In 2004, his parents left Mexico and came directly to North Carolina in pursuit of opportunity — not just for themselves, but for their children.

They left behind family. Customs. Familiar streets.
They arrived in a place where they didn’t speak the language and had to rebuild everything from scratch.

North Carolina wasn’t random. Family was already there. Community was forming. And when you are new to a country, community is everything.

Luis doesn’t remember the journey.
But he grew up inside the sacrifice.

He remembers Moore County. Public school. Two years in private school. Then back to public school. The steady construction of a life shaped by discipline, faith, and resilience.

English was a barrier at first for his parents. They didn’t speak it when they arrived.

But they learned.

Not overnight. Not without struggle.
But with determination.

They adapted while holding tightly to their roots. They built a life without abandoning who they were.

And inside their home, two phrases became a compass:

“Sigue echándole muchas ganas, hijo.”
Keep giving it your all, son.

And the one that shaped him most:

“Haz algo extraordinario, no ordinario.”
Do something extraordinary, not ordinary.

Luis carries that sentence into every room.

The Values That Built Him

In the photo: Luis with his family, the foundation behind the dream.

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When you ask Luis what shaped him most, he answers without hesitation:

Respect.
Kindness.
Optimism.
Hard work.

And a simple principle:

Treat others the way you would want to be treated.

His parents didn’t just work to provide. They worked with purpose. They believed in giving back — not just to their family, but to their community. Uplifting others was never optional. It was identity.

Luis absorbed that.

Building a Path With Intention

Luis built his path piece by piece.

He leaned on mentors.
He showed up to networking events.
He stayed ambitious, unapologetically so.

After undergrad, he worked at the North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services, in the Office of Minority Health and Health Disparities.

The work wasn’t abstract.
It was personal.

He saw how policy affects real people. Real families. Real communities.

One of the most transformational chapters of his journey was being accepted into the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute (CHCI), where he had the opportunity to work on Capitol Hill and join a national Latino network dedicated to developing the next generation of Latino leaders.

For Luis, it felt surreal.

There are moments when you find yourself in spaces you once only imagined, and a quiet voice asks how you got there — whether you truly belong.

Imposter syndrome visited.

But ambition stayed louder.

Back to School — On Purpose

Today, Luis is pursuing a Master’s degree in Public Policy at Duke University.

Not for prestige.
For impact.

He wants policy to reflect lived experience.
He wants outreach to be bilingual and culturally competent.
He wants leadership that listens before it legislates.

He dreams of one day serving as a senior outreach advisor, or even being part of an administration as a cabinet secretary, helping craft policy rooted in real community voices.

He wants to be in the rooms where decisions are made.
And then go back into the community and listen.

He for She

In the photo: Luis with his little sister.

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When I asked Luis what men can do to better support women in their growth, he didn’t rush his answer.

He said: Put yourself in her shoes.

Listen intentionally.
Be a pillar of support.
Show up consistently.

Leadership isn’t dominance.
It’s empathy in action.

His Message to You

If you feel stuck, discouraged, or unsure:

Luis wants you to hear this:

I’m proud of how far you’ve come.
You have so much more to give.
You are enough.
Eres suficiente.
You are doing your absolute best.
Sigue adelante.

Luis’ story is about roots and ambition.
About honoring your family while building your own path.
About doing something extraordinary, not ordinary.

And he is…

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So let me ask you… What extraordinary thing are you quietly building right now?

With love and purpose,
Angelica Sanchez

When the fellowship began, we were assigned to casitas—small spaces designed to connect people with shared interests: education, nonprofit work, community leadership, etc. My Casita Belonging included Esther, Frieda, Natalia, Janeth, Josue, Manny, Estefania, Yesika and Claudia, some of whose stories I had the honor of sharing

Our casita was paired with a LatinxEd fellow from a previous cohort—someone meant to help us navigate the experience and make the most of our retreat in Blowing Rock.

Our team leader was Hector Ramirez.

From the very beginning, Hector didn’t present himself as an expert or a guide with all the answers. He showed up as support. As someone walking alongside us, making the path feel lighter, more possible.

He encouraged us to take full advantage of the connections around us, to recognize how invaluable they were, and to show up as our real selves. Not polished. Not performative. Just honest. Because that’s where growth actually happens.

Hector connected deeply with each of our stories. We listened. We shared. We cried. He shared his own story, too.

And when it was time to say goodbye, we knew something had shifted. Even as we each prepared to take our own paths, Casita Belonging became the kind of space you carry with you, a reminder that you’re not walking alone, especially when the road gets hard.

That’s why it’s an honor to tell Hector’s story.

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Hector didn’t grow up dreaming of a master’s degree.

He grew up watching his parents do whatever it took.

Hot days. Cold days. Long shifts. Warehouse work. Tired hands. Quiet sacrifice. The kind of work ethic that doesn’t need speeches, because it shows up whether life is easy or brutal.

His family’s journey started before Hector even had a memory.

His father came to the United States to work before Hector was born. And when he was three years old, the whole family relocated to Texas. That’s where his earliest memories live, inside a big Latino community, in a neighborhood that felt familiar because everyone looked like each other, talked like each other, and lived with the same unspoken understanding:

We’re here to build something.

In middle school, around 12 or 13, everything shifted again. His family moved to Kannapolis, North Carolina. Same parents. Same work ethic. Different state. Better opportunities.

His parents worked warehouse jobs in both places. The work wasn’t glamorous. The pay wasn’t generous. But Hector remembers the part that matters:

There was always enough.

Enough food on the table. Enough clothes. Enough shoes. Not name-brand everything, but everything they needed.

And then there’s the story Hector tells that says more than most motivational quotes ever could:

One time his dad’s car broke down… so his dad walked to work.

It wasn’t for months. It was a week or two. But that detail is the point.

Because people like Hector’s parents don’t stop because life is inconvenient.
They adjust.
They keep moving.
They provide.

That became Hector’s inner blueprint.

“I’m lucky enough to have a career now,” he told me, “but if I ever needed to do something else… I would. Without a doubt.”

That sentence is Hector in one line: practical hope. Quiet grit. Zero drama.

From Warehouse to “Maybe I Can Do This”

Hector will tell you his path was rocky.

In high school, he wasn’t the model student. He wasn’t thinking about “higher education.” He wasn’t surrounded by people talking about majors, grad school, or professional networks.

Most people he knew were making money in trades: construction, roofing, drywall. Real work. Immediate paychecks. That was the world he could see.

College felt far and expensive. And when you don’t know anyone who has done it, “college” can feel like a place you’re not invited into.

But his mom kept encouraging him to pursue a career, something beyond surviving.

