Blog Post Title One
Following the DC Court of Appeals' decision last Thursday to uphold the DC Board of Elections' ruling that removed me from the November ballot and effectively ended my campaign for DC Council At-Large, I felt it was important to share more than just a brief announcement. This campaign has meant so much to me, and I didn't want to issue an impersonal or short statement. I've put my heart into this journey, and I wanted to address all the incredible people in D.C. who have been part of it on so many levels. Simply fading away wouldn't do justice to the experience or the deep gratitude I have for everyone involved. That's why I've decided to share this comprehensive statement—it's a reflection on our shared journey and a heartfelt thank you to all who've supported me in my candidacy.
Beyond the Ballot: A Run on a Road Less Traveled in DC Politics
Introduction: Accepting Responsibility in Stride—Processing My Campaign’s Turning Point
For those who know me well—whether you're a neighbor, community member, former roommate, or my one-and-only wife, Nicole—you probably know about a defining habit of mine: my running streak. It started on September 6, 2008, and 16 years later, I haven’t missed a single day of running at least 1.5 miles. Over time, my runs have become much more than just a fitness routine—they’ve turned into a resource for reflection, a place where I work through decisions and thoughts that weigh heavily on my mind. Today’s run was no different. In fact, it was essential as I processed the impactful news I received yesterday about my campaign for D.C. Council At-Large.
This journey, spanning more than a year, has been one of the most significant experiences of my life. When I set out to run for office, it wasn’t just to hold a title—it was to connect with people in every corner of D.C., to listen to their concerns, and to fight for what matters most to them. Along the way, I’ve met countless neighbors, advocates, and residents who share a common hope for the future of our city. Each conversation, every walk through the streets, has given me invaluable insights into the fabric of D.C.—a city that my family has called home for generations.
But despite all the effort and heart that has gone into this campaign, yesterday brought the difficult news that I would not be on the ballot this November. While I turned in over the required 3,000 signatures, the challenge process revealed that many were ultimately invalidated for various reasons. Some of the signatures were from individuals who were not currently registered voters or were registered at a different address than what they wrote on the petition. Others were disqualified due to being misdated or illegible. It was a tough realization, especially because many of these residents fully intended to support my campaign. Excuses abound, but the ultimate responsibility for ensuring the validity of every signature falls on me as the candidate.
It is for this reason, among others, that I don’t harbor any resentment toward the individual who challenged the petitions. Challenges are part of the democratic process, and it’s important that we maintain the integrity of that process. While it didn’t work out in my favor this go-around, I respect the system and the right to challenge signatures. This campaign has always been about community and connection, and that’s something that extends even to those with whom we may disagree.
One setback, albeit a fatal blow to my campaign, will not diminish any of the wonderful outcomes of the past year. I’m filled with gratitude for the experience itself and for the people who have been with me every step of the way. First and foremost, I owe so much to my wife, Nicole, my biggest supporter. She’s been by my side through every high and low, balancing so much in her own life—working full-time during the day, raising two perfect children, and tirelessly volunteering to answer her call to build an animal welfare program that is so desperately needed in D.C. Somehow, she still made space for me to pursue this dream. I am forever grateful for her strength and love.
I also want to extend my most heartfelt thanks to my family—my mom, who has been an incredible source of guidance, and my little ones, Serafina and Merrick, who remind me every day of the importance of building a future in which they can thrive. And simply being present—with them and with others—putting down the phone, turning off the TV, and being there.
I've been fortunate to have a team of friends and supporters, both new and old, who have poured their time and energy into this campaign. I’m especially thankful to people like Danny and Jack, who have offered their wisdom and advice throughout the process. To all my friends, neighbors, community members, and everyone who has offered me encouragement along the way—thank you. This campaign has been built on your belief in a better future for D.C., and that belief is something I carry with me as I move forward.
As disappointing as the outcome may be, I’m not one to dwell on what could have been. This campaign has been about so much more than a ballot—it’s been about being present in the lives of D.C. residents, listening to their stories, and being a part of their communities. It’s about taking responsibility for the role I play, not just as a candidate but as a member of the community. While I won’t be addressing the ballot access petition process in the coming weeks, I will contemplate it further and use this experience as a learning opportunity for the future. The work doesn’t stop here.
This morning’s run started with a heavy heart, but as the miles added up, a sense of clarity began to take shape. Running has always been a way for me to process moments like this, and today, I considered how far I’ve come—not just in this campaign but in the relationships I’ve built, the lessons I’ve learned, and the opportunities that lie ahead. There’s so much to be thankful for, even in the face of a setback like this. This is not the end—it’s a new chapter, a different path, but one that I embrace with the same passion and determination that fueled me from day one.
As I neared the end of my run, I felt lighter, more resolved. The run, like so many others over the past 16 years, gave me the space I needed to work through what this means, why it happened, and how to move forward. I will continue to show up, to listen, and to fight for the issues that matter most to D.C. residents. This moment is just one part of a much larger story—one that is still being written.
Chapter 1: McMillan Reservoir Park – A Testament to Perseverance
As I began today’s run, my feet took me to what is now called Reservoir Park—a place that holds immense significance, not only because of its rich history but also because of the long road that has led it to where it is today. After 37 years of delay, the park, community center, splash pads, and playground finally opened to the public on June 14th of this year. It’s hard to believe that this project, which began when the city was granted the land in 1987 after the decommissioning of the McMillan sand filtration plant by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in 1986, has finally come to life.
For decades, the iconic silos towering over the site served as a symbol of something left undone—a place that, for much of many Washingtonians’ lives, was fenced off with chain link and barbed wire—mysterious and inaccessible. Year after year, we wondered, “When is something finally going to happen there?” Now, those silos stand as landmarks, intertwined with McMillan’s identity, while the surrounding space has transformed into something open, welcoming, and filled with smiling faces, young and old.
When I look back on the years of work that it took to bring this place to fruition, I’m often reminded of the many voices who opposed the development, both in its early iterations and as it stands now. While I didn’t always hold respect for their vision, I do now. Their concerns were not unfounded. Their ideas for the space would have been beautiful, and I acknowledge that the outcome we see today owes much to their efforts. The Friends of McMillan Park and other activists who fought to stall the project were instrumental in ensuring that public space and historic preservation became part of the plan. Originally, there were no plans for public space, and much of the site’s historic elements would have been permanently lost. For that, we have them to thank.
For many who actively protested, the outcome was not exactly what they wanted, but I’ve spoken with a large contingent of the opposition who take solace in the work they were able to accomplish. They recognize that it was, in large part, their persistence that saved key aspects of the site’s history and ensured that the community would have access to public amenities. Their efforts are an undeniable example of the benefits of community input, and it shouldn't take such a proactive, steadfast, and determined group for the powers that be to compromise with the community. I, for one, am thankful for their efforts. There came a point when it was necessary to move forward, and today, I believe most people can appreciate what McMillan offers—a space that honors its past while serving the community.
As many of us might expect, the community’s voice appears to have once again been heard. The McMillan name may be re-incorporated into the park; it has been speculated that the park and community center may soon be renamed McMillan Reservoir Park. The community’s advocacy has likely ensured that McMillan’s legacy will continue to live on—both the space itself and the name.
In the end, I believe the tension surrounding the project has led to connection. Although the disagreements initially created distance, they ultimately resulted in greater cohesiveness. Our communities here in Bloomingdale and Stronghold are a prime example for the entire city. Our neighbors lift each other’s voices, and while we often disagree (and maybe “often” is an understatement), it’s through our shared intent to see the best for our community that we’ve become one of the strongest communities in the city. The unity we’ve built through these challenges is something I’m proud to be a part of.
I remember watching intently as pieces of the historic fountain, the Three Graces, were returned to the site after being scattered around the city, some even sitting in a woodland “storage place” for years. These pieces were restored with granite sourced from the same quarry in New York that provided the original stone in the early 1900s. And then witnessing the final piece—the statue of the Three Graces themselves—as it was lifted by a crane and lowered down to complete the fountain for the first time in over 100 years. My sense of pride and joy seeing the water flowing from the top basin down was immense that first day and hasn’t waned since. The attention to detail has been incredible. Even the terracotta roof tiles were sourced from the original manufacturer in Ohio, which has been in operation since the early 1900s. Seeing these pieces come back together, restored with such care and precision, reminds me of the dedication that has gone into preserving McMillan’s history while bringing it into the present.
And then there are the smaller, less obvious details—like the 2,500 rusty manholes that once dotted the site. Some of these pieces were carefully etched out and repurposed as backdrops for the signage inside the community center. The park benches, created from repurposed underground columns that once supported the filtration system, are another subtle nod to the site’s history. These small touches contribute to the overall sense of continuity between McMillan’s past and its future.
