2023: Life Kept Throwing Punches

It was the worst year of my life. Who would have thought life could be this unpredictable? Not me. I had seen people fall, but I thought my storm had passed. 🌪️

So here’s how it started: COVID quarantine was easing up in 2022, and the importance of my role at the company I worked for diminished. In November 2022, I got laid off. I wasn’t too sad—I knew I could find a better job with a higher income and less travel, and I did.💼

Rough Start

That December, a young man I knew—Air Force, intelligent, had just welcomed a child, lost his life. Tragic. We mourned him, and I moved on, but I knew it was especially hard for his parents. One month later, another strong woman from the family circle passed away. Again, I went to pay my respects💔

At the end of January, my dad arrived in the U.S. I wanted my parents close so they could access better healthcare now and in the future. But my mother was denied a visa. I reached out to a family member experienced in immigration law to build a case for her. I told myself the storm was ending and that we had lost some people, but I had to keep faith and move forward. At the same time, I was still working on my brand, Vinyl Quantum.

Weeks passed, and the losses kept coming, one after another. I had seen death before and watched how it affected others. But this time, I started to reflect: What am I supposed to make of this life? I was alive—that was grace. I had to stand firm and keep moving for those who wished they had more time. That’s when I became more conscious, dedicating my time to my brand, family, and purpose. 🙏

March 4, 2023

Malcolm and I had grown closer over the years. He was always striving for success, always lifting people up. That day, he sent me a message on Instagram: “The reason why I love to hang out with my friends?” Of course, I loved it.😊

 

 

The next day, on the 5th, I got a call. Malcolm was in the hospital. I rushed over. That was the last time I saw him alive—he was in a coma. Rest in peace, my brother Meek.🕊️

Weeks later, I quit my job for what I thought was a better opportunity. On April 14, I signed my new contract. The next day, April 15, I ruptured my Achilles while playing basketball. My dad was at the gym with me and helped me get home. I held back the tears, but I knew it was bad. I went to a surgeon, and it was confirmed. Two weeks later, after doing my research, I paid half of the surgery cost in cash—because I had no insurance due to the job switch.

That same period, I launched my YouTube channel, KevinJVoice: Positive Thinking, to remind people to hold on no matter the circumstances. Better days would come.🌟

June 24, 2023

After three months at home—training with my company, doing rehab, and learning to improve my short-form content—it was finally time to get back to work. The week of June 19th, that Wednesday, I returned, excited to be free of the walking boot, thrilled to get out of the house, drive, and see my coworkers again. 🚗

On Friday the 23rd, I reached out to my cousin Yves. He and his wife, Laura, were expecting twins after struggling for years. It was incredible news! I suggested we go out to a bar in D.C. to celebrate. I was excited—fresh air, good company, and finally, some positive moments. 🍻

An hour into the night, I met a girl at the bar. I ordered some drinks, left them on the counter while I went to talk to my cousin, and when I came back, I drank mine. I remember asking her, "What did you put in my drink?" She replied, "Something for fun." 😕

I started feeling off—unbalanced. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or something else, but I didn’t take it too seriously. I was just happy to be out. Shortly after, my cousin left to take care of Laura, so I stayed, still smiling, still enjoying the night.

The next thing I remember, I was on the ground outside. It felt like my body was frozen, as if some supernatural force had taken over—I couldn’t move. A security officer checked on me, then I saw the ambulance. 🚑 I remember pieces of what happened, but according to the report, I was unconscious. I even recall being restrained for an MRI scan before waking up in the ICU. 🏥

Pause—Let Me Rewind

Before my Achilles rupture, remembered about Jacques—my cousin, the one I stayed with after graduating college. A few weeks before my injury, he fell into a coma. I visited him at the hospital, and when he came out of it, I cherished that moment, believing he would make a full recovery. 💪

Then, weeks later, I ruptured my Achilles, no more cycling. Not long after, Jacques was back in the hospital. I visited him again, and despite everything, his spirit remained strong. He is a warrior. 🏆

The Night Everything Changed

No one knew I was in the hospital. My dad called Yves to check on me, but Yves had faith that I would have made it home. He had even texted me that night, inviting me to sleep over. When I read the message, I replied that I was on my way, but I never made it. That set off alarms among them. 🚨

Yves managed to contact the D.C. Police Department, who confirmed that I had been assaulted outside a bar. They reported that a woman had been by my side when a car pulled up. A man, visibly angry, got out and started yelling at me. I talked back. The woman remained mostly silent, but the man’s anger escalated.

