We spend our lives trying on different hats to see which ones fit.
Son.
Brother.
Friend.
Chef.
Artist.
Rapper.
Speaker.
Alcoholic.
Person in recovery.
Leader.
Guide.
Those are some of the roles that shaped my identity.
Someone once told me that you shouldn’t look into the past because you don’t live there anymore.
While that’s a poignant thought, I believe reflection helped me move forward. It helped me recognize that change does occur, and it opened me up to honesty.
I’ve always been harder on myself than other people were on me.
Learning forgiveness became an important part of shaping my identity.
Self-compassion isn’t the same as self-pity.
I had to remind myself that the choices I made were the best ones I knew how to make at the time.
Decades of alcoholism can lead to self-hatred.
Part of me wanted to be angry because I wasted years of my life staring at an empty bottle, believing it was going to make me feel better. I spent countless hours in the kitchen trying to prove that I belonged. I spent time away from family and friends, devoting myself to work and drinking.
I spent years chasing the dream of becoming a successful rapper, only to leave it behind and focus on my life as a chef.
But all of it taught me gratitude.
And if there is one word that embodies my identity, it’s grateful.
Growth isn’t linear.
It spirals.
It evolves.
It staggers.
I learned expression from music.
I learned responsibility from the kitchen.
I learned empathy from recovery.
I learned that support is non-negotiable from the people who love me.
I learned the power of truth through authorship.
When those lessons become part of your character, you have no choice but to trust who you’re becoming.
For a long time, my identity was defined by other people.
Eventually, I had to embrace what my own intuition and experience told me about who I am.
That was a major shift in my character.
I became confident in the changes I had made because I knew I was better for them.
That isn’t always easy to accept because I had to change the way I looked at myself.
I had to tell myself that I wasn’t an alcoholic anymore.
I wasn’t the twenty-year-old kid recording music.
I wasn’t the young cook trying to prove he belonged in the kitchen.
I made the changes.
I got sober.
I put in the hours behind the stove.
Now I had to use those keys to open new doors for myself.
Opportunity became a byproduct of growth.
Changing the way I viewed myself created new possibilities.
I cooked for the opportunity to compete for a spot in France.
I showed up for my team, and we stayed together for five years.
I wrote books.
I painted.
I spent more time with my family.
I started writing music again.
I embraced every part of my identity with gratitude because I knew how hard it was to get here.
Looking backward helped me move forward.
Grief isn't something we go through. It's something we learn to live with.
I read on a Facebook post once, that to grieve means that you loved.
Losing something you love is a universal pain. A relative. A pet. A lover. A job. An opportunity. A dream.
Strength for me came in the ability to show up while grieving. Most jobs as a courtesy, will give you three days of bereavement. But grief is a life long struggle. Life will always give us reminders and re open that wound just a little bit.
As a chef, the phrase take all the time you need is laughable. The vibe is more take your time and hurry up.
After losing my pops, I had to jump right back into working in the kitchen. I took my three days and after his service was back to work. The kitchen was a distraction. A place to escape and hide my feelings. I just focused on my work instead of working on myself.
In hindsight you can attribute that mentality to inexperience. But not focusing on my emotions lead me down some dark roads. That darkness affected many aspects of my life. My work, my health, my relationships, and my passion. My passion for cooking. My passion for recording music. My passion for growing into a better version of myself.
I simply didn't care. I drank myself numb for close to a decade. I buried myself in my work. All to avoided processing any emotions associated with losing someone I loved.
I wrote about many of the trials and tribulations that came with drinking. What I can say after learning to love myself and heal my heart, the emotions I tired to drown in alcohol, were still there. Even after close to 9 years of sobriety.
I had to honor the love I had for my father, my grandfather, aunts, uncles, fellow chefs, cousins and even my furry companion by doing what I know they demanded I do, even when they were still here. Love myself.
Accolades aren't measure of worth.
It's a natural human desire to be seek fulfillment though the praise of others. As a chef, people's opinion of my work keeps me working. If people like my food then I'm doing something right.
During the years I spent writing and recording music, if people like a song or a verse I wrote, my talent was validated.
As an author, if a reader was moved by my words or touched by something I wrote, my writing could be seen as impactful.
Promotions. Applause. A book in the Library of Congress. Corporate praise. Positive customer feedback. Kudos for long term sobriety. People compli
All barometers or accomplishments that could make someone feel their work is fulfilling.
What I found to be fulfilling is not the accolades from the outside, but the fact worth that I found within myself.
Praise can inspire you. But i learned it was up to me to use that praise to keep showing up. Fulfillment is on going. Complacency stunts growth. While there is value in praise, it can't be the ultimate driving motivation.
I had to want to be a better chef. Put in the work to stay sober. Keep making the right changes to continue a weight loss journey. Write to continue to inspire others.
Peoples opinion can be appreciated, but they aren't gospel. They aren't the final word in your willingness to improve yourself. That has to come from within.
Accolades aren't fulfillment. They are points on a scoreboard that tell you you're playing the game the right way.
