That day was the last straw for me. "No more taking this foolishness. I'm gonna put an end to this."
Every day, she had something to say to me. Some level of intimidation. I feared her because I was short and skinny. And her disposition made me think she was a giant. I wasn't conditioned to battle with my fists. I was trained to think, to reason, to use my intellect.
My home was filled with the energy of Martin Luther King Jr.'s Civil Rights philosophy of non-violence. You see, my parents were heavily involved in the movement and without words, they passed on that belief system to me. They believed that non-violence and the power of words created the best resolution to conflict and somehow I knew that to be true. Or at least that was my interpretation.
I was born in 1966, but by the time I was old enough to understand the Civil Rights battles, most of it had been resolved (or so I thought, because today's issues reveal that the work is never done).
I had the right to use any bathroom, eat in the restaurants of my liking, attend a predominately white university, and drink from any water fountain I chose. No door was closed to me. Any place I wanted to go, I went.
It was up to me to do the work, turn the knob, and open the door —no knocking necessary. I moved through the world believing I had access to any room my little heart desired.
So when I was met with aggression or physical intimidation, I didn’t know how to respond. Engaging at that level wasn’t my instinct. De-escalation wasn’t my skill and that wasn’t my battleground. I had my own arenas where I knew how to spar, but that’s a story for another day.
I was about using my words. But others used their fists. It all comes down to what you’ve been taught, what you’ve seen play out before you.
So when my classmate in ninth grade approached me outside the lunchroom of my junior high school, I learned a new lesson.
I had just come from band class, rushing to lunch as usual. Our band director was phenomenal—he trained us at a level far beyond our years. Memorizing every marching band piece, lining up with precision, holding ourselves to a standard of excellence. That meant he kept us past the bell, cutting into our lunchtime. I always believed he scheduled our class before lunch on purpose—to stretch us, push us, make us better, and use all the time he could squeeze out of our day to do so. And it worked. I became a phenomenal saxophone and flute player, majorette, and drum major.
But that day, I had reached my limit with the bully. Enough was enough.
With no pre-planning, no second-guessing, I decided: if a fight was what she wanted, then a fight was what she was going to get.
I stood up to her with a deep, unshakable anger in my soul. She said something ugly—threatening—but I let her have it this time. My words. My fists. My presence. The energy coursing through my body was unfamiliar. And she felt it.
She saw I wasn’t playing. She called her own bluff. My fists didn't become necessary.
She backed down because her power lived in my fear, in the intimidation. But when she was faced with real power—fearlessness—she was stunned. Unprepared.
I didn’t know at the time that this was POWER. That a bully is only a bully through intimidation, a pathetic knockoff of real strength. A counterfeit. A mirage. I was born with true power. I just didn’t know it. I wasn’t skilled in how to use it correctly.
While on that day I was drawing from the well of my innate power supply, due to the lack of skill, I walked away with the wrong message: "Stand up and fight, and they'll leave you alone."
That belief hardened me. It made me distant, ready to battle, always looking for the next threat coming my way.
Hyper-vigilant. Fear-based power.
So I built a wall. Kept my circle small. Held my shield high.
I thought I was protecting myself, but I was really building a prison.
I liked being social. I liked laughing, having fun with friends. But the idea of safety—the need for safety—outweighed all of that. I didn’t have the emotional capacity to do anything different at the time. I was sensitive. I cared deeply about peace. I wanted love, for people to be kind to one another.
But that day in the lunch line, I decided that the best protection was to be ready for a fight.
So I sent a clear message with my attitude and body language: “Don’t mess with me. Stay away from me if you are not for me.”
When my brother started working at my high school, he would chastise me for not being social. For walking through the halls with my eyes fixed ahead, moving with purpose. No time for chit-chat. No time for caddy girls and their nonsense. I was about my education, about business.
The problem?
I missed out on friendships that could have made high school more fun. More joyful.
Instead, I left high school and never looked back until my 40th class reunion.
Again and again, life reinforced my belief that keeping people at a distance was in my best interest. That the uglies—the mean girls, the judgmental looks, the cold stares—were everywhere. That it was safer to lock the door and throw away the key.
My introduction to Clemson University only made me double down on my philosophy.
Especially with girls.
I had great relationships with the guys. But the girls? My circle was small. Very small.
One of my first days on campus, I walked past some sorority girls, and their sharp, daggered eyes could've pierced my heart.
But no, no, no! My shield was up.
I sent ugly right back.
They became my nemesis for the 2-3 years while they remained on campus. I held a grudge because I knew I had done nothing to them. They didn’t know me. They had no reason.
Now that I'm older, the reason for their behavior has been clarified. I may have not known my power, but they saw it immediately and that along with my beauty butted up against their own insecurities.
But back then?
My mindset was simple: Be ready for the fight, and they’ll leave you alone.
So I put on my fighter persona. Not a physical fighter—but the attitude. The energy. The shield. The "screw you, I hate you too" expression.
I thought I was protecting myself. But really, I was masking the hurt.
The pain of being disliked for simply being me.
And that? That cut deep.
I was empathetic. I felt things. It truly hurt to be picked on for being skinny. Light-skinned. For having long hair. For coming from a family that was recognized, educated, and influential. In my community, that made me stand out.
I was different. In a lot of ways. The main one —being an African American but looking like I'm from India. And that difference sometimes made me feel like an outsider.
Today, I know that my differences are my superpowers. That being different is God’s gift to me and to the world. If I were like everyone else, I would blend in and be of little influence or impact. This is true for you. How do I know that? Because you are reading my blog.
You were drawn to me, and those drawn to me have a next-level calling them forward—a purpose beneath the surface, crying out for more.
I am here to crack the surface, to support you in breaking the barriers that are holding your next level captive, and to guide you with wisdom to make your vision a reality. It’s time to ramp up your power flow and drop another layer of counterfeit armor you built to survive life’s challenges.
You don’t need to fight, brace for a fight, or anticipate one. When you know your power, you’ll never have to fight again. You set the rules, and people will move accordingly.
You were born with power. You have used it well and stood strong, carried the weight, but there is another level —a level where life's challenges don't stress you out. Where others may challenge your power, yet you remain unshaken.
When you stand in your power, you can be vulnerable and share your truth with a trustworthy person. No longer walk the journey in silence or alone.
You don’t have to prove it, fight for it, or defend it. True power isn’t found in resistance—it’s found in knowing who you are and standing fully in that truth.
The walls you built to protect yourself? They’ve served their purpose, but now it’s time to demolish them and strut with certainty into the life that’s bellowing your name. You are not here to survive the battle —you are here for a bountiful life experience..
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