The Climb

Author: T. Salih Ramsey

  • Now That’s a Question!

    In what ways do you communicate online?

    I don’t communicate online to be liked.
    I communicate to be clear.
    That already puts me at odds with most of the internet.
    Online spaces reward performance not truth.
    Tone gets polished. Edges get sanded. Language gets diluted so nobody feels “called out,” even when they should be called up.
    That’s not how I use my voice.
    I Communicate the Same Way I Lead
    Direct. Observant. Responsible.
    I don’t post to posture. I post to document what I’m seeing.
    I write from the floor level, where work actually happens, where decisions land, where consequences live long after a meeting ends.


    If something is broken, I name it.
    If someone does it right, I acknowledge it.
    If a system rewards silence, I say so.
    That honesty doesn’t always travel well online. I’m fine with that.
    I Don’t Confuse Engagement With Impact.
    Likes are easy.
    Applause is cheap.
    Silence is often the loudest feedback there is.
    When I write, I’m not chasing reactions. I’m leaving markers.
    Something a leader might come back to later.
    Something a worker might feel seen by.
    Something that makes someone pause before repeating the same mistake.
    If a post makes you uncomfortable, but still thinking hours later  it worked.
    I Choose Precision Over Volume
    I don’t flood feeds.
    I don’t trend-hop.
    I don’t post because the algorithm is hungry.
    I post when there’s weight behind the words I speak.
    Every sentence should earn its place.
    Every observation should come from experience, not opinion.
    Every critique should carry responsibility, not contempt.
    If I can’t stand behind it in person, it doesn’t belong online.
    I Communicate With Memory in Mind
    The internet forgets fast.
    People don’t.
    I write knowing someone may screenshot it.
    Quote it.
    Challenge it.
    Carry it into a room I’m not in.
    That’s fine. I write accordingly.
    No anonymous shots.
    No vague accusations.
    No borrowed outrage.
    Just lived experience, articulated cleanly.
    This Is How I Communicate Online
    I speak the way I wish more leaders would:
    With clarity instead of comfort
    With accountability instead of performance
    With respect for the people doing the work
    Not everything needs to be said.
    But what does get said should mean something.


    That’s the climb

  • What I’m Carrying Today

    “I’ve learned not to argue with what keeps repeating.”

    There are patterns that don’t care how busy you are.
    They show up whether you acknowledge them or not.
    Ignore them long enough and they stop knocking they just sit there, waiting.
    Today, I’m not carrying emotions.
    I’m carrying weight.
    Not the dramatic kind.
    The quiet kind that comes from responsibility layered on responsibility.
    From decisions that don’t announce themselves as important but become heavy later.
    I’m carrying unfinished thoughts.
    Not because I lack clarity, but because clarity takes time, and I refuse to rush it just to feel productive.
    I’m carrying restraint.
    The discipline of not reacting.
    The discipline of letting things reveal themselves fully before I interfere.
    Most people mistake restraint for hesitation.
    They confuse speed with certainty.
    I don’t.
    What I’m carrying today is awareness without urgency.
    There’s a difference.
    Urgency wants relief.
    Awareness wants truth.
    I’ve learned that some problems don’t need solutions yet they need observation.
    They need space to show their real shape instead of the convenient one.
    I’m carrying responsibility that doesn’t come with authority.
    The kind that says even if no one asked you to notice, you noticed.
    And now you own that knowledge.
    That’s heavier than most people realize.
    I’m carrying memory.
    Not nostalgia memory with teeth.
    Experience that reminds me how easily systems drift when no one is paying attention, and how quickly people confuse motion for progress.
    I’m carrying the discipline to stay grounded when noise would be easier.
    To stay quiet when commentary would earn approval.
    To stay exact when exaggeration would land better.
    There’s a cost to that choice.
    I feel it today.
    I’m also carrying patience, not the passive kind, but the active kind.
    The kind that requires constant self-correction.
    The kind that keeps you from grabbing at outcomes before they’re ready.
    What I’m carrying today isn’t visible.
    There’s no metric for it.
    No title.
    No receipt.
    But it’s real.
    And the thing about weight is this:
    It strengthens you if you carry it deliberately.
    It breaks you if you pretend it isn’t there.
    So today, I acknowledge it.
    I inventory it.
    I don’t dramatize it.
    I don’t explain it away.
    I carry it forward.
    Because what keeps repeating is usually trying to teach you something and I’ve learned not to argue with that.

    I love Sushi

  • The Quiet Weight I’ve Been Carrying

    What are your biggest challenges?

    Happy 2026!

