founder of Fanatics, “lost” $15 million last year on a new event.

You read that right.

$15 million… gone.

Except… not really.

Three weeks before Fanatics Fest launched, Rubin had only sold about 5,000 tickets. A lot of people would’ve panicked. Scrapped it. Folded. But he held firm.

By the time it happened, over 70,000 people showed up.

Athletes, collectors, creators, and fans all under one roof—something like the Comic-Con of sports culture. Community. Memory. Legacy.

And now? They’re doing it again this year. Bigger. Better. Smarter.

He wasn’t just throwing a party.

He was building trust in a vision that hadn’t fully revealed itself yet.

That’s what real branding does. That’s what long-game thinking looks like.

Meanwhile, I recently spoke with someone who said they were holding off on branding because “the economy’s uncertain right now.” I get it. I do. But let’s be honest…

If your brand isn’t built before the storm, what’s holding it up when the winds come?

And I don’t say that with judgment. I say it with empathy—because I’ve been there.

I’ve helped people build brands from nothing but pain and imagination.

I’ve seen hesitation dressed up as wisdom too many times.

The truth is:

The best thing I help clients do is get out of their own way.

Because 9.5 times out of 10, that’s the real block.

Not talent. Not time.

Just fear wearing a business suit.

The funny thing about optics is… both perspectives can be “right.”

You can say the glass is half-empty.

Or you can say it’s half-full.

But only one mindset builds momentum.

You don’t build trust during the harvest.

You plant it in the drought.

Michael Rubin knew that.

So did the folks who kept showing up when no one clapped yet.

So do I.

Now the real question is—do you?

No, not by a woman.

Not from a breakup.

This time… it was life.

The kind of heartbreak that doesn’t make the news. The kind that hides behind your smile, your “I’m good” texts, and the brave face you put on for the world.

Heartbreak from dreams that didn’t happen like you hoped. From business opportunities that looked like alignment—until they weren’t. From safe spaces you tried to build for others, but they never showed up for you.

From watching people you love treat your value like it’s optional.

From having to set boundaries with family and friends… again.

And still—I am here.

Still breathing. Still believing.

There are days where the weight of it all—failure, grief, mental health, disappointment—feels like it’s pressing down on your chest. Like you’re trying to stand in a storm that won’t let up.

But even with my heart cracked open, I keep showing up.

Not because I’m special.

Just because I’m still here.

Last week, I watched my younger cousin graduate. They played that old graduation song, and out of nowhere, I felt everything—joy, pride, grief, regret. I remembered the kid I used to be, the dreams I had, and the way I thought adulthood would feel like magic.

Man…. I was wrong.

But I’m also still learning. Still healing. Still growing.

And I know I’m not alone.

A lot of you are carrying silent heartbreaks too. You’ve been expected to hold it all together, to take care of everybody else, to smile through it.

Especially as men. Especially as Black folks.

But sometimes—we’re just not okay.

And that’s okay too.

We don’t have to post it, prove it, or perform it.

We just need to keep going.

Keep breathing.

Keep healing.

Keep showing up.

You’re not broken. You’re becoming.

And that’s more than enough.

That scene in Sinners where the music turns into a time machine—blues shifting to breakdancing, twerking, West Coast parties—it had us vibing like we were watching Black culture travel through centuries.

But look again…

As they dance… the roof is on fire.

Literally.

Now that could’ve just been special effects… but Ryan Coogler doesn’t waste frames.

Here’s what I think that moment really meant:

1. A spiritual warning from the ancestors.

That fire creeping in during our highest moment of joy? It was a whisper from the other side:

“You’re free right now… but something’s coming.”

It wasn’t just heat. It was a heads up.

2. A symbol of power and transformation.

Fire doesn’t always mean destruction. In many cultures, it means purification—the burning away of illusions. That juke joint became too powerful to contain. The spirit of the people, the joy, the rhythm—it was too holy for a regular roof to hold.

3. A reminder of what Black joy has always had to survive.

Our communities have always danced under roofs that could burn.

We sing in churches that aren’t guaranteed to stand.

We build… knowing the world might tear it down.

But we build anyway.

To me, that fire was dual.

It was a celebration. And a warning.

Because the devil don’t like joy. And unity always gets tested.

That one moment in the film? That was us.

Beautiful. Vulnerable. And powerful enough to burn the room down.

What do you think the fire meant?

Drop your take in the comments.

Let’s talk about it.

but still can’t look yourself in the mirror?

That ain’t patriotism.

That’s performance.

Like the tagline from Sinners said:

“It’s not obedience. It’s survival.”

And survival has always been harder for your nieces and nephews.

Because let’s be honest—

you hate your own blood.

The ones who built your house from the foundation up,

only to be locked out like we never paid rent in the first place.

You reward the liars.

You comfort the oppressors.

