The exalted ones in our world remembered their life’s mission. They were born ready and eschewed reprogramming. They knew their purpose and what they were going to do. As soon as they could, they went about their business.

But many of us forget our mission soon after we survive traumatic labor and delivery. For most, the entire birthing process renders us amnestic. We can’t even call it retrograde amnesia because, according to those ushering us into this world, we’re a clean slate. We can’t speak, so most believe we’re a mass of clay to be molded. Or we’re waiting to be filled with knowledge by our parents. That’s right. Our mothers, and possibly our fathers, are our first ‘software’ programmers.

If fortunate, our parents’ skills guide us to discovery. But if they too were traumatized, we may be SOL (sh*t outta luck). Without a smooth delivery, if we’re to recall our mission, we must commit to the process in the African proverb: “Know thyself.” (1)

The Process

Let me pause—did you realize your initial caregivers shaped your programming?

And if caregivers, like mine, are similar, they’re guilty of parental programming. They used social engineering to hack their children’s minds for one reason: they want eternal life, bending wills so their ideas endure.  

Still, this morning I realized my career, which I thought was my destiny, began with programming from childhood.  

Write to reveal

Here’s how I became Hopkins 2.0. My father was a career military man and later a police officer. My mother worked in graduate school administration, moved by every commencement she organized. I wasn’t drawn to their professions, nor did I spend much time on campus beyond visits with my mother. Yet, their influence ran deeper than career choices.

Their hold over me occurred when they weren’t working.  

My dad loved planning events. Together with my mom, they created a home where people gathered to unwind and relax.

I attended many memorable parties growing up, especially within our military community. Military families know how to throw a great event.

Recalling the camaraderie of events like Mission to Mars, I realized that party gatherings helped shape lasting workplace bonds.

Before my dad passed away, he had even had a chance to witness my event production skills. I planned my “super sweet sixteen” decades before it was an MTV show. I arranged to have a real two-turntable-cutting-scratching-mixing Dee Jay on the wheels of steel and an actual emcee to kick rhymes at my birthday party. Our neighbors, who by then were used to our events, contributed food and drinks to my birthday party, and it became a neighborhood affair. I’d like to think he’d be impressed by how, years later, I took those skills to plan and execute some very high-profile corporate events.

When my mother was home, she tuned in. She loved media—current events, TV, radio, and print news. I think she watched every black-and-white movie. She read books when younger and still talks about her “A” essay on Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” Now, she reads less; the print is small and strains her eyes.

Growing up, I often heard my mother praise journalists she admired. Seeking her approval, I pursued a career in media and entertainment, focusing on event planning and marketing, and honoring my dad.

My mother rarely cries. Verklempt is her go-to emotion, but she cried a tear when she read my byline on the EBONY magazine cover story. I’d finally arrived and achieved her admiration, just like a few journalists before me.

While lying in bed, I wondered who I’d be if I didn’t pursue her praise and idolization. Or what I’d be doing if I wanted to avoid throwing parties around the world like my dad. Even my passion for learning results from visiting my mother’s office in those hallowed halls of academia.

Combining all these interests into one career felt challenging. Only by working diverse jobs did I realize how deeply my parents’ influence shaped me.

Step back and review

That is, until I stepped back and thought about it.

Without examining why we act as we do, we risk being programmed in ways that are contrary to our true mission. The necessity of self-inquiry is central to reclaiming our original purpose.

I spent the better part of this century learning who I am. Once I figured it out, my goal then was to deprogram. Knowing yourself is better suited for the young. The older you get, the more layers there are to peel away. There’s a bright spot. Programming is unlikely to occur after you reach middle age. By 40, it’s more mind-bending software updates, malware protection, and removal tools to keep you in stasis.

However, you don’t need to perform a programming update.

If you’ve read this far, you can reflect and potentially rediscover your mission.

I continued with this exercise of self-discovery. At first, I thought I must figure out what would be more fulfilling. In addition to working as a journalist and world traveler, I have also had a few corporate events, book marketing, and project management gigs in between.

After everything I’ve experienced and witnessed, nothing short of a hard reset would help me shift the paradigm. Expression and learning get my heart racing.

By learning, I mean ongoing discovery and exploration. Having an instructor teach me about learning is just another form of programming. Formal education in mind, brain, and education would serve as a defense; self-discovery is better for offense.  

Communication underpins all professions; it’s essential, whether for mathematics, economics, or science.

Returning to the point—

The Fruit of Passion

So, there it is—proof I’m a product of programming. I was created from my parents’ desire and shaped by their passion. I continued their mission of celebration, building a career from the love of media, entertainment, books, music, expression, and joy I inherited.  

I didn’t have to deprogram. I just had to remember my codes.  

But what would be the outcome if the primary programmers chose to code a child with their pain instead of joy?

The answer is simple; it would impact the mission.  

And this is the point when I remembered my choice.

I chose to be born into a family that cherished the activities that would help me on my mission.

Dealer’s choice (words matter)

I should note that “choice” and “decision” are very different words. There’s a Swahili word,” Kuumba – and its origin means creating at the Divine level to bring something out of nothing. The website Etymonline suggests choice replaced the Old English expression “cyre,” which meant free will. Cyre is similar to Kuumba but has the same connotation. The original meaning fell out of favor. We, English speakers, often use “choice” and “decision” interchangeably.

Since culture and language go together, the intent remains even if we lose meaning through enslavement or immigration.

Cultural intent gives a word power. When I say “believe,” it implies faith. I don’t need facts to move forward. I know wherever I go, what I need will materialize. When I say I “choose” or “choice,” it’s preordained.

Using words interchangeably weakens the symbolism, which limits perception and impairs vision.  

Once I began reviewing my words, I remembered who I was.

Before my arrival in this dimension, I chose to live a life in obscurity, working behind the scenes with a mission to shape society quietly through words, events, and deeds.

I arrived here with a clean slate, but I remembered that a “clean slate” refers to how the journey will unfold on Earth. What we call chance occurrence stems from our choice.  

In essence, the core argument is that our task is to remember and rediscover the mission we designed for ourselves on Earth. Once we recall why we’re here, knowing our identity becomes straightforward.

So, do you remember what you came here to do? It’s never too late to be what you always thought you’d become.

(1) The full proverb, allegedly written on the walls of the Temple in Luxor, translates, “The Kingdom of Heaven is within you and who so ever knows himself shall find it.”