Ten years ago, the spine of a 25-year-old Black man was severed while in police custody in Baltimore. Ten years ago, the city that I call home erupted in grief, rage and a desperate cry for justice. And 10 years ago I stood face to face with a line of riot police, the president and instigating news outlets and told the world what we already knew: “We are not thugs.”

It’s been a decade since Freddie Gray was arrested in Sandtown, placed into a police van unsecured and later died from injuries that no person should endure while in the custody of those sworn to “protect and serve.”

A decade since Baltimore erupted not just in flames but in frustration, in grief and in truth. When it took the burning of a CVS store, not the death of a young Black man, for people to pay attention.

A decade later, I find myself asking: What has really changed?

Baltimore, Ferguson, Minneapolis. Gray’s death was not an isolated incident. But something about Baltimore hit differently. Young people from this neglected, mismanaged and forgotten city stood up and said enough.

It’s easy for people to look back and try to box that moment into a simplified narrative: a riot, a rebellion, an uprising, a tragedy. But for those of us who lived it, who marched through the streets, who stood in the face of tanks and tear gas, who were demonized for daring to feel pain, it was something deeper. It was the inevitable breaking point after generations of neglect.

When the world saw Baltimore rise up, they called us violent. President Barack Obama even called us thugs. But they didn’t see the violence of boarded-up rowhomes, of schools with no heat, of corner stores instead of grocery stores. We weren’t rioting. We were looking for answers. But when none came, when the pain was met with silence and the community’s cry was ignored, the fire became inevitable.

What people saw on their TVs and phones wasn’t destruction; it was a smoke signal for help from those of us stuck on a deserted island. A rupture. A reaction to decades of disinvestment, police brutality, broken schools and absent opportunities. They didn’t see that we were mourning not just Freddie but every unfulfilled promise this city ever made to us.

In the 10 years since, some things have changed. Baltimore has invested in more youth programming and in violence intervention. But let’s not pretend that justice has been served, that this city has fully reckoned with its failures.

The same neighborhoods that were overpoliced in 2015 are still underresourced in 2025. Sandtown still looks like a place left behind. And the truth is many of us still carry the scars. Some emotional. Some physical. Some so deeply embedded in our psyche that we’ve normalized the weight.

After years of being targeted by the police, including being arrested while protesting Gray’s death, I had to face the reality that I was burned out. Although Ken Ravenell and the American Civil Liberties Union represented me and made sure none of my charges stuck, the constant police harassment began to take its toll. I left Baltimore to raise my daughter free from the public pressure and to explore and find more opportunities.

Ten years ago, I was just a 20-year-old trying to figure out what was happening in real time. I have literally been a public figure my entire adult life, and the resilient innocence that existed back then has long been stripped away.

I became heartbroken realizing that the very same people that I was fighting for — people I had admired and looked up to, people I had risked my freedom for — were the same people fighting against me. I was killing myself, fighting for others to live. So, after packing up the pieces of a broken heart, I still hope to make Baltimore proud. Just from a distance.

Ten years later the pain lingers, but so does the resilience. Grassroots movements flourished in the cracks left by failed policies. And yet the root issues remain. The city still criminalizes poverty, schools are still underfunded, and police accountability still feels like a myth more than a practice.

Don’t let the silence fool you. Just because the protests aren’t daily doesn’t mean the struggle is over. I’ve spent these 10 years speaking, organizing, creating and healing. I’ve spoken on college campuses and street corners, in front of cameras and in community centers all over the world. And the one thing I know for sure is this: Justice isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. A struggle. A vision we choose to fight for every day, even when it feels like the world has moved on.

And let’s be real, America has a short memory. The cameras packed up. The hashtags faded. The think pieces stopped trending. But the struggle never ended. It just got quieter. More strategic. More internal.

That’s why we have to keep telling the story not just of Freddie Gray’s death but of his life. Of who he was. Of the mother who fought for him, the community that raised him, the city that failed him. We owe him more than memorials. We owe him progress.

Progress means reinvesting in our schools, not just increasing police budgets. It means creating economic opportunities so our youths don’t have to choose between survival and legality. It means building spaces for healing, especially for Black men and fathers who are often expected to be strong but rarely allowed to be vulnerable.

I’ve been committed to creating those spaces and programs that speak to the real experiences of young Black men, especially those navigating fatherhood, systemic barriers and generational trauma. I know what it’s like to be angry, unheard and unsure of your place in the world. And I know how powerful it can be when someone invests in you not just as a statistic but as a whole person.

Freddie Gray would be 35 years old today. He might’ve had a family, seen the Orioles make a playoff run or walked through Druid Hill Park on a spring day.

But instead we remember him through grainy video clips and court documents. We remember him in murals, in chants, in the weight of unfinished justice.

Ten years later, I still believe in Baltimore. I still believe in our people. And I still believe, when we say “Black Lives Matter,” we mean right here, right now — not in theory but in policy, in practice and in purpose.

Because Freddie Gray should be 35 today.

And we should never forget why he’s not.

We didn’t burn this city down. We demanded it rise up.

Let this 10-year mark not just be a moment of reflection but of recommitment. The work isn’t done. The fire still burns, not in destruction but in purpose.

Kwame Rose is a social activist originally known for confronting Geraldo Rivera during the Baltimore Uprising. He currently serves as the managing director of the Foundation for Fathers, a nonprofit he co-founded that assists fathers nationwide in their pursuit to be engaged in their children’s lives.