But McMillan’s transformation isn’t complete. The next phase of the project promises to bring even more benefits to the community—particularly for those who have struggled to access essential amenities without relying on public transportation, cycling, or cars. A much-needed grocery store, restaurants, and retail spaces are set to open within walking distance, providing easier access for residents—an issue we grapple with in every corner of our city, from Penn Branch to the Palisades.
As I run past these spaces today, I can’t help but feel immense pride. As the co-founder of Develop McMillan and as vice chair of the McMillan Advisory Group, I’ve been consistently involved in the site’s transformation. And even further, as the Advisory Neighborhood Commissioner representing this single-member district, I’ve worked tirelessly to ensure that this project reaches its full potential. The long road to this moment—through delays, obstacles, and countless discussions—was beyond worth it. McMillan has always been more than just a development project for me; it’s been about creating a space that honors its past while giving the community something tangible to enjoy today and for generations to come.
Chapter 2: North Capitol Street – Threads of Personal History
Today’s run started at a place that represents both the progress we’ve made and the continued impact that lies ahead. McMillan is more than just a park or a community center—it’s a testament to what we can accomplish when we stay committed to a vision, no matter how long it takes.
Stepping off the park grounds and onto North Capitol Street, memories of my childhood commutes came rushing back. This stretch of road has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Mornings commuting with my parents to school at Gonzaga, often half-asleep in the backseat of our family minivan, are etched in my memory. My dad, who worked as a bill collector at Washington Gas, and my mom, an accountant at the Teamsters, both worked nearby, and I’ll always cherish those morning drives. Many days, I glanced at the beautiful row homes and neighborhoods lining North Capitol, perhaps foreshadowing my future. Quiet moments in the car, with the city unfolding around us as we awoke together, were my first real connection to D.C.’s streets and the people who keep the city moving. Looking back now, those commutes were foundational—not just for my education but for the sense of responsibility and commitment my parents instilled in me.
Running down these same streets today, I felt that omnipresent connection to both the past and the modern day. North Capitol Street has changed over the years, but in many ways, it remains the same—a place of movement, community, and history. This part of the city, particularly near my campaign headquarters at 1308 North Capitol Street between New York Avenue and Hanover Place, has become an intimate part of my daily life in the last year. It’s where I’ve worked, built relationships, and connected with residents through initiatives like the North Capitol Trust Builders. It’s also where
Glen works as a street sweeper along North Capitol, covering the area between New York and Rhode Island Avenues. We’ve gotten to know each other well over the past year, and I often run into him during my daily jogs or while working at headquarters. When we first met, we bonded over basketball, and I gave him the nickname “Big Dog” as a nod to former NBA player Glenn Robinson. He liked the name, and it stuck. Our conversations often start with sports, and today was no different. We talked about recent games and shared stories from our days coaching pee wee football.
But today’s conversation took a more serious turn. I told Glen about the news I’d received on Thursday—the decision that removed me from the ballot for the upcoming election. Despite collecting over 3,000 signatures, the challenge process resulted in too many disqualified entries, and now I wouldn’t be on the ballot in November. Glen listened carefully and offered his support. “People know you’re out here. They know what you’re doing,” he said. His words reminded me that this
Continuing my run, I reflected on how much North Capitol has grown in meaning for me. It’s more than just a road I’ve traveled since childhood—it’s a place of connection, relationships, and community coming together in small but powerful ways. Friends like Glen, who always pause to offer a friendly word, are what make this city special.
North Capitol isn’t just a part of my campaign—it’s a part of who I am. And no matter what the future holds, these connections are what keep me moving forward, both on my runs and in my life.
Chapter 3: Foundations at Gonzaga and Beyond
As I reached the tail-end of North Capitol Street, Gonzaga College High School came into view—a place of profound significance in my life. Here, the motto “Men for Others” was ingrained in me, shaping my values and commitment to service. Facing North Capitol Street is St. Aloysius Church, or St. Al’s, part of the Gonzaga campus. Beneath it lies the McKenna Center, a haven that serves as a homeless shelter for men and provides essential services to families grappling with food insecurity. Volunteering there opened my eyes to the depths of empathy and compassion, instilling at a young age the importance of direct service—principles paramount at Gonzaga that have continued to guide me personally and throughout my campaign.
Continuing along North Capitol, I turned onto Massachusetts Avenue just past Union Station—a landmark that holds fond memories from my younger years. Growing up, I would take the L8 bus to Friendship Heights and then catch the Red Line at Union Station to head to Gonzaga basketball camp. Those rides were more than just transportation—they were my introduction to the city, to independence, and to the vibrant world of Washington, D.C. I remember the hum of the Metro, the busy commuters around me, and the feel of the city waking up as I made my way downtown. It’s interesting how those early experiences shaped my view of D.C. and my love for this city long before I fully realized it.
Today’s route led me to another place laden with family history, which I didn't learn about until later in life: St. Joseph’s on 2nd Street NE. I was a frequent attendee when I lived nearby. Like so many churches in D.C.—whether St. Thomas Apostle in Woodley Park, Immaculate Conception in Shaw, or St. Anthony’s in Brookland—St. Joseph’s is woven into my family history. It was only after I told my mom about my new parish that she said, “Oh yeah, my grandparents went to St. Joseph’s,” and later added, “Your great-grandfather operated a horse-drawn milk delivery company on Capitol Hill.”
The Hill introduced me to the myriad of individuals who come to D.C. from all over the country to work and learn within the halls of Congress. It’s a unique facet of our city that many native Washingtonians might not consider or engage with, or even intentionally steer clear of. Whether on the Senate side in Northeast or the House side in Southeast, the hum of governmental activity is ever-present. Beneath the surface lies a little-known network of underground corridors connecting the Senate and House office buildings. On the House side, there’s an expansive cafeteria packed with staffers when Congress is in session, and on the Senate side, my old barbershop. There’s even a small-scale subway system transporting members and staff to and from the Capitol building itself. If you haven’t walked the halls of Congress, I highly recommend it—the doors are open for you. It’s an enlightening experience that offers a tangible sense of our government's—and, in many ways, our city's—inner workings.
From there, my run took me past my old apartment near Massachusetts Avenue NE—a place that evokes a different set of memories. It was one of my first homes after college, a space not much larger than a janitor’s closet. Back then, I juggled multiple jobs, interning during the day and waiting tables at Union Pub and Café Berlin by night. The hustle was intense and the days long, but I didn't realize it at the time. Those years instilled in me the values of hard work and perseverance. Passing by the apartment, I felt a sense of nostalgia for those early days, discovering a different side of D.C. and learning formative lessons about the importance of exploration.
During this part of the run, I tuned in to listen to the ballot access lottery, taking a few minutes to think about my removal from the ballot. While there was a moment of disappointment, it also offered perspective—a catalyst to reassess and fuel my determination moving forward.
As I navigated through these neighborhoods, I pondered, as I often do, the unique dynamics of each. Washington, D.C., is a mosaic of communities with distinct personalities. Some areas are home to native Washingtonians who’ve been here for generations, while others are filled with newcomers, shocked to meet someone who's actually from here. My neighborhood in Bloomingdale is a hybrid—a blend of lifelong residents and recent arrivals. It’s easy to focus on the differences between those generationally rooted here and those who are new, but the reality is that we’re all Washingtonians. Regardless of how long we’ve called this city home, each of us contributes to its present and future. It’s vital to emphasize what unites us rather than what sets us apart.
Chapter 4: Mt. Olivet – Embracing Family Legacy
As I made my way east on H Street toward Benning Road and Hechinger Mall, a thought crossed my mind that changed the direction of my run—I realized I was close to Mt. Olivet Cemetery, where several members of my family are laid to rest, including my great-great-great-grandfather, William O’Donnell. William’s story has been a source of pride and motivation for me since I stumbled upon it while researching my family roots in D.C. in 2016, and today, of all days, it felt right to make that detour and pay my respects.
William O’Donnell emigrated from Ireland at the age of 14, arriving in Washington, D.C., shortly after apprenticing in New York, with little more than hope and determination. His passage was undoubtedly not an easy one, but within a decade of arriving in America, he fought in the Union Army during the Civil War as part of the 5th Battalion of the District of Columbia Infantry. To leave behind everything you’ve known, cross an ocean, and fight in a foreign war for your new home is a level of selfless courage and perseverance that I’ve often contemplated. As I walked towards his gravesite at Mt. Olivet today, those examples of courage and resilience felt particularly significant.
