The Climb

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  • The Weekend That Taught Me Everything

    Thanksgiving Didn’t Go How I Planned. But It Taught Me Exactly What I Needed to Learn

    Thanksgiving is supposed to be about gratitude, family, and peace.
    This year? It gave me all three but the peace didn’t come from where I expected.

    I spent four days with my beautiful wife and family. She cooked a full, warm, home-filled Thanksgiving meal the type you make when you love the people you’re cooking for. But when it was time to eat, her mother acted like she had everywhere else to be except at the table her daughter prepared.

    And her son?
    A 33-year-old man got so drunk he couldn’t even be awakened. Couldn’t show up. Couldn’t sit down. Couldn’t respect the moment or the effort.

    I’ll be honest with you:
    It made me angry.
    Not because I needed a big table filled with people but because my wife deserved better. She put her heart into that meal, and the people she cooked for couldn’t show her the same love back.

    But even through all that, she stayed calm.
    She stayed steady.
    And the way she carried herself is the only reason I kept my cool.
    She didn’t ask for much just a peaceful weekend.
    And I was determined to give her exactly that.

    So the three of us me, my wife, and our son Kyi sat down together. We ate, laughed, later we watched movies, played Uno, and created our own peace. No drama. No noise. Just us.

    When Energy Doesn’t Match, It Shows

    The next day we took the boys to the Fashion District. I wanted to give them what they needed. Instead, the same grown man acted like a child complaining, whining, making the day harder than it needed to be.

    Meanwhile, my son Kyi who’s just 15 showed more maturity than the adult beside him.

    We grabbed some good Mexican food afterward, but I was done. My energy was drained. My patience had run out.

    The following day, me and my wife went back to the Fashion District alone and it was everything.
    Productive.
    Smooth.
    Peaceful.
    Just two adults moving together, enjoying each other, no interruptions. Dinner and a glass of wine ended the night perfectly.

    By Sunday, we hit Fixin’s. Another perfect meal. Another stress-free day. Another reminder that peace comes naturally when the right people are around you.

    The Moment It Clicked: Peace Is a Choice

    I realized something powerful this Thanksgiving, something I should’ve understood a long time ago:

    Peace isn’t something you wait for.
    Peace is something you protect.

    I tried to shield my wife from the foolishness because she deserved a calm weekend. She deserved a moment to breathe. She deserved better than the drama we were handed.

    But protecting peace doesn’t mean holding everything inside.
    It means setting boundaries so you don’t have to keep fixing moments that other people break.

    And that’s when it hit me:

    Not everyone deserves access to our home, our energy, or our space even if they’re family.

    Some people bring love.
    Some people bring chaos.
    Some bring both, depending on the day.

    But if someone consistently disturbs your peace more than they contribute to it, you have every right to create space.

    That’s not being cold.
    That’s not being selfish.
    That’s being grown.

    Her Peace Comes First

    My wife asked for one thing this Thanksgiving:
    a peaceful weekend.

    And watching how she showed grace in the middle of childish behavior made me realize something deep:

    Her peace is my priority.
    Her heart is my responsibility.
    Her calm is my mission.

    If someone can’t respect that I don’t need them close. I’ll love people from a distance before I let them disturb my home again.

    The Final Truth

    Here’s where I stand today:

    I’m done forcing moments with people who don’t show up.

    I’m done choosing obligation over peace.

    I’m done babysitting grown adults.

    I’m done letting other people’s chaos become my problem.

    I love my family, but I love my peace too.
    And my wife’s peace? That comes first.

    This Thanksgiving didn’t unfold the way I pictured it.
    But it happened exactly the way it needed to.. because it opened my eyes.

    In the end, the real blessing wasn’t who was invited…

    It was who actually showed up with love, respect, and maturity.


    T. Salih Ramsey

    The Climb Blog
    Read more at: theclimbblog.com


    Keep climbing. Keep becoming.

  • Thanksgiving: The Quiet Gratitude of a Man Still Rising

    I can’t be any more grateful

    Life has a way of slowing you down right when you think you should be speeding up. Thanksgiving does that to a man. It forces you to look past the noise, the weight, the deadlines, the responsibilities and take inventory of what’s real.

