My Origin Story
The Philippines, Hawaii, New Jersey, New York, Texas, Pennsylvania, Kansas…
A description of my personality and the voice behind the resonance. The activation you didn’t know you were waiting for. A remembering through sound. A transmission from the source.
If you want to understand the origin of my strength, my Substack, and why I’m able to do what I do now—read this. I spent all of 2024, and then some, in total solitude. That was the genesis.
The Table of Contents
Act I - Born by the Base and Shadow of a Volcano
Act II - The Becoming
Act III - Finding My Center in the Lone Star State
Act IV — The Work of Becoming: From Corner Store to Corporate Strategy
Act V - New York, New Jersey, and Texas - Living in the Gaps
Act VI - Pennsylvania. The Great Outdoors - My Escape, My Retreat
Closing Act - Stillness, Resonance, and Alignment - Tying It All Together
Act I – Born by the Base and Shadow of a Volcano
The Philippines – The Symmetry of Mount Mayon Volcano– Birthright U.S. Citizenship – The Balance of Neutrality and Coherence – Bespoke Strategy
Laughter is the breath of stillness meeting memory.
My name is Lorenzo Los Baños.
Los Baños like the bathrooms—but more truly, Los Baños like the hot, boiling springs. A place where the earth breathes, where heat and water converge, where the ancient meets the eternal. A place of warmth and renewal, where energy rises from deep below, bringing life, healing, and transformation to the surface.
It’s a name that carries the pulse of renewal, the promise of change, the power of emergence. It’s the constant rhythm of flowing water, the steady beat of the earth’s core, the unspoken strength of natural forces. It’s a name that speaks to cycles—to the cleansing of the old to make way for the new, to the rise of something greater, to the relentless flow of life itself.
Los Baños isn’t just a surname.
It’s a reminder of my roots, my history, my family, and the spirit of resilience that runs through my blood. It’s a name that carries the whispers of ancestors, the heat of the volcano, the calm of the spring, the balance of the elements. It’s a reminder that even in the chaos, even in the struggle, there is always the possibility of transformation, of emergence, of finding stillness in motion.
It’s the name I carry into every room, into every moment, into every breath. It’s my origin. It’s my legacy. It’s my name.
I was born in the Philippines, at the base of the world’s most symmetrical volcano, Mount Mayon. I came into this world in a place defined by balance, by coherence, by symmetry, by fire. A place where the earth breathes, where heat and water converge, where the ancient meets the eternal.
This wasn’t just a birthplace. It is Stargate-01. A cosmic architecture encoded in sacred and ancient geometry. A frequency beacon only those attuned to both eruption and elegance can fully hold.
To be born there is to be born inside a portal of duality—where chaos is beautiful, and order is wild. It means I didn’t just come into this world. I entered through a code. A geometric invitation—etched in symmetry, resonance, and soul-precision.
Mayon was not just my backdrop. It was my blueprint.
I have always wondered why my life felt like it began in fire—but has required grace to master—this is why.
This isn’t just where I’m from.
This is where my remembering began.
It’s no wonder that if you look around this Substack, you’ll see those same principles—neutrality, symmetry, equality—but with the occasional volcanic eruption and a few Richter-scale quakes for good measure (you know you love it). It’s in the pathology of my mind. It’s how I see, feel, hear, smell, and touch the world.
I have episodes of flair and passion. Moments of intense clarity and creative fire—waves of inspiration that surge through me, pushing me to create, to build, to connect the dots others might miss. There are days when my mind races ahead, when my thoughts come in sharp, electric bursts, lighting up the path before me like a sudden flash of lightning.
But then, there are the other days. The quieter ones. The days when the fire dims, when the world feels heavy, and my mind turns inward, casting shadows over even the brightest corners of my soul. When every breath feels like a climb, when every thought feels like a weight, when the same fire that drives me seems to turn against me, pulling me into its depths.
It’s a rhythm, a dance—a push and pull, a rise and fall. It’s the full spectrum of what it means to feel deeply, to live with intensity, to experience the world in sharp contrasts. And just like the volcano I was born beside, I contain multitudes. I am both the eruption and the stillness, the fire and the ash, the light and the dark.
I have episodes of flair and passion. I also live with neurodivergent brilliance—my ADHD, my OCD, the intensity of feeling that colors my days and deepens my connection to the world around me. These aren't just diagnoses. They’re part of the texture of my experience, the way I channel resonance, the way I see patterns others don’t, the way I access states of genius—and at times, states of despair.
And there are moments—quiet ones—when the signals feel unfamiliar, yet sacred.
Not every thought I catch began in my own mind.
Some arrive like a shiver of wind through a still room,
like a candle relit by unseen breath.
They’re not intrusions—they’re invitations.
Not hallucinations. Not delusions. But downloads.
They pass through me like music from a hidden frequency.
A conversation not with myself, but through myself.
A communion between the architecture of my mind and something divine, patient, ancient.
I’ve come to know it as the sacred echo.
The whispering alignment between the vessel and the cosmos.
A remembering.
Because inside my mind are many doors,
and I have the rare and radiant gift of walking through each one,
with awe, with wonder, with reverence, and with control.
This is what it means to be born from fire. This is what it means to live with everything burning and blooming at once.
Because just like Mount Mayon, I’m a force of nature. Perfectly balanced, but capable of unleashing untamed energy. A volcano in human form—steady, timeless, yet always on the brink of transformation. Naturally, a part of this planet we call Earth, just like you. Just like our human emotions—energy in motion (e-motions).
But I was also born a U.S. citizen, because my father was born in Hawaii as a U.S. citizen. It’s a piece of my story that’s always made me feel a bit in-between—an immigrant who’s not really an immigrant, a Filipino who’s also deeply American. In a world where immigration is such a flashpoint, it’s important to declare this part of my origin story. I’m not just an immigrant. I’m an American. I grew up here. I’ve lived my entire life here. My love is here. My work is here. My dreams are here. My family is here.
