A few weeks ago, my wife Kelli and I were invited to speak as panelists at the Young Professionals Breakfast hosted by the Piedmont Park Conservancy. We spoke about volunteerism, leadership, and the work we do through L.E.A.D. Center For Youth.
After the event, a young man named Dari introduced himself to me. He shared his passion for basketball and his vision for helping boys understand the business side of the game. That same night, I invited him to attend an Atlanta Hawks playoff game against the New York Knicks with me.
During our conversation, Dari asked if I would mentor him.
I told him that mentorship, for me, begins with what I call the Impact Access Process. Instead of asking frequently asked questions that are shallow and fast, I encourage people to ask should ask questions that are deep and slow. Questions that require reflection. Questions that challenge assumptions. Questions that make both people grow.
Dari sent me three powerful questions.
What follows are my responses, not only for him, but for anyone trying to lead with conviction in complicated times.
Question One
“You talk about Atlanta being ‘too busy to care,’ yet you chose to stay and fight for Black boys here instead of escaping the systems that failed you. How did you learn the difference between building something meaningful in a broken environment versus slowly sacrificing yourself to it? And how do you know when suffering is part of the assignment versus a sign that your environment is killing your purpose?”
There was a slogan made famous in the 1960s that described Atlanta as “the city too busy to hate.” That phrase became closely associated with former Atlanta mayor Ivan Allen Jr., who positioned Atlanta as a progressive Southern city during the Civil Rights Movement.
But over time, I have often wondered if Atlanta also became a city too busy to care.
Specifically, too busy to care about working-class Black people.
I say that carefully because I was born into a working-class Black family in the Bankhead community of Atlanta, specifically Grove Park. My family lacked both financial capital and social capital. I know what it feels like to grow up with talent and potential while navigating systems that often undervalue Black life and Black possibility.
Professional baseball gave me opportunities. It allowed Kelli and me to move into the suburbs and raise our daughters there, even though they were born in the city of Atlanta. But in 2007, my life changed because of a conversation with a white man named Stan Conway.
At the time, I was training his middle school-aged son through our for-profit company, Diamond Directors. We were doing extremely well. Nine years into business, I had developed first-round draft picks, Major League players, and college athletes. I was respected for my work.
But Stan challenged me.
He told me there was a decline of Black Americans in baseball and asked me a question I could not escape:
“Why aren’t you doing anything about it?”
That question convicted me.
I realized I had spent years planting seeds in a garden that wasn’t mine. I was developing elite talent in suburban spaces while Black boys in communities like the one I came from were increasingly disconnected from the game and the opportunities surrounding it.
So I came back.
Not because it was easy. Not because it was financially logical. But because conviction revealed calling.
The Latin root of the word passion means suffering. That means the things we are willing to suffer for often reveal what we are passionate about. Passion leads to purpose. Purpose is sustained by grit. And grit is the relentless pursuit of purpose.
That is how I learned the difference between meaningful sacrifice and destructive sacrifice.
If the suffering is connected to purpose, growth, service, and obedience to your calling, it produces fruit even when it hurts. But if the suffering only drains you, isolates you, dehumanizes you, and disconnects you from your values, then the environment may be killing your purpose instead of refining it.
For me, staying in Atlanta was not about rescuing people. It was about responding to conviction.
And until God calls me somewhere else, I will continue coaching.
Because a coach cultivates growth, creates opportunities, advances progress, builds confidence, and harmonizes the shared journey of learning.
That is my assignment.
Question Two
“As someone who grew up surrounded by community support, but also by systems that undervalued Black life, how did you develop a leadership style that protects Black youth without teaching them to become emotionally hardened or spiritually exhausted? I’m trying to understand how to lead people through survival while still helping them believe they deserve joy, rest, and wholeness.”
That question is powerful because survival changes people.
Many young people, especially Black children living at or below the poverty line, are not operating from a place of exploration or emotional safety. They are operating from a place of survival.
