The Climb

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  • I Haven’t Stopped Climbing. I Just Stopped Writing About It.

    It’s been a cool minute since I sat down and wrote something for The Climb.

    And the strange thing is, I never actually decided to stop writing.

    Life just got loud.

    Responsibilities got heavier. Leadership demanded more of me. Dreams that once lived safely inside my head started requiring real work. People I love needed me. I needed me.

    And somewhere in the middle of surviving, leading, building, loving, grieving, creating, and becoming, I stopped documenting the climb.

    But I never stopped climbing.

    Silence Doesn’t Mean Stagnation

    We live in a world where everything has to be announced.

    New job? Post it.

    Promotion? Post it.

    New relationship? Post it.

    New project? Post it.

    Pain? Sometimes we post that too.

    We’ve almost convinced ourselves that if nobody sees the progress, maybe the progress isn’t happening.

    I don’t believe that anymore.

    Some of the greatest changes in a person’s life happen where nobody can see them.

    There are seasons when you’re not talking because you’re listening.

    You’re not posting because you’re working.

    You’re not explaining because you’re learning.

    You’re not celebrating because you’re still fighting.

    And sometimes you’re simply too damn tired to narrate everything you’re carrying.

    That doesn’t mean you’ve stopped moving.

    Sometimes silence is what growth sounds like.

    I’ve Been Living Between the Sentences

    When I started The Climb, I wanted to write about growth, leadership, struggle, accountability, faith, purpose, failure, and becoming something greater than what circumstances said I should become.

    What I didn’t fully understand was that eventually life would make me live those words at a deeper level.

    Leadership looks different when decisions affect real people.

    Purpose feels different when you’re exhausted.

    Faith feels different when you’re grieving.

    Love feels different when it requires forgiveness, patience, sacrifice, and uncomfortable conversations.

    Dreams feel different when they stop being dreams and become deadlines, responsibilities, bills, decisions, and work.

    And growth?

    Growth feels completely different when the person who needs to change is you.

    I’ve had to confront things in myself.

    I’ve had to reconsider how I lead.

    I’ve had to learn when to speak and when to shut up.

    I’ve had to understand that being right doesn’t automatically make me effective.

    I’ve learned that strength without compassion can become cruelty, while compassion without accountability can become permission.

    I’ve learned that leadership isn’t proving that you’re the strongest person in the room.

    Sometimes leadership is carrying something heavy without making everybody else feel the weight.

    I’ve Been Building

    There are things in my life today that once existed only as thoughts.

    Ideas became plans.

    Plans became projects.

    Projects became responsibilities.

    And I’ve discovered something nobody tells you enough about building:

    Building is exhausting.

    Everybody celebrates the finished house.

    Very few people talk about the years spent carrying bricks.

    There are nights when you’re inspired.

    There are other nights when discipline has to drag inspiration across the finish line.

    There are moments when you look at everything you’re creating and think, Damn. I’m really doing this.

    Then there are moments when you wonder whether you’ve taken on too much.

    Both can be true.

    You can be proud and overwhelmed.

    Blessed and tired.

    Confident and uncertain.

    Grateful and still hungry for something more.

    That isn’t hypocrisy.

    That’s being human.

    I’ve Been Grieving

    The climb has also taught me that you don’t leave everything behind when you move forward.

    Some things climb with you.

    Memories do.

    Regrets do.

    Loss does.

    There are people whose voices I would give almost anything to hear again.

    There are conversations I wish I’d had.

    Time I wish I could recover.

    Moments I didn’t understand were precious until they became memories.

    Grief has taught me something ambition never could:

    Tomorrow is not obligated to give us another opportunity.

    So love people now.

    Call them now.

    Forgive where forgiveness is possible.

    Say what needs to be said.

    Put the damn phone down sometimes and look at the people sitting across from you.

    Because one day you may discover that all the things you thought were urgent weren’t nearly as important as the person you assumed would always be there.

    I’ve Been Becoming

    This might be the biggest part of the story.

    I’m not the same man who started The Climb.

    I don’t think I’m supposed to be.

    Some beliefs have gotten stronger.

    Some assumptions have been destroyed.

    Some priorities have changed.

    Some things that once could pull me into an argument don’t even deserve my attention anymore.

    And some things I once overlooked now matter deeply to me.

    That’s the strange thing about climbing.

    The mountain doesn’t just change what you can see.

    It changes the person doing the climbing.

    Every difficult conversation.

    Every mistake.

    Every loss.

    Every victory.

    Every disappointment.

    Every person who believed in you.

    Every person who underestimated you.

    Every time you wanted to quit but got up the next morning anyway.

    It leaves something behind.

    Eventually, you realize you weren’t only climbing toward something.

    You were becoming someone.

    So, Where Have I Been?

    Right here.

    Living.

    Learning.

    Leading.

    Loving.

    Losing.

    Building.

    Creating.