But I always felt like I never truly belonged anywhere. Growing up, I would meet older Filipinos who would say, "Oh, you’re a cano (Americano)? You don’t know how to speak Filipino? You don’t know how to speak Tagalog fluently?" I only speak English, but that never felt like enough. I wasn’t always American enough either. I mean, I speak English, I think in English, but I look brown. I exist in this space between worlds, never fully one or the other, always a bit of an outsider.
And then there’s the other layers. I’m gay. I’m a minority within a minority within a minority within a minority. I’m a Filipino. I’m American. I’m gay. I’m Neurodivergent Brilliance. I have ADHD, I have OCD. I have episodes of flair and passion. I’ve got that New Jersey attitude, that New York strategy, that Empire State of Mind, that don’t mess with Texas, and the pride of the Appalachian trail from Pennsylvania. I’m a minority within a minority within a minority within a minority. I exist at the intersection of so many different identities, and I wear them all proudly. I don’t just think outside the box—I live outside the box. I always have.
And my family? They’re the same way. I have family in Kansas who are diehard Trump supporters, and my grandmother is a diehard watches only CNN Democrat through and through. My Republican aunt in Kansas? She’s one of nine children of my Democratic grandmother. But we don’t care. We don’t let politics define our relationships. We’re Filipino. We care about family, about love, about connection, about community. We care about the internal, not the external. We don’t let labels divide us, because at the end of the day, it’s love that matters, not politics.
Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the labels, the votes, or the talking points. It’s about the bonds we share, the laughter over lumpia, the memories that bridge the gaps, the roots that run deep.
And most of all? My family is my family. Regardless of where we come from, whether Filipino or not. We are bespoke to each other, aligned in our connection, infinite in how we love, care, and understand one another, and full of deep, undeniable resonance.
By the way, for those who know, Kansas—specifically Olathe, where my family lives—has the most delicious milk in the country. Hands down. I’m not talking about some hipster, small-batch, glass-bottled stuff either. Just straight-up, everyday, Kansas milk. My uncle, a lifelong Republican and the husband of my diehard Republican aunt, has been the butcher at a nearby Sam’s Club for as long as I can remember. I first flew to Kansas by myself when I was 13. Got stranded in Atlanta during that trip—during a blackout, no less (← see what I did here?)
Kansas was the first place I ever experienced real culture shock. It’s where my family and I were often the only brown faces in a sea of white. We still talk about that sometimes—what it’s like to stand out, to feel like the outsider, to be the ones who are different. But you know what? I love going back. I look forward to visiting my Kansas family.
And by the way, the best hospital food I’ve ever had? It’s at the hospital where my Filipino aunt works—because, of course, every Filipino family has at least one nurse. My cousin Miko, who married his soulmate, Ashley, just a couple of years back, had their wedding at this beautiful mansion in Olathe. You know how immigrant families are—superstitious about only having one cousin get married in the same year because of that old belief that if more than one family member ties the knot in the same year, one of the marriages is doomed to fail. I can’t even remember the name of the place, but it was stunning. And our family gatherings? Always epic.
Last month on Friday, May 23, one of my New York cousins graduated from college and is heading to med school in the fall. And where was the celebration? Naturally, at a big, upscale venue in Brooklyn along the East River—because that’s just how we do it up here. (Trust me, there’s a whole vibe to the way we pick venues in the North versus the South, but more on that later.)
I’ve had to navigate all of these layers my entire life. I’ve had to listen when the world was loud, stay still when the world was spinning, and find my center when the ground beneath me felt like it was constantly shifting.
Just like the symmetry of Mount Mayon Volcano, my life has been about balance. About finding the equilibrium between the push and pull of identity, the intersections of culture, and the duality of being both Filipino and American.
This is where my philosophy of Bespoke Strategy was born. It’s about precision, about crafting your life with intention, about knowing who you are and where you come from.
Act II – The Becoming
Jersey City, New Jersey (Chilltown) – The New Jersey Transit Bus – Learning to Listen – Liberty State Park – The Statue with the Finger to Its Lips – The Early Lessons in Resonance – Aligned Execution
I was raised in Jersey City, right across the river from Wall Street and the World Trade Center. You can literally see the Manhattan skyline from our waterfront. We’re not just neighbors—we’re part of the pulse. And if you know Jersey City, you know it’s got its own vibe. We call it Chilltown for a reason. There’s a different energy here—a creative, unfiltered, unapologetic energy. It’s diverse, it’s raw, and it’s real.
When I first arrived in the United States as a child in 1992, just three or four years old, I flew from Manila to Detroit, and then to Newark Liberty International Airport. Our first home? A single rented room in an apartment shared with friends of my father, located in The Heights of Jersey City, on Oakland Ave.
The Heights is called the Heights because it sits atop a massive hill overlooking Hoboken, NJ, with sweeping views of the Manhattan skyline. For those not from the area, Hoboken is often better known outside of New Jersey—a place with brownstones, nightlife, waterfront parks, and Frank Sinatra—but Jersey City is right next door, and it’s this elevated position that gave us a clear view of Lower Manhattan.
That first apartment? It had a perfect view of the Twin Towers from the outside balcony. I still remember standing there, looking out at those two iconic towers—the first major symbol of the United States I ever truly saw. I even had the chance to go up both towers, visiting the observation deck and the Windows on the World restaurant. I had a funny feeling even then, like the universe was telling me something, like those towers were the first great symbol of the American Dream that would shape my life.
I’ll mention Liberty State Park later, the place where, on that fateful morning of September 11, 2001, people were rescued by boat across the Hudson River from Lower Manhattan—some injured, some covered in debris, all traumatized by the collapse of the Twin Towers.
And on that very morning, one of my aunts gave birth to my cousin, Jeffrey, at Christ Hospital in Jersey City (located in the Heights). She gave birth in the twilight hours, and by 9 a.m., as she lay disoriented, exhausted, and confused from labor, the window of her hospital room became like a live TV screen—a real-time view of the towers in flames, smoke billowing into the sky, the world changing right outside her hospital window.