    This year, gratitude hits me differently.

    Not because everything is perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered.
    But because I survived enough storms to know what truly matters.

    I’m thankful for breath, the simple inhale that starts every new chance. I’m thankful for the woman who stands next to me, not behind me, building the legacy we talk about when the house is quiet.
    I’m thankful for my children, who push me to be the man I said I would be, even on the days I fall short.
    I’m thankful for my family, old wounds and all, because growth taught me to love people where they’re at, not where I wish they were.
    And I’m thankful for the work the grind, the opportunities, the late nights, the pressure,  because iron doesn’t sharpen itself.

    But above everything, I’m thankful for perspective.

    Life humbled me. It handed me moments that could’ve broken me. It handed me losses that still echo in my spirit. It handed me responsibilities I wasn’t always ready to carry. But here’s the truth:

    A man who keeps climbing after all that… is a man who refuses to let his story end halfway up the mountain.

    This Thanksgiving, I’m not celebrating perfection.
    I’m celebrating progress.
    The quiet victories nobody sees.
    The maturity that didn’t come easy.
    The grit that kept me from quitting.
    The clarity that showed me what deserves my energy and what doesn’t.

    I’m grateful for the people who poured into me.
    I’m grateful for the ones who walked away and taught me what I needed to know.
    I’m grateful for every setback that slapped the childishness out of me and made space for the man I’m becoming.

    And to anyone reading this, here’s what I’ll leave you with:

    We don’t give thanks just for what we have.
    We give thanks for who we’re becoming.
    We give thanks for the unseen growth happening inside of us.
    We give thanks for the strength that shows up in us when life tries to fold us.

    Thanksgiving isn’t a day on the calendar, it’s a reminder that you’re still here, still fighting, still climbing.

    And I’m grateful for that.

    Happy Thanksgiving.
    Keep climbing.

  • The Day I’ve Been Climbing Toward

    Growth tastes better when you’ve earned it.

    There’s a version of my life I think about sometimes, not in a fantasy way, not in a “maybe one day” way, but in a way that feels close, like breath on a cold window. It’s my perfect day, not because everything is perfect, but because everything is finally aligned. It starts in the quiet. Before the world wakes up. Before the weight of responsibility even remembers my name. I step outside with a cup in my hand and the air hits me the way truth does, clean and sharp. The sky isn’t loud. My thoughts aren’t racing. It’s just me, God, and a sunrise that don’t owe me nothing but still shows up every morning anyway.

    In that moment, my house is still. No arguments. No tension. No storm walking the halls. My wife is resting. My kids are safe. The energy feels right, like the foundation is finally holding under our feet instead of cracking beneath it. That alone is a blessing big enough to count twice.

    Later, I walk into work carrying purpose instead of pressure. No survival mode. No walking on eggshells. No fighting to prove my worth. Servicon feels steady. The team respects me. Leadership values me. I move through that building like a man who belongs there, because I do. My head is clear. My shoulders are light. I’m working from identity, not insecurity. The job isn’t draining me, it’s sharpening me.

    My phone buzzes throughout the day, but it’s not chaos calling. It’s opportunity. Business ideas moving. The Climb Blog gaining traction. A message about the book. A reminder that the things I’m building are finally starting to breathe on their own. It feels like pieces of my future are falling into place instead of falling apart in my hands.

    Around lunch I step outside, maybe light a cigar, maybe just lean back and breathe. Not running from anything. Not recovering from anything. Just existing like a man who made it through the fire and didn’t lose himself in the smoke. There’s a freedom in that you can’t fake.

    When I get home, the house feels warm. Not perfect, but peaceful. We eat together. We laugh. We move around like a family finding its rhythm instead of its problems. I look at them and I know my climb has a purpose bigger than any title, any paycheck, any applause.

    As the sun drops, I sit outside again, feeling that same golden light touch my face. It’s quiet in a way that doesn’t feel heavy. It feels earned. It feels like the world is finally letting me exhale. And later that night, I write. Not to escape. Not to bleed. Just to document the truth of the man I’m becoming. The books, the blog, the city I’m building in my mind — they all feel possible. They all feel reachable. They all feel like me.

