From the moment I walked through Serviconās doors, I felt something different ā something real. This wasnāt just a new job. It felt like being adopted into the greatest family on earth.
Day one, I met the corporate executives ā 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 Serviconās playbook.
Over the week, Iāve shadowed our first-shift supervisors ā incredible leaders whoāve gone out of their way to show me the ropes. Their professionalism and teamwork reflect Serviconās foundation: excellence from the floor up.
Iāve also connected with our second-shift supervisors, whoāve been under pressure but never lost heart. Their gratitude and determination remind me why leadership is about service, not titles.
And then thereās our team ā 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 isnāt just organized ā itās alive with purpose. Every person here plays a role in keeping the mission strong.
If you donāt know, now you know ā Servicon Systems is the place to work if youāre looking for a company that truly understands and values its people.
Thereās a rhythm to the universe that doesnāt care whoās watching. Most days, it hums quietly under the noise ā 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, itās numerology ā a day of āalignmentā and āawakening.ā But for me, itās something quieter.
Itās the day I stopped chasing recovery and started building rhythm again.
Because thereās 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 arenāt just deadlines ā theyāre reminders.
11/11 isnāt coincidence. Itās symmetry. Two ones standing side by side, equal but independent ā just like leadership and service.
Iāve spent years learning how to climb ā up ladders, through systems, past the noise. But todayās not about elevation. Itās about alignment.
Standing in who I am, not where Iām going.
Every hallway I walk, every handshake I give, every cart I check ā itās all part of a larger rhythm. You canāt lead a team you donāt feel. You canāt manage what you donāt honor. And you canāt move forward if youāre still trying to prove you belong.
So today isnāt a return. Itās a confirmation.
That I was never off the path just learning how to walk it with steadier steps.
11/11 ā The Opening. The Alignment. The Call. And I answered.
āStarting right means you finally learned how to carry it.ā
Itās been a crazy few days. Iāve argued with my wife again ā about the same things weāve argued about before. Sometimes it feels like peace comes with a price tag I canāt afford. Iāve learned that love and patience donāt always walk hand in hand ā sometimes they wrestle, and sometimes one wins.
But right when my world starts spinning, God shows up with a small reminder that Heās 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 ā proof that God never forgot about me, even when I was questioning everything. That schedule felt like a lifeline.
So while Iāve been cleaning, cooking, writing, and trying to keep this house and heart in order, Iāve also been writing my story. Not a polished one. A true one. My autobiography ā a record of every scar, lesson, and prayer that brought me this far.
And when I spoke with my siblings this week ā both of them dropped words that cut deep in the best way. They reminded me that marriage isnāt about winning, itās about understanding. They reminded me that my wifeās pain is different from mine, but itās still pain. They reminded me to stop letting my past trauma do the talking.
Sometimes, God speaks through people whoāve known your darkest years and still call you brother.
So yeah, itās been crazy. But this time, Iām walking through the storm with a quiet heart. Because even when I stumble, I know the climb never stops ā it just changes elevation.
Three years from now, I wonāt be explaining my worth ā itāll be visible in everything Iāve built. The noise, the doubt, the nights that almost broke me ā theyāll 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 Iāll still be climbing ā 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 Iām pushing through right now ā itās not punishment. Itās construction.
Thereās a kind of exhaustion that doesnāt show on your face ā 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.
Iām not perfect. Never said I was. Iāve cracked under pressure, joked when I shouldāve listened, raised my voice when silence wouldāve served better. But through it all, Iāve stayed. Iāve kept building, kept loving, kept trying to turn chaos into calm.
What people donāt see is how heavy ādoing the right thingā gets when old wounds never die. Every reminder, every accusation, feels like walking through glass barefoot ā youāre bleeding just to stay close.
Lately, Iāve had to choose peace over pride. Thatās the hardest fight ā not the one with someone else, but the one inside yourself that says, donāt let anger tell your story.
Iām tired, yeah. But tired doesnāt mean finished. It means the manās still here, just catching his breath.
If youāve ever been there ā standing in your own lighthouse, watching the waves crash but still refusing to drown ā 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
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Author Bio ā Tommy D. Ramsey Founder of The Climb. Husband, father, storyteller, builder. Writing from the edge between chaos and calm ā trying to make sense of what it means to keep showing up when life wonāt stop testing your heart.
What’s something you believe everyone should know.
By Tommy Ramsey ā The Climb Blog
> āTrue greatness consists in being great in little things.ā ā Samuel DeWitt Proctor
This is what everyone should know about a man: We break too ā we just do it quietly.
We hold the line when the weight gets heavy. We smile when weāre tired, laugh when weāre 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.
Iāve spent too many years sacrificing my own joy and sanity so others could feel comfortable. Iāve swallowed my frustration, my exhaustion, and my pain to keep the peace in a home, a job, and a world that rarely asks how Iām really doing.
Iāve been questioned when all I wanted was understanding. Iāve been tested when all I needed was grace. And Iāve been told to calm down when all I was trying to do was breathe.
Weāre not asking to be worshiped ā weāre asking to be understood.
Thatās the truth I wish people knew about a man.
We donāt want perfection ā we just want peace. We donāt want to be the hero every day ā we just want to feel human sometimes.
Behind every man who seems cold or distant, thereās a story. A weight. A quiet cry no one hears. And that doesnāt make him weak ā it makes him real.