    For a long time, I thought my strength was endurance.
    I believed that if I could just keep pushing, keep carrying, keep solving, keep holding it all together eventually things would stabilize on their own. I thought pressure was proof that I was doing something right. That exhaustion was just part of the calling.
    But here’s the truth I’ve had to face:
    My biggest challenge isn’t lack of effort.
    It’s carrying too much alone for too long without stopping to consolidate what I’ve already built.
    I move fast. I see patterns early. I feel responsibility deeply. When something needs fixing, I step in often before I’m asked. I don’t wait for permission to carry weight. I just shoulder it.
    And for a while, that works.
    Until it doesn’t.
    What I’ve realized is that I often move from pressure to pressure. I solve the next problem, climb the next hill, answer the next call without pausing long enough to secure the ground beneath my feet. I outgrow environments faster than I extract stability from them. I give more than the structure around me is designed to return.
    That’s not humility.
    That’s exposure.
    Endurance has kept me alive, but endurance alone doesn’t build longevity.
    There’s a difference between being strong and being positioned.
    Between surviving and standing.
    Faith has been forcing me to slow down not to stop moving, but to move with intention. God hasn’t been telling me to push harder. He’s been telling me to stand where I am, plant my feet, and let what I’ve already built start carrying me.
    This season isn’t about proving anything. It’s about simplifying. It’s about anchoring. It’s about stacking wins deliberately instead of chasing momentum blindly.
    I’m learning that consolidation isn’t retreat. It’s strategy.
    And rest isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.
    The climb doesn’t always mean going higher. Sometimes it means learning how to hold the ground you’ve already earned.
    I’m still climbing. Just smarter now. More rooted. More aware.
    And that might be the strongest position I’ve ever taken.
    — The Climb

  • Still Climbing — January 1, 2026


    It’s been a minute since my last post.
    December 16th, to be exact.
    I thought I’d written something around Christmas, but I didn’t. And instead of beating myself up about that, I’m standing right here on January 1st, 2026, choosing honesty over perfection.
    The truth is, the climb didn’t stop just because the blog went quiet.
    If anything, the work got louder.
    Since mid-December, I’ve been doing what climbing actually looks like quiet, uncelebrated, and consistent. I’ve been tightening systems. Putting structure where chaos used to live. Implementing instructions I didn’t create, but chose to respect. Doing the kind of work that doesn’t post well but builds real ground under your feet.
    Christmas came and went with family, food, laughter, and moments that reminded me why discipline matters. Not because life is perfect, but because it isn’t. You don’t pause your climb for holidays. You learn how to carry your climb through them.
    I’ve been showing up.
    Handling my responsibilities. Keeping the house moving. Keeping my word. Doing what needs to be done even when nobody’s watching.
    That’s growth.
    I’ve also been working on my book quietly, deliberately, without rushing it for applause. Writing takes honesty. It takes clarity. And most of all, it takes patience with yourself. I’m not interested in rushing something sacred just to say it’s finished. I’m interested in saying it right.
    This season isn’t about noise. It’s about alignment.
    I’m learning how to climb without announcing every step. How to build without asking for permission. How to trust that consistent effort compounds even when progress feels invisible.
    So if you’re reading this wondering what changed since December 16th, here’s the answer:
    Nothing broke. Nothing stopped. Nothing fell apart.
    I’m still climbing. Still working. Still building. Still becoming.
    And in 2026, that’s the only resolution I need.

    Family


    Tommy
    The Climb Blog

  • If I Could Talk to the Boy I Used to Be

    What if you could go back in time and have a real conversation with your younger self?

    Not advice shouted through a motivational poster.
    Not warnings yelled from the future.
    A real conversation. Face to face.

    I know exactly where I’d meet him.

    Not a playground. I didn’t really do playgrounds.
    Somewhere open. Concrete nearby. A place where you learn to watch before you learn to play.

    He’s about nine.
    That’s when things start shifting.
    When you stop being protected by childhood and start being tested by the world.

    I’m older. Worn in. Standing where I belong.

    He looks at me the way kids look at adults they don’t trust yet curious, alert, already measuring distance.

    I don’t rush it.

    “Boy,” I say.

    He knows.
    You always recognize yourself.

    I don’t tell him how hard it’s going to get.
    Life will handle that part.

    I tell him the things that would’ve changed how he carried it.

    “Nothing is wrong with you,” I say first.
    “And not everything that hurts you is your fault.”

    That one lands heavy.

    “You’re going to think you’re bad at life because life keeps putting you in bad situations,” I tell him.
    “Don’t confuse the two. Environment can lie to you.”

