Before the Storm: Chapter 7 and the Message That Followed

Posted: May 12, 2025

Written: Chapter 7 on May 7, 2025

Response Message: Chapter 20 on May 8, 2025

Intro:

This is one of the most important timestamps in my life.

On Wednesday, May 7th, I wrote Chapter 7. The words came through me before I had any idea what was coming the next day.

On Thursday, May 8th, I was removed from the job I loved. Accused. Misunderstood. Let go.

But I want you to see something…

Chapter 7 was already written.

It already held the light.

It already spoke the truth.

This is that story—before and after.

Read Chapter 7 first. Then read the message and Chapter 20 that was sent out after the fall.

Chapter 7: The Light in the Gym

Theme: A Defining Moment as a Coach—Knowing This Is My Calling

When I first started coaching, I knew I had something to say—but I didn’t yet know how much it would mean to the kids who heard it.

In 2002, I began my journey as a special education teacher at Blackshear Elementary. For five years, I served students who needed more than just academics—they needed patience, structure, care, and belief. It shaped the way I would coach for the rest of my life.

In 2007, I got the opportunity to teach PE alongside another head coach at Blackshear. It was my first official year coaching, and I was ready to bring something new into the school. The other coach had a strong background—disciplined, experienced, and deeply influenced by his military service. His coaching style was structured, strict, and precise.

I came in with a different spirit.

I believed in creating an environment built on growth, connection, and joy. I wanted the kids to feel safe, challenged, and inspired. Our contrasting philosophies caused some tension. He got the gym. I got what used to be the music room.

But I didn’t see it as a setback. I saw it as space to create.

That’s where I built my first PE program. That’s where I created the Champion’s Motto. That’s where I laid the foundation for what would become Becoming Champions Consistently. It was a humble room with echoes of old music lessons, and I filled it with new rhythms—the beat of belief, the sound of young voices repeating affirmations, and the silence of students feeling seen.

After that year, I was replaced with an aide and moved to Burleson Elementary, where I taught for a year and a half… until just before Thanksgiving.

That’s when everything changed.

Due to a lawsuit filed against the district, there was a reassignment. I was switched out and moved because I was considered a Hispanic coach—part of a district-wide shuffle that replaced some white coaches with coaches of color. It was jarring. But it brought me to Barbara Jordan Elementary, where I spent the next eight years.

That’s where Bella, my daughter, started her schooling—kindergarten and first grade with me just down the hall. Those were the years I realized how deep this work really went. I wasn’t just coaching kids—I was coaching someone’s baby. And someone was coaching mine.

After Barbara Jordan, I moved to Ireland Elementary for two years, and Bella went there too—for second and third grade. Then I moved to Compass Academy, where I still coach today. Bella joined me there for fourth, fifth, and sixth grade before starting homeschool.

Across every campus, every gym, every kid, the message stayed the same.

That first year of coaching, I created something I called the Champion’s Motto. I didn’t pull it from a book or copy it from a program. I built it, word by word, lying in bed and running through all the mentors, coaches, teachers, and books that had poured into me. It came out of every quote I ever underlined, every lesson I ever lived.

It began with something simple: one finger raised in the air.

As I walked the school halls, teachers reminded students to stay quiet, but the kids still wanted to say hi. So I gave them a signal. Just hold up one finger—your number one—and I’ll see you. I’ll acknowledge you as a champion. And I’ll remind you that I see the greatness in you.

And then, the Champion’s Motto was born:

“This means I’m a champion. I talk like a champ. I walk like a champ. And I act like a champ. I am committed to thinking the best, believing the best, living the best, and having the best. Today I will get better and better as I do my best. What I imagine and see is what I will be. I control my destiny by the strength inside of me that comes alive when I believe that everything in life is a challenge.”

That was the heartbeat I brought into my gym. I called it the light.

But not everyone understood what I meant.

Someone within the school went to the administration with concerns about what I was teaching. The administration contacted the principal, and the principal called me in.