    Making mistakes.

    Correcting some of them.

    Carrying things I don’t always talk about.

    Dreaming bigger than I probably should.

    And still putting one foot in front of the other.

    I haven’t disappeared.

    I haven’t given up.

    And I damn sure haven’t stopped climbing.

    I just stopped writing about it for a while.

    Maybe I needed to.

    Because sometimes you have to stop documenting your life long enough to actually live it.

    But I’m writing again.

    And I’ve got a hell of a lot more to say now than I did when I stopped.

    Welcome back to The Climb.

    The mountain is still here.

    And so am I.

  • YOU CAN TRAIN SKILLS. YOU CANNOT TRAIN INTEGRITY.

    Pressure tells the truth.

    Everyone loves to talk about development.
    Training plans. Certifications. Growth tracks.
    It all sounds good. It looks good in meetings. It looks even better on paper.
    But integrity never shows up on a spreadsheet.
    I learned that the hard way.
    It’s been one of those weeks. Long days. Heavy conversations. The kind of work that follows you home even when you try to leave it at the door. One evening this week, I sat outside for a bit before going in. The sun was still up. Birds were moving between the trees. Butterflies were floating through the flowers like nothing in the world was urgent.
    Then I went to work the next day.
    You can train someone how to do the work.
    You cannot train someone to do the right thing when it costs them.
    That’s where systems quietly break.
    I’ve watched organizations invest heavily in talent while ignoring character. The outcome is always the same. High skill. Low trust. Strong resumes. Weak culture. On paper everything looks impressive. In reality, things feel fragile.
    Integrity isn’t how someone performs when things are easy.
    It’s how they act under pressure.
    When no one is watching.
    When telling the truth complicates the day.
    When doing the right thing slows things down or risks approval.
    That’s the moment training stops mattering.
    Without integrity, people protect themselves first. Misses get explained away. Blame moves downward. Perception replaces reality. And no amount of coaching fixes that. I’ve seen it too many times to pretend otherwise.
    But I’ve also seen the opposite.
    I’ve seen people with average skill hold systems together because their integrity was non negotiable. They spoke up early. They owned mistakes without being forced. They did the right thing even when no one was checking.
    Those people don’t just perform.
    They stabilize environments.
    I think about that a lot. Sometimes it reminds me of watching my son play video games. Hours go by and he barely moves. Locked in. Focused. No shortcuts. No distractions. Just doing the thing the right way because that’s how he’s wired in that moment.
    Integrity feels like that to me. Something internal. Something you don’t fake for long.
    When integrity is optional, everything else becomes cosmetic. Metrics lie. Reports soften. Accountability fades. Culture rots quietly until leadership pretends to be surprised.
    So here’s the truth I breathe by.
    Train skills aggressively.
    But screen for integrity relentlessly.
    Because skills can be taught.
    Character cannot be installed later.
    And every system eventually pays for what it tolerates.

  • 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

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • When I Feel Like a Superhero

    Most days, I don’t wake up feeling like a superhero.
    I wake up with sore feet, unpaid bills, and a head full of noise.
    I wake up human — flawed, tired, sometimes defeated before the day even starts.

    But then something shifts.

    It’s never a dramatic lightning bolt moment. No theme music. No cape flying in the wind. It’s quieter than that.
    It’s when I see my wife smile even though she’s just as tired as me.
    When my kid laughs like the world is still good.
    When my son calls me “Dad” and I know he’s counting on me.

    That’s when it happens.
    That’s when I feel my back straighten, my chest expand.

    I’ve been broke, betrayed, and pushed aside, but I’ve also been the guy who fixes the mess when no one else will.
    The one who keeps going when everyone else stops.

    That’s my power. Not flying. Not super strength.
    I’m just showing up.
    Again. And again. And again.

    People see the wins, but they don’t see the bruises.
    They don’t see the late nights, the rejections, and the plans that fall apart.
    They don’t see me questioning if I’ve got what it takes — and still doing it anyway.

    When I feel like a superhero, it’s not because the world believes in me.
    It’s because I do.

    Even if it’s only for today.

  • The Climb: Frustration, Anger, and the Relentless Grind

    This week has been hell.
    I’ve walked miles — literal miles — chasing opportunities, chasing stability, chasing a damn break that never seems to come.
    And what did I get for it?
    Rejection after rejection. Silence after silence.

    I’m tired.
    My body’s tired.
    My mind’s tired.
    But here I am — still standing. Still climbing.

    The Streets Don’t Lie

    The streets have been my office this week.
    Concrete under my shoes, the sun beating down, and a thousand thoughts in my head about how badly I need something to finally click.

    I went to apply at a temp agency, thinking, “Alright, this is one step closer.”
    But somehow, I walked right past the damn place.
    The address got mixed up, and by the time I figured it out, the window had closed.