The past few days and weeks, especially after the court order on Thursday that ultimately removed me from the ballot, have required a certain level of resilience—different, of course, from what William faced, but resilience nonetheless. Standing there by his resting place, I was reminded of the strength that has been passed down through generations in my family. William didn’t just fight for the Union; he went on to become a successful businessman in Washington, D.C., founding a tin roofing business that became highly prosperous. He even became the majority shareholder of the Washington Senators baseball team, eventually selling his shares to Clark Griffith, whose name would become synonymous with the team and stadium. Discovering these details about my family’s history as an adult, I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for the ties that bind me to this city. Washington, D.C., isn’t just where I live; it’s woven into my family’s legacy.
Standing at William’s grave, the weight of the past week felt considerably lighter, and then as I placed my hand on his tombstone, two phrases came to me seemingly out of nowhere: “keep going” and “go find your soul.” I don’t know exactly where those words came from or why they arrived just then, but the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. They immediately resonated with me, as if handed down from my great-great-great-grandfather himself—a reminder that, no matter the challenges, the key is to persist. “Keep going” speaks to that fundamental need to push forward, while “go find your soul” felt like an instant invitation to dig deeper, to evaluate the things in my life that hold the greatest meaning and purpose. It felt like a message from my past, urging me to pause and ground myself firmly in the present, focusing on the importance of carefully considering the multitude of opportunities before me before deciding which direction might lead me toward fulfilling my responsibilities with the specific gifts I’ve been given.
William’s life is a testament to perseverance in the face of adversity, and standing at his gravesite, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to my own journey. Like him, I’ve faced challenges—most recently with the ballot decision—but I know the way forward is through persistence and hard work. His success as a businessman and his contributions to the city are reminders that even when things don’t go as planned, there is always a way to build something meaningful.
This detour to Mt. Olivet today was more than just a visit to honor my ancestors—it was a chance to quietly consider what it means to carry on that legacy of resilience. As I continued my run from the cemetery, those words— “keep going” and “go find your soul”—stayed with me. They echoed the values that William passed down, values that have shaped not only my family but also the city we’ve called home for generations. Washington, D.C., has always been a city of resilience, and today I felt as connected to that spirit as ever.
Chapter 5: Minnesota Avenue – Deepening Community Ties
Soon I found myself crossing over Kingman Island east of the Anacostia River, down Benning Road toward Minnesota Avenue—a part of the city that has newfound meaning due to the time I’ve spent here over the past year. Initially, my connection to this area was limited to childhood memories of attending football games nearby at RFK Stadium. Later, as I worked as an alcohol distributor, servicing liquor stores, markets, and retail accounts along Minnesota Avenue and in the surrounding neighborhoods, I gained another, albeit more limited, perspective. During those years, I was more of a passerby—observing the area without fully understanding the depth of the challenges it faced. But neither my childhood memories nor my distributor experience compared to the understanding that my recent work has given me.
In October of 2023, I participated in a public safety walk here on Minnesota Avenue as part of a larger series of safety walks across the city. It was a crisp fall morning, and as I walked the streets with community leaders and residents, I quickly realized just how little I knew about this part of the city beyond my earlier experiences. That day opened my eyes and laid the foundation for a more tangible commitment to understanding the issues facing this community.
Since that walk, Minnesota Avenue has become much more than a passing memory—it’s become part of my routine and a place where I’ve organically built relationships. I’ve made a habit of walking alone, stopping along the way to get to know the residents and small business owners who call this area home. Walking alone allows for a different kind of interaction—more personal, more intimate. While I’ve walked with many community leaders, police officers, and residents, I find that walking by myself opens up conversations that are less likely to happen in group settings. I often think about this in relation to my years waiting tables. There’s a difference between waiting on a table by yourself and waiting with another server in training. The dynamic changes, and the interaction becomes less personal, less direct. When I walk alone, I find that I’m able to build new friendships in a more organic way.
From the McDonald’s near Benning Road to nearby spots like Norma’s Café, each walk has expanded my understanding of what this community faces daily. Dawn, who owns Norma’s Café with her husband of over 25 years, Marcus, is just one of many residents whose spirit has inspired me. Born and raised nearby in Ward 7, they have worked hard to build a place that embodies their passion for family and serving this Northeast community. When I stop by Norma’s Café, I’m reminded of the connectivity that homegrown businesses bring to a neighborhood and the hard work entrepreneurs undertake to make dreams come true, especially in areas of the city often overlooked by broader initiatives.
But today, my focus was not just on the businesses and the daily hustle of Minnesota Avenue. As I passed by the former site of "the wall" at McDonald’s—a longstanding feature of this part of town—I contemplated the changes that have occurred over the past year. The wall, eventually torn down, was a source of controversy—welcomed by some and deeply upsetting to others. In some ways, a direct correlation to most political campaigns. The wall served as a gathering place for many, and its removal sparked division and debate. Some viewed it as a necessary step for revitalizing the area, while others saw it as an erasure of a space that held meaning for longtime residents. In many ways, the tearing down of the wall is emblematic of the broader changes happening across the city—a city divided between old and new, tradition and progress. What stood out to me most was the lack of communication surrounding the decision. Most residents who used the wall regularly weren’t even aware it was being torn down until the demolition began. Moments like these highlight our need for better engagement, better dialogue, and a stronger connection between those making decisions and the people living with the consequences every day.
Upon nearing Minnesota Avenue I thought about how this community is no longer just a place I pass through—it’s where I’ve built relationships, learned hard lessons, and increased my commitment to serving the people who live here. This year has been more than a campaign—it’s been about being present in communities that have long felt disconnected from the broader city agenda. Minnesota Avenue, with all its challenges and potential, is a microcosm of the work that still needs to be done across Washington, D.C.
As I neared of this stretch of Minnesota Avenue, I passed by Trey—a friend I made during that first public safety walk. Trey is a Denver Broncos fan, and over the weeks and months that followed, our conversations have ranged from football to the everyday struggles here, as well as those that permeate throughout every ward. I told him about Thursday’s decision that removed me from the ballot. As we stood on the sidewalk in front of Greenway Liquors, Trey offered words of encouragement. “It’s just one game,” he said. “It’s the first round—you’ve got more rounds to go.” His simple words stayed with me. In many ways, they summed up the I’ve been on. Losing this round might be hard, but there are more rounds to come, and there’s always the next game, the next opportunity.
You can’t understand a community by driving through it or relying on statistics and reports. You have to be present, walk the streets, and listen to the stories of the people who live here. Continuing on, Trey’s words echoed in my mind: it’s just one game, and there are many more to come.
Chapter 6: Anacostia – Building Meaningful Connections
Continuing down Minnesota Avenue and making my way into Anacostia, I reflected on how my connection to this neighborhood has expanded. While I’ve always understood how important Anacostia is to our city's foundation—having met people from the area over the years through different events and work—I hadn’t spent much time being truly present here until the past 12 months. My understanding of Anacostia has shifted from a broader, external appreciation to a deeper, more personal connection formed through direct engagement with the community and its people.
My early memories of Anacostia were formed from the outside looking in, as I took the bus with my freshman football team to practice at Anacostia High School’s field, adjacent to the Anacostia River. Back then, the river was in terrible shape—polluted and neglected—and was nowhere near the welcoming pedestrian corridor it presents today. The Anacostia Riverwalk Trail was non-existent. But even during those years, I knew this neighborhood had an inner strength that wasn’t always visible from the outside. Only recently have I truly come to understand what that strength looks like up close, as I’ve spent more days here, building relationships and being present in the day-to-day life of the community.
Today, as I ran along these now-familiar streets, I was on the lookout for Officer Bruno, an MPD officer who is a constant presence in this neighborhood and someone I’ve come to respect greatly. Officer Bruno exemplifies what community policing should be—he’s engaged, on foot or on his bike, and trusted by many of the residents he serves. I’ve crossed paths with him frequently while working in Anacostia, but today, I didn’t see him. Even so, his presence is felt here, and it’s officers like him who remind me why community-based policing matters so much.
Anacostia's community and its aforementioned strength are found in its people. A friend of mine, Mo, is a perfect example of the connectivity and cohesion that exists throughout these streets. Mo has been a fixture and a connector for me since I met him on one of my first walks. What started as an arm's-length introduction as we shared the same sidewalk and our eyes met has developed into a true friendship and bond. He’s always out on the streets, offering a friendly wave or kind word to those in he meets. Over the past year, our conversations have strengthened our bond, and I’ve come to see Mo as someone who embodies the quiet strength and everyday heroism that often goes unnoticed but is so essential to this neighborhood. He knows the pulse of the community and looks out for those around him.
Today, I ran into Mo once again. Just as I had shared my recent news with Glen and Trey earlier, I told him about Thursday's decision that removed me from the ballot. His response was a bit different from the others. "Man, I don't know why you'd want to do that anyways. You have to be crazy," he said with a chuckle. Always the voice of reason and a comforting one at that, his words brought a smile to my face. Mo has a way of grounding me, offering perspective when I need it most.