Then, he sucker-punched me in the head. 💥

Because of my Achilles injury, I had no balance on my right leg. That’s when it happened, I hit my head on the curb. The man then left with the woman, and my body was moved to the side of the building. And just like that, everything went black.

The Hospital Stay

Waking Up in the ICU

It’s incredibly hard to put this into words, but let’s keep going.

My family knew where I was. On the afternoon of Saturday, June 24th, I opened my eyes in the ICU. I saw doctors talking to my dad, Yves, and Laura. They noticed that I was awake and watched my behavior closely, asking me to name everyone in the room. I did. They were surprised. Then, they asked me to push my feet and squeeze their hands. That’s when my consciousness started slipping again. I blacked out.

The next day, more friends and family arrived. They had heard about my condition. I remember catching glimpses of them, but I wasn’t speaking. My body was healing.

By the third day, my consciousness slowly started to return. I followed the surgeon’s instructions—squeezing hands, pushing my feet. But that night, I relapsed again and was sent back to the ICU for further monitoring. The following day, I was moved back downstairs.

That’s when I met the surgeon I will never forget—Dr. Timothy Singer. I asked him, “When am I going to get out?” He replied in French, “I don’t know, but you are blessed.” 🙏

My days in the hospital required rehab—I had to learn how to walk again. People flew in from California, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia to see me. If I were to list every person who showed up and the love I received, this would turn into an entire book. Big love to all. ❤️

But the nights were dark. One night, a voice in my head whispered, “You’re not getting out.” It laughed. I ignored it—I already had a positive mindset. Instead, I looked straight ahead and envisioned someone sitting in a chair, dressed in white.

I asked, “Why did you let this happen to me?”

He only said, “You will be okay.”

The Questioning Time

Then I woke up in the hospital, I was confused and overwhelmed. The pain was one thing, but the questions… they were louder:

1. Why me?

2. What did I do to deserve this?

3. Am I a bad person?

4. Was this all my fault?

5. Could I have done something differently that night?

6. Why does life keep testing me?

7. Will I ever be the same again?

8. What if I can’t walk properly anymore?

9. What about my dreams, my purpose?

10. God, are You still with me?

In the middle of this storm of doubt, something else was happening too.

The nurses started noticing my progress. One of them told me, "You're doing better than most patients in your condition."

The doctors were surprised by my rapid recovery, considering the trauma.

The physical therapists kept saying, "You’re determined. You’ve got fight in you."

Step by step, I was proving them right, not just because of the progress they could see, but because of something deeper. There was a natural fire in me, a part of me that refused to give up. Even though my mood was low and I had no clue where my future was headed, something inside kept pushing. I responded well to treatments, and despite the mental weight I was carrying, the team saw my determination. Before long, they agreed; I was strong enough to be released into rehab. 🏥💪

Adventist HealthCare Rehabilitation

Leaving GW Hospital

That morning, I was walking around the floor, just trying to breathe, knowing that today was the day I’d be leaving. A few nurses passed by and smiled. One of them looked at me and said, "Kevin, you’re Kevin—you’re good. You’re fine." 😊 Their words lit something in me. I smiled genuinely and replied, "Today’s the day—I’m heading to therapy. My family and the care team are coming soon." Their faces lit up, not with surprise this time, but with pride. "We knew you’d make it. You carried yourself like nothing ever happened," one of them said. I gave them hugs, smiled, and thanked them deeply for their support. ❤️

Then came the moment, leaving GW Hospital. My dad was there. So were Tonton Théophile and Auntie Willy. But in my mind, I was somewhere else. I was in a wheelchair, being rolled toward the elevator by a nurse practitioner. I looked down at myself and thought, What have I done to deserve this? I felt like I looked ill—and worse, I felt it. That image is still etched in my mind as I write this. 🧠

A New Chapter: Adventist HealthCare

We said goodbye to everyone, and I was transported by ambulance to Adventist HealthCare in Rockville, MD. 🚑

Once I arrived, I checked in. They found me a room, and now here I was—just lying in bed. The sun was shining outside. I peeked through the window and saw birds resting on tree branches, leaves swaying in the breeze. 🌳🕊️

And I asked God again, What have I done to deserve this? But then came the reality check: I was in the hospital. There was no way to rewind the past. I had to fight. I had to continue. My mother didn’t deserve this. I had big plans for her, for my dad, for my family. I had to keep going.

