I started as a child laborer. Now I move $6M of freight a year — from the other side of the world.

People see the numbers — $6.2M in freight, 2,600 shipments, a G63 — and assume I started somewhere they didn't. I didn't. I started with nothing, and most of the way here I had no idea what I was doing.

It started with construction waste and no safety net

I come from a single-mother household. I never really knew my father, and for most of my life I've been on my own. That's why I got my first job at twelve or thirteen — hauling construction waste off building sites, eight to ten hours a day for about ten dollars. When my friends and I could find a truck to unload, we'd do that instead: harder, faster, but it paid double. We couldn't find them often enough, so I just kept taking whatever labor I could get.

Somewhere in there I started my first real online business as a teenager — running gaming services at a scale most people my age weren't thinking about. At its peak I was managing dozens of devices and had hired my first employee. It eventually fell apart, mostly because I didn't yet know how to hold onto money or manage people. But it taught me the thing that mattered: I could build something online, from where I was, with nothing but time and effort.

The army, university, and a hard reset

I served two years in the military. Before that I'd tested into university for free — I've always been good at spotting the pattern in a system and using it — but the truth is I always hated it and never wanted to be there. By my fourth year they'd had enough — three years in and I hadn't learned anything, so they kicked me out in my final year. So I served, came back, and started completely over with one goal: make a thousand dollars a month. That was the whole dream. Just a thousand.

I applied everywhere. No connections, so it was cold emails, LinkedIn, job boards. I bounced through a few things that weren't for me. Then, on January 25th, 2022, I walked into a small logistics office that needed someone who spoke good English. That was the one thing I had.

I want to be honest: I got lucky that first day. This industry is not raindrops of money. But that day showed me what was possible, and I decided right there to go all in. I showed up earliest, left latest, solved problems that weren't mine, and made myself so useful that office after office let me work from home. First five days: $350. First full month: around $1,500. By my third month: $5,000. I'd come back from the army dreaming about a thousand a month, and two months later I was making five.

Quitting a good income to start from zero

Then it hit me that I was building someone else's business. So I quit — went from a stable $4–5K a month to almost nothing, sitting in a rented ten-square-meter room, running my own dispatch operation with one truck that made me maybe $500 that first month. One truck became two, then five. It was slow and full of problems that sounded small and felt enormous.

The brokering side was worse. For five straight months I called, emailed, and worked twelve-hour days and landed exactly zero customers. Most people quit by week two. I didn't, because I'd already proven the logic once: if I could win one truck driver as a customer, I could win one manufacturer — and if I could win one manufacturer, I could win the tenth. Eventually it broke my way. It always does, if you don't leave before it happens.

Today I run dispatching, freight brokering, and international shipping — the last one being my favorite, because with the right connections it's the most profitable and least time-consuming thing I do. I moved abroad once the business could support it, I drive the car I used to only dream about, and I work with a team across dispatch, sales, and marketing. All of it runs remotely. None of it required me to be anywhere in particular.

The $50,000 mistake — and why Overhustla exists

When I was new to brokering, I booked a load with two units worth $300,000 combined, on a carrier who only carried $250,000 in insurance. I didn't understand how coverage worked, and nobody was watching closely enough to stop me. There was an accident. The units were destroyed. The $50,000 gap came straight out of my pocket — deducted from my commissions, month after month, until it was paid off.

That's the reason Overhustla exists. Everything I know, I learned by making the mistake first and paying for it after. That's the slowest, most expensive way to learn anything. You don't have to do it that way. You can take my mistakes, take my experience, and skip straight to doing it right — and move a lot faster than I did.