The Tenth Step

Marcus Lorne was a janitor in a public middle school on the outskirts of Chicago. At 52, he was heavy-set, quiet, and nearly invisible to the teachers and students who passed him in the hallways every day. He pushed a grey mop cart from corridor to corridor, often humming old Motown tunes under his breath, his knees aching from years of standing, scrubbing, and sweeping. Most people called him “Mr. Lorne” without ever looking him in the eye.

Each night, Marcus sat in his dimly lit one-bedroom apartment, flicked on the television, and microwaved frozen meals. His apartment was clean but lifeless. The air always smelled faintly of bleach, and the only decoration on the walls was an old high school basketball photo from 1989 — the last time Marcus had felt proud of himself.

That winter, Marcus was diagnosed with early-stage Type 2 diabetes.

The doctor wasn’t alarmist. He was kind, matter-of-fact. “It’s reversible,” he said. “It won’t be easy, but you don’t have to let this define your future.”

Marcus had heard similar things before: eat better, move more, quit the late-night sodas, and find a way to manage the stress. But what the doctor said next stayed with him.

“You don’t need to change everything overnight. Just take one small step. Do that every day. That’s how the avalanche starts.”

That night, Marcus went home and stared at his own reflection. He looked like a man who had given up. But beneath the tired skin and the soft jawline, there was still a flicker of something — not hope, exactly, but the idea of it.

Day One: One Push-Up

Marcus cleared a small patch of his living room floor and did one push-up. He nearly collapsed on the second try. His arms trembled, and he laughed at himself between gasps. But that was enough. He called it a victory and went to bed.

Day Three: Ten Steps

Two days later, Marcus walked ten steps past his front door and back. The wind bit through his thin coat, and his legs felt like rubber. But again — it was something.

Week Two: Salad, Not Soda

He packed a small salad in a lunchbox. He still drank soda, but just one can instead of two. On some days, he skipped it entirely.

Month One: The Sticky Notes Wall

Inspired by a video he saw online, Marcus began keeping track of every small habit on the wall in his apartment. Every time he completed something — walked for five minutes, skipped soda, read a book chapter instead of watching TV — he put up a bright sticky note. By the end of the first month, the wall was blooming like a strange mosaic: red, yellow, orange, green. A small shrine to discipline.

He called it his “evidence wall” — evidence that he was changing.

Six Months Later: The After-School Club

Word began to spread that Mr. Lorne was “different.” One of the students, a shy eighth-grader named Tanya, stayed after school one day to help him clean the gym. She asked what he was listening to on his headphones.

“Motivation,” he said, grinning. “And a little James Brown.”

Soon, a few more students started lingering. One day, Marcus brought a box of jump ropes and second-hand yoga mats. “Anyone wanna move around?” he asked. No pressure. Just movement.

They called themselves The Tenth Step Club, named after Marcus’s first walk outside after his diagnosis. Every afternoon, a group of kids gathered in the gym — jumping, stretching, laughing, breathing.

They didn’t realize they were building habits. They just knew it felt good.

Year One: The Wall Comes Down

Marcus no longer needed the sticky notes. The habits had become part of him — like brushing his teeth or locking the door at night. He had lost 47 pounds. His blood sugar was under control. He moved like a man ten years younger.

One of the teachers, Ms. Choi, asked him to speak during Health Week. Marcus almost said no, but then thought: “Why not? That’s the next step.”

Standing in front of 300 students, Marcus wore a crisp white shirt. He told them about the push-up. The ten steps. The sticky notes. The wall.

And then he told them this:

“Every day, you vote for the person you want to become. You don’t need to run a marathon. Just show up. You don’t need to write a book. Just start a sentence. You don’t have to climb a mountain — just take the next step. And then the next. And then the next.”

The gym fell silent.

Tanya stood and clapped first. Then the others. Then everyone.

Marcus didn’t smile — not right away. He just stood tall, took one deep breath, and knew:

This wasn’t the end of anything. It was the beginning of everything.