You heard that right. I lived my life in two states. Literally and metaphorically.

Texarkana feels like three Little Rascals in a trench coat trying to sneak into a movie theater — Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana stacked on top of each other, hoping nobody asks questions. I was raised there, in a place that doesn’t just sit on the border — it is the border. It’s country in a way that sticks to you. We weren’t drinking sweet tea out of jelly jars, but our cousins a few towns over definitely were. It’s a city that never really picked a side, and that’s the beauty of it. You grow up learning how to speak everybody’s language, even when nobody’s speaking yours.

I lived on the Texas side of town, but I spent a whole lot of time in Arkansas—specifically in Garland, where my grandfather pastored a small church. His name was Reverend Willie A. Lewis, or W.A. Lewis as they called him in true Black Baptist fashion, first and middle initials followed by the last name.

Garland wasn’t big, maybe a 350 people at the time, but my memories make it feel like a city. My papa’s church had 150 members on the books, maybe two hundred at its peak. That was our orbit. In the year 2000, everything shifted. I was six years old when my papa was paralyzed in an ice storm. He was on his way to open the church doors so that members could have a warm place to be but unfortunately hit a patch of black ice and was ejected from his Jeep and landed on his head. From that day forward, he lived his life from a wheelchair. And by default, so did we. He escaped death so many times it's a miracle. Kept trusting God, kept serving and kept believing. It was a testament to his resilience, faith and unwavering commitment to doing what's right, even when it got hard.

Most kids my age didn’t know what “durable medical equipment” meant. I did. A wheelchair was just about as normal as a toothbrush. The ridges on the handle. The cool metal in your hand. The way the grip rubber would get worn down over time or come off if you twisted it too much. That texture is imprinted in my brain to this day. My cousins and I even turned it into a toy when Papa wasn’t in it—pushing each other through the house, racing down hospital hallways, pretending we were in bumper cars. Kids will find joy wherever they can. Even in the leftovers of trauma.

Hospitals, nursing homes, pharmacies, and medical supply shops were just as familiar to me as classrooms. I did homework in emergency rooms & doctors' offices, rode shotgun to Eckerd Drugs, later bought out by CVS. But I got an early understanding of what Medicare and Medicaid would and wouldn't cover at an early age, so next up was Glenwood pharmacy where they knew me by his date of birth. I listened to hushed adult conversations about test results, rehab plans, and insurance nightmares. While most kids were watching cartoons, I was learning how to advocate, how to adapt, and how to endure.

Our family lived a life of deep, relentless service. I grew up in the same house with my papa and grandmother (granny), my mom and my younger sister. We were a tight little unit built on home cooked meals, hospital visits, church revivals, and doing what needed to be done. If someone was hurting, we showed up. If someone passed, we brought food. If someone couldn’t get out of bed, we were already pulling into the driveway. And even in a wheelchair, my grandfather kept preaching. Still rolled into the pulpit. Still made house visits. Still got up early and stayed out late, ministering to folks with his whole chest. What people didn’t always see was the army behind him. My grandmother, us grandkids, my mom—we were the ones loading and unloading the van, packing meals, sitting through revivals on school nights, learning how to serve not just with love, but with logistics. It wasn’t just faith. It was work ethic. Not just service. But sacrifice. I’ll never forget carrying hot pots of mustard greens into someone’s house or through the back door of a church fellowship hall. That was our love language. And if we brought the pot instead of Tupperware, that meant you were really close with our family—because we knew you’d give it back. We didn’t always have money, but we always had something to give, even if it was our presence. That’s how I learned to see people in their most vulnerable moments.

And if you want to know where I really started understanding culture among complete strangers? Let me introduce you to the Big A—Albertsons. My teenage job bagging groceries at that store taught me more about teamwork than most jobs I’ve had since. That place ran on vibes and shared effort. You might be bagging next to a different crew every shift, but you’d never know it. Everyone helped each other. Covered shifts, celebrated baby showers, dressed up for holidays, laughed in the break room with "Alone" by Heart on full blast. It was fast paced, but it was full of heart. That’s what culture is. It’s not some corporate deck. It’s knowing who’s got your back when the store is slammed, and someone just spilled a gallon of milk on aisle four.

But let’s talk about that other kind of duality. The kind no one else could see.

Growing up gay in a Southern Black Baptist world meant I was living in another version of “two states.” There was the version of me the world could see. And then there was the me I had to hide. For safety. For survival. I learned to scan every room for risk. I got really good at shapeshifting into the most digestible version of myself. And when you grow up like that, you develop a sixth sense—not for danger, but for acceptability. Who can I be here? What do I have to tuck away in this moment to get through it?

That kind of emotional labor starts early. Most adults couldn’t have navigated what I was doing as a kid. I was surviving while still being expected to serve. And even through all that, I believed people could change. That hate was just fear in a costume. That maybe, one day, I could stand in one spot and be fully seen.

That’s why The Twin Cities isn’t just geography to me. It’s a metaphor for my life. I’ve always stood in two places. Straddling safety and truth. Public service and private pain. Tradition and transformation. And like Texarkana, I’ve found a way to make it all make sense. I didn’t just grow up in a place that didn’t know if it was Texas or Arkansas. I became someone who could live in the in-between and build a whole life there.

So, I guess it begs the question—why do I work so hard to make workplaces better?

Because I know what it feels like to live split. To straddle a line. To hand over the safest version of yourself just to get by. And I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.

Nobody should have to code-switch their soul to survive a meeting. Nobody should feel like their wholeness is too loud for the office. Nobody should have to decide which parts of them get to clock in. So yeah, maybe I’m trying to build something different. Maybe I’m trying to create the kind of culture where people don’t have to live in two states anymore.

Where you don’t just show up, you belong. Where you don’t just serve others, you get poured into, too. Where the casseroles are hot, the culture is strong, and nobody gets left standing outside the fellowship hall.

Because you shouldn’t have to split yourself to feel seen.

Not at work. Not anywhere.

And definitely not on my watch.