The Climb

Author: T. Salih Ramsey

  • The Truth About a Man’s Peace

    What’s something you believe everyone should know.

    By Tommy Ramsey — The Climb Blog


    > “True greatness consists in being great in little things.”
    — Samuel DeWitt Proctor

    This is what everyone should know about a man:
    We break too — we just do it quietly.

    We hold the line when the weight gets heavy. We smile when we’re tired, laugh when we’re aching, and carry the world on our backs while the world barely notices. We protect. We provide. We lead. But what people often forget is that we also need peace.

    I’ve spent too many years sacrificing my own joy and sanity so others could feel comfortable. I’ve swallowed my frustration, my exhaustion, and my pain to keep the peace in a home, a job, and a world that rarely asks how I’m really doing.

    I’ve been questioned when all I wanted was understanding. I’ve been tested when all I needed was grace. And I’ve been told to calm down when all I was trying to do was breathe.

    We’re not asking to be worshiped — we’re asking to be understood.

    That’s the truth I wish people knew about a man.

    We don’t want perfection — we just want peace. We don’t want to be the hero every day — we just want to feel human sometimes.

    Behind every man who seems cold or distant, there’s a story. A weight. A quiet cry no one hears. And that doesn’t make him weak — it makes him real.

    So yes, I’m tired. I’m frustrated. But I’m still climbing.
    Still showing up. Still holding on to faith that one day peace won’t be something I have to fight for — it’ll be something I live in.

    Because being a man isn’t about never breaking.
    It’s about breaking — and still standing tall.

  • 🕊️ Two Birds, One Blessing

    “It’s better to hold on to what you’ve got until you get something better — that way you don’t end up with nothing.”

    I lived that.

    A few weeks ago, I was offered a per-diem housekeeping position at Gardena Memorial Hospital. It wasn’t my dream job, but it was honest work — something steady in a storm. I said yes, knowing it might not be forever, but it would hold me over until something better came along.

    I held on.

    Because sometimes holding on isn’t about desire — it’s about faith. It’s about trusting that your current situation is just a waiting room for your breakthrough.

    And then it happened.

    Out of nowhere, I got the call from Servicon Systems, offering me the position of Assistant Director of Environmental Services (EVS) at Los Angeles General Hospital. The opportunity came like a quiet blessing wrapped in timing and grace.

    And that’s when I realized — I had been holding the bird I didn’t really want… until the one I didn’t even know I wanted flew in.

    That’s how God works.

    He doesn’t just replace what you let go of — He upgrades it. He transforms struggle into strength, delay into direction, waiting into wisdom.

    I’m grateful for Gardena Memorial for reminding me what humility looks like. I’m grateful for Servicon for believing in my climb. And I’m grateful for every step in between — even the ones that hurt — because that’s where the real faith grows.

    I didn’t end up with nothing.
    I ended up with purpose.

    #Faith #Servicon #Gratitude #TheClimb #Growth #Purpose #Leadership #GodIsGood #Blessings

  • What Alternative Career Paths Have You Considered or Are Interested In?

    What alternative career paths have you considered or are interested in?

    There are moments in life when you stop, look around, and realize the path you’re on might not be the only one meant for you. I’ve spent years working in Environmental Services — learning, leading, cleaning, managing — rising from the bottom rung all the way into leadership. It taught me discipline, patience, and pride. But lately, as life has slowed me down and forced me to look deeper, I’ve started asking myself: what else am I capable of?

    I’ve thought about writing full-time — because words have always been my therapy. I’ve imagined standing behind a camera, capturing the world as I see it, turning pain and faith into something visual. I’ve dreamed of mentoring, of building a business that lifts up the forgotten workers — the ones who clean, who grind, who never get the spotlight but make the world function.

    But these aren’t just ideas. They’re reflections of my spirit evolving. I’m learning that careers aren’t just jobs; they’re extensions of who you are becoming. Every late night, every heartbreak, every time I hit rock bottom — it’s been shaping me for something larger. I don’t know the exact form yet, but I feel it pulling me forward like gravity.

