From a Jesuit Classroom to the Streets of Honduras: The Origins of Project Gerson

My journey has been full of mistakes, missteps, and decisions most would call “ill-advised.” I'm not known for being a rule follower and it's had its consequences. But that’s exactly why I’m here today, doing the work I’m doing. Because I’ve learned that I can’t fix the world’s problems but I can be someone who helps the person in need in front of me.

The Jesuit Foundation and St. Ignatius

My story is deeply rooted in the Jesuit tradition not just because I attended a Jesuit high school, but because the story of St. Ignatius of Loyola has been guiding me for years.

Ignatius wasn’t born a saint. He was a nobleman, a soldier and an impulsive man. His early life was filled with ambition and glory. My friends would have seen this in me too. I was always chasing the newest thing, the most expensive toy, never satisfied with what I had, always talking about possessions.

After an injury in battle, Ignatius was forced to slow down and reflect. During this time of recovery, he experienced a profound spiritual transformation. He realized that the life he had been chasing, fame, status, and power, was hollow and fleeting.

Ignatius went through a long and difficult process of conversion, self-examination, and deepening faith. For me, this process was excruciating and took years to fill the void left when I realized that things no longer satisfied me. I was left with a huge emptiness and in the darkest hole possible. That process was anything but easy (and I'm not done).

St. Ignatius eventually founded the Society of Jesus (Jesuits), a religious order dedicated to education, social justice, and serving those most in need. I most admire his dedication to serving others even when it meant hardship, rejection, opposition, and suspicion.

His life embodies the idea that transformation is possible. No matter your past, you can choose a path of service and purpose. That is the hope for myself and that is my hope for these boys that are judged by their communities. For me, his story was more than history - it was a mirror reflecting my own struggles and hopes. Like Ignatius, I came from privilege but carried my own battles, including years of trying to “fix” myself and others.

I saw in him the direction I wanted to go: from chaos to calm, from self-interest to selflessness, from brokenness to healing. His Jesuit motto, “Men for Others,” resonated deeply. It challenged me to rethink what it means to live a meaningful life - not one of accolades and things, but one of action grounded in compassion.

Seeing Into Lives During COVID

During the pandemic, I started volunteering for an organization called “Homework Helpers,” started by Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez for New York residents in poverty-stricken areas. I taught remotely and saw into the homes of my students. I saw their real lives.

I witnessed cracked walls, crowded rooms, younger siblings wandering, and parents often absent. I met a student sitting in a hot Walmart parking lot for free WiFi so he could attend remote classes. I met a nine-year-old caring for her seven-month-old baby brother, mom or dad nowhere to be seen. I was the only adult they would see or talk to for weeks on end.

It was heartbreaking. I was living in a $2 million house, driving a $100k Tesla, children in private schools and these kids were somehow living in the same world.  That stark disparity crushed me.

It consumed my thoughts and fueled an obsession with saving the world. The gap between my life and theirs was so vast that I fell into the trap of believing I was Batman. I was the lone hero who could fix everything in secret. But that was impossible, exhausting, unsustainable, and it quickly eroded my relationships with friends and family. Overcome with guilt, I sometimes slept on the floor rather than enjoy a comfortable bed. I was overwhelmed with despair.

When I came across an article reporting a 90% drop in child abuse reports during COVID, my heart dropped. It wasn’t that abuse was happening less, it was because kids had lost access to the trusted adults who normally notice and report these abuses: teachers, counselors, coaches.

I met too many kids sitting at their computers, day after day, anxiety rising with every passing hour. Their dads, frustrated, unemployed and at home drinking, anger simmering and looking for punching bags to release their frustrations. The kids were easy targets. They were powerless, alone, desperate for escape, pleading for me to stay online with them so dad would think they were busy and leave them alone. I wasn't always successful and I heard things that still haunt me. For many kids, school was their only safe haven, a break from the abuse at home. But during COVID, that refuge disappeared. The abuse wasn’t just part of their lives, it became their entire life, 24/7, with nowhere to run.

Matthew

I’ve always been willing, for better or worse, to step into the grey area when someone can't stand up for themselves. I had a reputation in the Marines for breaking protocol and the chain of command to help fellow Marines and it often had consequences. Many children can't stand up for themselves, and during COVID, even those that wanted to didn't have a way to speak up. Rules govern how adults interact with children, and those rules exist for good reasons. But sometimes those rules tie your hands when a child is in real, immediate danger. My inability to follow rules hasn’t always fared me well personally, but it’s allowed me to make real differences in people’s lives. I'm often reminded of one story in particular.

