TWENTY EIGHT

The journey to becoming Ephraim

The night I was born, the rain was pouring. Thunder cracked across the sky like the heavens were about to announce something they couldn’t contain. My father paced the narrow hospital hallway, back and forth, back and forth, wearing worry into the tile floor. My mother pushed. Sweating, she pushed. She pushed through pain, through exhaustion, through a threshold between who she was and who she was about to bring forth.

And then I took my first breath.

The room stilled. The rain kept falling. The heavens praised, I was here.

Twenty-eight years ago, I arrived in the middle of a storm. I didn’t know it then, but I would sail the storms. Some I would cause. Some I would survive. Some I would learn to dance in. But I will sail.

This is the story of those twenty-eight years.

ONE

I don’t remember being one.
But I’m told I cried a lot. That I demanded so much attention. That even then, I would put on a show when given.
Maybe that’s where it started, the need to matter, to take up space, to be something.

FOUR

At four, I wanted to be a superman.

I would tie a wrapper around my neck like a cape and stand in front of the standing fan, arms stretched wide, eyes closed, feeling the wind hit my face. In my mind, I was flying. Soaring above rooftops. Saving people. Being important.

I didn’t know yet that real heroes don’t fly.
They just show up when it’s hard.

EIGHT

At eight, I thought we were the richest family in the world.
We had food on the table. A roof over our heads. Clothes that fit. I didn’t know what poverty or lack looked like because I’d never seen it in my home. My dad made sure of that.

I thought everyone lived like this—safe, full, loved.
I didn’t know yet that richness isn’t always about money.
Sometimes it’s just about people who refuse to let you see them struggle.

TEN

At ten, I imagined I was an astronaut.
I would stare at the sky at night and wonder what it felt like to float in space. To be weightless. To see the world from far away where everything looked small and manageable.

I didn’t know I was already looking for escape.

TWELVE

At twelve, I hoped to find a genie bottle.
Not for wealth or fame. I hoped for three wishes.
Three chances to fix things. Three chances to make life easier for the people I loved. Three chances to save the world.

But I never got the genie and maybe that was the point.
Maybe I was supposed to learn that real change do not come from wishes. It comes from effort, results and work.

THIRTEEN

At thirteen, the world started cracking.

I began to notice things I’d been too young to see before. The way my parents’ smiles sometimes didn’t reach their eyes. The way bills piled up on the table. The way “we’re fine” was code for “we’re trying.”
I stopped believing we were the richest.
And I started understanding what my parents had been protecting me from.

FIFTEEN

At fifteen, I learned that people leave.

Not always because they want to. Sometimes because life pulls them in different directions. Sometimes because time just moves and people don’t move with it.
I lost a friend that year. Not to death, but to distance.
And I learned that some goodbyes just happen quietly, and you have to keep moving.

SEVENTEEN

At seventeen, I fell in love for the first time.

At least that’s what I told myself when my chest tightened every time she walked past me.
It felt enormous. All-consuming. Like my heartbeat only made sense when she was near. Like I had spent sixteen years learning to breathe and suddenly forgot how the moment she smiled at me.

She didn’t save me. But God, I wanted her to.

I wanted her to fill every empty space I didn’t know I was carrying. I wanted her to make me feel whole without me having to do the work of becoming whole myself.

Love at seventeen is reckless like that. It doesn’t know the difference between connection and dependency. It confuses being seen with being saved. It feels everything at maximum volume and calls it destiny when it’s really just desperation with a flowery dress.

I learned that wanting someone so badly it hurts and being ready to love them are not the same thing.
One is need. The other is choice.
And I wasn’t choosing love. I was clinging to the idea of it.

NINETEEN

At nineteen, I started doubting everything.
Who I was. What I believed. What I was supposed to become.
The cape didn’t fit anymore. The astronaut dreams felt childish. The genie bottle felt like an easy escape.
I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t the kid with big dreams.

So I drifted.

TWENTY

At twenty, I tried to build something.

