I’m Ready.

“They tried to box me in the corner for the longest…
No keys, lock me in this corner for the longest, but
I'm ready.” -

- I'm Ready by The Diplomats feat. Cam’ron and Juelz Santana

—

Some mornings I feel like I’m in my own movie.

The house is quiet, sun not quite up yet. I’m lacing up my shoes or opening my laptop instead of taping my hands. There’s no HBO camera crew, no Howard Cosell doing voiceovers. Just me, a to-do list, and the weight of a life I’m still trying to build.

In my headphones, “I’m Ready” by The Diplomats comes on.

In my mind, I see Will Smith as Ali, running the streets, headphones on, eyes forward.

And somewhere between Harlem and heavyweight champion, between the beat and the biopic, I find myself: a Black man, a scientist, a soldier, a professor, a grad student, a husband, a dad, just trying to make it in this world without losing who I am.

This is what “I’m ready” means to me now.

And it’s the lesson I’m trying to live out loud so my son can see it—even on the days I don’t feel ready at all.

The ring is bigger than 20 x 20

Ali had an actual ring: ropes, bright lights, an opponent trying to knock his head off.

My ring has looked different over the years.

Sometimes it was a random place or a base, serving in the military, where being ready wasn’t a slogan—it was survival. Sometimes it’s a classroom full of college students staring back at me while I’m teaching biomechanics or science, hoping I can make the content land and still leave them feeling seen.

Sometimes my ring is a Zoom screen for grad school, trying to keep up with data science concepts after a full day of work, parenting, and everything else life throws my way.

And sometimes, my ring is just the inside of my own head.

Ali’s story in Ali isn’t just about punches. It’s about a Black man constantly told to sit down, be quiet, be grateful—who refused. He changed his name, his faith, his stance on war, knowing it would cost him money, titles, and public approval. He lost years of his prime because he stood for something.

That’s a different kind of fight.

As a Black man today, I feel echoes of that every time I walk into a space where:

• I’m the only Black face in the room

• People see my rank or my title but not my humanity

• I’m expected to fit in, not stand out

The ring is every room that asks me to shrink.

Every system that wasn’t built with me in mind.

Every expectation that says, “Be strong, be quiet, be unbreakable”—even when I’m tired.

Dipset energy in a lab coat and a lesson plan

When Dipset says “I’m ready,” it sounds like defiance. It’s gritty Harlem confidence—the kind that comes from seeing the bottom and refusing to stay there.

I may not be in a pink mink on Lenox Ave, but I carry that energy into the worlds I move through.

I’ve been the Black scientist in rooms where people are surprised I know what I’m talking about.

I’ve been the soldier who isn’t just a body in uniform, but a mind with ideas that can change how teams use data.

I’m the professor in front of a whiteboard, trying to make physiology and performance science click for students who don’t always see the bigger picture yet.

I’m the grad student in data science, wrestling with machine learning algorithms at 11:30 p.m., knowing I still have a full day tomorrow.

On paper, it might look like I have it together: degrees, experience, titles, projects.

Inside, it’s often that Dipset hook looping in my head:

I’m ready…

Not because I feel fully prepared.

Not because all the imposter syndrome is gone.

But because I know what I’ve survived, and I’m not about to downplay that.

Ready doesn’t mean not scared

Ali stepping into the ring with Foreman? He wasn’t delusional. He knew the risk. He knew what those punches could do to him.

He was ready, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t human.

I think about that when I look at my own life right now.

Leaving AD military and stepping fully into a new chapter? That’s scary.

Trying to move into higher-level data roles and leadership? That’s scary.

Balancing being a husband, a father, a professor, a student, and a builder of new business ideas? That’s a lot.

There are days when “I’m ready” feels more like “I hope I don’t drop anything important while I’m juggling all this.”

But that’s where the lesson is:

• Ready is not the same as comfortable.

• Ready is not the same as having every detail figured out.

• Ready is not the absence of fear; it’s the decision to keep moving anyway.

I’ve had moments in uniform where I was scared and still had to act.

Moments in the lab where I didn’t fully know the outcome, but had to design the protocol anyway.