He asked, “Can you tell me what this ‘light’ is?”

I told him honestly, “It’s what happens when you’re in a mindset of flow. When you’re not focused on the past or worried about the future. When you’re fully present in what you’re doing, and that thing is a challenge. It’s like a new episode of awareness. You see things differently. You see things in a new light.”

He listened. And then he said, “Why not use a word people are more familiar with? Like when Michael Jordan talks about being in the zone.”

And so we made the shift. I started saying, “Are you in the zone?”

But the truth is—I still meant the light. I still saw that glow in the kids when they were fully present, fully alive, fully themselves. I just gave it a different name.

Every day in my gym, I coach with three core elements: exercise, discipline, and play. And during playtime, I build in what I call affection time—the time when kids can just be kids. Where they feel the five essential ingredients of a healthy learning environment:

Safety. Love. Freedom. Power. Fun.

That’s the environment I build.

And then, I teach them the tools I’ve gathered over a lifetime: sports psychology, mental performance mastery, flow state, Brian Cain’s 10 pillars of mental toughness, the importance of living present, and the value of creating a compass in life. A compass that points north—toward excellence, gratitude, grit, kindness, hustle, and vision.

I teach even the kindergarteners and first graders that greatness lives inside them. That it just needs to be nurtured. Watered. Protected.

Because I believe that. I see it in them.

And I give them everything I have.

But even when you’re pouring into others, you can run dry. I didn’t always stop to write things down. I didn’t preserve the memories. I didn’t record the stories. I didn’t document the moments.

That became painfully clear when Bella was graduating. I started trying to collect stories to remember and celebrate her journey—but I hadn’t written them down. All I had were a few pictures.

That realization hit me hard. It felt like I had let so many precious moments just float by.

But now—I’ve changed.

Thanks to Matthew Dicks and the “Homework for Life” practice I learned through Storyworthy, I’ve started writing again. Capturing moments daily. Recording the things that matter. I understand now that the stories don’t slow down—they keep flowing, moment by moment, like the sands in an hourglass.

And one of my kindergarten students reminded me of that in the most beautiful way.

For Teacher Appreciation Week, this little one walked up to me and gave me two gifts: a small compass—and a keychain hourglass. A compass to remind me of direction. An hourglass to remind me of time. The sands inside it never stop moving, just like the memories we miss when we forget to pause and reflect.

That simple gift has never left my side.

In doing this work—coaching, teaching, writing—I’ve gotten my life back.

A few weeks ago, I heard from a former student named Jake—one of the very first students I ever taught during my first year at Blackshear. He had a twin brother named Blake. They were in 4th and 5th grade, and they called me Mr. Castillo.

Even back then, I wasn’t just teaching academic content. I was pouring into them the same mindset tools I had learned from sports psychology, from the books my mom and dad gave me, from the voices of champions I looked up to. I taught them about never giving up, about having a vision, setting inner standards, grinding, and maintaining a positive mindset—even when life wasn’t easy.

Now, all these years later, Jake is a successful man. He reached out and asked me to be a guest on his podcast.

I asked him, “Why me?”

He said, “Because you were one of my mentors.”

So I asked, “Do you remember anything I taught you? Any words I said?”

And he laughed and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Castillo, but no. I don’t remember a single word.”

Then he paused and said, “I just remember how I felt around you. I felt safe. I felt loved. I felt like I had the freedom to be myself, the power to make my own choices, and I had fun. Thank you for leading and guiding me.”

That was the moment I knew.

This is my calling.

This is my purpose.

This is why I’m here.

To teach.

To coach.

To speak life.

To show kids that even in a dark world, there’s a light within them.

And when that light is seen—when it’s encouraged—it grows.

It leads them home.

THE FALL OUT

I’m reaching out to share a story from my heart with people who know me and have walked alongside me in some part of my life.

A lot has happened recently, and rather than defend myself or fuel any confusion, I want to share a chapter from the book I’m writing—because it reflects not only my teaching philosophy and coaching heart, but the truth of what happened.

