Sauna Thoughts: The Line

I had a strange dream the other night.

One of those vivid, cinematic dreams that feels symbolic while it’s happening, but you don’t fully understand it until you wake up.

There were old high school friends everywhere. Surfing. Snowboarding. Riding bikes.

Ancient structures. Giant perfect waves breaking in impossible ways. At one point, the wave formed into a giant circle, like a donut-shaped barrel that emptied into some massive ancient-looking building. It made no sense, but in the dream it all somehow felt normal.

I remember trying to snowboard, but the snow was melting into water beneath me. I remember riding bikes while barely hanging on. I remember being on giant stilts, unstable and awkward, almost falling over constantly.

In real life I’m athletic, but in the dream I felt clumsy. Off balance. Like I was barely functioning while everyone else moved naturally around me.

And then I ran into one of my old high school teachers.

Suddenly, in the dream, I started talking about a blog post I had written about an experience I had in high school. When I woke up, I immediately knew exactly what memory my brain had resurfaced.

I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Back in high school, I had a sociology teacher who did one of those classroom “social experiments.” We all stood in a line across the room while she asked a series of questions.

• If your parents were married, step forward.

• If your family owned a home, step forward.

• If you had never known someone in jail, step forward. 

• If your family had money, step forward. 

Question after question after question.

At first it felt like some harmless classroom activity.

But eventually, almost everyone had moved forward.

And I was standing mostly alone.

I was one of the few Hispanic kids at my school at the time. I grew up in a tiny apartment with my mom and sister. My mom and sister shared a room my entire childhood. We didn’t have much money. I went to a wealthy high school, but I didn’t come from wealth.

I still remember the feeling in my chest standing there.

Embarrassment. Exposure. Smallness.

And then came the “lesson.”

The point of the experiment was essentially this: statistically, some people are far less likely to succeed.

Now, intellectually, I understand what the exercise was probably attempting to teach.

It was likely meant to create awareness about inequality, privilege, and systemic challenges.

But to a teenage kid standing there alone in front of his peers, it didn’t feel academic.

It felt personal.

It felt like someone was saying: “Good luck.” “You’re already behind.” “Your life has already been measured.”

I remember feeling so embarrassed afterward that I stopped going to the class altogether. I honestly don’t know how I passed. Maybe the teacher felt bad. Maybe she understood the impact it had. I don’t know.

But I never forgot the feeling.

And maybe that’s the interesting part.

Because looking back now, I don’t think that moment made me bitter. I think it shaped me.

Maybe part of my entire adult life has been an unconscious response to that feeling.

Years later, when I was in college, I became obsessed with the idea of creating a school for orphaned kids somewhere in Central or South America. In my head it was this beautiful place near the ocean where kids could learn, surf, skateboard, create music, eat good food, feel safe, and build a meaningful life.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand why that vision burned so deeply inside me.

But now I think I do.

I think I’ve spent decades trying to create the kinds of spaces I wish existed for people who feel unseen, behind, unstable, or forgotten.

That dream eventually evolved into things like the Matthew Mark Foundation and Lifted Academy.

The names changed. The vision matured. But the heart stayed the same.

Lift people up.

Not based on statistics. Not based on where they started. Not based on their zip code, race, income level, family history, or social status.

But because human beings have immense potential simply by being alive.

That doesn’t mean life is fair. It doesn’t mean circumstances don’t matter. It doesn’t mean hard work magically erases obstacles.

But I do believe there is something dangerous about telling young people that their future is mostly predetermined before they’ve even had the chance to become themselves.

Statistics can measure trends. They cannot fully measure the human spirit.

I think about the kids we work with now through biking, mentoring, music, faith, movement, and community. Some are confident. Some are anxious. Some are lonely. Some feel behind before life has even really begun.

And maybe the most important thing we can do for another human being is remind them:

• Your future is not fully written yet.

• You are more than the worst thing that happened to you. 

• More than the neighborhood you came from. 

• More than the money your parents made. More than the labels placed on you. 

• More than someone else’s prediction.

Maybe that’s what my dream was really about.

Not high school. Not sociology. Not embarrassment.

But remembering why I care so deeply about creating spaces where people feel welcomed, valued, capable, and seen.

Because I still remember what it felt like standing alone in that line.

And maybe some part of my life’s work has been making sure fewer people feel that way.