Moments in the classroom where I wasn’t sure if they’d connect with what I was teaching, but I still had to hit “start” on the lecture.

At this point in my life, “I’m ready” often sounds like:

“I’m nervous. I’m unsure. But I’m still going.”

The version my son sees

The piece that makes all of this real for me is my son.

He doesn’t see every late-night assignment I’m grinding through.

He doesn’t feel the internal pressure I carry to provide, to grow, to not waste my potential.

What he sees is:

• Dad taking him to soccer games

• Dad grading papers at the table

• Dad on the laptop “doing school” too

• Dad showing up, even when he looks tired

He’s growing up in a world louder and faster than mine—more screens, more noise, more comparison. On the surface, he’s just a kid who loves playing ball and hopping on Roblox with his friends. But I know the world is already starting to whisper to him about who he should be and what he should become.

I don’t want him to think “being ready” means never feeling afraid or unsure.

So I try to pull back the curtain in age-appropriate ways:

When he’s nervous before a test or a game, I don’t just say, “You’ll be fine.” I say:

• “It’s okay to be nervous. That means this matters to you.”

• “You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to show up and do your best.”

• “Let’s focus on the next play, not the whole season.”

When he sees me stressed, I try not to hide everything behind a fake calm. Sometimes I tell him:

“Yeah, Dad’s got a lot going on. But I’m working through it. This is how we grow.”

I don’t want to pass down the lie that manhood means silence and emotional shutdown.

I want to pass down the truth that courage often looks like moving forward with the fear, not without it.

Ali, Dipset, and a Black dad in between

Ali teaches him one side of the lesson:

Stand for something. Know your name. Don’t let the world define you. There will be a cost, but your soul is worth more than your reputation.

Dipset teaches him another angle:

You come from a people who refused to be invisible. You have the right to take up space, to speak in your own voice, to carry confidence even if you had to earn it the hard way.

My life is where those pieces meet.

A Black man who has worn a uniform, held a clipboard, graded exams, written code, and still wakes up some mornings wondering, “Am I really ready for all I’m praying for?”

The truth is: I’m ready and not ready at the same time.

• Ready in the sense that I’ve been through enough to trust my resilience.

• Not ready in the sense that I still feel the stretch, the uncertainty, the growing pains.

And that’s exactly what I want my son to understand:

You don’t wait to feel completely ready to start becoming who you’re meant to be.

You step, learn, adjust, and step again.

For every (Black) man trying to make it

If you’re reading this as a Black man trying to make it, you might recognize this tension:

• Carrying expectations from family, community, history

• Navigating systems that cheer your talent but don’t always protect your humanity

• Balancing the urge to go hard with the need to stay soft enough to love, to feel, to be a present father, partner, friend

We are living in our own kind of Ali era—public enough for people to watch, private enough that nobody really knows the cost.

We play Dipset in the car to remind ourselves we’re still here.

We watch Ali not just for the knockouts, but for the moments when he lost and still found his voice again.

And in the middle of all of that, some of us are raising sons who are quietly studying how we move.

So I’m trying to teach my son this:

• You will have days where you feel behind.

• You will have days where doubt is loud.

• You will have days where you don’t feel “ready” for the next step.

Take the step anyway.

Study like you belong in that classroom.

Play like you belong on that field.

Speak like your voice has weight.

Pray like you’re already seen and loved, not waiting to be approved.

And when you fall—and you will—get up slow if you have to, but get up.

Final bell

Ali had his ring walks.

Dipset had their anthems.

Me? I have early mornings, lesson plans, datasets, emails, and a kid who sometimes looks at me like I can solve anything.

I can’t.

But I can do this:

I can keep showing up.

I can keep learning.

I can keep telling the truth about how hard and how beautiful this journey is.

I can live in a way that tells my son, without a speech:

Your father was not perfect.

He was not always confident.

But he kept getting back up.

And so can you.

I may not always feel ready.

But I’m here.

I’m in the ring.

And every day, in front of my son and for myself,

I’m choosing to say:

“I’m ready”—

even when I’m still becoming the man who believes it.