I thought success meant power, money, and making it in the system. Then everything changed.
I was living someone else’s dreamchasing the next big break in Hollywood. Success meant exotic cars, a home in the hills, and climbing the ladder. I was driven to make it—whatever “it” meant.
My mother had raised me to believe in helping people. But somewhere along the way, I got lost in the maze of materialism. I was on top of the game, or so I thought. I was wiling to take any job I was offered, even if it meant selling products I’d never use myself, or using women as props in music videos. Somehow, I had become completely disconnected from the morals I was raised with.
Standing in the rubble of the World Trade Center, after picking up body parts for three days, something profound happened to me
September 11th, 2001 was my snap-to-grid moment. I was in New York on business when the planes hit the towers. Instead of running away, something pulled me toward Ground Zero.
For three days, I helped dig for survivors. I’ll never forget picking up body parts scattered across the debris. Watching Maseratis and other luxury cars crushed by rescue vehicles just to clear a path to save lives. Seeing the finest things money could buy reduced to trash in seconds.
The fragility of life hit me like a freight train. Here I was, standing on the rubble of what had been an international symbol of power just moments before. Everything that represented “success” in my world was literally dust.
It wasn’t a gradual process. It was overnight. Everything I had been programmed to desire– money, fame, power, and material trophies, no longer appealed to me. The things I had been taught were nothing more than career distractions– family, faith, freedom, plus virtues such as honor, integrity, and humility were suddenly top priority.
Standing there, I made a vow: I’d never disrespect a woman in a music video again. I’d never sell a product I didn’t believe in. From that moment forward, my life would be dedicated to leaving a legacy of good. A legacy of purpose. A legacy I would be proud to share with my children one day. The man who entered Ground Zero wasn’t the same one who left.
Becoming a father awakened something primal. Protecting my boys meant protecting their future—and that meant doing everything in my powers to clear all landmines buried in their path. That meant doing more than just providing a roof over their heads and food on the table. That meant dedicating the rest of my life to healing my past so that it doesn’t become my children’s future.
When Nadia and I had our first son, Azai, everything shifted again. Fatherhood reactivated my intrinsic role as protector and provider. This wasn’t just about me anymore. And it wasn’t just about my children. It was about ALL children.
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