After graduation, Hector worked at the Food Lion warehouse in Salisbury. He also worked at a Food Lion store. He did what so many of our people do: took the work that was available, because bills don’t pause while you “find your purpose.”

And somewhere in that season, he enrolled in community college. Just a class or two at first. He leaned toward criminal justice because, like many young people, he was trying to choose something practical, something that could change the trajectory.

Then a surprising thing happened.

The schoolwork was accessible.

Not easy. Not handed to him. But possible.

And that “possible” was the spark.

His parents couldn’t pay his tuition, but they supported him in the ways that matter: he lived at home, rent-free, and they made it clear they believed in him.

So Hector started dreaming, carefully, almost like he didn’t want to jinx it.

He transferred to UNC Charlotte. He began imagining bigger outcomes: a bachelor’s degree, a future in federal work, maybe even the FBI.

And then, this part matters, he found community.

He found students who looked like him. People with similar interests. People building a future with their sleeves rolled up, not because they had a perfect roadmap, but because they refused to stay stuck.

He joined student organizations. He volunteered. He showed up.

And slowly, the story changed from “I don’t know if I belong here” to “Maybe I can do more than I thought.”

The Plot Twist: Teaching

Hector never saw himself as “teacher material.”
After all, he hadn’t been the model student. Higher education hadn’t been part of the plan. For a long time, he thought those things disqualified him.

What he didn’t realize then was that the very things he saw as weaknesses would become his greatest strength.

Because Hector understood doubt.
He understood hesitation.
He understood what it feels like to sit in a classroom and wonder if you really belong there.

So when he worked with students, many of whom looked like him, sounded like him, and carried the same questions, connection came naturally. He didn’t have to perform authority. He had lived their questions.

Even in college, while juggling full-time classes and working 30–40 hours a week, he consistently volunteered with high school students. Not because he had to, but because it felt right. It felt like purpose.

When he finally applied to teach, he did so with hesitation. But once inside the classroom, something clicked.

The work was hard. The first year was humbling.
But the relationships? Those felt natural.

Students trusted him. They opened up. They saw themselves in him.
And Hector realized he wasn’t just teaching content. He was modeling possibilities.

The Leader He Became: Community-Built

When I asked Hector about mentors, he didn’t point to one heroic figure or a single life-changing conversation.

Of course, he’s had support along the way—teachers, colleagues, people who opened doors and offered guidance.

But what shaped him most was something quieter, and far more common for many of us:

Community.

He learned how to navigate college by watching peers who were a step ahead. He built study habits by studying near others. He figured out systems not through a manual, but by moving alongside people who were also figuring it out in real time.

And that matters for anyone reading this who feels behind.

Sometimes your mentor isn’t one perfect person.
Sometimes it’s your circle.
Sometimes it’s the friend who says, “Come sit with us.”
Sometimes it’s simply being included long enough to finally believe you belong.

When the Work Gets Heavy, He Chooses to Return to Himself

Hector is honest about teaching: it’s not just lesson plans.

It’s carrying stories.

It’s listening to things kids shouldn’t have to live through.

It’s feeling pressure, your own pressure, to get it right, to help them grow, to protect them from what you can’t control.

And when you care deeply, it can crush you if you don’t learn how to step back.

One of Hector’s biggest takeaways, especially after LatinxEd fellowship, was this:

He doesn’t have to carry everything alone.

He learned to lean on the network: social workers, counselors, community partners, people with resources and knowledge he doesn’t have. Not every fire is his to put out by himself.

And he also learned something many helpers need to hear:

You can’t pour from an empty cup.

So he takes care of himself.

Sometimes it’s the gym: running, lifting, moving his body back into steadiness.

Sometimes it’s simple and honest: he goes home and plays his PlayStation 5 for a bit. Not to escape life forever, just long enough to breathe again.

Because rest isn’t laziness.

Rest is what lets you return to the work without losing yourself.

Why the Classroom Still Wins

Hector has explored different roles. He worked with the central office as an EL specialist, connecting newly arrived families to nonprofit support across Charlotte, important work, meaningful work.

But something was missing.

He missed the students.
He missed the relationships.
He missed having a space where connection wasn’t abstract—it was daily.

So during COVID, he returned to the classroom. And he stayed.

Today, as a high school teacher and multilingual specialist at A.L. Brown High School, supporting both teachers and multilingual learners, he does more than offer strategies. He challenges mindsets. He helps educators see that translating everything may deliver content, but it doesn’t build language.

It’s harder work. Slower work. Deeper work.

And if you ask Hector where he feels most alive, the answer is still the same:

The classroom.

Not the spotlight.
Not administration.
Not climbing titles.

Just the daily, complex, beautiful work of being close to students and families.

What Comes Next

Hector is a dreamer, but the grounded kind.

Right now, his focus is his family: two young kids, a season where presence matters.

But he’s also thinking long-term: a nonprofit one day, possibly focused on students who are trying to do well but don’t have access to mentors.

He’s explored boards before. He knows the nonprofit world. He wants to return to it when the timing is right, not rushed, not performative, but prepared.

Because Hector isn’t chasing “more” just to say he did it.

He’s chasing impact.

A Message for Our Readers

Hector’s story is for anyone who has ever thought:

“I didn’t grow up with that.”
“I don’t know the system.”
“Everybody else seems ahead.”

Here’s what Hector proves:

You can start without a roadmap and still build a life you’re proud of.

You can come from warehouse work and still end up with a master’s degree.

You can be “not a model student” and still become the teacher students trust with their stories.

And if you’re tired, if you’re carrying heavy things, Hector also reminds us:

Don’t forget to disconnect.
Don’t forget your hobbies.
Don’t forget movement.
Don’t forget yourself.

Then come back to work with your heart intact.

Because the world needs what you have to offer.

And as Hector put it so simply, so powerfully:

If you feel stuck, keep pushing forward, because we need you to reach your goal and have the positive impact you’re meant to have.

With love and purpose,
AS

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In the photo, Hector is pictured with his wife and their two children. At this stage of his life, his primary focus is his family, two young kids and a season where being present matters most.

It didn’t.

His confidence was built the slow way, through embarrassment, pressure, family chaos, and the kind of responsibility that shows up early when adults are still trying to figure out their own lives.

Josue is a fighter.
An entrepreneur in motion.
A young man building a future while still carrying the weight of the past, without letting it harden him.

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A Childhood Written Across Islands and Borders

Josue’s parents were both born in the Dominican Republic, but their lives weren’t simple or linear.

His mother grew up in La Vega, a rural area, then moved to Santo Domingo on her own at just 17. She was adopted by a family friend, but even that arrangement had conflict, so she learned early what it means to survive without guarantees.