    The climb isn’t just about titles or paychecks. It’s about purpose. And purpose changes as you do. Maybe my next path will be in storytelling, maybe business, maybe leadership — or maybe it’ll be something that doesn’t even have a name yet. Whatever it is, I want it to make people feel something. I want it to heal and build.

    So when I think about alternative paths, I’m really thinking about legacy. I’m thinking about my mother’s faith, my cousin Ben’s wisdom, my wife’s support, and my own resilience. I’m thinking about what I’ll leave behind — not in things, but in lives touched.

    Because no matter what path I take next, one thing remains true:
    I’m still climbing.

  • When I Think of Her

    When I think of her, I see light — not the kind that fades when the sun sets, but the kind that stays … glowing steady in the corners of my heart.
    My mother was an awesome woman. Her voice could calm storms. Her prayers could lift a soul. Her love could fill a room and make you forget the pain outside the door.

    Now that she’s gone, the world feels quieter. Mornings feel a little emptier without her voice or her laughter. But her presence still lingers — in the way I cook, in the way I care for my family, in the way I keep pushing even when life tries to hold me down.

    When I think of her, I remember strength — not the loud kind, but the quiet kind that never wavered. She carried herself with grace even when life gave her reasons to fall apart. She worked hard, prayed harder, and always made a way out of no way. She was the definition of grace under pressure — and that’s the part of her I carry every single day.

    That’s what The Climb is about. It’s about picking up what she left behind — her faith, her fire, her love — and carrying it forward. It’s about turning grief into fuel. She taught me that when life knocks you down, you get back up. You don’t stay broken. You rise.

    Even now, as I walk through my own storms, I feel her pushing me up that hill. Her strength flows through me like a pulse I can’t see but can always feel. Her faith reminds me that the climb doesn’t end until you reach the top — and then you keep climbing for the ones who can’t.

    I miss her every day. Some moments I still break, but I rise because that’s what she taught me to do. Every step I take, every dream I chase, every word I write — it’s all for her. Because her story didn’t end when she passed. It lives through me, through my family, through The Climb.

    When I think of her … I don’t just remember. I continue her climb.

    —

    ✨ Dedication
    For my mother — the light that still guides my steps up The Climb.

  • Two Goodbyes, One Climb

    By Tommy Ramsey

    Grief has a way of showing us who we are — and who we were loved by. On the day we gathered at Calvary Revival Church, in Norfolk Virginia, I didn’t walk into a funeral. I walked into a homecoming.

    The sanctuary was full — packed with family, friends, church members, and even the children my mother once cared for as a nanny, now grown but still carrying the love she gave them. Every hug, every tear, every shared memory reminded me of just how far her love reached.

    I was deeply honored when my brother, Nelson asked me to deliver the tribute. That moment — standing at the pulpit, speaking her name, telling her story — was more than a duty. It was a gift. I spoke from my soul about the woman who taught us everything that truly matters: how to love, how to fight, how to endure, and how to believe.

    Bishop Courtney McBeth eulogy lifted the room with power. As Pastor Janeen McBath’s message reminded us that death is not the end — it’s a homecoming to God. And we didn’t mourn that day. We celebrated. We celebrated my mother’s laughter, her sacrifices, her prayers, and her faith. We celebrated the love that shaped generations and generations to come. When I walked out of that sanctuary, I carried more than sadness — I carried pride and purpose.

    But grief has a way of testing you just when you think you’ve found peace.

    As my wife and I waited to go to the airport to board our plane back to Hollywood, I felt a small piece of my heart starting to heal. And then the text message flashed across my phone — and the weight came crashing down again.

    My cousin, Benjamin Franklin Bell, had passed away.

    My cousin Ben lived a good, strong, meaningful life. But even with a full life behind him, his passing hit me hard — because Ben wasn’t just family. He was a teacher. He was a protector. He was a compass in my younger years, when the streets could have swallowed me whole. It was Ben who taught me how to stand tall in the streets. It was Ben who showed me how to honor the code of a men. If it weren’t for him, I might have been lost in the chaos known as the streets of Oakland. His lessons shaped me, and I carry them still.