And with that thought, I drifted off to sleep. 😴

Night Time

First Night in Rehab

While sleeping, I felt someone gently touch my legs. My vision was blurry as I woke up. I heard a calm voice: "Kevin, I’m your nurse. I’m here to check your blood pressure and give you your medication." I nodded and whispered, "Okay."

She took care of me with grace and care. And in my mind, I thought, I’m a step ahead now—at least I’m doing rehab. My heart was filled with 100% faith and unstoppable emotion. I believed—no, I knew—I would go back to work. But I also knew I had to prove it—especially to my mother. I wanted her to know I was okay. That even though things looked uncertain, I was moving forward. My thoughts became my fuel. I stayed consistent, focused, and reminded myself daily: this was part of the journey. 🔁❤️

Then, I fell back asleep again.

The Morning Routine

The next morning, as I lay still in the hospital bed, wrapped in a fog of fatigue and silence, I heard the faint click-clack of heels echoing through the hallway. Each step grew louder, closer, sharp, deliberate, unmistakably the sound of a woman’s shoes approaching.

I was alarmed like Spiderman as the footsteps paused right outside my door.

Then it opened.

A doctor walked in, her white coat flowing slightly behind her, an assistant following close behind.

“Good morning, Kevin. How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice calm but bright,

"Great," I replied.

She smiled softly and continued, “We’re going to take some blood samples, check your pulse and blood pressure, and ask you a few questions about your ability to move, your pain levels, and a few other things. After that, we’ll go over today’s plan.”

Her tone was calm, reassuring—like she’d done this a thousand times, yet still cared enough to make it feel personal. I nodded slowly, the weight of everything still pressing on me, but her presence brought a strange kind of comfort.

She then walked me through the daily routine: breakfast, physical rehabilitation, cognitive exercises, and rehab sessions where a therapist would observe how well I could manage on my own. Then lunch, followed by more physical therapy, nurse checkups, and dinner around 6 p.m. That was pretty much the schedule, as I remember it.

Before leaving, she added, “We’ll check on you often.”

And the day began. ☀️

Knock Knock—Door Door! (Part I)

Rachel, I remembered correctly.

Something I quickly realized about being in the hospital—you hear a lot of “knock knock” on doors. Every two to three hours, someone new walks in with a mission, a smile, or a needle. 💉🚪

Then came Rachel.

Dark blonde hair, glasses, young, and a kind of quiet joy in what she was doing. That’s what I picked up right away—at least from my first impression. She had this energy, like she believed in her role more than just a job.

She stepped in and introduced herself. “Hi Kevin, I’m Rachelle. I’m your physical therapist.”

She explained the plan for the day: building strength in my legs and upper body, improving balance and coordination, and working on cognitive alignment—things like memory recall, motor planning, and responsiveness. Simple tasks that suddenly felt like climbing a mountain. 🧗

Then she asked, “Can you walk?”

I replied, “It’s really hard.”

She smiled, almost like she’d been waiting for that answer. “Good,” she said. “Everything starts hard… then it gets easier.”

Since more than a quarter of my skull was still missing at the time, she had to secure a safety belt around my waist before we could begin. It wasn’t just for support—it was a necessary precaution to make sure I didn’t fall. But it also symbolized something deeper: I was learning to walk again—not just physically, but in life.

Step by step, we made our way toward the rehab center.

It may have seemed like an odd place for a young man to be—a room filled with elders, many of them fighting daily battles. Diagnosis. Surgeries. Amputations. You could see it in their eyes: the will to keep going. 💭

As I got situated at my workout station, I found myself scanning the room for someone my age—someone who could remind me I wasn’t alone in this. But there wasn’t anyone. Still, I told myself, I have to prove I belong here—not as a patient, but as someone rising.

My first workout: chair cycling to get the legs moving, followed by toe raises to target the calf muscles. Then came a puzzle activity—identifying colored circles and placing them where they belonged. It was basic, sure, but it demanded focus. Precision. Coordination.