Later, she met Josue’s father, after her first marriage ended tragically, leaving her with two sons and a grief that doesn’t disappear, only evolves.

His father always carried a dream: to travel, to reach the U.S., to find something bigger than what life was offering at the time. There were attempts. Risky ones. Some didn’t work.

In the photo: Baby Josue with his father.

Eventually, the route became Turks and Caicos, a place they heard about through connections, a place where the currency was the U.S. dollar, and where working could mean a chance at stability.

Josue was born in the Dominican Republic, spent early years with extended family, his aunt, the village that held him, then, at six years old, he joined his parents in Turks and Caicos.

And that’s where his first real test began.

Age Six: The Year He Learned What Shame Can Do

At six, he didn’t speak English.

School felt like being dropped into a room where everyone already knew the rules, except you.

In the photo: Elementary school in Turks and Caicos.

He stayed after school for ESL. He worked. He listened. He absorbed everything.

Still, he was held back that year.

And even now, you can hear it in his voice:
That moment shaped him.

It embarrassed him so deeply that he made a private decision:

If I’m going to be here, I’m going to be the best.

The next year, he wasn’t just “catching up.”
He was excelling.

He threw himself into spelling, academics, and discipline so hard that he ended up participating in a national spelling bee in Turks and Caicos.

That’s the first sign of something that becomes a pattern in his life:

When life tries to label him, Josue responds with proof.

The U.S. Dream… and the Cost of It

At ten, his dad found a way to get to Puerto Rico through a visa. They had visited the U.S. once: New Jersey, family, a glimpse of possibility.

Then life hit again: his grandmother passed away, and his father returned to the DR to handle arrangements and grief. After that, he made another decision.

He used his visa to go to the U.S.—this time to Charlotte, North Carolina, where he had sisters and a path to paperwork.

Two years later, Josue followed.
He was 11, turning 12 that year.

He says he wanted to come badly, because the “American Dream” is marketed like oxygen.

And in the beginning, he loved it.

But he missed his mother so much that the distance became its own kind of pain.

In this photo: Josue as a teenager with his mom.

Eventually, she came too, working her way through the process from New York, living in the Bronx for years while Josue lived in Charlotte with his father.

So he grew up split between cities and seasons:
Charlotte for school.
New York for holidays.
Always moving between worlds.

The Value of “Village”

When Josue talks about what shaped him most, he doesn’t just talk about ambition.

He talks about people.

The women who raised him.
The aunt who held him in the Dominican Republic.
The family who stepped in when life was unstable.

In the photo: Family reunion—Josue with his mom and the aunt who raised him in the Dominican Republic, alongside her son.

And then… the part he tells with surprising tenderness:

In the photo: Graduation night with parents

After his parents separated, his father remarried. As a kid, Josue assumed he would hate his stepmother, because in a child’s mind, divorce always needs a villain.

But she wasn’t a villain.

She was kind.
She showed up.
She helped raise him.

And that changed something in him.

It taught him that family isn’t always what you expected.
Sometimes it’s what you’re lucky enough to receive.

The Moment He Almost Lost Himself

Then came the family storm.
His father was heading toward another divorce.
Josue now had a baby sister, and a stepbrother he loved like blood.

Watching his younger sibling experience the same pain he once carried forced Josue to confront his own unresolved wounds.

It was too familiar.
Too close.
Too heavy.

He was a young man navigating identity and responsibility, and it unsettled him deeply.

He fell off academically.
He questioned his own drive.
And he came dangerously close to becoming someone he didn’t recognize.

Not because he was weak,
but because grief makes people drift.

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The Mentor Who Redirected Everything

This is where Profound Gentlemen becomes more than a program.

A mentor named Fred—his first real mentor, a Black male educator who believed in him—changed his trajectory.

In the photo: Fred and Josue at Josue’s senior banquet at his school.

Fred didn’t “save” him in a dramatic way.

He did something more powerful:

He held up a mirror and made Josue realize he was allowing himself to fail.

And that he didn’t have to.

Fred passed away in 2019, but his impact didn’t.

Some mentors don’t just teach you skills.
They give you your life back.

The Unconventional Route

After high school, Josue started college while working part-time at Profound Gentlemen—first as an intern, learning education, advocacy, and leadership.

Then he stopped right before COVID.

Not because he didn’t care.
Because he didn’t have direction.

He was studying business administration, like many young people do when they’re trying to choose something “safe” without knowing what they’re actually called to do.

So he did what a lot of young men do when life feels unclear:

He worked.

He went to an Amazon warehouse job that drained him so deeply he dreaded waking up.

And then his father, an electrician for decades, told him something simple:

“Come work with me.”

Josue followed suit.

He learned the trade.

He learned the business.

He completed his college studies in Electrical Systems Technology.

For two years, he immersed himself in the work, thinking:

Maybe this is my path.

Maybe I’ll take over the family business.

But something else happened in that season.

He didn’t just work in the business. He started building it.

He began writing contracts.
Helping secure work.
Talking to contractors.
Handling scheduling and the parts of business his father struggled to manage, especially as someone not fully fluent in English and unfamiliar with U.S. business systems.

In his words, he stepped in because his dad needed him.

And quietly, that was leadership too.

Turning Pain Into Discipline

Instead of getting lost, Josue redirected.

He poured himself into fitness.

At first, it was an escape, something to release the pressure.
Then it became routine.
Then it became identity.

He talks about movement like it’s medicine.

Exercise didn’t just make him stronger physically.

It built discipline that spilled into every part of his life.

And later, when COVID hit and the world shut down, he realized how much he took movement for granted.

When gyms reopened, he returned to training and never looked back.

The Platform, the Brand, the Bigger Plan

Eventually, he returned to Profound Gentlemen, this time full-time, and ready.

He grew into leadership through logistics, community building, and execution.

Not by chasing titles, but by becoming someone people could trust.

Today, he serves as the Memberships & Engagement Coordinator at Profound Gentlemen, helping build the systems and relationships that sustain the work.

All while continuing to build something else quietly in the background:
a long-term vision of ownership, stability, and legacy.

Not work until you drop.
But work that gives future generations choice.

In 2021, he started building a fitness platform, not just to show workouts, but to encourage people to take care of themselves holistically.

He wants the fitness to be the backdrop, while the real goal is conversation, community, and mental strength.

And he has another dream too: a lifestyle clothing brand.

Not as a random side project.

As a way to reclaim a childhood dream of design, and to bring his culture and story into a market that often sells identity without understanding it.