    Learning of his death while still grieving my mother felt like a storm crashing into another storm. Yet, even in that pain, I felt their presence with me. My mother’s love was still holding me up. Ben’s Street wisdom was still guiding my steps.

    And that’s when I realized something deeper about this journey — this climb. It’s not just about reaching goals or surviving setbacks. It’s about legacy. It’s about the love that carries you when your strength fails. It’s about the lessons that become part of your DNA. It’s about the people who leave this world but never leave you.

    I carry my mother’s faith in every decision I make. I carry Ben’s code in every step I take. And even though the climb feels steeper now — even though the weight of two goodbyes is heavy — I will not stop.

    Because their legacy is my climb. And with every breath, every prayer, and every tear, I climb for them.

    Dedication

    For my mother — who taught me how to love. For my cousin Ben — who taught me how to stand.

    Every step I take is because of you.

  • On My Knees, But Still Climbing

    There are days when I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my back — and still, the world keeps adding more. The passing of my mother cracked something inside me that I don’t think will ever be whole again. I’m preparing for her services, trying to hold myself together, trying to be strong for everyone else while inside I feel like I’m breaking apart.

    I accepted a per diem job that’s far out of the way — not because it’s ideal, but because I need it. I’m still waiting to hear back from other interviews, stuck in that cruel limbo where hope and anxiety live side by side.

    And in the middle of it all, I’m still expected to be everything. A father. A husband. A friend. A brother. A companion. A handyman. A cook. A caretaker. “Mr. Mom.” There’s no off switch. No pause button. The world doesn’t stop spinning just because your heart is broken.

    I spend most nights on my knees — praying I don’t lose my mind while trying so desperately to change it. Praying for strength. For peace. For the courage to keep climbing even when the mountain feels endless. Because deep down, I know this climb isn’t just about me. It’s about the people who depend on me. It’s about the promise I made to myself to become more than my circumstances.

    I won’t pretend I have it all figured out. I don’t. I’m tired. I’m grieving. I’m unsure. But I also know this: I’ve been in the dark before, and I’ve always found my way out. This time will be no different.

    So if you’re reading this and you feel like life is piling more on your shoulders than you can possibly carry — I see you. I understand you. And I want you to know: being on your knees doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re still in the fight. And as long as you’re still fighting, you’re still climbing.

    Closing Reflection: My Prayer on the Climb

    Tonight, as I sit here with everything weighing on my shoulders — grief, responsibility, uncertainty — I remind myself of one simple truth: God hasn’t brought me this far to leave me here.

    I whisper a prayer, not just for strength, but for peace. Peace to accept what I can’t control. Peace to keep moving forward even when I don’t have all the answers. And peace to trust that even this season — this storm — has a purpose.

    I ask God to guide my steps when I can’t see the path. To hold my heart together when it feels like it’s falling apart. To remind me that even if I stumble, I am not broken. Even if I cry, I am not weak. Even if I pause, I am not done.

    This climb isn’t easy. It never was meant to be. But I know with every prayer I whisper, every tear I shed, and every step I take — I’m getting closer to becoming who I was meant to be.

    And so, I rise again tomorrow. Maybe with tired legs, maybe with a heavy heart. But I rise. Because this is my story. This is The Climb.

    ✨ Dedication

    For my mother — the strength that shaped me, the faith that steadied me, and the love that still carries me higher. Every step I take on this climb is because of you.

    “Even if I stumble, I am not broken. Even if I cry, I am not weak. Even if I pause, I am not done.”

  • The Climb: Built From the Struggle

    “Built From the Struggle”

    There comes a point in every journey where you stop and look back — not to dwell, but to understand. To truly see the miles you’ve walked, the storms you’ve survived, and the mountains you’ve already climbed.

    That’s where I am now. Somewhere between who I was and who I’m still becoming — still pushing, still striving, still believing that everything I’ve been through wasn’t just pain. It was preparation.

    The Weight of the Climb

    People see the climb and they think it’s just about moving upward — as if success is simply a matter of taking one more step. But the truth is, the climb is heavier than that. It’s the sleepless nights. The doors that never open. The calls that never come. The moments you question if you’re even meant to keep going.