One of my remote students, an 11-year-old boy, Matthew, confided in me that his stepfather was physically abusing him. The standard procedure was clear: call Child Protective Services and hope the system responds. I called CPS, but without certain information, they told me they couldn’t act. I asked Homework Helpers but they didn't have the information either. Looking back at our messages today, I cringe at how little I knew about handling this situation and how powerless, frustrated, and scared I was.

While researching how to make the report, I learned a haunting statistic from Illinois CASA: the average child tells seven adults about abuse before the eighth adult finally takes action. Seven adults hear the words but nothing changes. Seven adults fail the child before someone steps in:

70 percent of child abuse goes unreported, and a child tells an average of seven adults that they are being abused or neglected before a report is made.

That broke me. I refused to be just another adult who heard and did nothing. I didn’t care about perception or rules. Why would I? The goal wasn’t to “check a box” that I called CPS - the goal was to help this child that trusted me to help him.

So when that boy trusted me enough to speak up, I told him I would do whatever it took to get him out of that situation and I did. For me, this wasn’t about appearances, positive or negative. It was about saving a life and shaking off criticism is easy when lives are at stake.

Unfortunately, I have dozens of stories like this. It became clear that I had a “gift” (that often felt like a curse) that led these kids to trust me. I don’t know why, but I became the adult they confided in for many kids like Matthew but without any social work or counseling training, it was beyond overwhelming especially with my heightened justice sensitivity.

But I did what I could to help. I paid for Cohen's internet so he wouldn’t need to sit in the heat at Walmart. I delivered a spare computer, some diapers, and bedsheets to Alex, Jonathan, and Emmett's families. I regularly sent groceries to Sarah so she could feed herself and her baby brother until their parents returned. I paid for an unemployed family's overdue property taxes to avoid eviction allowing their two children to stay in school. I tried to help as many of these families as I could. The weight of these kids’ needs was enormous but I did what little I could to help.

Honduras and the Shift in Perspective

When I moved to Honduras in 2024, I brought with me the same willingness to step into uncomfortable grey areas. The kids I work with here have experienced more trauma than you can imagine. Most have been abandoned by their loved ones, lied to, threatened, abused, and conditioned not to trust adults. I’ve seen a boy literally step over his mother passed out in the street on his way to search for "dinner" in the trash cans. No wonder they don’t trust adults to protect them. The people they trusted to take care of them are too busy drinking, doing drugs, or turning tricks while these boys slept in the streets and dug through the garbage for food.

If my friends that knew the materialistic Michael saw where I lived, they would have a hard time believing that I am happier now. My entire house is smaller than my old bathroom (yes, really). In his autobiography, St. Ignatius says:

When I thought of worldly things it gave me great pleasure, but afterward I found myself dry and sad. But when I thought of journeying to Jerusalem, and of living only on herbs, and practising austerities, I found pleasure not only while thinking of them, but also when I had ceased.

Like St. Ignatius, I discovered that chasing comfort left me empty, but simplicity brought a deeper joy. Living with less taught me that joy doesn’t come from what I own, but from how I serve others. And I’ve seen that same truth with these children: when they realize I’m not leaving, they begin to believe my love is real.

I Can’t Fix Their Lives

I can’t undo years of trauma, poverty, or broken systems. I can’t bring their father or mother back to life. I can’t undo the fact that their father purposely got them addicted to crack cocaine and sent them to the streets at the age of 8.

But I can be the person who does something for them right now. I can get a kid to safety, help them to a safe place, make sure they eat and have a bed to sleep in tonight.

That’s the heartbeat of Project Gerson. It’s not about solving every problem on the streets of Honduras. It’s about making sure this kid in front of me gets through the night. And then the next.

Why I Keep Going

This work is exhausting, messy, dangerous, and lonely. It often feels like trying to put out a forest fire with a spray bottle. Negotiating for the “release” of these kids with the local drug dealers isn’t one of the safest things I’ve done.

But every now and then, I see Gerson smiling and healthy after months in rehab. Or a taxi driver asks if I’m ‘the same Michael that saved Gerson.’ Or when Cohen, Alex, Matthew, Sarah, and a handful of others track me down on social media, many of them now in college, to ask, ‘Are you the same Feather who helped me when I was a kid?’ They remember me, my name, and what I did for them all those years ago, and they reach out because they want to thank me for changing their life. That never stops surprising me.

Those moments remind me that while I didn’t fix the world, I changed theirs. I didn’t need to be Batman to save them. I just needed to be someone willing to listen. And there are more kids to help and more work to do.

Michael

michael@projectgerson.org