He says something that matters here:

You don’t always have to reinvent the wheel.
You just have to be adaptable.

That’s the mindset of someone who’s building a life with multiple lanes, without losing direction.

His 7PM Moment

Josue uses a phrase that stayed with me: the 7 p.m. moment.

Inspired by Carmelo Anthony’s podcast, it’s the moment when something clicks and you realize:
This is what I’m meant to do.

And his point is important.

You can’t force it.
You can’t rush it.

Purpose doesn’t show up on command.
It arrives when it’s ready.

That moment comes only after lived experience.
After mistakes.
After reflection.

And when it finally arrives, it changes how you move through the world.

That’s why he says:
Life is a marathon.

And if it’s a marathon…
why sprint through it?

In the photo: Josue with part of the Profound Gentlemen team at the Latinxed Summit 2024. In 2025, he became my fellow through Casita Belonging—continuing a journey rooted in community, leadership, and care.

A Message for Our Readers

Josue’s story is for the young person who feels behind.
For the one who had to grow up too early.
For the one balancing family responsibilities, work, school, and identity, while everyone else seems to have a clean roadmap.

He believes leadership isn’t about taking up space, but about making space, especially for women who have always done the work, even when they weren’t given the authority.

He says it plainly:
Ego has no place in leadership.
If someone else is better equipped to lead, you step back and support.

That kind of allyship isn’t performative.
It’s practiced daily.

Josue reminds us that purpose doesn’t require certainty.
It requires honesty.
Self-knowledge.
And patience.

And when doubt creeps in, when you find yourself asking “Why me?”,
he invites you to ask something else instead:

Why not me?

Because step by step, repetition by repetition, discipline by discipline,
you don’t suddenly arrive.
You realize you’ve been building it all along.

Right where your feet are.

With love and purpose,
AS

In the photo, Josue is captured at the Profound Gentleman Annual Conference (2025), surrounded by the community that helped sharpen his purpose and leadership.

He is kind.
A little reserved.
Deeply observant.

The kind of leader who listens first, watches carefully, and learns from the people and spaces around him before speaking.

Over the past few months, I’ve had the privilege of working alongside Josué and the team at ISLA NC on the Parent Researchers project. Most of the leadership at ISLA is made up of women, and Josué moves through that space with intention and humility, never overpowering it, always protecting it.

In every meeting, every draft, every conversation, he asks the same quiet but powerful question:

“Does this still honor the essence of ISLA and the families we serve?”

Sometimes that means rewriting entire documents.
Sometimes it means slowing down a process that, in the U.S., is often done “the usual way.”
Sometimes it means doing twice the work, so that parents feel seen, respected, and truly included.

And every time, Josué chooses alignment over efficiency.

When he began sharing his own story with me, everything clicked.

Because Josué doesn’t just believe in ISLA’s mission.
He lived the reality ISLA exists to change.

In the photo: Josué, Executive Director of Isla NC, a nonprofit based in North Carolina.

From El Salvador to Uncertainty, and Forward

Josué was born in El Salvador during the civil war.
His mother arrived in the U.S. first in the late 1980s, fleeing violence and instability. She cleaned houses, cared for elders, and built a fragile sense of safety from nothing.

Two years later, Josué arrived at age eleven, reuniting with her.

What followed was not a smooth transition.

It was survival, the kind that many immigrant children know too well.

Frequent moves.
Housing insecurity.
Living in a single room with his parents and brother, sharing one pillow and one blanket.
Church food pantries.
His mother pawning the little jewelry she had left to pay rent.

He remembers moments that stay with you forever, like drinking cold milk for the first time in a restaurant in Texas, something that didn’t exist in his childhood during wartime scarcity. A small detail, but one that captures how displacement reshapes a child’s sense of normal.

School was no refuge.

He changed schools constantly: three middle schools in one year, two high schools in another.
He struggled to learn English and was kept in ESL classes because that was where he felt safe.
Meanwhile, his younger brother adapted quickly, and the comparison was painful.

At home, Josué became a caregiver early, cooking, helping with homework, taking responsibility while his parents worked long hours navigating their own migration trauma.

As a child, he felt resentment.
As an adult, he understands.

His parents weren’t absent. They were surviving.

This is why protecting ISLA’s essence is not theoretical for him.

It is personal.

The Value of Asking Questions

One of the most formative gifts Josué received growing up was not certainty, but freedom.

Raised in an evangelical household, his parents never taught him fear of difference. When he asked why Catholic churches looked different, they didn’t shut the question down.

They said, “Let’s go see.”

That pattern, questioning without fear, observing without judgment, became the foundation of who he is today.

It’s also why he believes deeply in education that honors lived experience, not just credentials.

“Mi carga es mi poder” / “My Burden Is My Power”

Josué is a 2024 Latinxed fellow, and Josué’s professional journey is rooted in one truth:

“What once felt like my biggest barriers became my greatest strengths.”

School was not easy for Josué.
He learned English later than most of his peers, and his parents, like many immigrant parents, were navigating an unfamiliar education system while trying to survive it themselves.

Those challenges didn’t disappear as he grew older.
They shaped him.

Josué carried those early experiences into higher education, moving through community college, earning a Bachelor’s degree in International Relations, and later completing a Master’s degree in International / Global Studies at UNC Chapel Hill.

Not in spite of his story—but guided by it.

His academic path sharpened what lived experience had already taught him: how systems work, who they leave behind, and how power can either exclude, or be redesigned.

Today, as Executive Director of ISLA NC, he leads from that intersection of education and lived knowledge. He protects spaces where Spanish is valued, cultural identity is honored, and parents are not treated as problems to be fixed, but as experts of their own lives.

ISLA doesn’t just teach Spanish.
It preserves inheritance.
It restores dignity.
It builds bridges where systems have historically created gaps.

That commitment has not gone unnoticed.
Under Josué’s leadership, ISLA was recently named a GSK IMPACT Award recipient, a national recognition awarded to community-based nonprofits for their innovation, leadership, collaboration, and measurable impact on community health.

The award recognizes organizations that do the slow, intentional work of building trust, strengthening systems, and improving lives, not through optics, but through real relationships and sustained impact.

For ISLA, this recognition is not a finish line.
It is confirmation that centering language, culture, and families as experts of their own lives is not only right, It works.

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A Message That Stays With You

What I’ve learned from Josué is that leadership isn’t about taking up space. It’s about making room.

Room for women to lead without being questioned.
Room for parents to speak without being rushed.
Room for children to arrive as they are, without having to shrink themselves to belong.

Josué often reminds me that we don’t always need to look up for inspiration.
Sometimes, the people who teach us the most are sitting right next to us, doing the work quietly, consistently, with care.