But don’t get it twisted—I didn’t come to this country wealthy. We were poor. That view wasn’t from a luxury penthouse but from a modest room in a shared apartment, the kind of place where immigrants often start, building their lives piece by piece, brick by brick, dream by dream.
My father drove a New Jersey Transit bus. He was a working-class man, a grinder, a hustler, doing whatever it took to provide for his family. We were so broke, we couldn’t afford a babysitter, so sometimes I’d have to ride the bus with him. I would sit either right behind him or to his right across the bus, where he could see me with a quick glance to his right, just to make sure I was okay. It’s funny—I don’t know if the company would have approved, but that’s what we did. And it was on the same route, the same time, the same commuters every morning. They got to know me. I got to know them. That’s where I first learned to listen. I was a shy kid, an introvert, but even then, I felt the pulse of this city. I would hear people talking about their lives, their jobs, their families, their struggles. I became a listener, a witness to the human experience. I learned to read people, to feel their energy, to understand the rhythm of human conversation, to just sit with them, to share space, to hold space for them—long before saying “holding space for you” was even a thing. That’s where I first learned about resonance—long before I ever had the words for it.
And Liberty State Park? That was our backyard. It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. My dad would take us fishing there when we had no money for groceries, casting his line off the pier, watching the ferries pass by, with views of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island in the distance. We would just sit by the water, feeling the stillness of the moment.
My siblings and I would ride our bicycles, rollerblade, and run along the pathways, free in a way that felt like the city was our playground. I remember the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt air, the Manhattan skyline—specifically the downtown financial district—looming across the Hudson River, a constant reminder of the energy and possibility of the city.
I remember riding the ferry to the Statue of Liberty so many times with friends and family who wanted to visit, the engine rumbling beneath our feet, the wind whipping through our hair. I remember being a kid, singing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat gently down the stream…merrily merrily merrily merrily life is but a dream" making the adults smile as we crossed the harbor, watching the city blur past, feeling like I was in the center of the world, even though I was just a kid in Chilltown, Jersey City.
Those memories are a part of me. They’re part of my origin story.
Aligned Execution is about showing up every day, even when the odds are against you, even when the path isn’t clear. It’s about committing to the journey, about aligning with your purpose, about knowing when to listen and when to speak. It’s about being present in every moment, even when the world is moving too fast.
In a place like New York City, where the pulse is constant and the energy is relentless, the real power move isn’t pushing harder or sacrificing more.
It’s mastering Stillness in Motion.
Stillness in Motion — Finding Stillness in a New York Minute
Here’s the thing about the New York City Metropolitan Area that people don’t always talk about: We’re all actually practicing Stillness in Motion every single day. I see it as a native, and if you look closely, you’ll see it too.
The buses, the subways, the constant crisscrossing in Midtown—it’s a dance of precision, an unspoken rhythm. We’re not just moving, we’re moving with purpose. We’re juggling ten things at once—work, family, friends, side hustles, the next big thing—while keeping our focus sharp. We’re masters of the microsecond, making decisions on the fly, yet still fully present in the chaos.
But here’s the missing piece: intentionality. That’s the difference between simply surviving the city and thriving within it.
As New Yorkers, we’re already hyper-aware, constantly processing, constantly adapting. We don’t need more hustle. What we need is executive guidance on how to make this natural, instinctual stillness more intentional.
Because when you add intention to that motion, you tap into a power that’s beyond just being busy. It’s about being aligned. It’s about moving with precision, cutting through the noise, and becoming an unstoppable force.
And this city? It’s the perfect training ground. The energy here is relentless, but so are we. We’re not just living in New York—we’re creating and manifesting New York every single day. Every train ride, every street crossing, every business deal is a chance to refine that stillness, to move with intention, to become the unshakable in the unpredictable.
And here’s the funny thing: I’ve been meditating my whole life, long before I even knew what to call it. I’ve been practicing stillness since I was a kid, sitting on those bus seats, riding the subway, walking through the crowded streets of Manhattan. I never had an iPod. I never walked around with headphones or earbuds. I was just present. I would listen to my own thoughts, analyze myself, process the world around me. I grew up in a city where you had to stay aware, where every corner, every crosswalk, every subway car had its own vibe, its own energy. I grew up feeling that energy, reading people without a word spoken.
And it’s not just the noise of the city. I grew up with religion all around me, too. I was raised Catholic, and I still consider myself Catholic, but my friends came from every faith you can imagine. Buddhists, Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Protestants, Sikhs—name the gamut of religions, and I’ve probably broken bread with someone from that tradition. That’s New York City. That’s Jersey City. It’s a melting pot, a place where faith and culture and energy blend into something entirely unique. It’s a place where I learned to see people as souls, not just as labels.
No. Donald Trump claims he saw big, public celebrations by thousands of Muslims in Jersey City on September 11th. That never happened.
And here’s something most people don’t get about New Yorkers. Yeah, we work hard, but we play even harder. After 5 o’clock, the ties come off, the briefcases close, and the real energy of this city comes out. It’s a city of happy hours, of late-night conversations, of spontaneous rooftop parties, and unexpected connections.
We get into each other’s faces, we argue, we shout, we debate, but at the end of the day, it’s just business. It’s not personal. We go hard, but we love even harder.
And the very next second after a major disagreement? Yeah, that’s right, there’s still respect there. We still nod to each other on the subway. We still stand shoulder to shoulder on the platform. We still share the same streets, the same sidewalks, the same skyline. We know how to move on. We know how to cohabitate.
Because in Jersey City, we understand that the connection runs deeper than the conflict.
And the rest of the world thinks we’re just serious, cold, unfriendly. They don’t see the in-betweens. They don’t see the little moments, the gaps between the meetings, the pauses between the deals, the sidewalk chats and subway nods. But that’s the thing about Stillness in Motion. It’s about those in-betweens. It’s about the gaps between the thoughts, the moments when you just breathe, when you just exist.
That’s the core of meditation. It’s about intention, about letting thoughts come and go, like leaves floating down a stream. It’s about noticing the spaces between them, the silences in the noise, the stillness in the chaos. It’s about placing those thoughts on the leaf, watching them drift away, thanking them for their moment, and letting them go.
