BORN SURVIVOR.

The first battle came before the first breath. I was born a twin. Only one of us came home. Before I ever understood struggle, I had already survived it. Strength was not learned later in life. It was there from the beginning. Then came another fight. Severe childhood asthma. Hospital visits became routine. Breathing became work. Every breath reminded me that life was never something to take for granted. Most people learn resilience. I lived it. At eleven years old, life changed again. My father was removed from our home due to substance abuse, and childhood ended overnight. Responsibility arrived early. Without hesitation, I stepped into the role life demanded. Protection. Accountability. Maturity. Becoming the man of the house before becoming a man.

I didn’t realize it then, but every challenge was preparing me. Preparing me to lead. Preparing me to endure. Preparing me to keep moving when circumstances said stop. Before my spinal cord injury, movement was my language. I competed in track and field and pursued excellence in everything I did. I placed in the 100-metre, 200-metre, and 1,500-metre events and finished 17th out of 200 runners in the Terry Fox competition.

But competition was never really about winning.  It was about proving limits wrong. My greatest love was basketball. The hardwood became my proving ground. As a point guard, I learned to lead under pressure, create opportunities, and elevate everyone around me. In 1996, I begged my single mother for weeks to let me attend St. Matt’s Basketball Camp. Five hundred dollars for one week was a major sacrifice. For a single mother raising two children, it meant even more. So I made her a promise. I told her that if she found a way to send me, I would walk out as MVP. I wore number 1. And I left as number 1.

Out of more than 500 players, I earned the MVP award. That trophy didn’t make me. It revealed me. Looking back now, I realize that week shaped far more than my basketball journey. It confirmed something I still carry today: Preparation creates confidence. Belief creates momentum.

And adversity reveals character. Years later, when my spinal cord injury changed the course of my life, it did not change who I was. The body changed. The mission didn’t. Today, through global exposure for my brand, television interviews, and the impact I continue to build, I carry that same identity forward. Not because life stayed easy. But because I never stopped showing up. 

I’m still wearing number 1.  I’m still that MVP.

 

DANCE | FASHION | MUSIC

 

I’ve always needed outlets for expression. Music, dance, fashion, and sport weren’t hobbies—they were language. I learned early how to speak without speaking. Through rhythm on the congas during hot summers. Through breakdancing, where movement became identity. Through the turntables, spinning on the ones and twos and feeling control over sound itself. Through battle raps on the mic, where words became competition and confidence had to be earned in real time.

Street culture shaped a lot of that energy. Graffiti missions in places most people wouldn’t go, testing limits, pushing creativity into spaces that weren’t meant to hold it. Even moments of risk—like hanging from heights just to move differently, to feel alive, to prove something to myself that had nothing to do with approval.

At school, it didn’t stop. Hallways became stages. Movement became presence. Style became statement. Walking in a fresh fit wasn’t about attention—it was about identity. It was about how you carried yourself before you ever said a word.

Everything I did came back to one thing: Expression. Whether through sound, movement, or style, I wasn’t trying to fit into culture. I was trying to build one of my own.