If you have time, I’d be honored if you’d read it. And if you want to hear more about my story or the work I’m continuing to do, I’d be grateful to share more when you’re ready.

Thank you for being in my life.

—Brian

⸻

Attached Chapter:

The Compass and the Hourglass

(from Becoming Champions Consistently: A Memoir)

It was a Thursday—May 1st—during my lunch duty when I was waved over to the parent lunch table by a grandmother and her kindergarten granddaughter. They were seated together, smiling, with a small gift bag sitting between them. The grandmother motioned for me to sit, and I did.

She said, “We won’t be here tomorrow, so I wanted to give you this early for Teacher Appreciation Week.”

I reached into the bag and pulled out two gifts.

The first was a small keychain hourglass.

As I turned it over in my hand, watching the grains of sand fall, a wave of emotion passed through me. It reminded me of time—how it slips through your fingers, how fast life moves, and how many stories I hadn’t yet written down from Bella’s childhood. That hourglass cracked something open in me. A quiet ache I’d been carrying.

Then I reached in again and found the second gift: a compass.

At first glance, it seemed like a simple, thoughtful symbol. But then the grandmother leaned forward and began pointing things out.

She peeled away the foam in the box to reveal a small plaque beneath the compass lid with a verse from Proverbs:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your path.” — Proverbs 3:5–6

When I lifted the compass from the box, she gently turned it over in my hand so I could see the same verse engraved into the back of the compass itself.

Then she looked at me with conviction in her eyes, held up the compass, and pointed at the face of it.

“A compass always points north,” she said. “But on this one, it doesn’t just say ‘N.’”

I looked closely.

“It says ‘Lord.’”

Then she reached out, gently pulled me in close, and whispered,

“Thank you. You’ve been a blessing—to me and to her.”

I held the compass and the hourglass in my hands as the granddaughter smiled beside her. Then her grandmother asked, “Would you mind if I took a picture of the two of you with your gifts?”

“Of course,” I said.

We posed at the lunch table—me holding jthe hourglass, her holding the compass—and the grandmother snapped the photo.

As we were still sitting there, I looked at her and said,

“Would you mind texting me a copy of that picture?”

“Of course,” she replied with warmth in her voice.

I told her I’d give her my number in just a moment—but before I could, I was called away for lunch duty. I didn’t see them again that day.

On Monday, her granddaughter returned to school. After PE, I brought her into the coach’s office—while the other coaches were there—and I wrote my phone number on a sticky note. I handed it to her and said,

“Please give this to your grandmother and let her know I’d still love for her to send that photo she took.”

On Thursday, May 8th, after kindergarten PE, I was called to the superintendent’s office.

I was told, without warning or prior conversation, that I was being let go.

Effective immediately.

I was escorted back to my office and asked to turn in my keys, my computer, and my charger. I was told I could return to collect the rest of my belongings after the school year ended.

I never got to say goodbye to my students.

But I still have the compass.

And I still have the hourglass.

One points me toward the Lord. The other reminds me that time is fleeting.

And in the center of both of those truths is this:

The only time to walk in light is now.

And the only direction worth following is the one that leads home.

What I Stand For

(a declaration for when the world asks who you are)

I didn’t come here to defend myself.

I came to remember who I am.

I come from light.

I come from love.

I come from a deeper place than fear, opinion, or noise.

I stand here today not to be seen,

but to see—with clear eyes,

what the world has forgotten but I now remember.

I remember that I am not what happened to me.

I am not what was said about me.

I am not even the role I played in anyone else’s story.

I am what cannot be taken.

I am what returns in silence.

I am what remains when the world fades.

So let the world misunderstand me.

Let shadows speak if they must.

But I will not bow to what is false.

I will not shrink to fit a place I was never meant to stay.

I choose now to rise—not in rebellion,

but in remembrance.

I will walk forward with peace in my chest

and fire in my feet.

Because I was not made to be understood by this world.

I was made to free it—

by freeing myself