23h (edited) • General discussion
A life that refuses to collapse
I was 6 when I burglarized a rich kids house I went to school with, all the neighborhood kids would meet up there cause he had the latest and cool toys , but he'd flaunt his toys in a way that let you know, you don't have these toys do you? Your Mom is broke huh? Na nah! Na nah nahhh!!
Give me them! I waited until him and his parents went on vacation, I heard his Mom talking about the vacation and Dates on the phone, so I slid a rocking horse to the front 4 windows and unlocked them all, in hopes one would open. I made a shrine of his toys in the basement in the apartment my mother and I shared.
It's sad to say but I knew I wanted to be a criminal as a young 5yr old child, I also knew that I'd probably get in a lot of legal trouble, probably cause of Hollywood. So I worried about Jail. I always knew and said that no prison would be able to hold me forever! I meant it, I believed it. It was another manifestation in my life.
When I was 15 I was caught with a Super 38. Automatic, I had just moved with my mother and my stepdad to the Poconos and we'll wherever you go there you are! Right? So the guns and mentality come too, how I got caught! Was a huge lesson. Never lie to your Mom. I get a call at my friend's house, it's Mom! "Joe is there anything in your room I should be worried about" my Mother was an enabler, meaning she knew I 'provided for myself' and never hugged me. I dismissed it. She asked again louder "Joe be honest, is there any AT ALL in your bedroom I should know about" the lie "No Mom!". I lied 2 prongs, one mind your business 2 protect her from my abusive father who would tend to beat me and my mother for who "I was becoming". Little did he know, about 8 months later I'd be charge with 327 Burglaries in Pike County and Monroe county, namely HEMLOCK Farms private gated Country Club and multiple gun stores. I was 15 and never got caught nor witness Statement until my Codefendant turned States witness while I was doing juvenile time for the gun, because while my mother had me on the phone asking "Joe ya sure nothing's in ya bedroom" the state police were there trying to search it with the usual threats! "" We can get a search warrant"" what's a 31 year old teen Mom to think, asshole stepdad is telling her, don't tell Joe the cops are here! Like what? Am I your kid? He knew exactly the reaction he wanted would be given. Had I known the cops were there, I would tell my Mom, "Do not let them in" and wouldn't have" one thing about my mother, she stood . before the Supreme Court and lied for me, the depth of the lie was that "He is my nephew your honor! 😳 😢
My mother may have been a teen Mom, but she has been with Mensa (Too 10%)(1%) smartest people in the world since I could remember and took Computer science classes in college. She had me plead guilty to the handful of burglaries that I was were on the 327 home burglary list that I was actually could have never been apart of cause I was locked up for the gun already, see I really did about 200 burglaries but it was a conspiracy indictment with 8 of us involved and the burglaries were on going.
I was charged as a drug kingpin at 22 years old in 1996 in New York Supreme Court, facing a mandatory life sentence. I had no money, no institutional backing, no legal team fighting for me the way the system expects. What I had was will, intelligence, and refusal.
Between the ages of 22 and 25, I fought for my life pro se — studying law inside cages, filing motions most licensed attorneys never attempt. I filed a 2255 motion myself. On my 25th birthday, I walked out free. I didn’t escape justice — I mastered it.
Freedom didn’t make me reckless. It made me focused.
In 2000, I opened my first of five barbershops — a hip-hop barbershop before that phrase was marketable. Pool tables. Video games. Coogi sweaters. White tees. Air Force 1s. Smack DVDs. Mixtapes for $5 that cost me $0.80. It wasn’t just a shop — it was culture, commerce, and community.
Even then, I spoke things into existence.
I said I would be a corporate barber one day.
I said I would make millions in cannabis one day.
And I did both.
I became a corporate barber for Procter & Gamble, cutting the hair of billionaires and executives in Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, Lord & Taylor. P&G gave me my own barbershop inside the Men’s Grooming Zone at the Philadelphia flagship Macy’s. That wasn’t luck — that was alignment earned over decades.
But manifestation cuts both ways.
I dabbled — infrequently — with cocaine and Percocet. I joked that after all the success, I’d probably end up in a luxury high-rise doing the best cocaine in the world.
Then COVID hit.
Right before airline lockdowns, I flew to Medellín, Colombia, intending to stay one week. Life had other plans. I met a woman. We fell deeply in love. Our son, Messiah, was planned, wanted, and is loved beyond measure to this day.
That relationship didn’t last — but I did what I believed was right. I set her up with her own place. I stayed present. I stayed responsible.
Colombia exposed me to extremes — discipline and excess, beauty and danger. I trained hard. I lived on routine. I watched how systems worked differently outside the United States — including pharmaceutical systems and global trade realities.
When I returned to Philadelphia, I shifted back into money mode. I was cold-calling accident victims off police reports, earning $1,000 per referral from chiropractic offices. I lived in another luxury high-rise — 901 Penn — where history repeated itself.
I met another woman. Another high-rise. Another pattern.
This time, the consequences weren’t personal — they were corporate.
I identified a product opportunity, negotiated directly with a South American manufacturer, funded English packaging myself, and scaled distribution fast. Through proximity, trust, and years of relationships, my product landed on GoPuff — a company that had started seven doors down from my original barbershop years earlier.
At peak, the product generated $60,000 per month in profit.
Then it was destroyed.
False health complaints. Coordinated calls. A recall that was later confirmed and admitted to be fabricated. The contract was terminated, the product replaced, and the revenue cut off.
That wasn’t business failure — that was sabotage.
Life compounded pressure. Addiction entered the picture — not recreationally, but destructively. Fentanyl is not a drug; it is a death sentence with paperwork. I would wish prison on someone before I wished fentanyl.
But I survived that too.
Today, I’m in Portland, Oregon — clean, sober, and intentional. No money. No safety net. No illusions.
What I do have is something rarer:
A mind trained by survival
A legal intellect sharpened under threat of death
A business instinct proven across industries
And a spiritual discipline rebuilt through meditation, affirmation, sweat, and precision
I am repositioning — not reacting.
Aligning — not chasing.
Speaking carefully. Moving deliberately.
And from a sober living home, with nothing but structure and clarity, I am building again — not just wealth, but systems.
This isn’t a redemption story.
It’s a continuation.
And I’m not guessing anymore.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
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A life that refuses to collapse
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