Written By: Carmelo Cruz
Throughout my life, one truth has risen above all else: Resilience
isn’t just something I have — it’s something I live by. It’s a
passion I carry with me in everything I do, in every role I play, and
through every challenge I face. Resilience, to me, isn’t just about
bouncing back. It’s about bouncing forward. Learning from the hard
moments and using them as fuel to become better, wiser, stronger.
Whether it was pushing through setbacks at work, navigating personal
heartbreaks, or finding clarity in moments of confusion, I’ve
learned to meet each occasion with heart, courage, and grit.
Resilience isn’t the absence of struggle — it’s the refusal to be
defeated by it.
My dad and I had a very complicated relationship growing up — pretty
stereotypical if you ask me. When I was younger, my dad was my
everything. Even when he and my mom separated, he did everything he
could to make sure my brother and I didn’t feel the weight of it too
heavily. But that all changed when I was 11 years old.
My mom was doing her weekly routine of meeting up with my aunts and
going out dancing. My aunt was bleaching her hair platinum blonde, and
I had never seen it done before. I begged my mom to let me try it. At
first, she resisted, but after enough pleading and with some help from
my aunt, she finally gave in. She put bleach on the very front tips of
my hair and made me wash it out after 10 minutes. When it dried, I had
a small patch of dirty blonde highlights. I was in love — and I
wanted more, but I knew there was no way that was happening.
The next day, my dad came to pick me up like he did every Saturday for
his baseball game. My mom warned me that he was going to freak out
when he saw my hair and would probably cut it off. I didn’t care. I
loved my hair and didn’t think it was a big deal.
Boy, was I wrong.
The moment I got in the car, his eyes widened like his life had just
flashed before him. For the first time, I saw a side of my dad I had
never seen before. If he could’ve sent me back upstairs, he would
have. But that wasn’t an option.
The entire drive to the game, he yelled and cussed me out for “doing
this to my hair.” Just like my mom predicted, he said right after
the game we were going straight to the barber to “cut that fag shit
out of your hair.” We’d be calling my mom as soon as we got to his
place to have a big talk.
At the game, he handed me a hat and swore me to never take it off
until we got to the barber. I sat there on the bench trying to process
what had just happened in the car. During one of the inning changes,
one of my dad’s teammates — who always played pranks on me —
came over and stole my hat. I’ll never forget the look on my dad’s
face.
I turned toward him, trying to cover my hair with my hands, but it was
too late. The jokes started instantly. You could see the anger,
horror, and humiliation on my dad’s face. He snatched the hat back,
slammed it into my chest, and told me to put it back on and go wait in
the car.
I can’t imagine how miserable he must’ve felt finishing that game.
His teammates were relentless — any joke they could make at his or
my expense, they did. After the game, he walked off the field, picked
up his bag, and ignored all his teammates’ pleas as he headed straight
to the car. We drove to the barber in complete silence.
In that moment, I understood how much shame can twist love. I didn’t
have the language back then, but I felt the sting of rejection, not
just from a parent, but from someone who once saw me as his whole
world. That moment cut deeper than the barber’s clippers ever could.
Cut to March 2020.
By this point, my dad and I barely spoke, but we had found some kind
of balance. I got a call from his wife — who was forbidden to call
my phone — so I instantly knew something was wrong. She told me my
dad had gotten sick with COVID. He was in a coma and on a ventilator.
My heart dropped.
The lock down had started only five or six days earlier. What could I
do? That feeling of helplessness took over and I began to spiral.
And then something clicked.
My world was rocked again when, with a reluctant tone, his wife
informed me that my dad had made me his Power of Attorney.
I had to Google what that even meant. When it hit me, I couldn’t
believe it. After all the years of fighting, pain, and betrayal —
all the nights I wondered how he could go from loving me to hating me
— he chose me.
I asked the doctor if it was a mistake. He assured me it wasn’t and
that they needed my authorization for some upcoming tests and
treatments. Once I got the shock under control, my instincts kicked
in.
For the next 76 days, I became my father’s champion and caretaker.
From 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., six days a week, I was on the phone with his
doctors, nurses, family members, and unhelpful insurance companies. I
even had to hold a family meeting after his doctor complained about
the volume of calls coming from my relatives. Let’s just say some
aunts weren’t ready to see what kind of man that shy little boy they
remembered had grown into.
Was I overwhelmed? Absolutely.
Was I scared? Every second.
Could I deal with my dad’s family without snapping? I had no clue.
But after 15 years of being a ghost in my own family, I was now the
one they called and depended on. Every day. To be mature. To be
level-headed. To be mentally strong — even when the situations were
deeply uncomfortable.
My mom leaned on me to support my older brother, who’s on the
spectrum and would only talk to me. Failure wasn’t an option. I put
my head down and did what had to be done.
Resilience, for me, was born out of survival. It wasn’t something I
asked for — but it became something I had to embody when life gave
me no other choice.
And that’s what so many people miss. Resilience isn’t always
heroic. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s lonely. Sometimes it
means stepping up for people who’ve hurt you, simply because you
know you’re the only one who can. It means holding space for love
and pain in the same breath. And still choosing to lead with heart.
RESILIENCE IS THE HUMAN SUPERPOWER.
AND I’LL CARRY IT WITH ME.
ALWAYS.
It’s what kept me standing when I was overlooked. It’s what helped
me forgive when I could’ve held a grudge. It’s what allows me to
show up fully — for others and for myself — even when the world
tells me I shouldn’t. Resilience is my protest. My purpose. My
promise to never give up on the person I’m becoming.