Heading up MLK Ave., I focused on my time here and the importance of not just talking the talk, but showing up and listening to residents' concerns. In Anacostia, those concerns often center around safety, economic opportunity, and ensuring that the neighborhood’s longstanding residents aren’t displaced by the rapid development taking place. It’s a delicate balance, one that requires careful attention and engagement. I’ve seen firsthand how important it is to build trust between the police and the community, and that trust only comes from consistent, face-to-face interactions. Officers like Bruno exemplify that kind of trust-building, and while I didn’t see him today, I know he’s out here making a difference.
Passing by landmarks like the Anacostia Arts Center and Baby Einstein Child Development Center, I recalled the day of the gas explosion that demolished Dan Akil Convenience Market and shook this community. It was a stark reminder of how quickly things can change. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the explosion shook more than just the buildings—it shook the community. I remember rushing to the scene—the same convenience store I had visited with Mo just a week prior, now engulfed in flames that burned for hours after the explosion. That experience reminded me of how important it is to be present in the community, not just when things are going well, but especially when challenges arise.
As I neared the end of this route, passing by Thurgood Marshall Academy and the Anacostia Metro Station, I gave thanks to how much this neighborhood has given me. The people here, like Mo, have shared their stories, their struggles, and their hopes for the future. And while there’s still much work to be done, there’s also so much potential. Anacostia is a place steeped in history, vibrant culture, and undeniable strength, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to be part of its story.
Chapter 7: The Wharf – Balancing Progress and Preservation
As I crossed Suitland Parkway and headed over the Frederick Douglass Bridge nearing The Wharf, its modern waterfront—teeming with new restaurants, shops, and bustling public spaces—brought me back to a different era. Before this transformation, places like Gangplank Marina, Cantina Marina, and the municipal fish market were cornerstones of this hidden part of the city. These were familiar haunts, seldom visited by tourists but cherished by Washingtonians who would head down to the waterfront for fresh crabs or seafood from the fish market—the oldest continuously operating open-air seafood market in the United States, dating back to 1805. It’s a fact even many D.C. natives don’t realize. Gangplank Marina, with its houseboats and laid-back atmosphere, felt like a hidden treasure—a place where you could pause and decompress by the water. Cantina Marina was a one-of-a-kind spot, the sort that made you think, “Where am I?”
I remember my first encounters with this area—how it was passed down through word of mouth, maybe a mention of Gangplank or a tip from a friend about grabbing seafood at the market. It’s funny how certain places in Washington become part of the city’s aura that way—not because they’re marketed, but because they simply exist in the hearts of residents. Back then, you’d come to the waterfront not for the glitz, but for a kind of authenticity that was undeniably Washington.
Seeing how this area has metamorphosed is a reminder of how quickly things can change in a city like ours. The transition from a quiet, often overlooked marina to today’s bustling Wharf has been dramatic—and not necessarily a bad one. The Wharf today is full of life and opportunity, with spaces that bring people together, fostering community in new ways. But I can’t help but think about the contrast—how places I knew so well have transformed, and how it all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.
It’s not just about the physical changes. The transformation of The Wharf is a testament to the speed of development, and it highlights something we need to keep in mind as we plan for the future of this city: progress is inevitable, but it needs to be inclusive. We all have memories of special places in D.C.—whether it’s a restaurant, a marina, or a park—that changed or disappeared as new developments took their place. And while change itself isn’t inherently bad, it’s essential that we bring the community along with it every step of the way.
Balancing progress with the preservation of community interests is never easy. It’s a delicate dance—on one hand, we don’t want to bulldoze over the voices of residents, erasing the things they cherish; on the other, we can’t let a few outspoken individuals stall progress that would benefit the many. It’s a difficult balance for sure. I’ve seen time and again how important it is to engage with the community, to ensure that people are heard and respected, but I also know how vital it is to move forward when there’s broad support for a project. The Wharf represents that challenge in real time.
As I ran past the new shops and boardwalks, I couldn’t help but think about how we preserve the soul of a place like The Wharf while embracing the opportunities that come with progress. We must learn from these developments and ensure that future projects—whether they’re in Southwest, Anacostia, or Chevy Chase—are guided by a spirit of collaboration. If you haven’t heard about the debate over the Chevy Chase Community Center, you likely will as that story continues to unfold. We have to ask ourselves: How can we balance nostalgia with the potential of what could be? How do we honor the past while building the future?
The Wharf’s transformation reminds me of what’s possible when we get it right, but also what’s at stake when we don’t. It’s a symbol of the growth many want to see across the city—and alternatively, that others despise. This is why we have to make sure that in the process, every step involves the community, ensuring that the changes are aligned with the needs, desires, and memories of those who call D.C. home.
Conclusion: A New Beginning – Continuing the Journey
As the end of today’s run neared, my mind returned to the moments and milestones that brought me here—not just today’s route through familiar streets and past landmarks, but the larger path that spans my life in Washington, D.C. From those early morning car rides to Gonzaga with my parents to now driving my own children to school on the very same streets, this city has been the backdrop for so much of my life. Washington, D.C.—this incredible city my family has been blessed to call home for seven generations—has shaped me in profound ways. Every step I take through this place, from advocating for McMillan to walks in Anacostia, from becoming a young adult on Capitol Hill to my childhood home on Connecticut Avenue, from my basement studio on U Street to one of my first jobs waiting tables at Sign of the Whale in Dupont, and through daily sales calls and deliveries as I hustled to establish my first company, has built who I am today.
This city holds my memories, my connections, and my hopes for the future. And just like every run I’ve done for the past 16 years, today’s run wasn’t just about logging miles. It was about processing the news I received yesterday about my campaign for D.C. Council At-Large. It’s easy to get lost in disappointment, especially after dedicating so much energy and heart to something. But this run gave me the space to contemplate this impactful moment, clear my mind, and to keep going, just like I always do.
I’ve always believed that being out in the community—engaging face-to-face with the people who live, work, and breathe this city—is what sets the foundation for real change. Whether it’s on the street, in a park, or over a phone call, I’ve been able to connect with so many of you in personal ways that I’ll always carry with me. It’s this connection that keeps me grounded, even when the course moving forward isn’t clear.
Throughout this campaign and in my work advocating for the McMillan project, I’ve been repeatedly reminded of the importance of showing up. Showing up for conversations, showing up for debates, and showing up for the daily grind of making progress, even when it’s slow. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary. And it’s in those moments when things don’t go exactly as planned that you learn the most about yourself. You learn to let go of the disappointment and to move forward with intention, without holding grudges, and without letting setbacks define you.
I know that my appeal of the Board of Elections’ decision to the D.C. Court of Appeals has caused frustration for some, and I completely understand why. I spent several weeks of early mornings and late nights reviewing the challenges line by line, but even then, I’ll admit that I’m less experienced in this process than many. I wouldn’t have pursued the challenge if I didn’t genuinely believe there were errors, but I also recognize that calling it a long shot is an understatement. I get that it’s easy to be upset or even to feel certain about what happened—but I would just ask that before rushing to judgment, consider that even what seems like firsthand knowledge can often be incomplete. I’m more than willing to talk through the details with anyone who has questions or concerns.
As I put everything into perspective—from the ballot process to the relationships I’ve built—it’s clear that this mission isn’t over. I’m more determined than ever to keep working for this city and its people, whether or not my name appears on a ballot. Washington, D.C. has always been about the collective effort. It’s a place where progress is made one conversation, one handshake, one vote at a time. And just because one door closed doesn’t mean the work stops. There’s always another way forward.
As I’ve passed through so many of our streets and neighborhoods today it’s been a reminder that the city, much like life itself, is always in transition. One moment, a place might seem forgotten, quiet, or stagnant, and the next, it’s transformed into something entirely new. Change happens, often faster than we expect, and it’s our responsibility to make sure that the change we guide leaves room for everyone. That’s been my mission all along—to build a D.C. that’s inclusive, where everyone feels they belong, and where progress doesn’t come at the cost of our history or our
As I wrapped up today’s run and continued to digest the twists and turns of this campaign, the phrase that came to me during the run—"go find your soul"—resonates. It’s a reminder that the real work isn’t just about policy or projects—it’s about so much more. It's about staying true to who you are and staying connected to the people around you.
To those who have been with me and helped navigate this particular road—from my rock, my wife Nicole, to my children Serafina and Merrick, to my friends and neighbors—I want to say thank you. Your support has meant everything, and it’s what drives me to keep going, no matter the obstacles.
Washington, D.C. is a city full of potential, and as long as I’m able to run its streets, walk its neighborhoods, and listen to its residents, I’ll keep finding new ways to serve. This isn’t the end—it’s just a new beginning. And I look forward to continuing this journey with all of you.