And somehow, you still find time to defend Christopher Columbus

like he was your frat brother who just “made a few mistakes.”

You rewrite history like a middle-schooler who forgot the assignment—

sloppy, loud, and with no footnotes.

You gave reparations to slaveowners,

then told their descendants to “pull themselves up by their bootstraps.”

You sent us to war,

then made sure we came home to a country that treated our uniforms like costumes.

You flooded our neighborhoods with crack,

then flooded our courtrooms with convictions.

But when we speak up?

Suddenly, we’re ungrateful.

Suddenly, we’re the problem.

And let’s talk about that mirror.

You don’t see your reflection in it, Uncle Sam.

Just like a vampire.

Because like a vampire, you’ve survived off the blood of others—

draining nations, draining generations, draining futures.

You didn’t just build an empire.

You fed it with our labor, our culture, our fathers, our sons.

COINTELPRO wasn’t protection—it was predation.

You feared the Panthers feeding children more than you feared children going hungry.

You started a “War on Drugs” and ended up with a war on Black families.

You filled prisons like piggy banks.

You sank your teeth into the hood,

then asked why we were bleeding.

And the truth is—

you still can’t look in the mirror

because if you did,

you’d have to admit what you are.

But guess what?

Your nieces and nephews?

We see it clear as day.

We are the reflection.

And we never stopped watching.

You love the symbols.

You love the slogans.

You love the myths.

But when it comes to the truth—

you flinch like it’s about to knock on your door and ask for back rent.

And to be clear—yes, you owe reparations.

So here I am.

No begging.

No pleading.

Just holding up the mirror.

You may not see your reflection.

But trust me, we do.

Sincerely,

Not.

When HBO Max dropped “HBO” and just called itself “Max,” it wasn’t just a name change.

It was a story change—and a bad one.

They traded legacy for trend. Recognition for reach.And in doing so, they stripped away the one thing their audience trusted most: identity.

Because “Max” alone?

It sounds like a random tech product or the kid down the street with 3 YouTube subscribers.

But HBO Max?

That name carried weight, history, and narrative power.

It told you: this is where the prestige lives.

This is where stories get told differently.

Now they’re going back.

Back to what worked.

Back to story over strategy.

Back to meaning over minimalism.

And here’s the real message for all the entrepreneurs, creators, and personal brands out there:

Don’t build your brand like “Max.”Don’t chase cool at the expense of clarity. Don’t drop your name, your story, your truth—trying to look trendy.

That might get you attention. But it won’t get you trust.

In a world of empty noise,

your story is what makes your brand unforgettable.

So remember:

Logos don’t build brands.

Belief does.

And belief starts with the story behind your name.

5,000.

50,000.

But what if the most powerful part of your brand… is in the first 50?

Not the flashy part.

Not the viral part.

The sacred part.

Your first 50 followers are the ones who saw you before the packaging got fancy.

Before the logo. Before the photoshoot. Before the metrics.

They’re the ones who saw you and said, “I’m still listening.”

That’s not an audience.

That’s a foundation.

The first 50 aren’t the warm-up. They’re the roots.

When I started The Nostalgia King, I had a plan.

I wasn’t chasing virality—I was building trust.

Post by post, clip by clip, story by story.

I knew I was playing the long game.

And even now—after millions of views—I still go back and focus on the people already here.

Because that’s the heart of real branding.

You don’t serve the algorithm.

You serve the people.

When I joined the Army back in ’04, basic training was nine weeks long.

They designed it that way on purpose.

Not just to teach you—but to test you.

Because if you weren’t willing to show up tired, frustrated, and uncomfortable…

you weren’t ready for the weight of the mission.

Branding is like that.

You’re in bootcamp right now.

If you’re giving up after two months because you didn’t go viral…

then maybe you weren’t building a brand.

You were building an expectation.

Fall in love with the process.

Like Kobe Bryant said in multiple interviews—

it wasn’t the championships that made him great.

It was falling in love with the 4am workouts, the diet shift, the shot repetitions nobody ever saw.

That’s where greatness lives.

Off-camera.

So here’s a few questions I’ll leave you with today:

What would it look like to give yourself six months to show up authentically?

What if you made a quiet contract with yourself—

to serve your message, love your voice, and build brick by brick?

What would it feel like to stop refreshing the views…

and start celebrating the few people already showing up to hear from you?

Because honestly—

If 50 people showed up to hear you speak in person, you’d call that a great room.

Why not treat your digital audience with the same gratitude?

I’m writing this post with joy in my chest.

I may get 10 views. I may get 10,000.

Either way—I’m loving the process.

Because the more I fall in love with being a creative,

the less I need applause to prove I belong.

So whether you’re at 5 followers or 5,000…

Fall in love with the craft.

Fall in love with the journey.

Fall in love with being you.

Let the views catch up when they’re ready.