And survival affects decision-making.
Poverty siphons off brain power. Trauma disrupts regulation. Stress impacts development. So sometimes what adults call “bad behavior” is actually a survival response from a child whose nervous system has adapted to instability.
That understanding changed the way I coach and lead.
A major part of my leadership style came from looking back and realizing how many people actually loved me well when I was younger. Coaches. Teachers. Mentors. Men and women. Black and white.
At the time, I did not always recognize it because I was young, emotionally immature, and navigating my own trauma. But after becoming more regulated and reflective as an adult, I realized those people were not only caring. They were competent. They had capacity. They knew how to create environments where I could grow.
So much of my leadership today is paying homage to the leaders who poured into me while also grounding myself in my relationship with Jesus Christ and the study of Scripture.
I do not believe leadership should harden people emotionally or exhaust them spiritually.
I believe leadership should develop resilience while preserving humanity.
One of the frameworks I teach is called Steps to Significance:
- Stupidity — knowing the right thing to do but not doing it
- Struggle — making mistakes out of ignorance
- Success — achieving goals
- Slumps and Setbacks — adversity after achievement
- Significance — using success to serve others
The bridge between stupidity and struggle is humility.
Humility is not thinking less of yourself. It is thinking of others more than yourself.
But Dari’s question made me think about something deeper: survival.
Survival can trap people in cycles of reaction, fear, and emotional exhaustion. It can contribute to what appears to be stupidity because survival narrows perspective and shortens decision-making. That is why coaches, mentors, educators, and leaders must create environments where young people can move from surviving to thinking, from reacting to reflecting, and from fear to hope.
That is also why joy, rest, and wholeness matter.
Rest is not weakness.
Joy is not irresponsibility.
Wholeness is not luxury.
They are necessary parts of human development.
And when young people experience those things consistently, they begin believing they deserve them.
Question Three
“You’ve spent years being a voice for young Black men while also operating in spaces where influence, money, politics, and performance can easily distort purpose. What practices or internal convictions helped you stay aligned with service instead of becoming consumed by visibility, validation, or survival? And how do you recognize when your ambition is still rooted in calling instead of ego?”
The answer begins with clarity.
Years ago, I spent 40 days asking myself four questions every day. In the Bible, 40 represents testing.
The four questions were:
- What do you worry about?
- What do you cry about?
- What do you dream about?
- What brings you joy?
Those questions helped me identify my mission.
My mission is to be significant by serving millions and bringing them into relationship with Jesus Christ, starting with my wife Kelli and our daughters, Mackenzi and Mackenna.
Through that process, I also gained clarity about my gifts.
My earthly talent is coaching.
My spiritual gifts are prophecy, hospitality, leadership, and discernment.
And prophecy, in my understanding, is not merely predicting the future. It is challenging the status quo responsibly and courageously.
That clarity helps protect me from becoming consumed by visibility and validation because I know why I exist.
I also stay grounded through conviction.
My friend Jeff Duncan often says:
“Doing the right thing can never be the wrong thing.”
That mindset matters because influence can distort purpose if you are not anchored spiritually and emotionally. There are many rooms I could walk into, opportunities I could chase, and platforms I could pursue. But I have learned that not every invitation is an assignment.
That distinction is critical.
An invitation may feed ego.
An assignment fulfills purpose.
That is why I write so much. That is why I podcast. That is why I let my words precede me. I want people to understand who I am before I arrive so they can discern whether my presence aligns with the mission.
And yes, ego can sometimes be useful. Confidence matters. Conviction matters. Showing up boldly matters.
But ego becomes dangerous when visibility becomes more important than service.
The way I guard against that is through constant reflection, accountability, prayer, and staying connected to my calling.
At the end of the day, I want the credit so God gets the glory.
That is the goal.
Not fame.
Not applause.
Not survival.
Significance.
Photo credit to Piedmont Park