Once Upon a Time.

This was Friday night in the middle of the Arctic blast in Abilene. Ice collapsed a man’s tent and froze it solid around him while he sat inside in his wheelchair, trapped by the cold and the structure meant to protect him. We didn’t debate, document, or wait for permission—we cut him out. Hands numb, tools stiff, breath hanging in the air, we did what had to be done to keep him alive. This is what extreme weather looks like on the ground, and this is why outreach and harm reduction aren’t optional—they’re the difference between survival and silence.

Now the years have scattered us like ashes in the wind, but every time I see that street in a photo, I can still hear our voices, still feel the heat of the day, and remember that even for a moment, we were infinite.

Because that night, December 30th, 1999, we were alive, loud, lost, and beautiful in our brokenness.

But time moves on. Dopey’s name lives in my memories, while mine lives on these streets in a new way. Today, I don’t tag walls—I build bridges. I leave my mark through recovery, through harm reduction, through standing with my people so they know they belong too. The spray paint faded, but the love and the lessons didn’t. That’s my territory now.

1999. Amalia Street. Life was a blur back then—chilling with Lil Two, China, and Imelda. Strung out, always on the move, always on the run. We thought we were untouchable, gang banging to the fullest, chasing a life that gave us nothing but scars and shadows. Looking back now, I can see the weight we carried, the pain behind those eyes, the desperation hidden in plain sight. We were just trying to survive in a world that didn’t care if we lived or died.

Captured in the haze of ’93–’94—two young souls, unaware of the weight the future would bring. Thumper on the left, breaking down more than just weed; he was breaking down the innocence of our youth. Me on the right, still growing into the man I’d one day have to become. Now he’s behind the walls of Pelican Bay, serving life, yet his laughter still echoes in my memory. The picture may fade, but the brotherhood never will.

and the echo of that music still hums through every mile I’ve traveled since.

Rest easy, Panther. You’re still here with me every time I remember where we came from and why I keep doing this work.

The sun was out, but we were still living under the weight of everything that came with the streets. We gathered that day not for church or family dinner, but for a small pocket of peace in a world that rarely gave us any. Three young men in a living room, the curtains closed against the daylight, a borrowed couch under us, wheelchairs at our sides. We weren’t saints. The neighborhoods we claimed had already taken more than their share: friends gone too soon, scars that would never fade, choices that sometimes felt like they’d been made for us long before we made them. But on that Easter Sunday, we tried, just for a moment, not to put in work. Not to hunt or be hunted. There was laughter hidden in the room, the kind you only hear when survivors meet. A hand behind a head flashing bunny ears, a small rebellion against the seriousness of the world outside those walls. We were young men with old souls, pretending for a few hours that we were just friends hanging out. That photograph is proof: even in the middle of chaos, there were slivers of grace. Even with all the pain, there was still a choice, to sit still, to breathe, to be. Easter wasn’t about resurrection in a sermon that day, it was about a heartbeat in a borrowed living room, about staying alive long enough to remember.

The picture freezes a moment that feels almost impossible now: four of us on Woods, leaning on metal and concrete like we owned the block. Baggy shorts hung past our knees, white tees clean but wrinkled from the day’s heat. We stood there laughing, pretending the world wasn’t closing in around us. The smell of oil and asphalt, the sound of a distant siren, those were just part of the background music. We were young and reckless, survivors of a war that most people will never understand, the greenlight war that turned whole neighborhoods into battlefields. Every handshake and hug came with the knowledge it might be the last. Behind the easy smiles in that photograph, we carried things you couldn’t see: friends already buried, scars that still itched under our skin, the weight of choices that could bring a casket before a twenty-first birthday. Looking back now, I see boys playing at being men, masking fear with bravado. We thought we were invincible, that a little luck and a lot of attitude would carry us through. But time has a way of revealing the truth. Some of those faces didn’t make it past the next few years. The streets didn’t spare everyone. I’m still here. That fact alone humbles me. The man I’ve become, the one walking alongside people in recovery, handing out Narcan, fighting for housing, was born from those nights on Woods. The laughter, the danger, the quiet prayers whispered when no one was listening, all of it carved a path out of chaos. When I see this photo now, I don’t just see the recklessness. I see resilience. I see a community that raised me, hurt me, and somehow saved me. I see the ghosts of those who didn’t get to grow older, and I carry their names with me like a promise: to live in a way that honors the ones we lost and to remind the next generation that survival isn’t just luck, it’s choosing a different road when you finally see a way out.

But when I look now, I see more than the bravado, I see brothers standing together in a moment frozen in time. We were young men searching for family, respect, and a place to belong. Even through the mistakes and the hard roads we chose, these faces remind me of where I came from and how far I’ve traveled since.

Even in grief, there was love—unspoken but strong—woven through every nod, every clasped hand, every silent prayer. Nights like this stay with you. They remind you that family isn’t always blood, and that honoring someone’s memory is as much about showing up for each other as it is about saying goodbye.

I share this not to glorify the past, but to honor the journey. From those nights on McBride to the life I’m living now, it’s a reminder that even in the darkest corners, connection and loyalty can plant the first seeds of hope.