After receiving the order last Thursday that upheld the challenge to my petitions and the DC Board of Elections' ruling that removed my name from the November ballot—effectively ending my campaign for DC Council At-Large—I felt it was important to take the time to share more than just a brief announcement. This campaign has meant so much to me, and I didn't want to issue an impersonal or short statement. I've poured my heart into this journey and wanted to address all the incredible people in D.C. who have been part of it on so many levels. Simply fading away wouldn't do justice to the experience or the deep gratitude I have for everyone involved. That's why I've decided to share a comprehensive statement—it's a reflection on our shared journey and a heartfelt thank you to all who've supported me in my candidacy.
Beyond the Ballot: A Run on a Road Less Traveled in DC Politics
Introduction: Accepting Responsibility in Stride—Processing My Campaign’s Turning Point
For those who know me well—whether you're a neighbor, community member, former roommate, or my one-and-only wife, Nicole—you probably know about a defining habit of mine: my running streak. It started on September 6, 2008, and 16 years later, I haven’t missed a single day of running at least 1.5 miles. Over time, my runs have become much more than just a fitness routine—they’ve turned into a resource for reflection, a place where I work through decisions and thoughts that weigh heavily on my mind. Today’s run was no different. In fact, it was essential as I processed the impactful news I received yesterday about my campaign for D.C. Council At-Large.
This journey, spanning more than a year, has been one of the most significant experiences of my life. When I set out to run for office, it wasn’t just to hold a title—it was to connect with people in every corner of D.C., to listen to their concerns, and to fight for what matters most to them. Along the way, I’ve met countless neighbors, advocates, and residents who share a common hope for the future of our city. Each conversation, every walk through the streets, has given me invaluable insights into the fabric of D.C.—a city that my family has called home for generations.
But despite all the effort and heart that has gone into this campaign, yesterday brought the difficult news that I would not be on the ballot this November. While I turned in over the required 3,000 signatures, the challenge process revealed that many were ultimately invalidated for various reasons. Some of the signatures were from individuals who were not currently registered voters or were registered at a different address than what they wrote on the petition. Others were disqualified due to being misdated or illegible. It was a tough realization, especially because many of these residents fully intended to support my campaign. Excuses abound, but the ultimate responsibility for ensuring the validity of every signature falls on me as the candidate.
It is for this reason, among others, that I don’t harbor any resentment toward the individual who challenged the petitions. Challenges are part of the democratic process, and it’s important that we maintain the integrity of that process. While it didn’t work out in my favor this go-around, I respect the system and the right to challenge signatures. This campaign has always been about community and connection, and that’s something that extends even to those with whom we may disagree.
One setback, albeit a fatal blow to my campaign, will not diminish any of the wonderful outcomes of the past year. I’m filled with gratitude for the experience itself and for the people who have been with me every step of the way. First and foremost, I owe so much to my wife, Nicole, my biggest supporter. She’s been by my side through every high and low, balancing so much in her own life—working full-time during the day, raising two perfect children, and tirelessly volunteering to answer her call to build an animal welfare program that is so desperately needed in D.C. Somehow, she still made space for me to pursue this dream. I am forever grateful for her strength and love.
I also want to extend my most heartfelt thanks to my family—my mom, who has been an incredible source of guidance, and my little ones, Serafina and Merrick, who remind me every day of the importance of building a future in which they can thrive. And simply being present—with them and with others—putting down the phone, turning off the TV, and being there.
I've been fortunate to have a team of friends and supporters, both new and old, who have poured their time and energy into this campaign. I’m especially thankful to people like Danny and Jack, who have offered their wisdom and advice throughout the process. To all my friends, neighbors, community members, and everyone who has offered me encouragement along the way—thank you. This campaign has been built on your belief in a better future for D.C., and that belief is something I carry with me as I move forward.
As disappointing as the outcome may be, I’m not one to dwell on what could have been. This campaign has been about so much more than a ballot—it’s been about being present in the lives of D.C. residents, listening to their stories, and being a part of their communities. It’s about taking responsibility for the role I play, not just as a candidate but as a member of the community. While I won’t be addressing the ballot access petition process in the coming weeks, I will contemplate it further and use this experience as a learning opportunity for the future. The work doesn’t stop here.
This morning’s run started with a heavy heart, but as the miles added up, a sense of clarity began to take shape. Running has always been a way for me to process moments like this, and today, I considered how far I’ve come—not just in this campaign but in the relationships I’ve built, the lessons I’ve learned, and the opportunities that lie ahead. There’s so much to be thankful for, even in the face of a setback like this. This is not the end—it’s a new chapter, a different path, but one that I embrace with the same passion and determination that fueled me from day one.
As I neared the end of my run, I felt lighter, more resolved. The run, like so many others over the past 16 years, gave me the space I needed to work through what this means, why it happened, and how to move forward. I will continue to show up, to listen, and to fight for the issues that matter most to D.C. residents. This moment is just one part of a much larger story—one that is still being written.
Chapter 1: McMillan Reservoir Park – A Testament to Perseverance
As I began today’s run, my feet took me to what is now called Reservoir Park—a place that holds immense significance, not only because of its rich history but also because of the long road that has led it to where it is today. After 37 years of delay, the park, community center, splash pads, and playground finally opened to the public on June 14th of this year. It’s hard to believe that this project, which began when the city was granted the land in 1987 after the decommissioning of the McMillan sand filtration plant by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in 1986, has finally come to life.
For decades, the iconic silos towering over the site served as a symbol of something left undone—a place that, for much of many Washingtonians’ lives, was fenced off with chain link and barbed wire—mysterious and inaccessible. Year after year, we wondered, “When is something finally going to happen there?” Now, those silos stand as landmarks, intertwined with McMillan’s identity, while the surrounding space has transformed into something open, welcoming, and filled with smiling faces, young and old.
When I look back on the years of work that it took to bring this place to fruition, I’m often reminded of the many voices who opposed the development, both in its early iterations and as it stands now. While I didn’t always hold respect for their vision, I do now. Their concerns were not unfounded. Their ideas for the space would have been beautiful, and I acknowledge that the outcome we see today owes much to their efforts. The Friends of McMillan Park and other activists who fought to stall the project were instrumental in ensuring that public space and historic preservation became part of the plan. Originally, there were no plans for public space, and much of the site’s historic elements would have been permanently lost. For that, we have them to thank.
For many who actively protested, the outcome was not exactly what they wanted, but I’ve spoken with a large contingent of the opposition who take solace in the work they were able to accomplish. They recognize that it was, in large part, their persistence that saved key aspects of the site’s history and ensured that the community would have access to public amenities. Their efforts are an undeniable example of the benefits of community input, and it shouldn't take such a proactive, steadfast, and determined group for the powers that be to compromise with the community. I, for one, am thankful for their efforts. There came a point when it was necessary to move forward, and today, I believe most people can appreciate what McMillan offers—a space that honors its past while serving the community.
As many of us might expect, the community’s voice appears to have once again been heard. The McMillan name may be re-incorporated into the park; it has been speculated that the park and community center may soon be renamed McMillan Reservoir Park. The community’s advocacy has likely ensured that McMillan’s legacy will continue to live on—both the space itself and the name.
In the end, I believe the tension surrounding the project has led to connection. Although the disagreements initially created distance, they ultimately resulted in greater cohesiveness. Our communities here in Bloomingdale and Stronghold are a prime example for the entire city. Our neighbors lift each other’s voices, and while we often disagree (and maybe “often” is an understatement), it’s through our shared intent to see the best for our community that we’ve become one of the strongest communities in the city. The unity we’ve built through these challenges is something I’m proud to be a part of.
I remember watching intently as pieces of the historic fountain, the Three Graces, were returned to the site after being scattered around the city, some even sitting in a woodland “storage place” for years. These pieces were restored with granite sourced from the same quarry in New York that provided the original stone in the early 1900s. And then witnessing the final piece—the statue of the Three Graces themselves—as it was lifted by a crane and lowered down to complete the fountain for the first time in over 100 years. My sense of pride and joy seeing the water flowing from the top basin down was immense that first day and hasn’t waned since. The attention to detail has been incredible. Even the terracotta roof tiles were sourced from the original manufacturer in Ohio, which has been in operation since the early 1900s. Seeing these pieces come back together, restored with such care and precision, reminds me of the dedication that has gone into preserving McMillan’s history while bringing it into the present.
And then there are the smaller, less obvious details—like the 2,500 rusty manholes that once dotted the site. Some of these pieces were carefully etched out and repurposed as backdrops for the signage inside the community center. The park benches, created from repurposed underground columns that once supported the filtration system, are another subtle nod to the site’s history. These small touches contribute to the overall sense of continuity between McMillan’s past and its future.