All I heard from Rachel was encouragement. Steady and sincere. Even when I looked down on myself after finishing a task, she looked at me with quiet assurance.

I made my way back to my room. And as I’m writing this now, I wish I could travel back in time—just to observe past Kevin. To sit quietly in the corner of that hospital room and witness every detail. I wish I could watch him move through that silent storm and better understand what he was truly feeling. Not to change anything, but to learn more about the weight of those moments, the lessons buried in them. To compare the resilience I carry now with the doubt he once held.

I was happy the workout was done. It was my first, and I managed it well. But emotionally? It still felt like prison. The walls were quiet, but my thoughts were loud: Why me? I had everything going for me. A good job. I was attracting the kind of women I dreamed of. I had just launched a trademarked brand. And yet, there I was—in a hospital room, feeling like a loser.

Small detail, but important—future Kevin feels different.

I turned on the TV just to fill the silence. But my mind was far away, lost in thoughts I couldn’t turn off. 📺🧠

Knock Knock—Door Door! (Part II)

Knock Knock—Door Door! (Part II)
04/02/2025
This has nothing to do with the blog; it is what I thought before I continued writing the story.

I never knew I would have a picture of Kobe hanging outside my front door. Back in 2007, I used to dislike him. I was all about T-Mac—back when he played with the two best big men in the league. But somehow… things change. Growth happens. I realized I’m alive, calm, and carrying no hate in my heart. It’s incredible to reflect on Jesus and His perfection—because despite trying not to sin, I still fall short. I prayed before writing this. I thought about life, about the people in it. But now… let’s go back to the past.

---

Knock knock.
After a couple of hours, another knock. And another. It became almost rhythmic—like I was re-entering real life. I was becoming busy Kevin again. The same Kevin who woke up at 5 a.m., drove to work, crushed meetings, then hit the gym right after. That version of me was inching its way back.

More good distractions started rolling in—stepping stones guiding me toward normal again… or something close to it.

This time, the knock brought in someone new.
She entered the room gently, a calm energy about her. I think she was a psychologist or therapist—her role was different from the nurses or physical therapists. Her mission was my mind. 🧠🗣️

She sat across from me and smiled.

“We’re going to do some simple tests,” she said, “just to make sure your brain is functioning well.”

She asked me basic questions: “What’s your full name?”
“What’s today’s date?”
“Can you spell the word ‘hospital’ backward?”
“Can you write a complete sentence and read it back to me?”

I answered with confidence—eager, even. I was excited. These weren’t just words; they were proof. Proof that I was here. I was present. I was still me.

Every question she asked felt like a small mountain I was climbing—and each time I answered, it was like I was planting a flag at the summit.

She made me rewrite phrases, double-check spelling, recite facts about myself. It might sound basic, but to me? It was everything. Every correct response was like reclaiming a piece of the life I thought I lost.

She smiled again when we were done.
“You’re doing really well,” she said. “You’re sharp.”

And for a moment, I felt like myself again. Not just physically…but mentally, emotionally. I wasn’t just surviving—I was participating.

I repeat again to myself…
I was participating.

Not just existing. Not just lying in that hospital bed—I was present, aware, and involved in my own recovery. And for a second, I sat with that feeling.

But then, like anyone who's gone through trauma, I needed reassurance. So I looked at her and asked with genuine curiosity, “Do you see any defects in my answers?”

She didn’t hesitate.

With a gentle, reassuring voice, she said, “Your score is 95%.”

I smiled, but it felt weird. Not because I aced it, but because it meant my brain was working, and I never expected that answer that quickly. After everything—the coma, the impact, the fog—I was still here. Still thinking, still speaking, still capable.

That moment wasn’t about perfection. It was about proof.

Proof that I wasn’t broken.
Proof that the comeback was real.
Proof that I could trust my mind again. Proof that there was really someone high up in the world who knew I would overcome it that fast. It was a feeling that I was carrying at that Adventist Rehabilitation Center for now and then.

And with that, another piece of Kevin was restored with confidence.

 

April 21, 2025

Today is April 21st, 2025.
I haven’t written in my blog lately—life’s been a mix of time slipping through, multitasking, family, work, and staying consistent with exercise. But I want to keep this blog as real as I can.

