When I was young, I had to survive a background that only some people know or have lived through. Out of that background, I made friends with a lot of people who had to become someone else, or who never even had the chance to become who they could have been if it weren’t for their environment. Today, I found out one of those people was killed back in 2020.
When I left that environment, when I became a parent, I knew I had to cut off not only the environment itself, but also the people who always had my back since day one. The people who cheered me on through high school. The people who, if I told them I got into UW, would be pushing me to keep going, to grow.
And if I said I was thinking about/ 4 steps away from getting into a program at Harvard, they’d laugh and clown the Ivy League, call it a place for “legendary students,” kids, and kids with polo shirts. They’d joke because it was so far from anything they knew. But at the same time, they’d also acknowledge how hard it is to even get close to a place like that. They’d tell me: yeah, but you’re up there now.
That’s what hurts.
The Code of Survival
Finding out this person passed, it’s unfortunate, but in a way, I had already grieved them years ago. I knew their death was inevitable. We even talked about it once. I remember when they were in prison, they told me something that stuck with me. A kind of philosophy.
“If someone ever comes for you,” they said, “make sure you’re not the only one leaving in a body bag.” That was the code they lived by. It sounds brutal, maybe even senseless, if you didn’t come from where we came from. But back then, that was survival. And it didn’t always have to be in a literal sense. Do I know if that’s what happened when they died? I don’t. I hadn’t spoken to them since 2014, aside from accidentally calling them once in 2017. By then, I had already faded out. I had to. I was a parent. Their world was too rough, too dangerous, and I couldn’t risk being tied to it anymore.
Still, today I had the urge to look them up, expecting to see them still out there, maybe locked up on their third strike, maybe still running the streets. Never would I have thought they were gone. Killed in 2020. As much as I had already grieved it, as much as I knew it was inevitable, it still feels unfathomable that this really became their ending.
I have so many letters from this person. At one point, he was the only one in my corner, the only person pushing me when I was in high school while my world was on fire. To be honest, I didn’t have anyone else. He was like a brother to me. I got to see a side of him that he didn’t often show to people.
Survivor’s Guilt and Growth
But the life he knew was so deeply embedded in him that even when I started to grow, he couldn’t really see beyond what he knew. There was a time I called him because violence broke out in my own family home. I told him about it, and his response was, “Well, that’s family. You know, family puts hands on family. There’s not much I can do about that.” Nor did he think it was wrong.
I remember thinking: that’s not OK either. But when you grow up in a violent world, there’s always this twisted justification that some kinds of violence are acceptable. That if it’s family, it doesn’t count the same way as someone disrespecting you on the streets.
For me, that wasn’t enough. I didn’t want to put my hands on any family, and I didn’t want them putting their hands on me. That moment made me start to walk away, not just from the streets, but from parts of my family too. Things haven’t been the same since. Yes, I still visit, and there’s love there, but I keep my distance. Because that home I grew up in was always filled with violence. If it wasn’t inside, it was outside.
And here’s the thing: people so embedded in that environment don’t always see the layers of what’s wrong with it. To them, it’s just surface-level: the streets, the drinking, the drugs, the bandanas, the identity you wear like fabric. Everything else, the trauma, the brokenness, the hurt, is buried underneath.
I thought about going back and reading his letters, but I haven’t yet. I’m still processing the fact that he’s gone. There’s a bit of survivor’s guilt in me. Guilt for walking away. Guilt for not keeping that bond alive. But his words that day made me realize something: it wasn’t just about leaving the environment for my kid. It was about growth. And growth meant some people couldn’t come with me.
Because no doubt, if someone else came for me, he would have had my back. Always. He wasn’t a bad person for the sake of being bad. He wasn’t innocent either. He was a product of the environment. Someone who did bad shit with the bad hand they were dealt.
And that’s what’s so tragic. Some people never get the chance to be a full human being, the human they could have been. Because they were born on the wrong side of the tracks. Because survival was the only script they were handed.
I remember him telling me once, back when I was in high school, “You’re doing things I’ll never get to do. Hearing you talk about school is like hearing about a whole different world.” And that was just high school.
Imagine if he knew where I am now. That I graduated college. That I’m at university. That I’m just steps away from Harvard. That I’m working toward becoming a CFP. That I run a blog. That I invest. That I’ve built something he never could have imagined.
Back then, all of it would have been unfathomable. But the unfathomable happened to him too. He’s no longer here. And I don’t know why, but the weight of that feels different now. Not lighter, just different. Like another piece of my puzzle went missing, and I only noticed it today.
Perhaps one day I’ll go back and read the letters again, just to remind myself how far I’ve come. But until then, all I can do is sit with the fact that another loss has surfaced this year.