But McMillan’s transformation isn’t complete. The next phase of the project promises to bring even more benefits to the community—particularly for those who have struggled to access essential amenities without relying on public transportation, cycling, or cars. A much-needed grocery store, restaurants, and retail spaces are set to open within walking distance, providing easier access for residents—an issue we grapple with in every corner of our city, from Penn Branch to the Palisades.
As I run past these spaces today, I can’t help but feel immense pride. As the co-founder of Develop McMillan and as vice chair of the McMillan Advisory Group, I’ve been consistently involved in the site’s transformation. And even further, as the Advisory Neighborhood Commissioner representing this single-member district, I’ve worked tirelessly to ensure that this project reaches its full potential. The long road to this moment—through delays, obstacles, and countless discussions—was beyond worth it. McMillan has always been more than just a development project for me; it’s been about creating a space that honors its past while giving the community something tangible to enjoy today and for generations to come.
Chapter 2: North Capitol Street– Threads of Personal History
Today’s run started at a place that represents both the progress we’ve made and the continued impact that lies ahead. McMillan is more than just a park or a community center—it’s a testament to what we can accomplish when we stay committed to a vision, no matter how long it takes.
Stepping off the park grounds and onto North Capitol Street, memories of my childhood commutes came rushing back. This stretch of road has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Mornings commuting with my parents to school at Gonzaga, often half-asleep in the backseat of our family minivan, are etched in my memory. My dad, who worked as a bill collector at Washington Gas, and my mom, an accountant at the Teamsters, both worked nearby, and I’ll always cherish those morning drives. Many days, I glanced at the beautiful row homes and neighborhoods lining North Capitol, perhaps foreshadowing my future. Quiet moments in the car, with the city unfolding around us as we awoke together, were my first real connection to D.C.’s streets and the people who keep the city moving. Looking back now, those commutes were foundational—not just for my education but for the sense of responsibility and commitment my parents instilled in me.
Running down these same streets today, I felt that omnipresent connection to both the past and the modern day. North Capitol Street has changed over the years, but in many ways, it remains the same—a place of movement, community, and history. This part of the city, particularly near my campaign headquarters at 1308 North Capitol Street between New York Avenue and Hanover Place, has become an intimate part of my daily life in the last year. It’s where I’ve worked, built relationships, and connected with residents through initiatives like the North Capitol Trust Builders. It’s also where
Glen works as a street sweeper along North Capitol, covering the area between New York and Rhode Island Avenues. We’ve gotten to know each other well over the past year, and I often run into him during my daily jogs or while working at headquarters. When we first met, we bonded over basketball, and I gave him the nickname “Big Dog” as a nod to former NBA player Glenn Robinson. He liked the name, and it stuck. Our conversations often start with sports, and today was no different. We talked about recent games and shared stories from our days coaching pee wee football.
But today’s conversation took a more serious turn. I told Glen about the news I’d received on Thursday—the decision that removed me from the ballot for the upcoming election. Despite collecting over 3,000 signatures, the challenge process resulted in too many disqualified entries, and now I wouldn’t be on the ballot in November. Glen listened carefully and offered his support. “People know you’re out here. They know what you’re doing,” he said. His words reminded me that this
Continuing my run, I reflected on how much North Capitol has grown in meaning for me. It’s more than just a road I’ve traveled since childhood—it’s a place of connection, relationships, and community coming together in small but powerful ways. Friends like Glen, who always pause to offer a friendly word, are what make this city special.
North Capitol isn’t just a part of my campaign—it’s a part of who I am. And no matter what the future holds, these connections are what keep me moving forward, both on my runs and in my life.
Chapter 3: Foundations at Gonzaga and Beyond
As I reached the tail-end of North Capitol Street, Gonzaga College High School came into view—a place of profound significance in my life. Here, the motto “Men for Others” was ingrained in me, shaping my values and commitment to service. Facing North Capitol Street is St. Aloysius Church, or St. Al’s, part of the Gonzaga campus. Beneath it lies the McKenna Center, a haven that serves as a homeless shelter for men and provides essential services to families grappling with food insecurity. Volunteering there opened my eyes to the depths of empathy and compassion, instilling at a young age the importance of direct service—principles paramount at Gonzaga that have continued to guide me personally and throughout my campaign.
Continuing along North Capitol, I turned onto Massachusetts Avenue just past Union Station—a landmark that holds fond memories from my younger years. Growing up, I would take the L8 bus to Friendship Heights and then catch the Red Line at Union Station to head to Gonzaga basketball camp. Those rides were more than just transportation—they were my introduction to the city, to independence, and to the vibrant world of Washington, D.C. I remember the hum of the Metro, the busy commuters around me, and the feel of the city waking up as I made my way downtown. It’s interesting how those early experiences shaped my view of D.C. and my love for this city long before I fully realized it.
Today’s route led me to another place laden with family history, which I didn't learn about until later in life: St. Joseph’s on 2nd Street NE. I was a frequent attendee when I lived nearby. Like so many churches in D.C.—whether St. Thomas Apostle in Woodley Park, Immaculate Conception in Shaw, or St. Anthony’s in Brookland—St. Joseph’s is woven into my family history. It was only after I told my mom about my new parish that she said, “Oh yeah, my grandparents went to St. Joseph’s,” and later added, “Your great-grandfather operated a horse-drawn milk delivery company on Capitol Hill.”
The Hill introduced me to the myriad of individuals who come to D.C. from all over the country to work and learn within the halls of Congress. It’s a unique facet of our city that many native Washingtonians might not consider or engage with, or even intentionally steer clear of. Whether on the Senate side in Northeast or the House side in Southeast, the hum of governmental activity is ever-present. Beneath the surface lies a little-known network of underground corridors connecting the Senate and House office buildings. On the House side, there’s an expansive cafeteria packed with staffers when Congress is in session, and on the Senate side, my old barbershop. There’s even a small-scale subway system transporting members and staff to and from the Capitol building itself. If you haven’t walked the halls of Congress, I highly recommend it—the doors are open for you. It’s an enlightening experience that offers a tangible sense of our government's—and, in many ways, our city's—inner workings.
From there, my run took me past my old apartment near Massachusetts Avenue NE—a place that evokes a different set of memories. It was one of my first homes after college, a space not much larger than a janitor’s closet. Back then, I juggled multiple jobs, interning during the day and waiting tables at Union Pub and Café Berlin by night. The hustle was intense and the days long, but I didn't realize it at the time. Those years instilled in me the values of hard work and perseverance. Passing by the apartment, I felt a sense of nostalgia for those early days, discovering a different side of D.C. and learning formative lessons about the importance of exploration.
During this part of the run, I tuned in to listen to the ballot access lottery, taking a few minutes to think about my removal from the ballot. While there was a moment of disappointment, it also offered perspective—a catalyst to reassess and fuel my determination moving forward.
As I navigated through these neighborhoods, I pondered, as I often do, the unique dynamics of each. Washington, D.C., is a mosaic of communities with distinct personalities. Some areas are home to native Washingtonians who’ve been here for generations, while others are filled with newcomers, shocked to meet someone who's actually from here. My neighborhood in Bloomingdale is a hybrid—a blend of lifelong residents and recent arrivals. It’s easy to focus on the differences between those generationally rooted here and those who are new, but the reality is that we’re all Washingtonians. Regardless of how long we’ve called this city home, each of us contributes to its present and future. It’s vital to emphasize what unites us rather than what sets us apart.
Chapter 4: Mt. Olivet – Embracing Family Legacy
As I made my way east on H Street toward Benning Road and Hechinger Mall, a thought crossed my mind that changed the direction of my run—I realized I was close to Mt. Olivet Cemetery, where several members of my family are laid to rest, including my great-great-great-grandfather, William O’Donnell. William’s story has been a source of pride and motivation for me since I stumbled upon it while researching my family roots in D.C. in 2016, and today, of all days, it felt right to make that detour and pay my respects.
William O’Donnell emigrated from Ireland at the age of 14, arriving in Washington, D.C., shortly after apprenticing in New York, with little more than hope and determination. His passage was undoubtedly not an easy one, but within a decade of arriving in America, he fought in the Union Army during the Civil War as part of the 5th Battalion of the District of Columbia Infantry. To leave behind everything you’ve known, cross an ocean, and fight in a foreign war for your new home is a level of selfless courage and perseverance that I’ve often contemplated. As I walked towards his gravesite at Mt. Olivet today, those examples of courage and resilience felt particularly significant.