    And when I lay down, something rare settles on me. Not fear. Not guilt. Not the weight of everything I can’t control. But peace. Real peace. The kind that fills a room and doesn’t ask permission to stay. The kind my parents wanted for me. The kind my kids deserve to see. The kind I’ve been climbing toward my whole life.

    That’s my perfect day. Not because everything is easy, but because everything is aligned. My purpose. My family. My peace. My future. And the quiet knowing that this isn’t a dream — it’s a direction. A place I’m walking toward with every step, every prayer, every lesson, every climb.

  • Before the Blessing Breaks Through

    Some nights aren’t loud, they’re loaded.
    The quiet before the blessing always feels like this — heavy, honest, and necessary.
    I’m not who I was this morning, and I won’t be the same man tomorrow.
    Keep climbing.

    There’s a certain kind of quiet that only shows up on nights like this, the night before everything shifts. It’s not peaceful, not loud, not chaotic, it’s that in-between quiet, the kind that feels like the world is holding its breath while God rearranges something behind the curtain. Tonight is that space for me, and I’m standing between the man I was this morning and the man I’ve got to be tomorrow. It’s a strange doorway, one foot in survival, one foot in promise, and I can feel both sides tugging on me. Servicon calling my name, the old storms trying to drag me back, grief tapping me on the shoulder at 2:11 a.m., marriage stretched thin, pressure stacked high, faith whispering, “Keep climbing.”

    This is the tension nobody talks about, the night before the blessing breaks through. I’m tired on a level that doesn’t show up on my face but sits in my bones. Losing my mother, losing my cousin, trying to step into a leadership role while I’m still learning how to breathe again, trying to hold my family together while holding myself up with the last pieces of strength I’ve got, it’s like life has me in a chokehold and a spotlight at the same time. I feel the pressure of being the man the kids look to, the man my wife depends on, the man God trusted with this climb. Some days that weight feels holy, other days it feels like too much, but tonight, it just feels real.

    Emotionally, everything is cloudy, but spiritually, my mission is clear as day. It’s like God is saying, “You don’t have to understand the whole staircase, just take the next step.” So I did. I walked into Servicon, I shook hands, I felt welcomed, I felt seen, I felt, and this is rare, home. That’s clarity. But I still came home to the storm, and that’s the confusion. Life never waits for you to get stable, it just keeps demanding more.

    With everything stacked on my shoulders, the climb didn’t stop, and tonight it hit me. I’m exhausted, but I’m still climbing. I’m hurting, but I’m still climbing. I’m grieving, but I’m still climbing. I’m becoming someone new, and the climb is the proof. Breakthroughs don’t show up at the top, they show up at the breaking point, where most people quit, where most people fold, where most people step back. That’s where blessings get born.

    This is where I’m writing from tonight, not the finish line, not the celebration, not the victory lap, but the middle, the part where the blessing is close enough to feel but not close enough to hold, the part where God is stretching me so I don’t snap when He elevates me, the part where my faith and my frustration are wrestling in the same room, the part where I’m learning to breathe again without the people I thought I’d grow old with. This is the truth, I’m trying to celebrate a new beginning while trying not to fall apart from what I lost. That’s the battlefield inside me tonight, and somehow, some way, I still feel God’s hand on my back saying, “Don’t stop now.”

    Tomorrow, I step deeper into this new season, new role, new responsibility, new version of myself. I don’t know what waits for me on the other side of that door, but I do know this, God didn’t bring me through all that darkness just to drop me in the light. My mother’s strength is in me, my father’s fire is in me, my family’s future is on me, and the climb, this long, painful, beautiful climb, is carrying me forward. Tonight is the quiet before the shift, tomorrow, the blessing breaks through, and I’ll be ready.

    T. Salih Ramsey


    Read more at theclimbblog.com and watch the journey on YouTube.com/the climbblog

  • Week One at Servicon — Where Leadership Feels Like Family

    When Opportunity Knocks, Open the Door!

    From the moment I walked through Servicon’s doors, I felt something different — something real.
    This wasn’t just a new job. It felt like being adopted into the greatest family on earth.