    I let that breathe.

    “You’re going to survive a lot,” I say.
    “Don’t mistake survival for identity. Survival is a response. Character is a choice you make later, when you finally have room to breathe.”

    He’s listening now. Still. Focused.

    “You feel things early,” I tell him.
    “That doesn’t make you weak. It means your awareness showed up before safety did.”

    I don’t promise him success.
    I don’t promise him peace.

    I give him posture.

    “When things get loud inside you,” I say, “don’t run faster. Stand straighter. Learn to watch before you react. Control yourself before you try to control outcomes.”

    He looks at my hands. They’re steady.

    “What do I get?” he asks.

    Not comfort.
    Not shortcuts.

    “Time,” I tell him.
    “Time you won’t waste thinking you’re broken.”

    That’s when he nods just once.
    The kind of nod you give when you don’t fully understand yet, but you trust the weight of the words.

    Then the moment passes.

    Here’s the truth most people miss:

    I wouldn’t go back to save him.
    I’d go back to stop blaming him.

    Because once you forgive the kid who did his best with what he had,
    the climb stops feeling like punishment
    and starts feeling like purpose.

    That’s the conversation I’d have.

    And that’s why I keep climbing.

  • Lately, I’ve learned discernment.

    What skills or lessons have you learned recently?

    Not the loud kind that announces itself, but the quiet kind that decides what stays and what goes without drama.
    I’ve learned that not everything has to justify its presence by being useful, productive, or impressive. Some things earn their place by surviving change. By traveling with me. By remaining steady when everything else shifts.
    I’ve learned to tell the difference between clinging and choosing.
    I’ve learned that letting go isn’t always growth and that keeping something doesn’t automatically mean fear. Sometimes it means continuity. Sometimes it means knowing where you come from so you don’t get lost while moving forward.
    I’ve also learned restraint. Not everything needs to be explained. Not every decision needs a defense. Quiet confidence is often stronger than clarity performed for others.
    If there’s a skill in that, it’s this:
    I’m better at choosing what I carry forward into my space, my time, and my life.

    That’s not small. That’s earned.

  • Why Silence Is the New Luxury

    What cities do you want to visit?

    Why Bend, Oregon Feels Like Home Before I Ever Arrive

    In a world addicted to noise, silence has become the rarest currency.

    For me, silence isn’t emptiness. It’s clarity. It’s the space where thought sharpens, where breath deepens, where a man finally hears himself again. That’s why Bend, Oregon keeps calling to me not loudly, not urgently, but with the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to convince you.

    Bend feels like a place built for people who’ve lived enough life to know what actually matters.

    I don’t want constant stimulation anymore. I’ve carried rooms, responsibilities, and systems long enough to know that chaos is not energy it’s leakage. Bend offers something different: space. Physical space. Mental space. Emotional space. The kind of space that lets you wake up without an agenda and still feel purposeful.

    The air is cleaner there. Pine, river, elevation. You feel it immediately. It slows your pace without shrinking your ambition. You can sit all day without guilt, or hike for hours until your legs burn and your thoughts finally go quiet. In Bend, stillness isn’t laziness it’s maintenance.

    What makes Bend special isn’t just the nature—it’s the freedom of choice. Hiking, fishing, biking, mountains, rivers they’re always there. But so is restraint. Excitement is available, not imposed. A brewery when you want one. Music when you’re in the mood. Community when you choose it. And when you don’t? No explanations required.

    That kind of unspoken respect matters.

    Bend understands that solitude isn’t isolation. It’s restoration. It’s how leaders reset. It’s how creatives think clearly. It’s how men protect their bandwidth in a world that’s constantly demanding attention.

    I imagine mornings there with coffee and quiet. Afternoons spent moving through trees or along water. Evenings that don’t need an audience. A life where I can leave when I want, return when I’m ready, and never feel rushed to perform.

    That’s real luxury.

    Not excess. Not noise. Not access to everything at once.
    But control over your time, your energy, and your presence.

    Bend doesn’t ask who you are or what you do. It doesn’t push identity or urgency. It simply offers a landscape where you can think, move, rest, and live honestly.

    Some places impress you.
    Some places entertain you.
    And some places quietly give you permission to breathe.

    In this season of my climb, silence isn’t something I’m escaping into it’s something I’ve earned.

    And Bend, Oregon feels like a place that understands that.

  • Thirty Days In: What the Work Started Teaching Me Before I Was Ready

    Thirty days isn’t long.