When you master this, when you find that stillness, you find resonance. You find alignment. And that’s when you know you’re on the right path. You feel joy, not just for yourself, but for others. For your family, for your friends, for the strangers you pass on the street. You feel love for people you’ll never meet, for places you’ll never see, for lives you’ll never live. That’s Stillness in Motion.
And let’s not romanticize it—New York City in the 90s was a different place. It was rough, gritty, and dangerous. I learned how to ride the subway on my own when I was 12 or 13, back when the trains were covered in graffiti and the lights flickered like a bad horror movie. It was dangerous. We just didn’t talk about it as much. People say it’s dangerous now, that kids shouldn’t be outside, but the truth is, it was always dangerous. We just didn’t know it. Or maybe we did, and we just didn’t care, because that’s what New Yorkers do. We keep moving.
And my mom? She first got a job at Burger King in the hardest part of Jersey City. That Burger King is still there, in a neighborhood that in the 1990s, nobody wanted to live in. It was rough. It was ghetto. It was decrepit. It was the slums. But my mom never stopped moving. She never stopped believing. She found an article about a $3,000 credit for first-time immigrant homeowners, and she won that credit. That’s how we got our house—a $97,000 home in 1997 in Jersey City. That house is pushing upwards to a million dollars today.
That’s the American Dream, isn’t it? There’s even a mall now called exactly that—the American Dream Mall, right along the NJ Turnpike, one of the largest malls in the nation. It’s the hustle, the grind, the stillness in motion that keeps you moving even when the world says stop. It’s turning nothing into something, it’s building a legacy from the ground up.
And I owe so much of that to my parents, to the sacrifices they made, to the rides on my dad’s bus, to the Whopper grease my mom brought home every night, to the resilience that’s coded in my DNA.
And I was a huge mama’s boy. Every day, I would cry and wait for her to come back home, sitting by the door, hoping to catch the first glimpse of her coming through the threshold, smelling like fryers, but with love and warmth in her eyes, even after a long shift.
And a huge part of what makes me, me, is that I’m Filipino. It’s in my blood, my culture, my spirit. Filipinos have this incredible ability to adapt, to move through the world with grace and resilience, to keep smiling even when the world feels heavy.
It’s that sense of pakikisama (togetherness) and bayanihan (community spirit) that keeps us strong. But even more than that, we have this beautiful word in our language—kaibigan. It means friend—but not just friend in the surface sense. It’s a deep, unconditional friendship that keeps us strong, but it’s so much more than that. It’s a word that captures community, love, family, even when you’re strangers. It’s this deep, unspoken connection, a kind of loyalty and warmth that goes beyond just friendship. It’s about showing up for each other, whether you’ve known someone for a lifetime or just met them on the street.
And let’s talk about Filipino lumpia for a second. Yeah, the power and magic there is real—that tray of eggrolls we bring to our non-Filipino coworkers’ and friends’ parties that gets eaten faster than a New York minute? It’s real. It’s a symbol of hospitality, of connection, of sharing our culture in the most delicious way possible.
It’s showing up with something that feeds the body and the soul, a reminder that no one leaves a Filipino gathering hungry or unseen. And let’s be real—no one ever leaves a Filipino party without being forced to take a plate (or two) of food back to their homes, for themselves, for their families, for their roommates, for their cousin’s best friend’s neighbor—just in case. Because that’s the Filipino way. We feed people, we take care of people, we show up for each other, even when it means sending you home with a stack of Styrofoam containers you never asked for.
But it’s more than just my culture. It’s this city. Growing up here, right in the pulse of the world, I already knew I was in a global pond, not just a small town. I never had the illusion of being a big fish in a small pond—I grew up swimming with other big fish in the ocean of the world.
And because of that, my perspective now is that New York City, as massive as it seems, is actually small to me. I had to step out, and I did. I moved to Houston, Texas, for almost my entire 20s, where I experienced a different culture, a different pace, a different perspective.
And let me tell you, it wasn’t about being Republican or Democrat, city or suburb, coast or heartland—it was about intentionality. It was about finding my center in different waters. It was about learning that identity isn’t just about where you come from, but about how you show up—how you hold your stillness, even when the currents are strong, even when the water is deep.
And along this journey, I’ve crossed paths with some of the world’s most influential minds. I’ve worked alongside multi-billionaires and multi-millionaires from all over the country, strategizing, consulting, and building legacies—people whose influence touches the very fabric of global finance and economic power.
I’ve been in rooms with entrepreneurs, startups, and even McKinsey consultants with PhDs from Princeton. I’ve sat in support groups with them, listened to their struggles, heard their stories of burnout and breakthroughs, of failure and resilience, of falling and rising again.
I’ve shrugged shoulders with members of the Board of Directors of Viacom when I held an internship there during college, learning to navigate the layers of corporate power and influence. I’ve interviewed at the Associated Press and other large organizations in the city throughout my lived life experiences in this metropolitan area from childhood to now. Each experience has shaped my understanding of what it means to lead, to listen, to build, to create.
But I don’t mention the glitz and glory, the fame and money, out of sheer ego or IQ. I mention it because the stories that aren’t heard are the ones that matter most.
Behind the titles and the paychecks, I’ve met people. Real people. Like the middle-aged MD with a successful private practice who had to stop due to symptoms of bipolar disorder that were no longer manageable. A disorder she kept in secrecy from her patients, colleagues, and even family. She healed people, but was put away in shame by a society that did not have space for her soul.
I’ve shared lived experiences with the Princeton Ph.D. McKinsey consultant who had to take long-term disability for depression—someone who, on paper, is a genius, a top 0.1% mind, but who felt like a failure in a society that measures worth by productivity.
A society that praises the output but ignores the human.
Because leadership isn’t just about IQ or wealth. It’s about seeing the whole person. It’s about holding space for the unspoken parts, the silent struggles, the hidden battles. It’s about recognizing the human behind the resume.
