Why Do We Fall?

Why Do We Fall? 

The first time I was arrested and transferred to the Tombs in downtown Manhattan, I was met with the harsh reality of a place that seemed designed to bury not just bodies, but hope. The Tombs, as it’s infamously known, is a New York City jail, its nickname coming from its resemblance to Egyptian burial tombs. One of the most jarring moments was crossing the “Bridge of Sorrows.” This narrow, suspended walkway gave prisoners a fleeting view of the outside world. For a second — and just a second — I was no longer an inmate but a man, seeing the city that had once pulsed with life and opportunity all around me. But before I could grasp it, the world I had known disappeared again, replaced by cold steel and concrete, where time was no longer a guarantee, and freedom was a distant dream with no deadline.

The experience was agonizing, especially as I still fought for my innocence.  I was a businessman caught in the crossfire of a white-collar real estate investment case that should have been handled in civil court, not criminal. Yet, there I was, locked away in a system where violence was second nature, and corruption thrived in the shadows. The place felt like a bad dream — surreal yet inescapable.  Inmates cursed and disrespected guards as if chaos were the only language spoken. It was survival, plain and simple, and I withdrew, spending the majority of my days in my cell. I tried to keep my mind sharp, knowing that another court date was on the horizon.

One day, while digging through a stack of books, I found a tome that would change my entire perspective: 5000 Years of Debt. It was thick, heavy in my hands, but somehow, it felt like the universe had placed it in my path for a reason. I devoured it. Every page felt like a revelation, every chapter an unfolding truth. As I read, I began to understand the ancient roots of my predicament. For centuries, entrepreneurship and debt were fraught with danger. Those who couldn’t repay their loans often faced horrific consequences. Borrowers were thrown into debtor’s prisons, their children sold into slavery, their wives into prostitution. Lives were destroyed, not by crime, but by the simple inability to pay back money.

The weight of it all hit me. I was living a modern version of that nightmare. My real estate project had faltered, and I couldn’t repay the high-interest loan within the six-month timeframe. As a result, the lender seized the property, which was worth far more than the original loan. It was a bad deal for me, but the lender walked away with more than he ever invested. Yet, here I was — incarcerated, branded a criminal. After reading that book, I wasn’t surprised anymore. I was part of a centuries-old system that punished failure with merciless severity.

For a moment, I felt the weight of hopelessness.  I had failed. I was in prison. My freedom and reputation seemed lost. Anger burned inside me, along with a deep sense of injustice. But then, something shifted. I realized I wasn’t a failure, and I certainly wasn’t a criminal. Yes, I had failed in one project — but that didn’t define me. My story wasn’t over. I resolved to fight for my innocence, to rebuild my business, to come back stronger. This was just one chapter, not the final word.

After three long months, I finally made bail. Extradited from California, shuffled between the Tombs and Rikers Island, I had seen the ugliest side of the justice system. But once I was released, I returned to California with a fire in my soul. I rebuilt everything I had lost — bigger, bolder, and more resilient than before, despite the ongoing legal battle in New York. I bought houses, apartments, and eventually entire buildings. I was certain my innocence would be proven at trial. I had no doubt.

But life has a way of humbling you when you least expect it.

Despite my hopes, I lost the trial. I was sentenced to 3 to 9 years in prison. It was a gut punch, but the hits kept coming. My newly rebuilt business in California collapsed because I hadn’t disclosed the ongoing criminal charges in New York. Everything I had worked for, fought for, was crumbling around me.

There I was, standing on cold concrete floors, I felt utterly broken, but somehow — still standing. I was not dead. I was still breathing. And as long as I had breath, I had hope.

In prison, the same movies play on repeat, day in and day out. Some prisoners complain, but I found comfort in the familiarity. One of my favorites was Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight. There’s a line in the film that resonates deep in my bones. Alfred, Bruce Wayne’s trusted confidant, says to him: “Why do we fall, Master Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves back up.”  I’ve fallen many times, but each time I rise faster, stronger, more determined. I’ve made mistakes, but each mistake has been a lesson in resilience.

Lately, they’ve been playing Robin Hood with Russell Crowe on loop. One line in that movie sends a shiver down my spine every time: “Rise and rise again until lambs become lions.” It’s a reminder that strength doesn’t come from how many times you stand unscathed. It comes from how many times you rise after you’ve been knocked down, bloodied and battered.

For the longest time, I thought strength was external — something you could see or measure. I was wrong. True strength is internal. It’s in your heart, in your spirit. It’s the quiet resolve to keep going when the world tries to bury you. It’s falling, failing, and still finding the will to rise. It’s asking “why?” not as a victim, but as a student of life, ready to learn, grow, and develop the resilience to overcome any obstacle.

So why do we fall? To learn how to pick ourselves back up. Again and again — until we become lions. And as long as I’m breathing, I will continue to rise.