Chapter 13

Into the Fire

September 2016

I had reached a point where I felt I had developed the skills needed to not only help others but also to finally help myself. I hadn’t yet accomplished my dreams, but I believed that creating content, monetizing as an affiliate, and finally launching a digital product would be my path to success. I was optimistic, ready to put everything I had into making it work.

But the reality set in fast. The excitement faded, and the truth was clear: I could barely keep the lights on, the fridge was empty, and the internet—a lifeline for my work—was cut off. Juliana was seven months pregnant, her belly a constant reminder of the new life we were bringing into a world I could barely support. Each overdue notice felt like a punch to the gut, a loud declaration of my failure.

One night, as we sat in the dark, the only light coming from a flickering candle, Juliana finally broke down. “What are we going to do, Omari?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and frustration. I had no answers. I couldn’t even look at her. I felt ashamed. I was supposed to be the provider, but we were barely getting by.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying every decision that led us here, questioning every risk I had taken. The dreams I had chased now seemed like foolish fantasies. I was staring into the abyss, and the abyss was staring back.

Back at square one, I started job hunting. Each application was a blow to my spirit, an admission of defeat. I wasn’t just applying for jobs—I was surrendering my dream.

One morning, I put on my gray business suit, now three sizes too big, and headed to an open house for a job. The recruiter, Jim, looked me up and down, his eyes flicking over my resume with thinly veiled skepticism. “So, tell me about Vi-zer Media?” he asked, clearly uninterested.

I smiled, trying to mask my desperation. I spewed out some lines about coming full circle to engineering, as if I could convince him—and myself—that this was the plan all along. But we both knew the truth.

A few weeks later, we found ourselves on the bus, heading to the welfare office. My wife Juliana was silent beside me, her hand resting on her swollen belly, our son Shiloh playing at her feet. The bus jolted along, but my mind was somewhere else—caught in a storm of guilt, shame, and helplessness.

When we arrived, I tried to keep Shiloh busy with some crayons as we waited. The room was cold, sterile, filled with the quiet desperation of people just trying to get by. I hated being there. I hated what it meant. Finally, they called my name—“Omari McPherson”—a name I hadn’t heard in a while. It sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone else, someone who hadn’t gambled everything on a dream that was now crumbling around him.

We walked into the cubicle, a small, boxy space that smelled faintly of stale coffee. Mrs. Nacimiento, the caseworker, was all business. She looked at me with a mixture of skepticism and pity.

“So, Mr. McPherson, how have you been making money?” she asked, her tone flat, almost mechanical.

I hemmed. I hawed. “I’ve been freelancing,” I finally said, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. But she wanted more—documentation, proof, something tangible to validate my existence.

I just want to feed my family

I looked at my wife. I knew this path wasn't for us. It felt like giving up and I wasn't ready to give up. Not like this. Not to the government.

As we left the welfare office, a familiar refrain echoed in my mind: "The same thing that you think you need... Give it up and that same thing set you free..." I had thought I needed this help, this safety net. But maybe giving up this perceived need was the key to finding a way forward on my own terms.

That night, back at home, I realized my story was now my most valuable asset. Every path hinged on my ability to tell it. To show the person on the other side that I belonged.