I was born on January 9, 1990—a healthy baby, weighing the exact same as my father did when he was born. A few months later, everything changed. I started getting sick, unable to keep food down, and my breathing became labored. Doctors were unsure what was wrong until my grandmother did her own research and pushed for a sweat test. At nine months old, I was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. The first three years of my life were spent mostly in the hospital. Then, thankfully, I caught a break. I wasn’t hospitalized again until I was twelve. In between, I lived a happy, active childhood and fell completely in love with sports—especially basketball. It consumed my thoughts. I played whenever I could, daydreamed about it in class, and trained constantly. I also played soccer and was even invited to join a traveling team, but the cost was too much since my dad and I were living on SSI.
My father sacrificed more than I can ever explain, and my entire family played a huge role in raising and caring for me. Despite everything, I never saw myself as different from other kids. I truly believed I was going to make it to the NBA, and I trained like it every single day. Doctors tried to shut that dream down, but I ignored them. If anything, it only fueled me to work harder. At thirteen, though, I got really sick for the first time since I was three. I was hospitalized for a tune-up at UC Davis. While there, I remember running the stairs, still convinced I was NBA-bound—even from a hospital room. I trained daily, and when I could finally breathe again, the feeling sent chills through my body. I had never felt so alive.
Sixteen years later, that same feeling would return—but first came more hardship. After that tune-up, I found out I had contracted MRSA during my hospital stay. I still believe that hospitalization caused many of the health issues I faced throughout my teens. I needed three to four tune-ups a year, yet I still trained obsessively, convinced I was headed for the NBA—despite being five feet tall and barely 90 pounds. Around this time, my dad and I were living in Davis and preparing to move to a house we bought in Sacramento. Right before the move, one of my favorite memories happened: my dad surprised me with a puppy, a brindle pitbull mix who stayed by my side for fifteen years. Moving to Sacramento marked some of the best years of my life. I met friends who became brothers to me, relationships I still cherish today.
At fourteen, something incredible happened—Make-A-Wish built a basketball court in my backyard. We spent endless hours hooping there, but MRSA was making it harder and harder to breathe. Treatments consumed hours of my day and deeply affected my school and social life. I missed out on sleepovers, outings, and so many normal childhood experiences. Instead, my days and nights revolved around treatments. It was exhausting and often depressing. Still, I worked relentlessly because my lungs were everything to me. Through it all, God blessed me with an incredible family. My dad never stopped pushing me, always reminding me not to let anything hold me back. I had friends over constantly, three amazing grandmothers, a loving grandpa, supportive uncles, a wonderful mom, and a little brother. I was surrounded by love.
As the years passed, cystic fibrosis slowly wore me down. By eighteen, my lung capacity had dropped to the mid-50s. One day at practice, I couldn’t make it through more than a quarter of the drills. I simply couldn’t breathe and had to leave. Depression crept in hard. Everything doctors had warned me about finally happened, and it felt like a punch to the gut. My health declined further that year. I dropped out of school, my dad moved to Eureka, and I moved in with my grandparents—just minutes from my childhood home. Life settled into a routine of hospital visits and treatments. Years passed, until one devastating moment changed everything.
Coming home from the gym one day, I passed my grandpa riding his bike in the driveway. Inside, my grandma looked worried and was on the phone calling an ambulance. I found my grandpa pale in bed. When I asked if he was okay, he answered—and immediately went into cardiac arrest. Somehow, I found the strength to lift him to the floor and start CPR, but it wasn’t enough. He passed away in my arms. After that, it was just my grandma and me, taking care of each other while I continued battling my health issues, often with dangerously high fevers.
Then my grandma was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and our roles shifted—I began caring for her. We had each other and my dog, my constant companion. Eventually, she moved to North Carolina, leaving me alone in the house. Friends came by often—we’d hoop, watch games, or do things we probably shouldn’t have. Sorry, Grandma.
By late November 2019, after years of infections, a new CF medication called Trikafta was released. Around that time, I had two new puppies. The medication changed everything. I could run again—really run. I was on my treadmill for 30 minutes a night, something I hadn’t done since I was thirteen. That incredible feeling returned—the same one I felt years earlier running hospital stairs.
That Christmas, my dad, grandma, aunt, and cousin came to visit. Whenever my dad’s in town, we play basketball. The night before my best friend’s birthday, we went to hoop for hours. I felt amazing. Laughing, joking, completely carefree. As we walked to the car, I was slightly ahead, turning back to laugh—when gunfire erupted. Automatic shots. I was hit. The pain was overwhelming, and I couldn’t move. My friends and dad ran back into the gunfire and carried me to the car. I remember my feet hanging out, unable to move them, fading in and out while holding my friend’s hand and telling them I loved them.
Then everything went black.
I felt anger and frustration—life had just begun again. Suddenly, peace washed over me. I knew I had passed. A voice spoke to me, calm and familiar. Raised Rasta, I knew it was H.I.M. He offered me peace, freedom from pain. But I refused. I chose to come back, knowing it would be the hardest thing I’d ever do.
I woke up in the hospital at 1:30 a.m., unable to move, having flat-lined multiple times. Doctors debated surgery but decided it was too dangerous. The bullet had shattered my shoulder, collapsed my lung, and damaged my T-2 vertebra, leaving me paralyzed from the chest down. Rehab was brutal and heartbreaking, but I was grateful to be alive.
Now, I’m home, doing four to six hours of rehab daily while still managing cystic fibrosis. I believe I will walk again. I fight every day—through pain, tears, and doubt. I love life, my family, my friends, and this world. I believe heaven is a place on earth, and I plan to stay here as long as I can.