    It’s the weight of expectations, both spoken and silent. It’s the ache of grief, the burden of responsibility, and the sting of disappointment when life doesn’t unfold the way you hoped.

    Yet still — I climb.

    The Purpose Beneath the Pain

    Somewhere deep down, beneath the exhaustion and the uncertainty, there’s a purpose that refuses to die. A voice that keeps telling me this story isn’t over. That every struggle is shaping something bigger than I can see right now.

    I used to think The Climb was about reaching a destination — the job, the business, the dream. But now I understand it’s about something greater: becoming the person capable of carrying those dreams once they arrive.

    This climb is teaching me patience. It’s teaching me resilience. It’s teaching me how to build with bruised hands and love with a heavy heart. Most of all, it’s teaching me how to believe — not just in what’s possible, but in myself.

    Legacy Over Likes

    I’m not here for quick wins or shallow validation. I’m not chasing trends or trying to impress anyone. The Climb isn’t about popularity — it’s about legacy.

    I want to leave behind something that matters. I want someone to read these words years from now and feel less alone. I want my children to look back one day and understand that their father didn’t quit — not because life was easy, but because he believed they were worth the fight.

    And if all this struggle, all this pain, and all these small steps forward add up to something bigger than me… then every ounce of it will have been worth it.

    Where I’m Headed

    This blog isn’t just a journal anymore — it’s a movement. It’s a living record of a man refusing to break. It’s the story of someone who’s been knocked down, counted out, and overlooked — and still chooses to rise anyway.

    And I want you to rise with me.
    Whether you’re starting over, rebuilding, grieving, or chasing something that feels too far away — The Climb is for you too. Because we’re all climbing something.

    The Promise

    I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have it all figured out. But I know this: I will keep climbing. I will keep fighting. I will keep building.

    Not because I have to — but because I was born to.

    And if you’re reading this, maybe you were too.

    This is not the end. This is the evolution. Welcome to the next chapter of The Climb.

  • What I’ve Been Putting Off Doing — And Why

    What have you been putting off doing? Why?

    There’s a strange kind of silence that lives inside procrastination. It’s not loud. It doesn’t scream. It whispers. It hides behind excuses, behind responsibilities, behind grief and exhaustion. It tells you, “I’ll get to it tomorrow.” And then tomorrow becomes next week, and next week becomes never.

    I’ve been living with that silence for a while now.

    There are things I keep putting off — things I know I need to face, things that would move me forward — but I keep pushing them aside. Not because I don’t care. Not because I’m lazy. But because life has been heavy, and the weight of everything I carry sometimes makes even the smallest step feel like lifting a mountain.

    Facing Myself

    I’ve been putting off really facing myself.
    The truth is, I’ve been tired — not just the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that sits deep in your bones. The kind that makes you question if the climb is even worth it. And every time I start to sit down and confront that feeling, I find something else to do. Clean the kitchen. Run an errand. Scroll on my phone. Anything but sit still with my own thoughts.

    But the truth doesn’t go away because I ignore it.
    I’ve been avoiding it because facing myself means facing my fears — that maybe I’m not doing enough, that maybe I’m not enough. But deep down, I know that’s not true. Deep down, I know facing myself is the only way I’ll grow.

    Finishing What I Started

    I’ve started projects and dreams that mean everything to me. The Climb Blog. The YouTube channel. The stories I want to write. The goals I keep tucked away. But they’re still sitting there, waiting for me to pick them up again.

    Why? Because grief slows me down. Because uncertainty weighs me down. Because every time I try to focus on the future, the present demands all my attention — job searches, bills, health scares, responsibilities.

    I’ve been putting off finishing what I started because finishing means committing. And committing means risking failure. But I know I’d rather fail trying than regret never finishing at all.

    Letting Myself Heal

    Maybe the biggest thing I’ve been putting off is allowing myself to really grieve. Losing my mother has been a wound I still don’t know how to touch. I clean. I cook. I stay busy. I do everything except sit in the silence and admit how broken I feel inside.