For anyone who feels stuck, overwhelmed, or unsure of their next step, Josué’s message is simple and grounded in lived experience:

Nothing lasts forever.
Even the hardest seasons pass.
Don’t take everything personally.
And don’t be afraid to ask questions.

Service, for him, is not about titles or visibility.
It’s about impact.
About staying close to the community.
About remembering where you come from, and letting that guide where you’re going.

Josué Daniel Córdova reminds us that leadership doesn’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it arrives carrying memory, intention, and deep care.

And often, the people most committed to closing the gap…
are the ones who once lived inside it.

With love and purpose,
AS

In the photo, Josué stands in the upper right corner, alongside members of the ISLA team, student volunteers, and ISLA parent researchers.

“Your only limitation is you.”
“I have meaning if you find it in yourself.”

He says them to his students the way some people pass down family recipes, often, with love, and without pretending life is easy.

Because Eddy doesn’t want to be the hero of your story.
He wants you to remember you’re the one who can change it.

This is his.

Born in California, Raised by Mexico

Eddy was born in the United States, but his story begins in Mexico, Jalisco on his father’s side and Sinaloa on his mother’s.

Both parents immigrated in the late 1970s. Different routes. Same reason: the possibility of a better life.

His dad had worked since he was a child, real work, not “helping out.” By the time he came to the U.S., working wasn’t just a skill. It was identity. He started in hospitality and later moved into construction, another kind of exhaustion, same goal: stability.

His mom’s path looked different. She was the youngest in her family and grew up with a dream she never fully got to claim: she wanted to be a teacher. Not because she lacked ability, because money, time, and reality didn’t make room for it.

She grew up in Sinaloa, moved to Tijuana, worked in a pharmacy, then came to the U.S. to live with her sister. Through mutual friends, she met Eddy’s dad. They built a life. They built a family.

And without meaning to, they built a son who would grow up hearing one message on repeat:

“I just want better for you. I just want you to know what is possible.”

A House Built With Love (Not Luxury)

Eddy grew up in Anaheim, the youngest of three. His parents worked constantly, but what he remembers most is not fear. It’s safety.

Food on the table.
A stable home.
A family that felt loving.

He didn’t go to bed wondering if they’d eat tomorrow. His parents carried the stress quietly so their kids could carry hope loudly.

That matters, because Eddy doesn’t romanticize struggle. He honors it. He knows the price was real. He also knows the love was intentional.

The Teachers Who Left a Mark

In high school, a teacher named Mr. Shank changed the way Eddy saw learning. His English class was taught like a college course: serious reading, deep discussion, real responsibility. Not “easy.” Worth it.

That’s where Eddy first thought: I want to teach.

Later, his Spanish teacher, Mr. Villa, left him with a different kind of lesson about identity.

Mr. Villa organized a César Chávez Day march. Eddy planned to join, but a staff member urgently asked for help printing materials. He said yes.

In the attendance office, someone said:

“Oh, you didn’t join the march? That means you’re one of the good ones.”

Eddy didn’t have the language for microaggression yet. But he felt it. The moment stuck. It was the first time he realized how quickly a system can label you, how easily you can be “approved” if you stay quiet.

The Dream Detour: Music First

Before education became his path, music was his love. Guitar. Shows. The Southern California scene. For a while, “rockstar” wasn’t a metaphor. It was a plan.

Then the industry changed, piracy, iTunes, everything shifting.

A musician friend gave him advice that altered everything:

“Go to college first. Get your degree. Then if music happens, great, but don’t be left with nothing while you wait.”

Eddy listened. He didn’t kill the dream. He stabilized his life.

Community College and a New Map

He enrolled in community college thinking he might become an English teacher. Then he took an interpersonal communication class, and something clicked.

He realized you could study people: relationships, identity, culture, conflict, connection. That curiosity he’d always carried had a name: Communication Studies.

He built a path:

• Fullerton College (AA)

• California State University, Fullerton (BA)

• Texas Christian University (MS)

• San Diego State University (MA)
  

He was aiming for academia, for a PhD, for university teaching.

Then Texas happened.

TCU: When Being “The Only One” Gets Heavy

Moving from California to Texas was a cultural shock.

In his graduate program, Eddy often found himself among the very few one of the rare students of color in the room, carrying a working-class background that was largely invisible in academic spaces. He knew, in ways others did not, what it meant to be raised by parents whose labor lived in construction sites and service jobs, whose hands built and sustained worlds rarely acknowledged in the classroom. That lived experience shaped not only how he learned, but why he showed up… to claim space, to honor his roots, and to challenge systems that were never designed with people like him in mind.

Even when people meant well, he felt tokenized. Discussions would turn toward him like he could represent every Latino and/or POC experience.

He became depressed. He took anxiety medication. He questioned everything.

After his first semester, he went home for winter break and told his parents:

“I think I’m going to quit.”

Then he asked them something he had never asked so directly:

“How did you do it? How did you move countries, start over, not knowing what would happen?”

They didn’t romanticize it.

“It was hard,” they said. “But we kept going.”

That conversation rewired him.

They had crossed borders.
He had crossed state lines.
They arrived without language.
He already had English.
They had no guarantees.
He had a seat in a graduate program.

The contrast didn’t erase his pain, but it gave him perspective. And pride. And the strength to finish.

Owning His Story, Publicly

In his program, students would bring food for their committee during exams or defenses. Some brought cookies.

Eddy brought a full meal: chips and salsa, enchiladas with rice and beans, and pan dulce.

It wasn’t performance. It was a declaration:

“This is who I am. I’m not going to shrink to belong.”

He finished the master’s. He didn’t come out “perfect.” He came out clearer.

What Eddy Does Now

Today, Eddy is in North Carolina at Forsyth Tech as an Adult Learner and College Transfer Success Coach and an ACA instructor.

His work is simple and profound:

• helping students choose classes that transfer cleanly

• connecting them to resources and support

• teaching them how college works

• giving them the map he had to draw the hard way
  

Many of his students are adult learners. First-gen. Immigrant-background. People who feel “too late” or “too behind.”

Eddy tells them, again and again:

“The worst answer you’ll get is no. But what if they say yes?”

And he means it.

Where Eddy Chooses to Lead

Eddy has been told more than once that he “should run for office.”
He understands why people say it.

But over time, he learned something important about himself:

He doesn’t need a big title to make meaningful change.

He doesn’t need to be the CEO of a nonprofit, a director, or a public figure to matter.
He knows his power lives somewhere else.

Real change, he believes, doesn’t always start in boardrooms or capitols.
Sometimes it starts quietly, one conversation at a time.

