About

Somebody

I am somebody and nobody. Somebody—because I've sat with CEOs and scholars, spoken at Harvard and Yale and Oxford, built frameworks that shape how leaders think. Nobody—because none of that is the point. The point is you. Your potential. The version of yourself you haven't met yet.

I show up as whatever the moment requires: coach, strategist, speaker, thought partner, catalyst, friend. But underneath every role is the same commitment— to meet you where you are. And help you close the gap between who you are and who you're becoming.

Polymath

I was eighteen. Lower-class. From a city no one leaves. No connections. No context. No clear path forward. Just an unsettled heart and a hunger I couldn't name—except that I expected more of myself than my circumstances suggested I should.

So I left. Chased learning across borders. Landed, eventually, at Cambridge—the year it was ranked number one in the world. I arrived thinking, I know so much. I left thinking, I know enough to know that what I know is nothing. That epiphany didn't humble me into silence. It upgraded my map of reality. I stopped trying to master one field and started listening to all of them—philosophy, economics, neuroscience, computer science, psychology, business, theology, science, art. Not to collect knowledge, but to connect it.

That's what a polymath does. Not refusing to specialize, but refusing to be siloed. Seeing the threads between disciplines that others treat as strangers.

Cicero did this two thousand years ago—rose from modest beginnings to become Rome's greatest orator and statesman, weaving rhetoric, law, philosophy, and politics into one life. I don't compare myself to Cicero. But I understand him. The center of your world can get bigger. Big enough to shape other worlds. And it doesn't matter where you start.

Coach 

I coach humans. Not your title. Not your résumé. Not the polished version you bring to the theatre of life. The actual you—the one who carries doubt alongside ambition, who holds the capacity for greatness and brokenness in the same breath. That's the beauty of what it means to be human.

My approach begins with a simple conviction: you exist beyond any category the world could place you in. Your face tells a story I haven't heard yet. Your potential is not mine to predict—it's mine to protect. When we work together, I'm not here to fix you. I'm here to see you—clearly, fully, without the lens of my own interests or biases. And from that seeing, we build. Goals. Strategies. The leadership capacity that was always there, waiting to be called forward.

I'm certified through Brown University's School of Professional Studies. But credentials don't create transformation. Relationship does. And that's what I offer: a relationship built on my commitment to your becoming.

Speaker 

I've spoken at TEDx, Oxford, Harvard, Princeton, Brown, and Yale. I've also spoken to the incarcerated men at the Louisiana State Penitentiary—known as America's bloodiest prison—about what freedom actually means. Same commitment. Different rooms. The through-line is simple: I go where the room needs language for what it’s living. Artificial Intelligence at Princeton. Sex trafficking in Málaga, Spain. Neo-Platonism at All Souls College, Oxford. Identity with undergraduates at Harvard. The subject changes. The posture doesn't.

I believe the universe is interconnected—that science is incomplete without art, and art is incomplete without science. Every discipline is a dialect of the same language. My job on stage is translation: weaving threads from computer science, philosophy, neuroscience, and business into something an audience can feel, not just hear.

Words are not neutral. They can wound or heal, clarify or obscure, give life or drain it. I choose mine carefully.

When I step onto a stage, I'm not speaking to an audience. I'm speaking for them—giving voice to what they already sense but haven't yet named. The message underneath every talk is the same: You can love, lead, and live better. And so can I.

Beniamin 

My name is Beniamin. In Hebrew, it means “son of the right hand”—the one who stands beside the king. I used to wonder why parents do this. Why burden a child with a name that big? Now I understand. A name like that is not a prediction. It's a summons. A reminder that we are accountable to a greatness before and beyond ourselves. But how could someone like me live up to it? My paternal grandfather worked on a pig farm. My maternal grandfather was a shepherd in the hills of Transylvania. My father survived a Communist labor camp—and emerged believing that adversity could be turned into ambition, iron into gold. He used to tell me: The extraordinary is simply the ordinary with a better heart.

I am a novus homo—a Latin phrase for the first in a family to rise to significance. Forged from nothing. No inheritance but character. And character, I've learned, is everything.

It's what testifies for you when you're not in the room. It's what opens doors at institutions like Harvard, Yale, and Brown—and what keeps you humble once you're inside. It's what earns recognition you never sought, including being named by the U.S. government as a person of “national interest and extraordinary ability.”

But character doesn't guarantee glory. It guarantees something stranger: a different way of seeing. It whispers the odd principle to consider others as better than yourself, to spend your influence on their becoming, to love them as you're still learning to love yourself, to make their flourishing your measure of success.

Character doesn't climb for the view. It climbs to see more clearly—and to serve what it sees. This is what it means to be a novus homo. To rise from nothing. To keep rising—not toward status, but toward sight. Not to grasp, but to give. To look at another human being and see potential they haven't claimed yet. And to help them claim it.

And if a name can be a summons, so can a life: to stand beside what is good, and spend our strength helping others rise.