I threw myself into work, into goals, into the idea that if I just did enough, I’d figure out who I was supposed to be.
But busyness isn’t the same as purpose.
And I learned that you can be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

TWENTY-TWO

At twenty-two, I snapped.

Depression crept in like fog, slow, heavy and suffocating. I woke up tired. I went to bed numb. I smiled when I was supposed to, laughed when it was expected, and died a little every time someone asked, “How are you?” and I said, “I’m good.”

I wasn’t good.
I was drowning in a room full of people who had no idea I couldn’t breathe.

TWENTY-THREE

At twenty-three, I fought back.

Not because I suddenly felt strong. But because I was tired of feeling weak.
I started talking. Not to everyone, but to someone. I started admitting that I wasn’t okay. That I needed help. That the cape and the dreams and the smiles weren’t enough to hold me together anymore.

And slowly, painfully slowly, I started to breathe again.

TWENTY-FOUR

At twenty-four, I found God again.

Not the God I prayed to for genie bottles.
The God who met me in the mess. Who didn’t ask me to clean up before coming close. Who saw all the broken parts and didn’t flinch.
I stopped asking for wishes and started asking for strength.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

TWENTY-FIVE

At twenty-five, I found my people.

Not the ones who were there because we shared space. The ones who chose to stay when things got hard. The ones who saw me at my worst and didn’t leave. The ones who made life feel worth living again.

Friendship, real friendship, is a kind of love that doesn’t get enough credit.
It saved me.

TWENTY-SIX

At twenty-six, I learned that healing isn’t linear.
Some days I felt whole. Some days I felt like I was back at twenty-two, fighting just to get out of bed.

But I learned to be gentle with myself. To stop treating setbacks like failures. To understand that growth doesn’t mean you never fall, it just means you know how to get back up.

TWENTY-SEVEN

At twenty-seven, I started making peace with who I am.
Flawed. Figuring it out. Still learning. Still growing. Still fighting some days. Still winning others.

And realizing that’s enough.

TWENTY-EIGHT

At twenty-eight, I’m still here.

The rain still falls. The thunder still cracks. But I don’t run from storms anymore.

I’ve learned that the cape was never about flying, it was about a four-year-old boy who needed to believe he could be so much more.
I’ve learned that being rich has nothing to do with bank accounts. It’s about sitting in a room with people who make you feel less alone, seen, wanted and cherished.

I’ve learned that you don’t need a genie. You don’t need three wishes or magic fixes or shortcuts to bypass the hard parts. You just need the stubborn courage to show up, especially on the days when staying in bed feels easier than breathing.

I’ve learned that God doesn’t always answer prayers the way you beg Him to. Sometimes He says no. Sometimes He says wait. Sometimes He says, “I’m giving you something better, but you won’t understand it yet.” And those unanswered prayers? The ones that felt like abandonment? Some of them saved my life.

I’ve learned that the best love isn’t the kind that sets you on fire. It’s the kind that sits beside you in the ashes and says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’ve learned that healing isn’t a destination you arrive at. It’s a conversation you keep having with yourself. Some days you win. Some days you lose. And that’s okay.

I’ve learned that growth is ugly and uncomfortable. It’s messy. It’s non-linear. It’s two steps forward and three steps back and wondering if you’re making any progress at all.

I’ve learned that some questions don’t have answers yet. And maybe they never will. And I’m learning to be okay with that.
And I’ve learned that life was never about becoming the person I thought I’d be.
It was about becoming the person I was always meant to be, even if that person looks nothing like the kid who tied wrappers around his neck and believed he could fly. I know I can do so much more.

Here’s to the storms that shaped me, the people who saved me, and the God who never let me go.
Here’s to twenty-eight years of living, learning, losing, and finding my way back.
Here’s to the cape I used to wear and the crown I’m learning to carry.
Here’s to everything that brought me here.
And here’s to everything still to come.

The night I was born, the rain fell.

Twenty-eight years later, I’ve learned to dance in it.

Until next time,
Stay Jiggy!