His arena is the classroom.
The advising office.
The moment a student sits across from him and says: “I didn’t think college was for me.”

That’s where Eddy shines.
That’s where he feels grounded, useful, and fully himself.

He learned that leadership isn’t about visibility. It’s about proximity.
About being close enough to people to walk with them through doubt, confusion, and possibility.

Not every leader belongs in the Capitol.
Some belong in community colleges,
changing lives one student at a time.

And that, too, is a form of power.

Lessons from Eddy’s Path

Eddy’s story is not about perfection.
It’s about learning how to carry your struggle without letting it carry you.

1. Your parents may understand more than you think.
Even if they never stepped onto a college campus, they crossed systems, fears, and countries of their own.
Sometimes your strength is built from sacrifices you never fully saw, but that held you up anyway.

2. You don’t have to kill a dream; you can move it.
When the Ph.D. program Eddy was pursuing changed direction, and no longer aligned with what he wanted to study, he made a deliberate choice not to force a path that no longer fit.

He recalibrated.

He returned to California, continued building his work in higher education, and deepened his expertise by earning an additional master’s degree from San Diego State University.

For Eddy, growth has never been about clinging to one version of success.
It’s about making thoughtful decisions that honor purpose, alignment, and long-term impact.

Sometimes moving forward means choosing a different route, not giving up.

3. Representation matters, even without a spotlight.
Your stage doesn’t have to be big.
A classroom of 25 students can change a life.
Seeing someone who looks like you say “yes, this is possible” opens invisible doors.

4. Your story is enough.
You don’t have to have crossed a border on foot to have something meaningful to offer.
If you’re second- or third-generation, if you grew up between worlds, if your struggle looks different…
It still counts.
It still matters.

5. Lean into your struggle, but don’t do it alone.
Your pain doesn’t define you, but it can shape you.
And it becomes lighter when you carry it with community, mentors, and people who remind you who you are.

And at the center of it all, this truth remains:

You have meaning if you find it in yourself.

Your Challenge This Week

1) Name your struggle.
Write down one season where you felt out of place. What did it teach you? What strength did it build?

2) Ask one person for a map.
Send a message to a mentor, counselor, colleague, or someone you admire. Ask one clear question.

3) Take one small brave step.
Apply. Negotiate. Register. Schedule the appointment. Start the thing.

Don’t wait for perfect courage.
Choose real action.

With love and purpose,
AS

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Eddy would never call himself a hero. He’d probably laugh at the idea.

But day after day, in quiet offices and small conversations, he doesn’t lead from a stage.
He leads from a chair across the table, sitting with students, listening closely, helping them imagine futures they hadn’t allowed themselves to picture.

He doesn’t give answers.
He helps people find their own.

“I just want better for you.
I just want you to know what is possible.
Your only limitation is you.”

Not dramatic stories meant to impress, but lived experiences that quietly reshape how you see the world. Moments where decisions mattered. Where preparation mattered. Where tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Luis has spent much of his life operating in environments where uncertainty was the norm. And when you learn to function calmly inside uncertainty, very little in everyday life feels impossible.

Today, Luis serves as Dean of Corporate and Industry Training at Fayetteville Technical Community College, where his work revolves around systems, workforce development, strategy, and long-term planning.

But his confidence was not built in boardrooms or dashboards.

It was forged long before
in places where clarity mattered more than comfort,
and leadership meant responsibility, not recognition.

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Perspective Forged in Uncertainty

Luis spent nearly three decades in military service, stationed in Germany and deployed overseas to support critical operations: to Macedonia with the United Nations and Bosnia with NATO for peacekeeping missions, and to Iraq and Afghanistan with NATO for complex and challenging combat operations in support of the Global War on Terrorism (GWOT).

These were not abstract assignments. They were lived realities.

In those environments, the margin between success and failure is thin. Between safety and loss, even thinner. You learn quickly that fear doesn’t help, but preparation does. Panic doesn’t protect, but clarity does.

Over time, Luis learned to lead under pressure not by reacting, but by thinking ahead. By organizing chaos. By making decisions that affected thousands of lives, millions of dollars in resources, and entire systems that had to keep moving, no matter what.

That perspective never left him.

When you’ve seen life at its most fragile, everyday obstacles lose their power.
Bureaucracy. Resistance. Setbacks.
They’re challenges, but they are not impossible.

Pressure, for Luis, doesn’t register as stress.
It registers as perspective.

Roots: Puerto Rico, Education, and Discipline

Luis was born in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico, and raised in Aguadilla, in a home where education was not optional. It was foundational.

Both of his parents were educators. Learning wasn’t treated as a luxury or an aspiration. It was treated as a responsibility.

That upbringing shaped him early.

Discipline. Service. Preparation.
Not as slogans, but as daily practice.

In 1989, Luis began his academic and military journey at the Interamerican University of Puerto Rico-Aguadilla Campus, where he joined the U.S. Army ROTC program. After graduating Magna Cum Laude with a bachelor’s degree in Biology in 1992, he received his commission as a Second Lieutenant and left Puerto Rico to complete the Infantry Basic Officer Course. A transition that set the course for a life defined by leadership under pressure and service with purpose.

That decision didn’t just take him away from home.
It placed him on a path where responsibility would arrive early and often.

Service Without Romanticism

After nearly 30 years of military service, Luis retired as a Colonel (O-6), one of the Army’s highest leadership ranks.

That rank matters.
Not because of prestige, but because of what it represents: trust, accountability, and responsibility at scale.

As a Colonel, Luis oversaw logistics, operations, strategy, readiness, and deployment across multiple regions and commands. He led teams of hundreds, supported tens of thousands, and managed resources worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

But he does not romanticize that chapter of his life.

He honors it, but he is honest about its cost.

He carries the memory of the friends he lost,
The weight of command.
The reality that service does not end the day the uniform comes off.

Transition is its own battle.

Identity shifts.
Purpose must be redefined.

For many veterans, that moment, the “after”, is the hardest part.

Where Preparation Meets Recognition

Luis’s calm authority is not accidental.
It is the result of years of disciplined study, operational leadership, and continuous learning.

Over the course of his military career, he earned some of the Army’s highest honors, recognition not given lightly, but awarded for sustained excellence, leadership under pressure, and service with integrity.

Among his awards are the Defense Superior Service Medal, the Legion of Merit, and the Bronze Star Medal, along with multiple commendations for joint service, humanitarian work, and operational leadership. He also earned elite qualifications including the Combat Action Badge, Master Parachutist Badge, Air Assault Badge, and Pathfinder Badge, as well as international parachutist badges from more than ten countries, each one representing trust, interoperability, and leadership beyond borders.