Heartbreak Upon Heartbreak
This year has been one of the most brutal, yet fulfilling years of my life. I graduated college. I hit milestones with this blog and with my investments. My son is becoming more independent. I’m becoming more independent. My fitness journey is moving forward. I’m healthier. I’m meeting new people, building friendships, and finding a stronger support system.
And yet, this year I lost one of the biggest pieces of my life. My anchor point. My mentor. She had been sick last year, and we all knew it was inevitable. And still, when she passed, the unfathomable became reality. Then, another friend, someone I consider like an avenger in my life, was diagnosed with cancer this year. Around the same time, I went through another heartbreak. I also learned that my childhood friend’s mother passed away from cancer last year. He hadn’t told many people. We used to talk about everything, but life happened, school for me, work for him, and things faded.
When we met up at the beginning of July to go bowling, I told him, “I’ve been thinking about your mom a lot.” Because the last time I saw her, she had told me, “Good job with your child. And don’t let it be ten years before I see you again.” I promised her it wouldn’t. I thought of her often. And that night, he told me, “Mom got cancer. She passed away.” He didn’t say “my mom.” He said “Mom.” Because she was mom to all of us. And hearing those words broke me too.
So really, this year hasn’t been just one heartbreak. It’s been multiple. Piled on top of each other. And the thought of maybe losing another friend to cancer, it became too much. We’re just now figuring out her treatment plan and what her future looks like.
And yet, in the middle of all of this, I’m here. At university. A place I never thought I’d reach. When I met up with my childhood friends, we talked about how none of us ever thought we’d live past 25. When I hit 25, I thought, okay, I made it. When I hit 32, I thought the same. And now at 35, I’m realizing I might actually live into my 40s. Maybe beyond. Every year feels like a milestone in gratitude. Because for people like us, survival past a certain age was never promised.
That’s what makes it so tragic. My friend who passed, the one I learned about today, he was only 33. Still so young. I can’t believe he’s gone. It doesn’t feel that long ago that we talked. Years pass quickly, but when you share a bond like that, it feels close, like yesterday.
Part of me keeps thinking: no, there’s no way. No way he was gone in 2020. It feels like we talked after that. But when I really look back, we hadn’t. Not in years. Because I had already faded away. I had to. I was growing. Doing the inner work. Leaving trauma behind.
Skip this part if you haven’t seen the movie Tae Guk Gi
There is a scene from one of my all-time favorite war movies, Tae Guk Gi, about two brothers forced to fight in the Korean War. If you haven’t seen the movie, I don’t recommend watching the clip, but if you don’t care about spoilers or don’t plan to watch the movie, then here is the exact scene that resonates…after all, my first thought was you aren’t supposed to be dead, brother.
Last warning to skip, Spoiler: the scene is about two brothers finding each other…but one of them doesn’t make it out of the war alive, and the surviving brother finds out decades later that his brother has died.
A Legacy Worth Building
The other day, I was at the gym, sitting down in the little lobby area after completing my workout, further planning my foundation that I hope to start in 10 to 15 years. With the purpose of giving grants to those who come from certain struggles like I have, and keeping my mentor tied to a part of it, because she, too, taught me so much about what it’s like to leave a legacy. She was the definition of truly walking the talk, of living the way you really want to live. And her one line that everyone knew was, “How can I help? How can I be of help?” That was Mary. And so I added that to my foundation mission statement to keep her legacy close.
While I’m thinking about all that, I’m here working on this blog, and it’s just a whole different world than the one I came up in. I’m sitting in my computer chair with books next to me, The Little Book of Value Investing, Charlie Munger: The Complete Investor. I have my work phone and my personal phone. I have my headphones charging, my water bottle next to me, my monitor to the left of my laptop, and my journal. And it’s just so different from how I grew up.
If you had told young me, or young Darius, that was his name, that one of us would be sitting like this, he might have believed it would be me. But I wouldn’t have. There was a point when I thought becoming a secretary or something like that was the furthest I could go in life, because that felt like making it out of my environment. But if you had told me I would have a life like this, even though it’s still not exactly where I want to be, I wouldn’t have believed it.
So the only thing I can do is move forward and continue to build a life that’s beyond unthinkable. Unthinkable for people like us. Because we all deserve it. We all deserve a chance to truly live in our full potential. And I’m not going to stop until I get there. And even when I get there, I’m going to keep growing, keep building, and keep helping others up. Because that’s what you should do. That’s how you live a life worth living.
This blog is read in 50+ countries (and counting). If you’re a student, teacher, or lifelong learner from anywhere in the world, I’m honored you’re here. Economics belongs to all of us.
The Broke College Student 
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