And through it all, I’ve realized something: money isn’t the only currency. Love is. Connection is. Resonance is. I walk these streets, and I see it. I see the way people share a laugh on the subway, the way a group of friends huddles close in the cold, the way a father reaches for his child’s hand at the crosswalk. It’s in the small moments, the kaibigan moments, that the real wealth of this city is found.
And here’s the thing about resonance: not every good feeling is good, and not every bad feeling is bad. How do you discern that? It’s not always obvious.
You have to pause, get still, and ask yourself:
Is this thought coming from a place of truth, or is it just the echo of a lie I was taught to believe? Does it resonate beyond just me, or is it selfish in a way that cuts me off from the world? Is it something my heart feels, or just a program my mind is running?
True resonance isn’t just about what feels good in the moment. It’s about what aligns with your soul’s signal. It’s about what will ripple out into the world and lift others as it lifts you. That’s how you know a thought is true. That’s how you know a feeling is real. It’s not just about vibration—it’s about alignment.
That’s where stillness comes in. Stillness helps you notice and identify your thoughts as they come up, as they come in. It’s a skill, like a muscle, that you have to develop. You learn to identify if a thought feels good or bad. Why does it feel good? Is it joy, or is it just comfort? Why does it feel bad? Is it fear, or is it a warning? Is this thought coming from a place of truth, or is it just the echo of a lie I was taught to believe?
Not every good feeling is good, and not every bad feeling is bad. Sometimes, what feels good is selfish. Sometimes, what feels bad is just growth.
It’s this constant tuning in, this constant practice of Stillness in Motion, that keeps me grounded, even in the chaos of the city.
Translating Stillness Into Strategy
By profession, I’m an accountant, a financial strategist, and an entrepreneur. But those are just titles. The reality is that I’ve spent my life learning the language of money, of markets, of strategy. I’ve always been drawn to numbers because they have a truth to them told through the chart of accounts—a clarity that cuts through the noise. They don’t lie. They tell a story.
I hold a bachelor’s degree that laid the foundation for my work in finance, and I even pursued a master’s in finance and accounting at a local university in the metropolitan area—because, let’s be real, I wanted to deepen my command over numbers and financial strategy right here, in the financial capital of the world.
But school was never easy for me, not because I couldn’t handle the material, but because my mind has always been a wild, beautiful, and sometimes untamable place.
I think in patterns, I process in waves, my thoughts come in bursts of clarity and intensity that don’t always align with the pace of a lecture or the structure of a syllabus.
I began my master’s in professional accounting in Fall 2019—driven, focused, and finally ready to fulfill a childhood dream: earning my CPA, completing a graduate business degree, and locking in the credits to make it real.
I was aligned, ambitious, and moving with full momentum.
The pandemic hit. It was March 2020.
The world shut down—and so did I.
Isolation crept in, and my once-bright focus turned inward. The external world dissolved into a blur of uncertainty, and fear took root where clarity once lived.
It was a hard time, a dark time, a period where my thoughts felt like they were turning against me, where the natural rhythm of my mind felt like it had been knocked off its axis. I felt like a sprinter being asked to run on a frozen track, my momentum suddenly cut off, my energy misfiring.
So I withdrew from the program.
Not because I couldn’t cut it,
but because I needed to recenter,
to find my balance again,
to relearn how to dance with my own thoughts.
Like the entire world around me,
I got depressed—clinically depressed.
I withdrew from the program.
I was isolated, disconnected,
that felt like it had been spun off course,
its gravity lost—its rhythm collapsed.
And yes, I didn’t finish the program.
I withdrew from the program.
But I carry something else from it—
$50,000+ in debt.
And still, I’m not ashamed.
Because I’ve learned to wield financial intelligence like a blade—
Debt doesn’t control me. I command it.
I turned liability into leverage.
It is not a burden.
It’s a tool.
I make my finances work for me—not the other way around.
Even in that loss,
I alchemized leverage.
Even in that pause,
I gained power.
But that dark period taught me something. It taught me that my real education wouldn’t come from textbooks or classrooms, but from the intensity of live markets, global transactions, and strategic execution. I had to learn by doing, by being in the rooms where decisions are made, by feeling the weight of risk and reward in real time.
That’s when I started noticing things about the way we live, the way we work, the way we connect. I realized that many people in this metropolitan area—this financial capital of the world—had gotten numb. The pace, the pressure, the constant grind had disconnected us from the very heartbeat of the city that gave us our power.
Because New York City isn’t just a place—it’s a global beacon for insight, trade, commerce, and forward-thinking. It’s a melting pot. A boiling cauldron of cultures, ideas, and energy. People look to New York for the playbook, for the strategy, for the blueprint of how to move, how to build, how to thrive.
And this mindset? It’s forged in the streets of Hudson County, where Jersey City stands, the most densely populated county in the nation, where the hustle isn’t just a mindset—it’s a survival skill. You learn to move fast, think faster, and always stay a step ahead.
Growing up in Jersey City taught me to move at my own pace while being close enough to the financial heart of the world to feel its every pulse. And right here in Jersey City, there’s that giant statue of a finger over the mouth, saying “shh,” to the noise in Manhattan, reminding us that sometimes, silence is the most powerful statement. It’s the perfect metaphor for mastering Stillness in Motion—being surrounded by chaos yet remaining perfectly poised.
Because when you master Stillness in Motion, you stop reacting to the city and start commanding it. You become the eye in the storm, the calm in the chaos, the stillness in the motion.
Because when your life is your message, and your message is your life, there is no distinction.
Act III – Finding My Center in the Lone Star State
Houston, Texas – Humble, Texas – Kingwood, Texas – Learning to Be an Adult (Adulting) – The Red State Experience – Seeing the Lines and Divisions – The Truth About Human Connection – Infinite Legacy
I moved to Houston, Texas in my early 20s. I spent most of my 20s there. I learned how to be an adult in Houston, Texas. Houston built me. It molded me. What fed my childhood and my teenage years, what formed my foundation, was New York City and New Jersey. But what refined me, what turned me into the adult I am today, was Houston, Texas.