These recognitions tell a story of someone who was repeatedly entrusted with responsibility at the highest levels, not once, but over decades.

When Luis retired from the U.S. Army as a Colonel (O-6), he was inducted into the University of Puerto Rico-Mayaguez Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) Program “Bulldog Battalion” Hall of Fame, an honor reserved for leaders whose impact extends far beyond their years of service. It was not a ceremonial goodbye, but a recognition of a legacy built on consistency, preparation, and respect.

Yet for Luis, accolades were never the point.

They were simply markers along a path defined by service.

A Leader Who Never Stopped Learning

Luis’s leadership has always been paired with rigorous preparation.

He holds a Master of Science in Logistics Management and multiple professional certifications that reflect how he thinks about systems, people, and outcomes, including Certified Project Director (CPD), Professional Scrum Master (PSM I), Certified Scrum Product Owner (CSPO), Lean Six Sigma Black Belt (LSSBB), and Certified Knowledge Manager (CKM).

What matters most, though, is not the list, it’s how he applies that knowledge.

He understands complexity.
He values efficiency.
He builds systems that work for people, not the other way around.

That mindset now informs his work in education and workforce development.

The Next Mission: Education

When Luis began thinking about life after the military, a fellow veteran offered simple advice:

“Look at community colleges.”

It clicked immediately.

Community colleges, like military units, sit at the intersection of systems and people. They require logistics, coordination, data, empathy, and leadership. They serve individuals who are often underestimated, but deeply capable.

At Fayetteville Technical Community College, Luis found his next mission.

As Dean of Corporate and Industry Training, he works to align education with workforce needs—building programs that translate learning into real opportunity. His background in logistics, strategy, operations, program management, and data analysis allows him to design systems that are both outcomes-driven and human-centered.

The uniform changed.
The purpose did not.

Quiet Confidence, Real Impact

What stands out about Luis is not volume, but steadiness.

He doesn’t over-explain himself.
He doesn’t rush decisions.
He doesn’t panic when obstacles appear.

When he listens, people feel heard.
When he speaks, people pay attention.
When challenges arise, he doesn’t ask if they can be solved, he asks how.

That kind of confidence doesn’t come from titles.

It comes from having already faced the hardest versions of uncertainty, and learning that you can move through them.

A Message for Our Readers

Luis’s story reminds us that perspective changes everything.

Many of you reading this are carrying invisible battles, not in combat zones, but inside systems that weren’t built for you. In transitions that feel overwhelming. In responsibilities that feel heavy.

His life offers this reminder:

You are stronger than the obstacle in front of you.
You are more capable than the limits you’ve been taught to accept.
Very little is truly impossible once you decide to move forward with intention.

You don’t need all the answers.
You don’t need perfect conditions.
You just need the next clear step.

If life has tested you before, trust this:
You, and the generations before you, have already survived harder things than the ones you’re doubting today.

Let that perspective steady you.
Let it move you forward.

With love and purpose,
AS

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Honoring service. Remembering sacrifice. Teaching gratitude.

In the photo, Luis participates in Wreaths Across America, placing wreaths in remembrance of those who served and never came home.
It’s a quiet act, but a powerful one, rooted in memory, respect, and responsibility.
Moments like this remind us that service doesn’t end with a uniform.
It continues in how we honor the past and model gratitude for future generations.

We remember. We honor. We teach.

He wasn’t in an ambulance.
He wasn’t screaming.
He wasn’t even panicked.

He was just… tired.

Intense pain in his ankle.
Swelling that made it hard to walk.
Not the kind of pain a strong, athletic man in his 40s thought could wait until the next day for medical care.

But his wife insisted.

“No. We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

Hours later, he was in an operating room, bright lights above him, doctors rushing, machines humming, and a surgeon preparing to cut into his leg.

The infection had spread so quickly, so quietly, that Jairo was only hours away from losing his leg, and one or two days away from losing his life.

Even the doctors didn’t understand how it happened.

He was healthy.
Young.
Fit.
Strong.

But infections don’t ask for resumes.

The next day, after he woke up, the doctor looked at Jairo and said something that stayed with him:

“You’re lucky your wife didn’t let you wait.”

Lucky.
Alive.
Still here.

That surgery didn’t just save his leg.
It reminded him of what, and who, truly mattered.

This is the story of that purpose, and the long road that shaped it.

I met Jairo at the LatinxEd retreat in Blowing Rock, North Carolina.

He walked in—tall, calm, green-eyed—looking like someone who could run for office tomorrow.
We started talking and then he said:

I don’t know what I’m doing here… I don’t even speak Spanish.

I smiled.
“Okay, but… where are your roots?”

That’s when everything clicked.

Because whether or not he speaks Spanish, his Latinidad is unmistakable, in his family story, in his values, and in the way he instantly makes people feel seen.
Jairo is the person everyone gravitates toward without even realizing it.

And in our Fellows group chat, when “Big Daddy” tells us to read something (his nickname with us—and at home) we all read it. Because if Jairo says it’s worth thinking about… it is.

He’s the kind of leader who shows up with a mix of humor, humility, and depth.
The kind who will hype your ideas, challenge your thinking, and check on you without making a big announcement about it.

It took me months to realize:
This cohort works because each one of us brings a skill.
But Jairo brings something you can’t teach: presence.

Roots: Panamá, and a Life Built on Movement

Before Jairo was born, his family’s path crossed borders, marriages, divorces, military bases, opportunities, and resets.

His mom arrived in the U.S. at 11 years old, teased relentlessly for not knowing how to speak English, for being “different.”

That ridicule shaped the rest of her decisions.

She taught her children merengue, salsa, cultural pride—
but not Spanish.

Because she never wanted them to feel the humiliation she once did. She didn’t want their voices, or their accents, to become targets.

He calls himself Blacktino, a term he adopted to honor both sides of his identity:

Black community → the one that embraced him when sports opened the door.
Latino roots → the ones that shaped his family, music, culture, and name.

His family photos look like a map of the Americas:
every shade, every story, every mix.

And he belongs to all of it.

In the photo, Jairo is at the top—proof of what happens when he spends time in the sun (LOL). Below him, wearing the red shirt, is his mother, who shares the same complexion as his abuelita, even though her siblings have darker skin tones. To the lower left is his younger brother, and on the opposite side, wearing the Adidas shirt, is the cousin he grew up with, alongside other cousins and his two tias.

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His identity was layered from day one:

Black. Latino. Panamanian. Military kid. Constantly moving. Never fully fitting into any box.

At each new place, people tried to categorize him:

“Not Black enough.”
“Not Latino enough.”
“Not whatever they thought he should be.”