Let me start by saying—I felt out of place today.
I had this urge to write something meaningful. And no—this isn’t AI.

My day didn’t start well. I submitted my 40 hours last night for the week, but this morning, I got a call from someone I respect—our operations manager. He said only 32 hours had been received. In that moment, I knew I submitted 40. I had checked it twice.

Turned out to be a technical glitch on the website.

Still, I wasn’t pleased. Not because of the error, but because of the feeling. That sense that something was off. But then I realized—I was supposed to feel this way regardless of that little hiccup.

Why?

Because when you truly put in the work—when you care about growth, progress, self-improvement—you want to see something. Even small steps matter. You become detail-oriented. You’re stacking tools, gaining awareness, pushing with intention. You’re chasing purpose.
If you know what I’m talking about, you know.
You’re not just working—you’re building something. You’re trying to reach one of your many destinations.

Then came the reminder that shifted everything.
I realized—it was my sister’s 40th birthday. I called her. We talked. And in those few moments, I was reminded again of how beautiful life is.

She knows how I feel about her...
Love you.

---

Now, let’s go back to 2023.

Also, part of the reason I paused the story was because I couldn’t remember everything. I couldn’t find the full rehab schedule, the exercises, the actual daily routine I went through at Adventist HealthCare.

But today… I found it.

Let’s see what those paperwork said.

---

Form 1
One of the first exercises was reflective—more personal than physical. I had to fill out a written page that asked me questions like:
What do I prefer to be called?
My occupation is/was...
I grew up in...
My interests/hobbies include...
My dislikes are...

---

Form 2
My daily schedule was mapped out clearly:

• 7:00 AM: Breakfast

• 9:00–10:00 AM: PT with Rachel

• 2:00–3:00 PM: Session with Selena

• 5:00–6:00 PM: Dinner

---

Form 3
A more detailed schedule filled in the rest of the day:

• 7:30–8:30 AM: Breakfast served

• 9:00–10:00 AM: Speech-Language Pathology (SLP) – Megan

• 10:30 AM: SLP with Dana

• 11:00–12:00 PM: OT (Occupational Therapy) – Chan

• Lunch

• #PM: PT with Farwah

• OT with Kuwar

• SLP with Tejal

• OT with Shay

And if Shay is who I think she was—her energy was soft, nurturing. The kind of therapist who didn’t just do her job but carried care in her presence. They were all incredible, honestly. Each person added a layer to my recovery.

---

Forms 4, 5, and 6
Some of the exercises made me smile when I saw them again. Stuff like:

• Extracting smaller words from longer ones

• Listing “Category Members” (e.g., fruits, tools, emotions)

• Coming up with three synonyms for given words

• And even a daily food menu... lol

Thinking about it now, it makes me realize—that time was good. It was different, yeah, but it opened a door. A different kind of door. One I didn’t know I needed. A space to slow down. Reflect. Relearn. Recover.

Not just physically. But mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually.

 

Toward the end of my stay!

It was a quiet time.
Not the kind of silence that weighs heavy… but the kind that brings clarity.

Because I was finally realizing—this is where I am.
No more fighting the facts. No more asking “why me” every morning.
I understood that if I kept replaying it all—kept reminiscing, stayed stuck in sorrow—the answers I was looking for would never show up.

So I walked.
I walked because healing wasn’t just in the therapy room—it was in those quiet moments where I decided to keep moving forward.

I remember those walks around the hospital—on different occasions—with Rachel and Chan.

With Chan, there was this gentle ease.
She and I talked a little bit about her life, memories she shared that had nothing to do with my injury. And that was beautiful. It reminded me I was still human, not just a patient.

Rachel…
Rachel had this light in her. A kind of positive energy that doesn’t need to be loud to be felt. She trusted me. During our walks, I could tell—she believed in my recovery.
They both did.

They weren’t watching for me to fall.
They were walking beside me—relying on my strength, never doubting it.

And then—the day came.

The day I left the hospital.

I had great memories there, believe it or not. Not just because of the staff or the progress—but because of the people who showed up for me.
Auntie Willy. Marianne. Tonton Salomon. My dad.
What more could I say? Their presence meant everything.

I was happy.
Not because everything was perfect.
But because, for the first time in a long time… there was progress.

And then Jacques—aka Patou—he came that day.

And just like that, we left.

Released and Now Home!!