Finding Strength in Vulnerability: My Journey from the Marine Corps to Entrepreneurship
In 2022, I was medically separated from the Marine Corps after a grueling year-and-a-half-long review board process. The journey to that separation was chaotic, uncertain, and filled with countless obstacles that challenged me in ways I never expected. Looking back, it wasn’t just the separation itself that was difficult—it was the process leading up to it, the lack of support, and the struggles that followed.
After leaving a mental health hospital, I found myself in limbo. My medical separation wasn’t immediate; it stretched on as I awaited a final decision from the Marine Corps. During that time, I had to file waivers and extend my contract multiple times just to give the process enough time to unfold. But no one could tell me when it would actually happen. I couldn’t plan my life. I couldn’t even apply for a job because I didn’t know when my separation date would be. Everything was in a state of suspension.
At the time, I was living in South Carolina. My unit finally reached a point where they believed they had a concrete date for my separation. With that in mind, they allowed me to move to Alabama to start setting up my new life. It felt like a glimpse of hope—a chance to get ahead while awaiting my official orders. I packed up my belongings, moved to Alabama, and began trying to create some sense of stability.
But just a few weeks later, everything changed. Out of nowhere, the Marine Corps called me back to South Carolina, telling me I needed to return and live out the remainder of my contract. Suddenly, I was uprooted again. My belongings were still in Alabama. I had a lease on an apartment I wasn’t living in. And when I got back to South Carolina, I had nowhere to stay.
The living space that I had when returning to SC. I'm so grateful my friend allowed me to crash at his place for a while. My entire house, including all of my clothes except for two uniforms and a pair of gym clothes were left at home in Alabama.
The living space that I had when returning to SC. I'm so grateful my friend allowed me to crash at his place for a while. My entire house, including all of my clothes except for two uniforms and a pair of gym clothes were left at home in Alabama.
The Marine Corps didn’t provide me with housing. I couldn’t live in the barracks because I had my dog with me, and they wouldn’t accommodate pets. I was stuck trying to figure out where to live, with no resources or guidance. Thankfully, a friend I had met during treatment offered me a spare room in his home. I bought an air mattress and moved in, grateful for his kindness but overwhelmed by everything else.
The financial strain was enormous. I was paying rent for an apartment in Alabama while also contributing to my friend’s household expenses. I had unexpected bills, and I couldn’t budget properly because I didn’t know when my separation would be finalized. My life was in constant flux.
And then, when my orders finally came, I was given just two weeks to separate from the Marine Corps. Two weeks to close out my life in the military. Two weeks to navigate mountains of paperwork, attend therapy sessions, and prepare for a future I couldn’t even see. I didn’t have enough time to apply for jobs, figure out insurance, or make plans for my retirement savings. Those two weeks were a blur—a frantic rush to tie up loose ends while grappling with the anxiety of the unknown.
At that point, my mental health hit rock bottom. I couldn’t see a future beyond the military. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have plans; I couldn’t even imagine what life could look like. It was as if the concept of a future didn’t exist for me. That kind of hopelessness is hard to describe, but it’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Once I was officially separated, I returned to Alabama. But without a job or a steady income, life became a daily battle for survival. I had to rely on DoorDash just to make ends meet. The disability pay I was counting on didn’t come through right away, and I found myself on the brink of eviction. My car was nearly repossessed. I ended up withdrawing all the money from my TSP, the military’s version of a 401(k), just to cover rent and bills. In doing so, I depleted my retirement savings and left myself in an even worse financial position.
I didn’t know how to navigate insurance or what to do with my military benefits. I didn’t understand programs like VGLI, the veterans’ version of life insurance, and I wasn’t sure I even qualified because of my mental health diagnosis. There was no advocacy, no guidance, no one to walk me through the process of transitioning to civilian life.
Shifting Perspectives on Mental Health
My experiences in the Marine Corps shaped my perspective on mental health in profound ways. In the military, there’s a stigma around seeking help—a belief that going to medical or admitting you’re struggling is a sign of weakness. That mindset was something I had internalized long before the military. Growing up, my family didn’t have the financial resources to prioritize medical care, so I was used to toughing it out. The Marine Corps only reinforced that mentality.
But as I became a leader, I realized how harmful that mindset was. I wanted to be the kind of leader who encouraged others to seek the help they needed, even if it meant breaking the cycle of stigma. One of my own leaders did that for me when he recommended I see a counselor—not for a formal diagnosis, but simply to talk. That experience was a turning point. It showed me that counseling could be a tool for growth and self-improvement, not just a response to crisis.
Finding Parallels in Mental Health and Entrepreneurship
Entrepreneurship has been a journey that mirrors my mental health struggles in many ways. Both require grit, resilience, and an unwavering determination to keep going, even when it feels impossible. In both areas, success isn’t handed to you. You have to work for it. You have to show up, put in the effort, and claw your way out of the challenges you face.
Just as I had to actively participate in my mental health journey—listening, learning, and doing the work—I had to apply the same principles to entrepreneurship. It’s not about where you start; it’s about your willingness to keep moving forward.
A Vision for the Future
My experiences have shaped my vision for the future and the impact I want to have on the communities I serve. I never want anyone to go through what I did. I know I can’t prevent all struggles, but if I can use my experiences to help even one person find comfort—whether financially, mentally, or creatively—then I’ve done my job.
Through initiatives like my A Thousand Brothers Non-Profit and retreats for veterans, I’m working to create opportunities for Black men and service members to achieve financial freedom, build their vision, and find healing. These programs are about more than just support; they’re about showing people what’s possible and helping them create lasting legacies.
If there’s one thing my journey has taught me, it’s this: Growth is hard. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s also worth it. And no matter where you are right now, you have the strength to keep going.
You are not alone. And if no one has told you this today, let me be the first: I believe in you.