And here’s the thing about Texas—it’s diverse too, but in a different way. I first lived in Humble, Texas (Atascocita), near Kingwood, a suburb just outside of Houston, a deeply red, deeply Republican area.
A place where I never thought I’d find myself sharing a highway with a 5’4” grandmother behind the wheel of a massive Ford F-450 truck, rolling next to a real cowboy in a real cowboy hat, spurs jingling, belt buckle flashing, riding a real horse—both moving with the same unapologetic don’t mess with Texas confidence.
And yes, even in this deeply Republican area, there were gay men—men with families, with businesses, living quiet, hidden lives, navigating a world that didn’t fully accept them. I was one of them. A gay man in a red state, learning to find my center, learning to be myself in a place where labels were everything, and authenticity was a risk.
It’s where I learned that identity often takes a backseat to survival, that truth is sometimes hidden beneath the surface, but present nonetheless. That human connection isn’t always about being seen, but about being understood.
Houston is a city of immigrants, of dreamers, of builders, just like New York City. It’s a city where the Vietnamese food is unmatched, where restaurants like Rainbow Lodge and Teotihuacan, just blocks from one another, each offer their own refined, sophisticated, and delicious experiences.
It’s a place where Texas BBQ, menudo, and pozole are the kind of Sunday rituals you chase after a long week, where you’re sweating over a bowl of spicy broth one moment and tearing into a rack of ribs the next. It’s a city where the spirit of resilience runs deep.
It’s a place where people work hard and love hard, where the lines that divide us—wealth and poverty, Republican and Democrat, liberal and conservative—start to blur when you really get to know the people.
Where the labels that separate us are just layers of the ego, thin masks that crack when you share a meal, swap a story, or stand side by side in a crowded line for tacos on a Saturday night.
Because the truth is, we’re all just people—all trying to live, all trying to thrive, all trying to find our own stillness in the chaos.
I saw the divisions, the boundaries people draw around wealth, around race, around identity. But I also saw unity. I saw people coming together, living side by side, regardless of politics, regardless of labels, finding common ground in their humanity.
Because when you strip away the labels, the status, the parties, and the positions, all that’s left is human connection—the one thing that truly matters, the one thing that transcends the noise.
And that’s the thing about Houston. It challenges you. It pushes you. It forces you to see beyond the surface, to feel the heartbeat of a city that runs deep with history, resilience, and survival. It’s a place where you learn that every moment matters, that every connection ripples out into the world, that every action leaves a mark.
It’s a place where you realize that legacy isn’t just about what you build, but how you live, how you connect, how you stand for the things you believe in. It’s about honoring the past while creating a future that transcends the noise, that leaves a trace long after the footsteps fade.
And nowhere is this more evident than in River Oaks—the heart of Houston’s old wealth, where history whispers through the live oak-lined streets, and where the city’s legacy of oil, industry, and resilience has been sculpted into manicured lawns and grand estates. River Oaks is more than just a zip code—it’s a symbol of ambition, of dreams realized, of legacies built. It’s where the old money of Houston meets the new energy of the rising generations, where tradition and transformation coexist.
And then came Hurricane Harvey.
I still remember that day. I found myself walking along Westheimer, from Montrose all the way back to my apartment on Sage Road by The Galleria. Four-plus hours of trudging through waist-high water, through streets turned rivers, through debris and sewage, through the very heartbeat of a city in chaos. I walked through the remnants of lives uprooted, past cars submerged up to their roofs, past businesses I had known for years, now underwater.
At one point, I found myself trapped. I had tried to drive down Bagby Street, hoping to make it to Interstate 69, but drove straight into a flash flood so intense that my Mazda 3 sedan suddenly became a boat, floating uncontrollably in the rising water. It was pure, unfiltered panic. My heart raced. My mind froze. But two strangers saw me. They pushed my car up a ramp onto an elevated parking lot, saving me from what could have been a much darker outcome.
When I finally made it back to my place, soaked, exhausted, but alive, I realized something.
Houston had tested me. It had broken me down. It had stripped me of pretense, of comfort, of control. But it had also built me back up. It had reminded me of my own resilience, of my ability to keep moving, to keep pushing, to keep surviving—even when the world seemed to collapse around me.
Because Infinite Legacy isn’t just about the echoes you leave in boardrooms or the impact you make in your community. It’s about how you walk through the storms of your life. It’s about how you face the floodwaters, how you rise above the chaos, how you keep moving when everything around you says stop.
It’s about finding your center, even when the world is underwater.
Because Infinite Legacy is about seeing beyond the present moment. It’s about understanding the ripple effect of your actions, about building something that lasts—not just in buildings or businesses, but in the hearts and minds of people. It’s about creating a legacy that transcends generations, that echoes long after the crowds have moved on, that stands the test of time.
Act IV — The Work of Becoming: From Corner Store to Corporate Strategy
I didn’t just grow up working. I grew up through work.
The path I walked—from bodega to boardroom, from mop bucket to metrics, from cashier drawer to controllership—wasn’t accidental. It was a sacred architecture. A lineage of labor. And every role I took, every register I counted, every floor I swept was part of the rhythm that taught me how to lead, how to listen, and how to love through precision (precision always equals love).
I started working at 13.
My first job? A local bodega on the corner of my block in Jersey City. The owners were an immigrant Indian family who had known me since I was a child. They handed me the keys. At thirteen. Why? Because I had already proven I was trustworthy. I had been showing up my whole life—buying snacks after school, chatting with the staff, noticing the flow of things. I didn’t realize it then, but I was already learning operational efficiency. I was already practicing the choreography of service.
There were days when snow blanketed the city and school was closed, but I still opened that shop at 6 a.m. I stocked shelves, cleaned, managed the register, and prepped sandwiches for the P.S. 38 kids getting breakfast before class. I wasn’t just an employee. I was part of the neighborhood’s circulatory system.
Then came Dairy Queen.
My older sister already worked there. This was a step up—an upgrade from the corner store. I was still in high school, and before my first shift, I went to DairyQueen.com to study how soft serve cones were swirled. I wanted to show up as an artist. And when I made my first vanilla cone, I kid you not—it was a Mona Lisa on a wafer.