    It’s barely enough time to learn names, rhythms, expectations. Barely enough time to get settled, to stop feeling new, to blend into the background of an operation that existed long before you arrived.

    And yet thirty days is long enough for clarity to show up.

    That’s what surprised me most.

    Not the workload.
    Not the responsibility.
    But how quickly the work began teaching me who I needed to be.

    The First Lesson: Titles Don’t Carry Weight Standards Do

    In the first month at Servicon, I learned something simple and unforgiving:

    People aren’t watching what you say.
    They’re watching what you tolerate.

    The standards you walk past become the standards you approve. And no job description, no authority, no position can compensate for inconsistency.

    Leadership shows up quietly in what gets corrected, what gets reinforced, and what never becomes negotiable.

    The Second Lesson: Excellence Lives in the Unseen

    Much of the most important work in Environmental Services will never be applauded.

    When it’s done right, nothing happens.
    No attention.
    No disruption.
    No headline.

    And yet, prevention, cleanliness, and discipline protect lives in ways that are invisible by design.

    That reality deepened my respect for the profession — and for the people who take pride in work most will never notice unless it’s missing.

    The Third Lesson: Culture Is Built in the Small Moments

    Culture isn’t shaped in meetings.
    It’s shaped in hallways.
    On late shifts.
    During moments when no one expects correction or praise.

    It’s built when leaders choose consistency over convenience.
    When they reinforce expectations without ego.
    When they speak clearly and listen just as hard.

    In 30 days, I didn’t just observe culture.
    I felt how fragile it can be and how powerful it becomes when people believe standards actually matter.

    The Fourth Lesson: Responsibility Arrives Early

    I thought responsibility would grow gradually ease in as familiarity increased.

    It didn’t.

    Responsibility arrived the moment clarity did.

    The instant you see clearly, you inherit accountability. You don’t get to wait until you’re comfortable or settled. You simply decide whether you’ll act or look away.

    That lesson didn’t come from policy.
    It came from the work itself.

    What Servicon Has Shown Me So Far

    Servicon represents something I respect deeply: professionalism without noise.

    There’s pride here.
    Expectation here.
    An understanding that Environmental Services is not background work it’s foundational.

    Being part of that culture has reminded me that leadership doesn’t require volume to be effective. It requires presence. Follow-through. And respect for the people doing the work.

    The Climb Doesn’t Pause for Comfort

    Thirty days in, I understand this more clearly than ever:

    The climb isn’t about acclimating it’s about aligning.

    Aligning your actions with your values.
    Your standards with your responsibility.
    Your leadership with the people counting on you, whether they ever know your name or not.

    I’m still learning.
    Still listening.
    Still earning trust.

    But I’m not unclear anymore.

    Final Thought

    The work will keep teaching if I keep paying attention.

    And if the first 30 days have confirmed anything, it’s this:

    Progress doesn’t announce itself.
    Excellence doesn’t need permission.
    And leadership begins the moment you decide not to walk past what matters.

    I’m grateful for the opportunity to learn within an organization that understands the weight of this work. At Servicon, standards are not theoretical they are lived, reinforced, and expected. That environment matters. It creates space for accountability, pride, and growth. Thirty days in, I recognize that what’s being built here isn’t just operational excellence, but a culture that respects the responsibility entrusted to Environmental Services professionals. I don’t take that lightly, and I’m committed to contributing to it with intention and care.

  • Why Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids Was My Favorite Cartoon

    I was born in 1971 in Oakland, California.

    That matters.

    Where you grow up shapes what speaks to you especially when you’re young and still learning how the world works. For me, Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids wasn’t just a cartoon. It felt familiar. It sounded like home. It spoke a language I already understood.

    Other cartoons were entertaining.
    This one was recognizable.

    It Looked Like Real Life

    The kids on Fat Albert didn’t live in castles or space stations. They lived in neighborhoods. They dealt with peer pressure, mistakes, temptation, loyalty, and consequences. The problems weren’t abstract they were every day.

    Nobody had superpowers.
    They had choices.

    And those choices mattered.

    That mirrored what life felt like growing up. You learned early that decisions echo. That shortcuts cost you later. That who you run with and what you tolerate shapes who you become.

    It Didn’t Talk Down to You

    What separated Fat Albert from other shows was respect.

    It didn’t assume kids were stupid.
    It didn’t wrap lessons in noise or exaggeration.

    Sometimes the message was uncomfortable.
    Sometimes someone messed up.
    Sometimes the ending wasn’t neat.

    But the lesson was always clear.

    It trusted the viewer to think.

    That stuck with me.

    Community Was the Center

    What really made the show different was that no one stood alone.