    Do you know what it feels like to be hustling that hard, only to miss the mark by a single step?
    It’s like the city itself is playing a joke on you — laughing while you’re out here giving everything you’ve got.

    The 2 PM Letdown

    Later, I had an interview scheduled with a property management company.
    I showed up prepared, ready to work, ready to prove myself.
    But guess what?

    They needed someone with a car.
    Nobody said that upfront.
    And here I am, out here grinding, taking public transportation because I’m doing everything I can to save money and stretch every damn dollar.

    So when they told me that, it wasn’t just a rejection.
    It was another reminder of how unforgiving this world is when you’re trying to climb without the tools everyone else has.

    Another door slammed in my face.

    The Call That’s… Something

    Then, a call comes in from Memorial in Gardena.
    They offered me a per diem job, starting on the 6th.

    On paper, that sounds like good news, right?
    But let me tell you something — when you’re out here clawing for stability, per diem doesn’t feel like a blessing.
    It feels like bare minimum survival.
    It’s a job that says, “We don’t need you full-time, but we’ll use you when it’s convenient.”

    I’m contemplating taking it because right now, I don’t have much else.
    But deep down, it feels like settling when I know damn well I deserve more.

    The Silence That Eats at Me

    While all this is happening, I’m still waiting.
    Waiting for calls that never come.
    Waiting for directors and assistant directors to get back to me about positions that could actually change my life.

    The waiting is worse than the walking.
    The waiting eats at you.
    It makes you question your worth.
    It makes you feel invisible.

    Every day, I check my phone, and every day… nothing.

    The Weight of It All

    Walking miles isn’t just physical — it’s mental.
    With every step, you’re carrying disappointment, anger, and this relentless voice in your head saying, “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

    And some days, you want to stop.
    Some days, you want to sit down in the middle of the damn street and scream,
    “What else do I have to do?!”

    But you don’t.
    You keep walking.
    Because you know nobody’s coming to save you.
    You have to save yourself.

    The Physical Today

    Today, I’ve got a physical lined up.
    Another hoop to jump through.
    Another box to check.
    Another step forward — even if it feels like I’m walking in circles.

    Why I’m Writing This

    I’m not writing this for pity.
    I’m writing this because The Climb isn’t about filters or pretending everything’s fine.
    It’s about the real fight, the kind of grind most people don’t have the stomach to face.

    This week was ugly.
    Frustrating.
    Raw.

    But guess what?
    I’m still here.
    Still moving.
    Still climbing.

    Because no matter how many times this world tries to break me, I refuse to stay down.

    Final Words

    If you’ve ever been out there walking, hustling, grinding, and feeling like you’re screaming into the void — this one’s for you.
    You’re not alone.


    The mountain doesn’t care about my frustration.
    The city doesn’t care about my exhaustion.
    The world doesn’t care about my tears.

    But I care.
    I care enough to keep going.
    And that’s why I’ll keep climbing — even when it hurts.

    Frustration doesn’t stop me.
    It fuels me.

    The climb continues.

  • “If Money Didn’t Matter: The Vision I’d Build in Hollywood”

    List three jobs you’d consider pursuing if money didn’t matter.

    If money didn’t matter, I’d go all in on starting my own cleaning business, right here in Hollywood. No hesitation, no halfway steps—just me, my vision, and a relentless drive to make it real.

    Hollywood has two sides. There’s the bright lights and red carpets, and then there’s the back rooms, the mom-and-pop shops, the barbershops and gyms trying to hold it together while the city keeps moving. That’s where I’d focus. I’d create a service that doesn’t just clean, but elevates—making those spaces shine in a way that matches the heart and hustle of the people who run them.

    I’d build a team from scratch, bringing in people who’ve been overlooked, people who just need someone to believe in them. It wouldn’t be just about a paycheck. It’d be about building a crew with purpose, teaching them the value of excellence and pride in their craft.

    I see this business becoming a trusted name, not because of flashy ads, but because of reputation. The kind of reputation that spreads when you do the job so well, people can’t help but talk.

    If money wasn’t part of the equation, my energy would be the same—maybe even stronger. This wouldn’t just be a business. It would be my footprint on Hollywood, one spotless floor, one shining window, and one small business lifted up at a time.

  • Living in the Moment with Intention

    What could you do more of?

    I am already a natural climber — always moving, always fighting.
    But if there’s one thing I can do more of, it’s living in the moment with intention.

    Sometimes I get so focused on the grind — job hunting, building The Climb, taking care of my family — that I forget to slow down and just be present.

    I need to do more of:

    Spending quiet moments in reflection and prayer.

    Laughing with my family and sharing time without distractions.

    Pausing to acknowledge my wins, even the small ones.

    These moments may seem small, but they give me the strength to keep climbing.
    The climb isn’t only about the steps I take forward — it’s also about the breaths I take in between.

    By doing more of this, I’ll be able to keep pushing forward while staying grounded, focused, and at peace.