    Grief is terrifying because it changes you. It strips you down and forces you to rebuild from pieces you never thought you’d have to pick up. And I think part of me has been afraid that if I start grieving, I won’t know how to stop.

    But maybe that’s the point. Maybe healing isn’t about finishing grief — maybe it’s about living with it and still finding reasons to move forward.

    The Why

    So why do I put things off? Because I’m human. Because I’m scared. Because I’m exhausted. Because some days, just getting out of bed and trying again is all I have in me. And that’s okay.

    It’s okay to pause. It’s okay to not have it all figured out. It’s okay to admit that you’re carrying more than people realize.

    What matters is that you don’t stop forever.

    The Promise

    This is me holding myself accountable. This is me saying: No more hiding from what I need to do. I will face myself. I will finish what I started. I will allow myself to heal.

    Not all at once. Not perfectly. But step by step. One breath, one decision, one climb at a time.

    Because the mountain isn’t going anywhere. And neither am I.

    💭 What are you putting off? And what would happen if you started today?

  • The Climb: One Last Goodbye

    When I’m in the middle of trying to piece my life back together, the hardest blow came. My mother passed away.

    It feels unreal to even write those words. The woman who gave me life, the woman who prayed for me through every storm, the woman whose hands held me steady when the world was spinning out of control — she’s gone.

    Her Love

    My mother’s love wasn’t loud. It was steady, patient, and always there. She had a way of giving without expecting anything in return. If you came to her house, she made sure you ate. If you had a problem, she listened before she ever spoke. She carried people’s burdens quietly, and she carried mine more times than I can count.

    Her faith in God was her anchor. And whether I believed in myself or not, she believed in me. She believed in all of us.

    Her Strength

    Even as her body grew weaker, even as dementia took pieces of her memory, her strength remained. Sometimes she knew me, sometimes she didn’t — but even in those fragile moments, I could still feel the power of her presence. She was more than a mother; she was a rock.

    She lived with dignity, and she endured with grace. And even in the days when her voice grew softer, her love spoke louder than words ever could.

    Her Legacy

    She taught me that life isn’t about what you have, it’s about what you give.
    She gave everything she had — her time, her care, her wisdom.
    And even when her body could no longer keep up, her spirit spoke louder than ever.

    If you knew my mother, you knew love.
    If you knew my mother, you knew kindness.
    If you knew my mother, you knew God’s light shining through a human being.

    Goodbye, Mama

    Mama, I don’t know how to live in a world without you. But I know this: I will honor you. Every step I take, every word I write, every climb I make will carry your name.

    The world feels empty right now, but my heart is still full of you. Full of your prayers. Full of your laughter. Full of your love.

    Rest easy now. You gave everything you had. And I will carry you with me always.

    In Loving Memory

    Marva L. Clay
    March 01, 1939 – October 03, 2025

    💔 This is not just my loss. It’s the loss of everyone who ever knew you. But Mama, your love doesn’t die here. It lives on in me, in your family, in the climb you prepared me for.

  • One Drop at a Time

    Some days don’t break me all at once. They press down on me slowly, one raindrop at a time. It starts as a drizzle — a phone call, a memory, a thought that lingers too long. Before I know it, the drops have gathered into a storm, and I’m standing in the middle of it, trying to hold myself steady.Yesterday was one of those days. I worked on my plans — quietly, carefully, without rushing to show every detail. I cleaned the house. I cooked for my family while everyone was away at school and work. Somewhere along the line, I’ve become a house dad of sorts, keeping things moving inside these walls while life outside feels stuck. But here’s the truth: I love it. Cooking, cleaning, caring — it gives me something solid to hold on to when everything else feels like it’s slipping.Still, it’s heavy. Every dish washed, every meal prepared, every room straightened — it’s all a part of me trying to put order into a world that feels like chaos. My mother’s health fading, my mother-in-law in the hospital, the weight of waiting for work to come through — all of it gathers like storm clouds. And yet, I keep standing.This photo says it all. Me in the rain. Head lifted. Shirt soaked. But I’m still there. I haven’t walked away. I haven’t folded.The storm can come, but it won’t wash me away.

    This is The Climb.