The past few days and weeks, especially after the court order on Thursday that ultimately removed me from the ballot, have required a certain level of resilience—different, of course, from what William faced, but resilience nonetheless. Standing there by his resting place, I was reminded of the strength that has been passed down through generations in my family. William didn’t just fight for the Union; he went on to become a successful businessman in Washington, D.C., founding a tin roofing business that became highly prosperous. He even became the majority shareholder of the Washington Senators baseball team, eventually selling his shares to Clark Griffith, whose name would become synonymous with the team and stadium. Discovering these details about my family’s history as an adult, I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for the ties that bind me to this city. Washington, D.C., isn’t just where I live; it’s woven into my family’s legacy.
Standing at William’s grave, the weight of the past week felt considerably lighter, and then as I placed my hand on his tombstone, two phrases came to me seemingly out of nowhere: “keep going” and “go find your soul.” I don’t know exactly where those words came from or why they arrived just then, but the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. They immediately resonated with me, as if handed down from my great-great-great-grandfather himself—a reminder that, no matter the challenges, the key is to persist. “Keep going” speaks to that fundamental need to push forward, while “go find your soul” felt like an instant invitation to dig deeper, to evaluate the things in my life that hold the greatest meaning and purpose. It felt like a message from my past, urging me to pause and ground myself firmly in the present, focusing on the importance of carefully considering the multitude of opportunities before me before deciding which direction might lead me toward fulfilling my responsibilities with the specific gifts I’ve been given.
William’s life is a testament to perseverance in the face of adversity, and standing at his gravesite, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to my own journey. Like him, I’ve faced challenges—most recently with the ballot decision—but I know the way forward is through persistence and hard work. His success as a businessman and his contributions to the city are reminders that even when things don’t go as planned, there is always a way to build something meaningful.
This detour to Mt. Olivet today was more than just a visit to honor my ancestors—it was a chance to quietly consider what it means to carry on that legacy of resilience. As I continued my run from the cemetery, those words— “keep going” and “go find your soul”—stayed with me. They echoed the values that William passed down, values that have shaped not only my family but also the city we’ve called home for generations. Washington, D.C., has always been a city of resilience, and today I felt as connected to that spirit as ever.
Chapter 5: Minnesota Avenue – Deepening Community Ties
Soon I found myself crossing over Kingman Island east of the Anacostia River, down Benning Road toward Minnesota Avenue—a part of the city that has newfound meaning due to the time I’ve spent here over the past year. Initially, my connection to this area was limited to childhood memories of attending football games nearby at RFK Stadium. Later, as I worked as an alcohol distributor, servicing liquor stores, markets, and retail accounts along Minnesota Avenue and in the surrounding neighborhoods, I gained another, albeit more limited, perspective. During those years, I was more of a passerby—observing the area without fully understanding the depth of the challenges it faced. But neither my childhood memories nor my distributor experience compared to the understanding that my recent work has given me.
In October of 2023, I participated in a public safety walk here on Minnesota Avenue as part of a larger series of safety walks across the city. It was a crisp fall morning, and as I walked the streets with community leaders and residents, I quickly realized just how little I knew about this part of the city beyond my earlier experiences. That day opened my eyes and laid the foundation for a more tangible commitment to understanding the issues facing this community.
Since that walk, Minnesota Avenue has become much more than a passing memory—it’s become part of my routine and a place where I’ve organically built relationships. I’ve made a habit of walking alone, stopping along the way to get to know the residents and small business owners who call this area home. Walking alone allows for a different kind of interaction—more personal, more intimate. While I’ve walked with many community leaders, police officers, and residents, I find that walking by myself opens up conversations that are less likely to happen in group settings. I often think about this in relation to my years waiting tables. There’s a difference between waiting on a table by yourself and waiting with another server in training. The dynamic changes, and the interaction becomes less personal, less direct. When I walk alone, I find that I’m able to build new friendships in a more organic way.
From the McDonald’s near Benning Road to nearby spots like Norma’s Café, each walk has expanded my understanding of what this community faces daily. Dawn, who owns Norma’s Café with her husband of over 25 years, Marcus, is just one of many residents whose spirit has inspired me. Born and raised nearby in Ward 7, they have worked hard to build a place that embodies their passion for family and serving this Northeast community. When I stop by Norma’s Café, I’m reminded of the connectivity that homegrown businesses bring to a neighborhood and the hard work entrepreneurs undertake to make dreams come true, especially in areas of the city often overlooked by broader initiatives.
But today, my focus was not just on the businesses and the daily hustle of Minnesota Avenue. As I passed by the former site of "the wall" at McDonald’s—a longstanding feature of this part of town—I contemplated the changes that have occurred over the past year. The wall, eventually torn down, was a source of controversy—welcomed by some and deeply upsetting to others. In some ways, a direct correlation to most political campaigns. The wall served as a gathering place for many, and its removal sparked division and debate. Some viewed it as a necessary step for revitalizing the area, while others saw it as an erasure of a space that held meaning for longtime residents. In many ways, the tearing down of the wall is emblematic of the broader changes happening across the city—a city divided between old and new, tradition and progress. What stood out to me most was the lack of communication surrounding the decision. Most residents who used the wall regularly weren’t even aware it was being torn down until the demolition began. Moments like these highlight our need for better engagement, better dialogue, and a stronger connection between those making decisions and the people living with the consequences every day.
Upon nearing Minnesota Avenue I thought about how this community is no longer just a place I pass through—it’s where I’ve built relationships, learned hard lessons, and increased my commitment to serving the people who live here. This year has been more than a campaign—it’s been about being present in communities that have long felt disconnected from the broader city agenda. Minnesota Avenue, with all its challenges and potential, is a microcosm of the work that still needs to be done across Washington, D.C.
As I neared of this stretch of Minnesota Avenue, I passed by Trey—a friend I made during that first public safety walk. Trey is a Denver Broncos fan, and over the weeks and months that followed, our conversations have ranged from football to the everyday struggles here, as well as those that permeate throughout every ward. I told him about Thursday’s decision that removed me from the ballot. As we stood on the sidewalk in front of Greenway Liquors, Trey offered words of encouragement. “It’s just one game,” he said. “It’s the first round—you’ve got more rounds to go.” His simple words stayed with me. In many ways, they summed up the I’ve been on. Losing this round might be hard, but there are more rounds to come, and there’s always the next game, the next opportunity.
You can’t understand a community by driving through it or relying on statistics and reports. You have to be present, walk the streets, and listen to the stories of the people who live here. Continuing on, Trey’s words echoed in my mind: it’s just one game, and there are many more to come.
Chapter 6: Anacostia – Building Meaningful Connections
Continuing down Minnesota Avenue and making my way into Anacostia, I reflected on how my connection to this neighborhood has expanded. While I’ve always understood how important Anacostia is to our city's foundation—having met people from the area over the years through different events and work—I hadn’t spent much time being truly present here until the past 12 months. My understanding of Anacostia has shifted from a broader, external appreciation to a deeper, more personal connection formed through direct engagement with the community and its people.
My early memories of Anacostia were formed from the outside looking in, as I took the bus with my freshman football team to practice at Anacostia High School’s field, adjacent to the Anacostia River. Back then, the river was in terrible shape—polluted and neglected—and was nowhere near the welcoming pedestrian corridor it presents today. The Anacostia Riverwalk Trail was non-existent. But even during those years, I knew this neighborhood had an inner strength that wasn’t always visible from the outside. Only recently have I truly come to understand what that strength looks like up close, as I’ve spent more days here, building relationships and being present in the day-to-day life of the community.
Today, as I ran along these now-familiar streets, I was on the lookout for Officer Bruno, an MPD officer who is a constant presence in this neighborhood and someone I’ve come to respect greatly. Officer Bruno exemplifies what community policing should be—he’s engaged, on foot or on his bike, and trusted by many of the residents he serves. I’ve crossed paths with him frequently while working in Anacostia, but today, I didn’t see him. Even so, his presence is felt here, and it’s officers like him who remind me why community-based policing matters so much.
Anacostia's community and its aforementioned strength are found in its people. A friend of mine, Mo, is a perfect example of the connectivity and cohesion that exists throughout these streets. Mo has been a fixture and a connector for me since I met him on one of my first walks. What started as an arm's-length introduction as we shared the same sidewalk and our eyes met has developed into a true friendship and bond. He’s always out on the streets, offering a friendly wave or kind word to those in he meets. Over the past year, our conversations have strengthened our bond, and I’ve come to see Mo as someone who embodies the quiet strength and everyday heroism that often goes unnoticed but is so essential to this neighborhood. He knows the pulse of the community and looks out for those around him.
Today, I ran into Mo once again. Just as I had shared my recent news with Glen and Trey earlier, I told him about Thursday's decision that removed me from the ballot. His response was a bit different from the others. "Man, I don't know why you'd want to do that anyways. You have to be crazy," he said with a chuckle. Always the voice of reason and a comforting one at that, his words brought a smile to my face. Mo has a way of grounding me, offering perspective when I need it most.