    Day one, I met the corporate executives — genuine, welcoming, and grounded. The way they treated me set the tone: respect, humility, and care. Other EVS companies could take a serious page from Servicon’s playbook.

    Over the week, I’ve shadowed our first-shift supervisors — incredible leaders who’ve gone out of their way to show me the ropes. Their professionalism and teamwork reflect Servicon’s foundation: excellence from the floor up.

    I’ve also connected with our second-shift supervisors, who’ve been under pressure but never lost heart. Their gratitude and determination remind me why leadership is about service, not titles.

    And then there’s our team — roughly 96 amazing people who make this place move. Dedicated. Hardworking. Proud of what they do. You can feel it in every hallway and every conversation.

    Servicon isn’t just organized — it’s alive with purpose. Every person here plays a role in keeping the mission strong.

    If you don’t know, now you know — Servicon Systems is the place to work if you’re looking for a company that truly understands and values its people.

    #Servicon #Leadership #EVS #FacilityServices #TheClimb #Gratitude #Teamwork #ServantLeadership #NewBeginnings

  • 11.11 — The Alignment

    There’s a rhythm to the universe that doesn’t care who’s watching.
    Most days, it hums quietly under the noise — until a number, a moment, or a memory hits the right frequency and everything clicks into place.

    11/11.
    The world calls it Veterans Day.
    To some, it’s numerology — a day of “alignment” and “awakening.”
    But for me, it’s something quieter.

    It’s the day I stopped chasing recovery and started building rhythm again.

    Because there’s a difference between starting over and starting right.
    Starting over means you lost something.
    Starting right means you finally learned how to carry it.

    I walked into Servicon Systems this morning knowing the math:
    90 days to prove, to learn, to stabilize.
    But numbers aren’t just deadlines — they’re reminders.

    11/11 isn’t coincidence. It’s symmetry.
    Two ones standing side by side, equal but independent — just like leadership and service.

    I’ve spent years learning how to climb — up ladders, through systems, past the noise.
    But today’s not about elevation.
    It’s about alignment.

    Standing in who I am, not where I’m going.

    Every hallway I walk, every handshake I give, every cart I check — it’s all part of a larger rhythm.
    You can’t lead a team you don’t feel.
    You can’t manage what you don’t honor.
    And you can’t move forward if you’re still trying to prove you belong.

    So today isn’t a return.
    It’s a confirmation.

    That I was never off the path just learning how to walk it with steadier steps.

    11/11 — The Opening. The Alignment. The Call.
    And I answered.

    “Starting right means you finally learned how to carry it.”


    Tags: #TheClimbBlog #ServiconSystems #Leadership #FaithInMotion #Alignment #TheJourneyContinues
    📍 Find more at: theclimbblog.com | YouTube.com/@theclimbblog

  • THE CALM BETWEEN CHAOS

    It’s been a crazy few days. I’ve argued with my wife again — about the same things we’ve argued about before. Sometimes it feels like peace comes with a price tag I can’t afford. I’ve learned that love and patience don’t always walk hand in hand — sometimes they wrestle, and sometimes one wins.

    But right when my world starts spinning, God shows up with a small reminder that He’s still in control.

    This week, Servicon Systems emailed me my schedule for the next three weeks. Just like that, something solid, something real landed in my hands — proof that God never forgot about me, even when I was questioning everything. That schedule felt like a lifeline.

    So while I’ve been cleaning, cooking, writing, and trying to keep this house and heart in order, I’ve also been writing my story.
    Not a polished one. A true one. My autobiography — a record of every scar, lesson, and prayer that brought me this far.

    And when I spoke with my siblings this week — both of them dropped words that cut deep in the best way. They reminded me that marriage isn’t about winning, it’s about understanding. They reminded me that my wife’s pain is different from mine, but it’s still pain.
    They reminded me to stop letting my past trauma do the talking.

    Sometimes, God speaks through people who’ve known your darkest years and still call you brother.

    So yeah, it’s been crazy. But this time, I’m walking through the storm with a quiet heart.
    Because even when I stumble, I know the climb never stops — it just changes elevation.

