"I saw myself in my students."

As a Black male who grew up off Cleveland Avenue in a low-income environment, I know firsthand the weight of fear, loneliness, and the constant pressure to be someone you're not—just to survive. In both school and my neighborhood, I often felt unsafe and unseen. There was no tribe. No brotherhood. To protect myself, I pretended to be aggressive. I acted tough—not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

    In those early years, many of my teachers didn't take the time to truly connect with us. Education felt transactional, not transformational. But when I entered high school at North Springs, a predominantly white school, I experienced a shift. For the first time, I felt safe. I could breathe. I could begin to be myself. Yet, even in that new environment, I sometimes felt judged—just "the Black boy from the Southside." Still, the exposure to new people, new opportunities, and supportive educators opened my eyes to what was possible.

Back home, the story was different. Friends I grew up with in elementary and middle school were dying or going to jail. Many came from fatherless homes, with mothers who struggled with addiction. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if they had just been placed in a nurturing environment—one that watered their potential—they could’ve grown into different men.

    Years later, I became an educator. I began teaching in the Bankhead area at a Title I school, where I saw my own story reflected in the lives of my second-grade students. Many came to school hungry, exhausted from domestic turmoil the night before, and emotionally burdened well beyond their years. Some shared heartbreaking stories with me—stories no child should have to carry. How could I teach reading when my students were already battling trauma before the day began?

    Ninety-five percent of my students had absent fathers or fathers in jail. I began spending my lunch and planning periods just listening to them—mentoring them. Word got around, and soon, boys I’d never even taught were seeking me out. I went to my principal, and with her support, I started holding meetings on Sundays for boys in grades 1 through 8. I quickly noticed two things: nearly all of them struggled with both reading and emotional regulation.

    So I educated myself. I began integrating emotional healing practices—like mindful breathing—with literacy support and character development. Teachers started noticing changes. The boys were improving, not just in reading, but in behavior, confidence, and purpose.

That’s how NorthStar was born.

    Today, NorthStar Atlanta mentors over 100 boys ages 5–18, focusing on literacy, mentorship, emotional healing, and self-identity. Our mission is rooted in my personal journey—and in the belief that when boys are seen, supported, and poured into, they don’t just survive. They rise.