So after I dropped Kelly off… I knew it wouldn’t take long for my next ride. That always happens when I’m in Roxbury. There’s a rhythm to this part of Boston, like the streets themselves know how to keep things moving. Something about the neighborhood always keeps my day flowing.

Roxbury is changing, though. Slowly, steadily, and not always in ways that feel right. Like so many parts of Boston, it’s being re-engineered—gentrified, to use the more clinical term. It’s that strange blend of shiny new condos popping up next to triple-deckers that have seen generations grow up. And with those changes come higher rents, new faces, and the heartbreaking stories of long-time residents being priced out of the very communities they helped build. People who’ve lived here for decades are being forced to move further out—Dorchester, Hyde Park, maybe even out of Boston altogether—just to afford a roof over their heads.

It’s a familiar story. The same pattern is playing out across the city. They even gave the Seaport area a slick name a while back—the Innovation District. At the time, it made sense. Startups and tech companies were flocking there, setting up shop in renovated warehouses and new buildings that gleamed under the harbor sun. But irony has a long memory. Now, many of those same “innovative” companies can’t afford the rent themselves and are getting squeezed out, just like the artists and small business owners before them.

But I digress. That’s what happens when you spend your days behind the wheel—you see a lot, hear a lot, and start to connect the dots between neighborhoods, people, and policies. I suppose I should get back to what I was actually going to share: my next ride in Roxbury.

I pulled up in front of one of the projects, and almost right away, a woman and her two sons came out and hopped into the backseat. A single mom, probably in her early thirties, juggling a Sunday morning with grace and that kind of quiet strength you just feel in your bones. The boys were young—one maybe nine, the other a teenager. I greeted them like I always do.

“So how are you all today?”

Without missing a beat, the older boy—Jullian, 14 years old—blurted out, “AMAZING!”

Now that caught my attention. I don’t hear that word too often, especially not from a teenager. “Amazing,” he said, with full confidence, no sarcasm, no hesitation.

I turned back slightly and smiled. “Amazing, huh? What’s so amazing today?”

He looked at me like it was the simplest thing in the world and said, “I woke up. It’s amazing to be alive!”

Let me tell you something—that hit me. Right there in the middle of a Sunday morning, on a random street in Roxbury, a 14-year-old reminded me of something that many of us forget: gratitude. Real, unfiltered gratitude. Not for anything flashy or dramatic, but for the simple, powerful fact of being alive.

I nodded and told Jullian, “You’ve got it right, man. What you put out into the world, that energy—it comes back to you. So keep putting out the good vibes.”

His mom smiled at that. She didn’t say much, but you could tell she was proud. You could feel the bond between the three of them—tight, loving, solid. They told me they were headed to grab breakfast after church, and I could see they were genuinely looking forward to it. Not just the food, but the time together.

And that, to me, is what’s truly amazing.