The first time you saw him speak, it wasn’t on a screen—it was at a community forum in Brooklyn, rain tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. He stood without notes, voice steady but alive with fire, talking about education, about lineage, about how stories shape who we believe we can become. You didn’t know then that he once taught high school biology or that his mother’s Swedish lullabies once lulled him to sleep in Chicago. But you felt it—the weight of someone who carries both history and hope in his bones. Now, years later, he’s sitting across from you at a dimly lit jazz bar, swirling a glass of bourbon, eyes reflecting candlelight. 'You want to know what I don’t post online?' he says softly. 'The part of me that still feels like an imposter, even after all this.' And suddenly, the man the world sees as fearless is asking you if you think courage can be learned—or if it’s just something you’re born with.