My Game Spoke When I Couldn't

Growing up Black—especially as a boy—there’s this unspoken rulebook you learn before you can even fully understand yourself.

Rule #1: Be tough.

Rule #2: Don’t cry.

Rule #3: Keep it together.

Rule #4: Never let ‘em see you weak.

That’s what it was. And for me? I lived that.

But let me be real for a second…

When I was young, I used to cry a lot on the court—especially when I lost.

Not because I wasn’t strong. Not because I was soft.

But because that was my release. That was my only space to feel without judgment.

Off the court?

“Man, toughen up.”

“Be a big boy.”

“Stop crying, you alright.”

“Act like a man.”

That’s what was drilled into me.

So I bottled it up.

Kept everything in.

Stayed to myself.

But the moment I touched that court? Everything changed. That hardwood, that blacktop—that was my safe haven. I didn’t talk much, but my game? My game said everything. My jumper spoke for my frustration. My defense screamed out the things I couldn’t say. My drive to the basket was my therapy session in motion.

I hooped everywhere. Gyms. Parks. Recs.

Wherever there was a rim, I was there.

And always surrounded by family—especially my older cousins and pops—pushing me.

Pushing me hard.

I used to hate it. I used to feel like, “Damn, why y’all always on me?”

But now? I get it.

They saw something in me. They just didn’t always know how to say it.

And I wouldn’t be who I am now if they didn’t hold me to that standard.

Still… all that pushing came with a cost.

Because when you’re always expected to be the strong one—on and off the court—you start to confuse performance with peace. You think as long as you’re playing well, everything’s good. As long as you’re not breaking down, you’re winning.

But on the inside, I had weight on me. And I didn’t know how to name it.

I remember someone—shout out to the homie—told me years ago I should try therapy.

Said they saw more in me and for me than I saw in myself at the time.

I brushed it off. Played it cool. Acted like I didn’t need it.

But life has a way of humbling you. And when things got heavy, really heavy…

I realized: yo, there’s stuff I gotta get off my chest.

There’s pain I never faced.

Questions I never asked myself.

Memories I buried deep because I thought that was “the strong thing to do.”

And that’s when I knew—I needed to start healing.

Truth is… I’ve always journaled. I’ve always loved to write. But I wasn’t doing it with intention. I wasn’t really trying to understand myself—I was just venting. Now, I do it with purpose. It’s part of my process. My way of checking in. A mirror for the soul.

And therapy? Man… therapy changed how I see everything.

When you buy in, when you really lean into that work? You start noticing the shift.

You start thinking clearer.

You start making better decisions.

You stop blaming everybody else and start holding yourself accountable.

You grow.

But let’s not sugarcoat this either.

This world is cruel for young Black men.

We’re expected to carry pain with no outlet.

To survive trauma and smile through it.

To be protectors, providers, performers—all while holding in emotions that are eating us alive.

Nobody really cares what we’re going through until we break.

Nobody checks on us until we lash out.

Nobody wants to hear our story until it becomes a tragedy.

That’s why being tough? Yeah, we get it.

That armor wasn’t for decoration—it was for survival.

But now we gotta build new armor. One that includes emotional intelligence. Vulnerability. Healing.

Because if we keep going through life with no outlet, we either explode or collapse.

Neither of those is the move.

So let’s talk about outlets.

Let’s talk about safe spaces.

Let’s talk about how important it is for every Black man—young or old—to have somewhere to let it out and bounce back.

Maybe it’s therapy.

Maybe it’s writing.

Maybe it’s hooping.

Maybe it’s deep convos with your people.

Maybe it’s prayer.

Whatever it is—find it. And protect it.

Because too many of us are holding in pain that was never meant to stay inside. And when you don’t give it somewhere to go? It finds its way out in all the wrong places.

Let’s also be clear—vulnerability does not mean weakness.

If a man gets quiet because he doesn’t know how to express what’s going on inside him, that doesn’t mean he’s soft. That means he’s human. And he’s trying.

Sometimes we just don’t have the language.

Sometimes we were never taught how to say, “Yo, I’m not okay.”

But we’re learning. And that counts for something.

I’m still learning.

I’m still healing.

The job is never done.

But I’m working. Daily.

And now? I use my voice. My story. My platform. To speak on it. To give it back. Because I know there’s a little boy out there, just like I was, letting his tears hit the blacktop because that’s the only place he feels safe to cry. I see him. I was him.

And to him, I’d say:

It’s okay to feel.

It’s okay to hurt.

It’s okay to cry.

It’s okay to not have it all figured out.

Just don’t stay silent forever.

Don’t let the game be your only form of therapy.

Talk to somebody. Find your outlet.

And when you fall? Get back up with more understanding than before.

Let’s build a culture where healing is normal.

Where growth is expected.

Where love isn’t something we have to earn—it’s something we’re surrounded by.

Let’s change the way we talk to our sons.

Let’s redefine what it means to be strong.

Let’s stop confusing silence with manhood.

Because sometimes?

The strongest thing a man can do…

Is finally say:

“Here’s what I’ve been holding in… and I’m ready to let it go.”