So yes, Iām tired. Iām frustrated. But Iām still climbing. Still showing up. Still holding on to faith that one day peace wonāt be something I have to fight for ā itāll be something I live in.
Because being a man isnāt about never breaking. Itās about breaking ā and still standing tall.
āItās better to hold on to what youāve got until you get something better ā that way you donāt end up with nothing.ā
I lived that.
A few weeks ago, I was offered a per-diem housekeeping position at Gardena Memorial Hospital. It wasnāt my dream job, but it was honest work ā 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 isnāt about desire ā itās about faith. Itās 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 thatās when I realized ā I had been holding the bird I didnāt really wantā¦ until the one I didnāt even know I wanted flew in.
Thatās how God works.
He doesnāt just replace what you let go of ā He upgrades it. He transforms struggle into strength, delay into direction, waiting into wisdom.
Iām grateful for Gardena Memorial for reminding me what humility looks like. Iām grateful for Servicon for believing in my climb. And Iām grateful for every step in between ā even the ones that hurt ā because thatās where the real faith grows.
I didnāt end up with nothing. I ended up with purpose.
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 youāre on might not be the only one meant for you. Iāve spent years working in Environmental Services ā learning, leading, cleaning, managing ā 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, Iāve started asking myself: what else am I capable of?
Iāve thought about writing full-time ā because words have always been my therapy. Iāve imagined standing behind a camera, capturing the world as I see it, turning pain and faith into something visual. Iāve dreamed of mentoring, of building a business that lifts up the forgotten workers ā the ones who clean, who grind, who never get the spotlight but make the world function.
But these arenāt just ideas. Theyāre reflections of my spirit evolving. Iām learning that careers arenāt just jobs; theyāre extensions of who you are becoming. Every late night, every heartbreak, every time I hit rock bottom ā itās been shaping me for something larger. I donāt know the exact form yet, but I feel it pulling me forward like gravity.
The climb isnāt just about titles or paychecks. Itās about purpose. And purpose changes as you do. Maybe my next path will be in storytelling, maybe business, maybe leadership ā or maybe itāll be something that doesnāt 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, Iām really thinking about legacy. Iām thinking about my motherās faith, my cousin Benās wisdom, my wifeās support, and my own resilience. Iām thinking about what Iāll leave behind ā not in things, but in lives touched.
Because no matter what path I take next, one thing remains true: Iām still climbing.
When I think of her, I see light ā not the kind that fades when the sun sets, but the kind that stays ā¦ 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 sheās gone, the world feels quieter. Mornings feel a little emptier without her voice or her laughter. But her presence still lingers ā 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 ā 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 ā and thatās the part of her I carry every single day.
Thatās what The Climb is about. Itās about picking up what she left behind ā her faith, her fire, her love ā and carrying it forward. Itās about turning grief into fuel. She taught me that when life knocks you down, you get back up. You donāt 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 canāt see but can always feel. Her faith reminds me that the climb doesnāt end until you reach the top ā and then you keep climbing for the ones who canāt.
I miss her every day. Some moments I still break, but I rise because thatās what she taught me to do. Every step I take, every dream I chase, every word I write ā itās all for her. Because her story didnāt end when she passed. It lives through me, through my family, through The Climb.
When I think of her ā¦ I donāt just remember. I continue her climb.
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āØ Dedication For my mother ā the light that still guides my steps up The Climb.
There are days when I feel like Iām carrying the weight of the world on my back ā and still, the world keeps adding more. The passing of my mother cracked something inside me that I donāt think will ever be whole again. Iām preparing for her services, trying to hold myself together, trying to be strong for everyone else while inside I feel like Iām breaking apart.
I accepted a per diem job thatās far out of the way ā not because itās ideal, but because I need it. Iām 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, Iām still expected to be everything. A father. A husband. A friend. A brother. A companion. A handyman. A cook. A caretaker. āMr. Mom.ā Thereās no off switch. No pause button. The world doesnāt stop spinning just because your heart is broken.
I spend most nights on my knees ā praying I donāt 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 isnāt just about me. Itās about the people who depend on me. Itās about the promise I made to myself to become more than my circumstances.
I wonāt pretend I have it all figured out. I donāt. Iām tired. Iām grieving. Iām unsure. But I also know this: Iāve been in the dark before, and Iāve always found my way out. This time will be no different.
So if youāre reading this and you feel like life is piling more on your shoulders than you can possibly carry ā I see you. I understand you. And I want you to know: being on your knees doesnāt mean youāre weak. It means youāre still in the fight. And as long as youāre still fighting, youāre still climbing.
Closing Reflection: My Prayer on the Climb
Tonight, as I sit here with everything weighing on my shoulders ā grief, responsibility, uncertainty ā I remind myself of one simple truth: God hasnāt brought me this far to leave me here.
I whisper a prayer, not just for strength, but for peace. Peace to accept what I canāt control. Peace to keep moving forward even when I donāt have all the answers. And peace to trust that even this season ā this storm ā has a purpose.
I ask God to guide my steps when I canāt see the path. To hold my heart together when it feels like itās 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 isnāt easy. It never was meant to be. But I know with every prayer I whisper, every tear I shed, and every step I take ā Iām 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.
āØ Dedication
For my mother ā 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 