    When one kid made a bad decision, it affected everyone. When someone struggled, the group didn’t abandon them but they also didn’t excuse the behavior.

    There was accountability without humiliation.

    That balance matters.

    You were expected to do better not because someone threatened you, but because people depended on you.

    That idea never left me.

    Consequences Were Quiet but Real

    Fat Albert didn’t rely on spectacle. There were no explosions, no villains defeated in twenty minutes. The damage in that show was subtle broken trust, missed opportunities, regret.

    The message was simple:
    You don’t always see the consequences right away but they always show up.

    That’s life.

    That’s leadership.

    Why It Still Matters to Me

    Looking back now, I realize why this cartoon stayed with me while others faded.

    It wasn’t entertainment it was preparation.

    It taught me to pay attention.
    To notice what others brush off.
    To understand that standards exist whether you acknowledge them or not.

    It taught me that:

    • Ignoring small things leads to bigger problems
    • Community requires responsibility
    • Doing the right thing often happens quietly
    • Leadership isn’t about dominance it’s about care

    That’s stewardship.

    Final Thought

    I didn’t grow up idolizing characters who flew or conquered worlds.

    I paid attention to kids who navigated real ones.

    Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids didn’t just tell stories it modeled a way of moving through life: aware, accountable, and connected to something bigger than yourself.

    That’s probably why it stayed with me.

    And why, even now, I don’t believe the small things are ever small.

    #TheClimb, #Leadershipwithpurpose

  • Dust Is Not Dirt — And It Kept Me Awake at Night

    Excellence doesn’t announce itself. It lives in the details others overlook — and in the leaders who refuse to ignore them.

    I haven’t even been on the job 30 days.

    I’m still learning the operation, the people, the cadence.

    But for the first time in months, I didn’t sleep.

    Not from stress.
    But from clarity.

    Something small had made itself impossible to ignore.

    Dust.

    When Something Small Stops Being Small

    Dust doesn’t demand attention.
    It waits.

    It settles where people stop looking — high ledges, vents, light fixtures, places marked mentally as later. It doesn’t arrive dramatically. It accumulates quietly, patiently, until it becomes normal.

    That’s what unsettled me.

    Because dust is rarely just about cleanliness.
    It’s about awareness.

    What Dust Tells You If You’re Paying Attention

    In high-risk environments, dust tells a story long before problems appear.

    It shows where standards have softened.
    Where routines became habits.
    Where accountability blurred to avoid discomfort.

    Dust moves. It circulates. It reenters the air every time a door opens, a bed rolls, or a system breathes. What seems settled is often just suspended.

    That’s not speculation.
    That’s reality.

    “It Looks Fine” Is Where Risk Begins

    There’s a dangerous comfort in surfaces.

    It looks clean.
    It’s probably okay.
    No one’s complained.

    Those phrases aren’t neutral. They’re signals.

    Looking clean is not the same as being safe.
    Looking finished is not the same as being complete.

    Excellence doesn’t rely on what’s obvious.
    It depends on what’s controlled.

    Why This Hit Me So Early

    When you’re new, the natural instinct is to observe. To give yourself time. To ease into authority.

    But responsibility doesn’t wait for onboarding to finish.

    That night, what kept rising wasn’t anxiety — it was understanding. The realization that once you see clearly, you inherit accountability. Not later. Not gradually. Immediately.

    You don’t get to unsee what matters.

    The Quiet Failure No One Notices

    No alarms go off when a detail is skipped.
    There’s no immediate consequence.

    And that’s why it’s dangerous.

    When something feels invisible, it gets repeated.
    When it gets repeated, it becomes culture.

    Culture doesn’t shift because of one big mistake.
    It erodes through tolerated small ones.

    Where I Draw the Line

    I believe standards are a form of respect — for people you may never meet but are responsible for protecting.

    High-level care is built in places no one applauds.
    On surfaces no one points to.
    In tasks people assume aren’t urgent.

    High dusting isn’t negotiable to me.
    Not because of rules — but because prevention is silent, and silence is deceptive.

    The Climb Changes Your Vision

    As you climb, your eyes sharpen.

    You stop overlooking what others normalize.
    You start noticing what doesn’t announce itself.
    You understand that leadership lives where comfort ends.

    That’s the weight of the climb.

    Not authority.
    Not titles.
    Responsibility.

    Final Thought

    Dust is not just dirt.

    It’s a reminder that excellence lives in the details we choose not to ignore — and leadership means caring anyway.

    Even when it’s quiet.
    Especially when it’s quiet.