Heading up MLK Ave., I focused on my time here and the importance of not just talking the talk, but showing up and listening to residents' concerns. In Anacostia, those concerns often center around safety, economic opportunity, and ensuring that the neighborhood’s longstanding residents aren’t displaced by the rapid development taking place. It’s a delicate balance, one that requires careful attention and engagement. I’ve seen firsthand how important it is to build trust between the police and the community, and that trust only comes from consistent, face-to-face interactions. Officers like Bruno exemplify that kind of trust-building, and while I didn’t see him today, I know he’s out here making a difference.
Passing by landmarks like the Anacostia Arts Center and Baby Einstein Child Development Center, I recalled the day of the gas explosion that demolished Dan Akil Convenience Market and shook this community. It was a stark reminder of how quickly things can change. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the explosion shook more than just the buildings—it shook the community. I remember rushing to the scene—the same convenience store I had visited with Mo just a week prior, now engulfed in flames that burned for hours after the explosion. That experience reminded me of how important it is to be present in the community, not just when things are going well, but especially when challenges arise.
As I neared the end of this route, passing by Thurgood Marshall Academy and the Anacostia Metro Station, I gave thanks to how much this neighborhood has given me. The people here, like Mo, have shared their stories, their struggles, and their hopes for the future. And while there’s still much work to be done, there’s also so much potential. Anacostia is a place steeped in history, vibrant culture, and undeniable strength, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to be part of its story.
Chapter 7: The Wharf – Balancing Progress and Preservation
As I crossed Suitland Parkway and headed over the Frederick Douglass Bridge nearing The Wharf, its modern waterfront—teeming with new restaurants, shops, and bustling public spaces—brought me back to a different era. Before this transformation, places like Gangplank Marina, Cantina Marina, and the municipal fish market were cornerstones of this hidden part of the city. These were familiar haunts, seldom visited by tourists but cherished by Washingtonians who would head down to the waterfront for fresh crabs or seafood from the fish market—the oldest continuously operating open-air seafood market in the United States, dating back to 1805. It’s a fact even many D.C. natives don’t realize. Gangplank Marina, with its houseboats and laid-back atmosphere, felt like a hidden treasure—a place where you could pause and decompress by the water. Cantina Marina was a one-of-a-kind spot, the sort that made you think, “Where am I?”
I remember my first encounters with this area—how it was passed down through word of mouth, maybe a mention of Gangplank or a tip from a friend about grabbing seafood at the market. It’s funny how certain places in Washington become part of the city’s aura that way—not because they’re marketed, but because they simply exist in the hearts of residents. Back then, you’d come to the waterfront not for the glitz, but for a kind of authenticity that was undeniably Washington.
Seeing how this area has metamorphosed is a reminder of how quickly things can change in a city like ours. The transition from a quiet, often overlooked marina to today’s bustling Wharf has been dramatic—and not necessarily a bad one. The Wharf today is full of life and opportunity, with spaces that bring people together, fostering community in new ways. But I can’t help but think about the contrast—how places I knew so well have transformed, and how it all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.
It’s not just about the physical changes. The transformation of The Wharf is a testament to the speed of development, and it highlights something we need to keep in mind as we plan for the future of this city: progress is inevitable, but it needs to be inclusive. We all have memories of special places in D.C.—whether it’s a restaurant, a marina, or a park—that changed or disappeared as new developments took their place. And while change itself isn’t inherently bad, it’s essential that we bring the community along with it every step of the way.
Balancing progress with the preservation of community interests is never easy. It’s a delicate dance—on one hand, we don’t want to bulldoze over the voices of residents, erasing the things they cherish; on the other, we can’t let a few outspoken individuals stall progress that would benefit the many. It’s a difficult balance for sure. I’ve seen time and again how important it is to engage with the community, to ensure that people are heard and respected, but I also know how vital it is to move forward when there’s broad support for a project. The Wharf represents that challenge in real time.
As I ran past the new shops and boardwalks, I couldn’t help but think about how we preserve the soul of a place like The Wharf while embracing the opportunities that come with progress. We must learn from these developments and ensure that future projects—whether they’re in Southwest, Anacostia, or Chevy Chase—are guided by a spirit of collaboration. If you haven’t heard about the debate over the Chevy Chase Community Center, you likely will as that story continues to unfold. We have to ask ourselves: How can we balance nostalgia with the potential of what could be? How do we honor the past while building the future?
The Wharf’s transformation reminds me of what’s possible when we get it right, but also what’s at stake when we don’t. It’s a symbol of the growth many want to see across the city—and alternatively, that others despise. This is why we have to make sure that in the process, every step involves the community, ensuring that the changes are aligned with the needs, desires, and memories of those who call D.C. home.
Conclusion: A New Beginning – Continuing the Journey
As the end of today’s run neared, my mind returned to the moments and milestones that brought me here—not just today’s route through familiar streets and past landmarks, but the larger path that spans my life in Washington, D.C. From those early morning car rides to Gonzaga with my parents to now driving my own children to school on the very same streets, this city has been the backdrop for so much of my life. Washington, D.C.—this incredible city my family has been blessed to call home for seven generations—has shaped me in profound ways. Every step I take through this place, from advocating for McMillan to walks in Anacostia, from becoming a young adult on Capitol Hill to my childhood home on Connecticut Avenue, from my basement studio on U Street to one of my first jobs waiting tables at Sign of the Whale in Dupont, and through daily sales calls and deliveries as I hustled to establish my first company, has built who I am today.
This city holds my memories, my connections, and my hopes for the future. And just like every run I’ve done for the past 16 years, today’s run wasn’t just about logging miles. It was about processing the news I received yesterday about my campaign for D.C. Council At-Large. It’s easy to get lost in disappointment, especially after dedicating so much energy and heart to something. But this run gave me the space to contemplate this impactful moment, clear my mind, and to keep going, just like I always do.
I’ve always believed that being out in the community—engaging face-to-face with the people who live, work, and breathe this city—is what sets the foundation for real change. Whether it’s on the street, in a park, or over a phone call, I’ve been able to connect with so many of you in personal ways that I’ll always carry with me. It’s this connection that keeps me grounded, even when the course moving forward isn’t clear.
Throughout this campaign and in my work advocating for the McMillan project, I’ve been repeatedly reminded of the importance of showing up. Showing up for conversations, showing up for debates, and showing up for the daily grind of making progress, even when it’s slow. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary. And it’s in those moments when things don’t go exactly as planned that you learn the most about yourself. You learn to let go of the disappointment and to move forward with intention, without holding grudges, and without letting setbacks define you.
I know that my appeal of the Board of Elections’ decision to the D.C. Court of Appeals has caused frustration for some, and I completely understand why. I spent several weeks of early mornings and late nights reviewing the challenges line by line, but even then, I’ll admit that I’m less experienced in this process than many. I wouldn’t have pursued the challenge if I didn’t genuinely believe there were errors, but I also recognize that calling it a long shot is an understatement. I get that it’s easy to be upset or even to feel certain about what happened—but I would just ask that before rushing to judgment, consider that even what seems like firsthand knowledge can often be incomplete. I’m more than willing to talk through the details with anyone who has questions or concerns.
As I put everything into perspective—from the ballot process to the relationships I’ve built—it’s clear that this mission isn’t over. I’m more determined than ever to keep working for this city and its people, whether or not my name appears on a ballot. Washington, D.C. has always been about the collective effort. It’s a place where progress is made one conversation, one handshake, one vote at a time. And just because one door closed doesn’t mean the work stops. There’s always another way forward.
As I’ve passed through so many of our streets and neighborhoods today it’s been a reminder that the city, much like life itself, is always in transition. One moment, a place might seem forgotten, quiet, or stagnant, and the next, it’s transformed into something entirely new. Change happens, often faster than we expect, and it’s our responsibility to make sure that the change we guide leaves room for everyone. That’s been my mission all along—to build a D.C. that’s inclusive, where everyone feels they belong, and where progress doesn’t come at the cost of our history or our
As I wrapped up today’s run and continued to digest the twists and turns of this campaign, the phrase that came to me during the run—"go find your soul"—resonates. It’s a reminder that the real work isn’t just about policy or projects—it’s about so much more. It's about staying true to who you are and staying connected to the people around you.
To those who have been with me and helped navigate this particular road—from my rock, my wife Nicole, to my children Serafina and Merrick, to my friends and neighbors—I want to say thank you. Your support has meant everything, and it’s what drives me to keep going, no matter the obstacles.
Washington, D.C. is a city full of potential, and as long as I’m able to run its streets, walk its neighborhoods, and listen to its residents, I’ll keep finding new ways to serve. This isn’t the end—it’s just a new beginning. And I look forward to continuing this journey with all of you.
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