I grew up in Detroit, a city of factories and funeral parades, Motown records and mended fences. The streets I learned to walk on were loud with engines and louder still with ambition. In that city — in that era, especially — toughness was currency. I learned early to stand my ground, to protect my own, to make my small kingdom unassailable. I was quick to anger, 0 to 60 in a tenth of a second. I would ask myself, (because I did not like who I was) what’s wrong with me? No answer came that felt right, and the pattern repeated and repeated: I’d lash out, hurt people I loved, and then retreat into shame. For a long while that cycle defined me.

It took a long time — and a lot of embarrassing, painful failures — before I started to look for explanations that could become pathways instead of the same dead ends. That search, over the last 45 years, led me through countless trainings, retreats, and relationships. I studied plenty of systems and skills, but one of the most meaningful things I discovered was the Narrative Enneagram. Within that circle of nine, I found my number. I was an Eight! At first, being an Eight offered relief — finally a label that explained the force that drove me. But labels can also be prisons. I saw that I was not “integrated.” I was functioning at half speed, armed and dangerous, without most of the inward tools that make a life human.

When people talk about Detroit in the 1960s, they talk about dynamism and danger together. It was a place of industrial might — auto plants humming, assembly lines that made America mobile — and it was also a city simmering with social change, racial tension, and the scream of a neighborhood that felt squeezed. The Detroit of my youth carried the echoes of the Great Migration and the rising voice of civil rights. The city’s heartbeat was Motown: Berry Gordy’s miracle where Black voices found national airwaves and a kind of dignity that shimmered in lacquered records. Yet alongside that soundtrack was the sound of helicopters over riots, the crack of police batons, and the heavy grief of lives upended in streets that once felt safe.

In that environment, my Eight side learned to armor up fast. Eights, by temperament, protect themselves and others. We can be decisive, direct, and resolute. But when an Eight is not integrated — when the strength becomes defensiveness, when the will becomes domination — the results are destructive. I protected, but too often that protection translated into control. I could make things erupt and keep going long after the battle was over. Nonviolence? It felt distant, like a lighthouse across a foggy dreamscape — brilliant and unreachable.

The turning point was not a single dramatic event. It was a slow bringing together of consequences: the relationships I broke, the loneliness that followed victories, the growing realization that power without wisdom made me small, not big. I began to understand that being an Eight did not have to mean living in constant fight or flight. My work — a lifetime of practice — became a work of integration: bringing heart into will, softness into strength. Becoming a Narrative Enneagram Teacher was more than a credential; it was a map and a mirror. The map helped me see the directions toward healthier functioning. The mirror showed me what I had been avoiding: pain, vulnerability, and the need to learn how to love without expecting payment.

Part of what made this path possible was a latent contemplative streak. Even as a tough kid in Detroit, I had a part of myself drawn to silence, to long walks, to listening. But that contemplative part and my Eight-protector part were at war. It took years, and a lot of gentle but relentless practice, to let the contemplative side come in and lead sometimes. Nonviolence slowly revealed itself not as weakness, but as another kind of courage — a deeper, riskier courage that asks you to enter the world without armor and to offer dignity to people who may not deserve it by any conventional measure.

Nonviolence as an ethic is often mistaken for passivity. But the courage to be nonviolent is active; it is fiercely moral. It expects nothing in return. It sees others with dignity and honor. It listens more than it talks. It walks with, sits with, eats with, cries with, works with, and is present with. For me, this shift was seismic. I began practicing presence, sitting still with discomfort instead of scattering it with aggression. I learned restraint — not the brittle restraint of suppressing emotion so it later detonates, but the integrated restraint of feeling fully and choosing a wise response.

Detroit taught me a lot that helped on this path. In the 60s, the city showed both the worst and the best of human responses to pressure. It taught an appreciation for community — neighbors who checked on one another, churches that organized, and storefronts that doubled as meeting houses. It taught resilience. Coming out of factories and through hard winters taught people how to persevere; it taught me, too, that endurance can be tempered with tenderness. The music was a school of its own. Motown taught us how to turn sorrow into voice, outrage into rhythm, and marginalization into artistry. That artistry taught me how expression can be both a release and a bridge.

Becoming a healthy Eight required that I relearn power. True power, I discovered, is not about the loudest voice or the most forceful stance. True power is presence. It is the capacity to hold complexity without collapsing into defensiveness. It is the humility to ask for help. It is the willingness to risk being known as imperfect. I practiced sitting with people I feared, letting them see me, letting me see them. I practiced listening without planning my rebuttal. I practiced the kind of attentiveness that honors the other as worthy.

Was it easy? No. I would be lying if I claimed to have become saintly. Old habits die slowly and some are stubborn in their refusal to die. I am still not perfect. But the change has been profound. The storms have calmed. I have real peace now — a presence that feels more alive and less like a bluff. And that peace has given me the capacity to teach from a place of empathy rather than coercion. As a Narrative Enneagram Teacher, MCC (Master Certified Coach), and a Spiritual Director I don’t just help people identify their numbers; I help them see the paths toward integration: how to bring heart to will, how to temper justice with mercy, how to turn fierce protection into compassionate stewardship.

This journey taught me a lesson that reaches beyond personality systems: transformation is possible when courage is directed inward. The bravest thing I did was not a heroic outward act, but a quiet, repeated turning inward — to ask hard questions, to allow grief and shame to be felt, and to choose differently each time. From Detroit’s fists and furnace, I forged a softer kind of steel: resilient, flexible, and honest.

If you are an Eight reading this, or the loved one of an Eight, know this: your force can be your greatest gift when it is integrated with tenderness. Try to see the lighthouse of nonviolence not as a retreat but as a harbor. If you are someone who grew up in tough places — in cities of industry and unrest, where survival required a hard face — know you can let down that face without losing yourself. You can keep your dignity while showing vulnerability. You can hold others without crushing them.

If you are not an Eight, perhaps you recognize in this story a pattern you know well: a part of you that is reactive; a part that wants to protect at all costs. Our work is similar: to find the courage to be less sure, more present, more generous with silence and attention. To listen. To walk with. To sit with.

I won’t pretend the path is quick. It took me decades to move from a default of fury to a life where peace is possible. But the effort is worth it. The city taught me that too — to endure, to repair, to keep making music even when the world is cracked. There is a tenderness in Detroit that does not compromise grit. There is a sanctity in power when it is used to steward rather than dominate.

Try it. Sit in an uncomfortable silence, and don’t fill it with force. Walk toward someone you fear and stay long enough to see them. Speak quietly when the instinct is to roar. You might be surprised by how powerful you can be when you are softer. You might just like it.

Peace and every good.