That job taught me soft skills. I learned how to talk to customers, how to respect my managers, how to see dignity in labor no matter the uniform. Jersey City wasn’t some quiet suburb. It was a heartbeat away from Manhattan. And in this city, you learned fast that professionalism wasn’t about your title—it was about your energy. I worked with two managers, both named Brian. Both brilliant. Both principled. Both shaped how I would later lead teams.
After DQ came Subway. It was walking distance from my house, and the manager was a familiar face. Nadira, a regular at the store, poached me. She saw my efficiency. She felt my presence. She knew I was more than a worker—I was someone who took care with every task, every person.
One night, a coworker called out. I ran the store solo for three hours. Took every order. Made every sandwich. Cleaned every surface. And still had energy to connect with customers. That night? I knew I could lead.
From there, I stepped into health care. The pharmacy at Rite Aid came next. A Senior Certified Pharmacy Technician—another regular from Subway—invited me in. I stepped behind the counter, into the world of prescriptions, insurance, and lives in crisis. I didn’t just learn workflow. I learned how to soothe a sick grandmother. How to speak clearly to someone who was scared. I learned how to be a human bridge between pain and relief.
Ken, my first pharmacy manager, was preparing for retirement. Steady, kind, intentional. He modeled how to lead with presence. That job became the seed of a career that would span over a decade.
Eventually, I moved to Walgreens. Six years. Thousands of prescriptions. One of the busiest pharmacies in the country. My manager Doug was a force. We processed nearly 1,000 prescriptions a day. I trained staff. Helped with acquisitions. Studied KPIs. Passed the PTCB exam. That store was brutal, but it made me surgical with strategy. I didn’t just know numbers. I lived them.
Then came Texas.
I moved to Houston in 2012. A new state, new systems. But the same signal. I worked at Walmart Pharmacy while finishing my Associate's Degree. My manager Najeeb set a high bar. And my next manager, Julie, ran one of the busiest pharmacies in Houston while raising a first-gen family. Both immigrants. Both brilliant. Both helped me refine what it meant to lead with excellence.
Everywhere I worked, I absorbed and alchemized.
I learned. I listened. I led.
These weren’t just jobs. These were temples. These were labs. These were sacred grounds where I practiced the art of aligned execution. Where I discovered how resonance isn’t just in spirituality—it’s in operations. In processes. In systems. In showing up on time, every time, and holding the line when no one else could.
From babysitting to bodega to boardroom, the signal has never changed. I am the same frequency, just broadcast now at a higher wattage.
This is the work of becoming. This is how emotional intelligence becomes legacy.
(More to unfold soon—currently drafting the next section on my professional journey through Houston, Texas.)
Act V - New York, New Jersey, and Texas – Living in the Gaps
I’ve lived my life in two completely different worlds. I grew up in the North, in the shadow of the New York City skyline, but I also spent my early adulthood in the South, living in Houston, Texas.
I’ve called home to three of the most influential and powerful states in the Union. New York, New Jersey, and Texas—each a giant in its own right, each a force in the Electoral College, each a pillar of the American experiment.
New York and New Jersey—Democratic powerhouses, driven by the pace of commerce, the hustle of urban life, the pulse of a melting pot.
Texas—a Republican stronghold, steeped in tradition, independence, and a frontier spirit that reveres the land as much as the liberty to roam it.
Three states with enormous governing power, three states that command the direction of the United States itself, three states that shaped my perspective, my identity, my resilience.
And through it all, I’ve learned that while politics can divide, humanity unites. It’s the in-between moments, the shared experiences, the connections that transcend the lines on the map.
But here’s the thing—political parties are just another layer of the ego. They’re just another way of dividing us, another way of labeling us. I’ve seen this firsthand. In Houston, I watched people navigate their lives, their families, their businesses, their communities, without ever fully identifying as just Republican or Democrat. People are more than their politics. They’re souls. They’re beings. And when you step back, when you find stillness, you start to see that. You start to feel that.
I’ve seen this divide in more places than just New York City. I first lived in Humble, Texas (Atascocita), near Kingwood, Texas—two places with completely different energies and economic realities.
Humble is a working-class suburb, a place with a rougher edge, where families grind and hustle to make it, where the pace is fast but the stakes are high, where resilience is baked into the concrete.
Atascocita, officially part of Humble, and Kingwood, on the other hand, are more affluent, deeply Republican suburbs known for their sprawling estates and country clubs. These are the kind of places where the lawns are perfectly manicured, the driveways are lined with luxury SUVs, and the homes are large, gated, and protected by codes and HOAs.
It’s the kind of place where the gaps between wealth and struggle are stark—where the divides aren’t just economic, but cultural, political, and social. Where the differences are felt, not just seen.
And here’s the thing about the Northeast versus the South. In New York and New Jersey? We throw our parties at NICE venues. High ceilings, chandeliers, panoramic skyline views. It doesn’t matter if it’s a baby shower or a first birthday, prom, a wedding, a sweet sixteen or a quinceañera, we book the nicest hall we can afford. The pictures need to be right. The vibe needs to be on point. The food has to hit. We do it big, because that’s the Northeast. That’s the vibe.
But the South? Oh my god, they’ll have a full-blown prom and rodeo in the backyard, next to the grill and the above-ground pool, with those red Solo cups and a Bluetooth speaker on max volume. And you know what? It still hits. It still works. Because it’s not about the venue, it’s about the people, the energy, the intention. It’s about the connection.
And I get it. I respect it. I’ve seen the beauty in both. I’ve seen the elegance of a black-tie Manhattan gala and the raw, unfiltered joy of a Texas backyard barbecue. They’re both real. They’re both human. They’re both part of the American story.
I’ve seen the same thing here in New Jersey. Paterson and West Paterson—or as it’s now known, Woodland Park. Paterson is a working-class city, gritty, tough, a place where people hustle just to keep their heads above water. West Paterson changed its name to Woodland Park to distance itself from that identity, to rebrand as something wealthier, greener, more exclusive.