  • Built, Not Broken

    What will your life be like in three years?

    Three years from now, I won’t be explaining my worth — it’ll be visible in everything I’ve built.
    The noise, the doubt, the nights that almost broke me — they’ll all read like chapters from the training manual of a man who refused to fold.

    By then, the house will be steady. The business will run clean. The storms that once had my name on them will be distant weather reports.
    And I’ll still be climbing — not for recognition, but for peace.

    Three years from now, I see clarity. I see my name on the door of something I own. I see family that moves in harmony, not argument. I see a man who finally stopped surviving and started living.

    Because all this pain I’m pushing through right now — it’s not punishment. It’s construction.

    #TheClimb  #BuiltNotBroken  #KeepGoing  #LegacyBuilding

    Still Building!

  • When Trying Feels Like Losing

    There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show on your face — the kind that comes from doing right and still paying for it. You stay loyal, you show up, you carry weight that no one thanks you for. And somehow, you still end up the villain in your own home.

    I’m not perfect. Never said I was. I’ve cracked under pressure, joked when I should’ve listened, raised my voice when silence would’ve served better. But through it all, I’ve stayed. I’ve kept building, kept loving, kept trying to turn chaos into calm.

    What people don’t see is how heavy “doing the right thing” gets when old wounds never die. Every reminder, every accusation, feels like walking through glass barefoot — you’re bleeding just to stay close.

    Lately, I’ve had to choose peace over pride. That’s the hardest fight — not the one with someone else, but the one inside yourself that says, don’t let anger tell your story.

    I’m tired, yeah. But tired doesn’t mean finished. It means the man’s still here, just catching his breath.

    If you’ve ever been there — standing in your own lighthouse, watching the waves crash but still refusing to drown — I see you. Keep choosing peace, even when it costs more than it should. One day, the people who pushed you to the edge will realize you never fell; you just learned how to stand alone.

    #TheClimb  #PeaceOverPride  #GrowthInTheFire


    —

    Author Bio — Tommy D. Ramsey
    Founder of The Climb. Husband, father, storyteller, builder. Writing from the edge between chaos and calm — trying to make sense of what it means to keep showing up when life won’t stop testing your heart.

  • When Peace Costs Too Much

    Today should’ve been a day of celebration. I got the job — the one I prayed for, the one that came after months of walking, waiting, doubting, and holding on to faith when it didn’t make sense. Servicon finally called. God delivered. But right now, I don’t feel victorious. I feel exhausted.

    I came home ready to share the good news, ready to exhale for once. Instead, I walked into a storm. My wife didn’t want to hear me out. She didn’t want to celebrate or sit down and talk. She was angry. Loud. Frustrated. And me — I was just tired. Tired of defending myself when I haven’t done anything wrong. Tired of being the one who has to stay calm while everything inside me is on fire.

    I found a stuffed toy earlier, lying on the street. It reminded me of something innocent, something sweet — so I picked it up. But when I brought it home, it turned into an interrogation. “Where did you get it?” “Who gave it to you?” “Why did it take you so long?”
    The peace I was trying to hold onto got crushed right there on the living room floor.
    She threw it away like it meant nothing.

    And that’s when it hit me: sometimes sacrifice doesn’t feel holy — it feels heavy.
    Sometimes being a man means swallowing your words, your pride, your pain, just to keep the walls from shaking.

    But here’s what I’m learning — peace isn’t the absence of noise; it’s the presence of restraint.
    It’s choosing silence when you could explode.
    It’s carrying the cross of self-control even when your heart feels misunderstood.
    It’s trusting that God sees the things people ignore — the man who cleans, cooks, prays, provides, protects, and still gets questioned.

    So tonight, I’m swallowing my frustration not because I’m weak, but because I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.
    Because I’m a man walking a divine tightrope between flesh and faith.
    Because I know my blessing didn’t come from man — it came from God.

    And when it comes from God, no argument, no misunderstanding, no doubt can take it away.

    This climb ain’t easy, but it’s real.
    And I’m still on it.

    — T. Salih Ramsey
    theclimbblog.com | youtube.com/@theclimbblog