Kids can be cruel. Systems can be blind.
So Jairo learned early how to belong by connecting, not conforming.

He jokes about it now, but the truth underneath is profound:

He became a bridge because he was never allowed to be just one thing.

Lessons in Family, Belonging, and Chaos

One of the most defining chapters in his early life happened inside a tiny three-bedroom house.

When both his stepdad, who raised him and whom he simply calls Dad, and his uncle were deployed at the same time, his mom and his tía decided:

“Let’s all live together. Para ahorrar.”

Eight people.
Three bedrooms.
Chaos. Laughter. Music. Games. Cousins everywhere.

A crowd by American standards.
Normal by Latino ones.

That experience shaped him more than any motivational book ever could.

Community is not a concept for Jairo.
It is muscle memory.

The Student Who Didn’t Care About School (Until It Mattered)

Jairo was not the straight-A, perfect resume, early-college superstar.
Not even close.

He went to four different high schools.
He cared only about: sports and girls

Academics? Only enough to stay eligible.

By senior year, he finally clicked into gear, but the earlier damage was done.
He skipped athletic scholarships because he knew he wasn’t ready.

Instead, he worked two jobs, took community college classes, and hit reset.

That decision, to step back, regroup, and try again, became a pattern in his life:

Not quitting.
Recalibrating.
Rising on purpose.

Finding His Lane (By Trying Everything First)

He majored in psychology.
Worked with kids with behavioral and emotional challenges.
Tried different jobs.
Kept exploring.

Then his cousin gave him the nudge that changed everything:

“You’d be great in higher ed. Become a recruiter.”

He tried it.
He loved it.
He found his calling.

From UNC Asheville → NC Central → Durham Tech → Central Carolina → state leadership → national impact…
Jairo kept rising, not because he chased titles, but because he followed purpose.

He led advising teams.
Improved student systems.
Supported equity work.
Lifted entire departments.

Today, he is the Associate Director of Equitable Programming & Holistic Student Support at Achieving the Dream, working with community colleges across the country.

It’s national work with local heart.

Choosing Presence

After that dramatic night, something shifted.

Not in a loud, cinematic way.
Not with grand declarations or sudden life overhauls.

It shifted quietly.
In the choices he began to make.

Jairo realized that for years, he had been giving his best energy to work, and leaving whatever was left for home.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because that’s what strong, capable people often do: they carry everything.

This time, he chose differently.

He started protecting his time the same way he protects his work.
He became more intentional about where his energy goes, and who gets the first version of him.

One of his quiet but radical decisions?

He stepped away from social media.

Not out of bitterness.
Not because he thinks it’s “bad.”
But because it was taking time from the people and moments that mattered most.

If you want to reach Jairo now, you can’t just scroll past his life.
You have to call him.
Text him.
Sit across from him.
Have a real conversation.

Connection, for him, stopped being performative.
It became personal again.

Now, he coaches his son’s basketball team.
Not from the sidelines of his calendar, but fully present—teaching, encouraging, showing up.

He’s planning swimming lessons for his daughter.
Not as a checkbox, but as time together.
Time that won’t come back if you don’t claim it.

He plans trips with his wife.
Not “someday,” not “when things slow down.”
Now.

This isn’t about shrinking his ambition.
It’s about widening his definition of success.

Presence became non-negotiable.
Family became the priority, not in words, but in practice.

A second chance doesn’t always ask you to become someone new.
Sometimes it simply asks you to return to what truly matters.

Leadership as Service

Ask Jairo for advice and you’ll get equal parts truth, wisdom, and humor… always delivered with an outstanding quote that makes you stop and reflect.

Here are his three pillars:

1. Make mistakes—lots of them.

The master is only more successful than the student because
the master has failed more times than the student has tried.

2. Get mentorS. Plural.

You can’t see the whole picture when you’re standing inside the frame.
Someone outside needs to point out what you’re missing.

3. Choose your life partner carefully.

Seriously.
He believes this more than any leadership book.
“You can’t be frustrated at work and at home,” he says.
A supportive partner can elevate your whole life.
The wrong partner can derail it.

A Message for Women (and Anyone Who Undervalues Themselves)

Jairo mentors both men and women.
He’s honest about the biases that exist: externally and internally.

His message is simple:

“Let other people tell you no.
Don’t tell yourself no.”

He has seen too many women self-select out of opportunities because they lacked one bullet point in a job posting.

Meanwhile, men with half the qualifications apply anyway.

His advice?
Apply.
Try.
Take the chance.
Step into the room.

What Comes Next

Now that his doctorate is done, he’s shifting focus.

His wife supported his dreams for years.
Now it’s his turn to support hers.
He’s staying put so she can thrive in her new role.

Long-term, he wants to:

• work for one more major organization

• then build his own consulting firm

• create more time for family

• continue lifting students and colleges nationwide

It’s a plan rooted in purpose, not pressure.

His Final Word:

“You’ll never change what you’re willing to tolerate.”

If something hurts, drains you, limits you, frustrates you…
Do something.

Even if it’s messy.
Even if you don’t know the next step.

Find your people.
Find your gift.
And move.

Epilogue: Why His Name Matters

At home, his mom and her family spoke Spanish.
There was salsa, merengue, Panamanian festivals, community dances.

Inside the house, he was Hi-rrow or Macky (his childhood nickname).
Outside the house, people called him Gyro, because his mom thought it would make life easier.

He reclaimed the pronunciation in adulthood, after an older Puerto Rican work-study student told him:

“If people can’t say your name correctly, they don’t deserve your attention.”

From that moment on, he stopped making his name easier for others, and started honoring it for himself.

Hi-rrow.
His real name.
His cultural root.
His story.

He signs everything like this:

Jairo McMican (pronounced Hi-rrow Mac-Mee-Kan)

Not for attention.
Not for aesthetics.

But because identity deserves respect.
Because names carry lineage.
Because showing up authentically is its own quiet revolution.

If you ever meet him, you’ll understand:

He is the perfect mix of American and Panamanian.
Of humor and depth.
Of discipline and heart.
Of leadership and humility.

A man who almost lost his leg…
now walking with more purpose than ever.

If you ever cross paths with Jairo, take a moment to truly connect.
At first glance, his presence and seriousness might feel intimidating, but I promise that within minutes, you’ll be laughing about something together. He values meaningful relationships and authentic community, and he shows up with intention, and heart.

With love and purpose,

AS

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In the photo, his reason for being, his three children, are at the center. His wife stands in the upper right corner, and her niece is in the bottom right. A beautiful reminder of love, family, and the people who ground him every day.