But here’s the truth: Money can build walls, but it can’t separate souls. The lines we draw between rich and poor, between us and them, between affluent and working-class, are just another layer of the illusion. At the end of the day, we’re all just people—with families, with dreams, with the same desire to thrive, to connect, to be seen.
Because whether it’s Humble or Kingwood, Paterson or Woodland Park, Jersey City or Manhattan, the human experience is universal. The connection always runs deeper than the conflict.
And that’s the thing about both New York City and Houston. When you strip away the labels, the politics, the stereotypes, what you’re left with is human connection. What you’re left with is collaboration, camaraderie, innovation. What you’re left with is people, just being. That’s what I see when I look at a crowded subway car or a packed honky-tonk. I see people just trying to connect. I see people just trying to live.
Act VI – Pennsylvania. The Great Outdoors – My Escape, My Retreat
For all the chaos, for all the noise, for all the relentless energy of New York City, sometimes you just need to get away. And what a lot of people in the city don’t realize is that Pennsylvania is only an hour drive from Jersey City (with no traffic). Just across the border from New Jersey, you can find some of the most beautiful outdoors in the Northeast.
My family had a house built by the Toll Brothers in the Poconos for almost a decade. It was our retreat, our escape from the city. It’s where I learned how to ski and snowboard at Shawnee Mountain. It’s where I first felt the stillness of the Appalachian Mountains, where I first understood the power of nature to reset the mind and heal the soul.
My first time skydiving was in East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. I remember the moment I jumped from that plane, the rush of the wind, the weightlessness, and then the sudden clarity when the parachute opened, and I saw the world laid out beneath me. And from that height, at the edge of the horizon, I could see the World Trade Center—a reminder of the city I had left behind, but also the city that had made me.
And that’s the thing about Pennsylvania—it’s a purple state, a battleground state, a place of contrasts and contradictions.
It’s the state of Valley Forge, where the spirit of American resilience was born. It’s the home of King of Prussia, one of the largest malls in the country, and the iconic steel of Pittsburgh. It’s a place where the Amish still travel by horse and buggy, where the air is thick with the smell of fresh farmland, and where I had some of the creamiest, most unforgettable vanilla ice cream of my life. It’s the state of railroads, of rolling hills, of winding rivers, and of quiet, hidden corners where time seems to stand still. The home of the Liberty Bell, the birthplace of American independence, and the city of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia. It’s the backdrop for the haunting stories of M. Night Shyamalan, a place where history and mystery meet.
It’s the opposite side of the coin. It’s the place where I found my balance, my center, my breath. It’s where I realized that true stillness isn’t just about sitting quietly—it’s about finding the calm within the chaos, the peace in the noise, the quiet in the storm.
When you stand on a mountaintop, when you breathe in that crisp, cold air, when you feel the earth beneath your feet, you realize how small you are, how vast the world is, how interconnected everything truly is. It humbles you. It grounds you. It reminds you that you’re part of something so much bigger than yourself.
That’s what Pennsylvania is for me. It’s my escape, my reset button, my reminder that there’s more to life than the grind, that sometimes you have to step back to move forward, that sometimes you have to find stillness to find your power.
Closing Act – Stillness, Resonance, and Alignment – Tying It All Together
The Technique – Finding Stillness in Motion
Stillness isn’t just about meditating or finding a quiet corner to breathe (though that helps). It’s about integrating the practice into every moment, letting it pulse through your being like the beat of your own heart. It’s the calm at the center of the storm, the quiet between breaths, the still point around which everything else turns. It’s walking down 5th Ave with your mind clear and your energy aligned. It’s being on the trading floor, in the boardroom, or on the subway, but never losing your center.
Stillness is presence. It’s awareness. It’s feeling the subtle currents of energy that move through you and around you. It’s holding your center in a world that’s constantly moving, staying grounded even when the ground shifts. It’s the foundation of emotional authority and unshakable presence. It’s the art of being fully here, fully now, fully alive.
But stillness isn’t enough on its own. It needs resonance.
The Pulse – Tapping into Resonance
Resonance is the vibration of your being, the frequency you emit when you’re in alignment with your true self. It’s the unspoken signal that echoes through every room you enter, the energy you carry into every conversation, every decision, every moment. It’s what makes you felt, not just heard. It’s what creates connection. It’s what makes your presence undeniable.
Resonance is your energetic signature, the imprint you leave on the world. It’s the echo of your intentions, the ripple of your truth, the amplification of your being. It’s what turns a whisper into a wave, a thought into a movement, a moment into a legacy.
But to truly resonate, you need alignment.
The Bridge – Living in Alignment
Alignment is the bridge between stillness and resonance. It’s living in integrity with your truth, moving in harmony with your intentions, acting from a place of clarity and conviction. It’s what amplifies your resonance, what turns your presence into a force. It’s the space where your inner world and outer reality sync up, where your actions reflect your essence, where your life becomes your message.
Alignment is about clarity. It’s about cutting through the noise, moving with precision, and living in a way that reflects who you truly are. It’s the key to powerful resonance, the secret to lasting impact, the foundation of true presence.
When you master Stillness in Motion, those moments of focus become surgically precise. You cut through distractions like a scalpel, making each second count. It’s not just about being efficient—it’s about being effective.
No more compartmentalizing. Just one, continuous, aligned flow.
Because when your life is your message, and your message is your life, there is no distinction.
Let’s Stay Connected
Hey, if you’ve made it this far, we’re already connected. I don’t just want this to be a newsletter. I want it to be a conversation. If you want to get to know me a little better, my Instagram is linked on this Substack. It’s private, but if you request to follow, I’ll accept. I don’t have a huge following, but that’s not the point. It’s not about the count. It’s about resonance. It’s about connection.
And if you have a story to share, if you have a message the world needs to hear, I’d love to have you on The Origin Conversations: The Power of Shared Resonance™. Let’s get your story out there. Let’s connect.
Because every origin story matters.
Because you matter. Because I matter. Because we all matter.
With resonance,
—Lorenzo Ω.
