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Lessons from a Street Sweeper: Finding Beauty in the Dirt

When I was a teenager, I would copy inspirational and motivational quotes into my notebooks and create posters for my wall—a blueprint of words for bravery, courage, resilience, inspiration, and standing for something. I watched movies that embodied these values and admired characters, athletes, and historical figures who exuded the same righteous ways. Now, as an adult, I screenshot them, write them into the notes section on my phone, and record them in my journal. I study them so I can recite them to remind myself when I face a difficult situation. I try to dive deeper into them to truly embody their meaning.

This practice has served me well over time, providing a moral foundation—or maybe even a compass—to keep improving myself. However, these are all words of the mind. Just words. But what about action?

I moved to America from Scotland at 24 years old to pursue basketball. “Why does America need a Scottish basketball coach?” one loving family member questioned. “You can’t compete with American coaches—it’s their game,” friends would say. These were just a couple of examples of the many doubts, sarcastic comments, and lack of belief I encountered. I didn’t care. I knew what I wanted, and I went for it.

I coached high school basketball in the U.S. for nine years. After not making it to the college coaching ranks, I started my own basketball skills training business. I began with passion and enthusiasm, eager to teach anyone and everyone, regardless of skill level. I quickly realized social media was the key to reaching the masses, and Instagram became my main platform.

But I had never played at a high level, and at 6 feet tall (5’11 ¾”, but don’t tell anyone!), my demonstrations of technical moves didn’t attract much attention. I tried, but it gained little traction, along with a slew of distasteful comments: “He never played before, he sucks,” “You suck, bro, you probably never played JV,” and “Fat ass can’t play.” They stung—my ego was more fragile than I had realized. But I knew I could teach, and I knew I was good—better than good, actually. I knew I was one of the best technical teachers out there.

I didn’t play at a high level, but my love for the game was deep. Growing up in Scotland, the home of golf, my friends and I played basketball using a bus stop sign as the goal (probably why I can’t shoot to this day). I learned how to do a lay-up and shoot a jump shot from a book in my local library—yes, you read that correctly, a book. That’s probably why I became so detail-oriented. Eventually, I joined a team, coached by a tough-nosed disciplinarian with one of the best technical basketball minds I would ever encounter.

I started coaching at 19 and fell in love with working with players, building meaningful relationships, and helping them improve. It was my passion, and I felt grateful to share it. So imagine my confusion when people online tore me down with venomous words after watching a free 30-second video teaching the game. I didn’t understand, and I struggled to ignore them.

Despite the cloud of negativity, I gained 300,000 followers across all my social media platforms, created online programs for purchase, and even launched an app. I was a trailblazer—a young man from Scotland just going for it, working my ass off to improve and do what I loved. My own country’s basketball association showed no love, I lost friends and relationships along the way, but I knew this was my passion.

Then one day, 19 years after it all started… I just stopped.

Burnout? Family issues? Need for better balance? Negative people? Online trolls?

People would ask me why, and honestly, I was in such a fog that I gave different people different answers. Looking back, I think I was trying to justify it to myself more than to them. Some days, I felt regret. Other days, failure. But then relief. And sometimes, even freedom.

Time passed, and it felt strange not to have a passion. My whole life, people had complimented my drive and commitment. “Man, I wish I knew my passion.” “You’re so lucky to have found yours.” I didn’t understand what they meant—until I lost mine. Truth was, I didn’t know what was next. I felt empty. For the first time, I felt lost.

One day, scribbling thoughts into my notes, I had an idea. I would write a blog about a sports moment that puzzled me for years, connecting it to life and the lessons we can learn. “Fucking Up.”

I received positive feedback from friends, players I had coached, and family. It made me feel alive! I felt I had found a vessel again. I wrote a few more under the name “Thoughts of Scob,” a dedication to my parents and my late uncle Allan (the original Scob). Then, my writing took another twist. My words became more descriptive, more poetic. More than anything, I felt the need to express my hurt, my anger, my pain, my confusion with life. It became self-expression.

I wrote many poems before posting them to my website and social media. The fear of what the comments would say, the anticipation of judgment—I would sit nervously at the computer, constantly side-glancing at my phone for notifications. The online trolls from my basketball posts had made me question everything, and now I was putting my vulnerabilities on display.

Why the fuck would I do that? Glutton for punishment? Attention-seeking whore?

I can’t tell you why, but something told me to do it. My first piece was “My Black Dog.” It’s not my best-written piece, but it’s my rawest, and even now, I wouldn’t dare change it. Some things need to be left in their truest form.

From that moment, I was on fire, writing poetry and expressing myself whenever I could. People wrote to me privately, thanking me for putting into words what they had felt. That meant the world to me. Others told me I was being too vulnerable. A family member I love dearly told me, “You look weak. You should really think about stopping.”

As a true trailblazer does, I silently said, “Fuck that—I’ll show you.”

In 12 months, I self-published two short poetry books: “Thoughts of Scob: I Want to Make You Feel“ and “You F*cking Liar.” I was proud. I hadn’t gained the massive following I had with basketball, but I was proud.

Then it happened again. I stopped.

Writer’s block? Direction? That’s what I told myself, but it wasn’t. It was like I had cured myself—a writer’s therapy. My self-expression had helped me release a lot of what I was feeling at the time. (But don’t be fooled—nothing truly cures emotions. It’s about self-management. But that’s for another day.)

So, what next?

Jim, Jojo, Jen, Rick Rubin, Charles Bukowski—they all tell me the same thing: Just write. Let it flow. Forget about the audience. Tell your story.

Then I came across Michel Simonet.

A 62-year-old street cleaner from Fribourg, Switzerland.

Huh? Who?

I first learned of Michel on instagram on the page of @davnesto. The fellow Swiss is a photographer who travels to different countries and asks to take pictures of people in public and learns more about their story. Great idea and he does it very well.

Michel is a street cleaner. He has a street cleaning cart that he pushes around the streets, picking up rubbish, and sweeping up with a broom. He has done this in the streets of Fribourg for over 30 years.

Let me step back and be very blunt… Shit job, right? Noble yes, but shit job and you probably wouldn’t be first in line to do it would you?

Michel has a college degree and has enjoyed his job for over 30 years sweeping the streets.

Here is where the beauty starts to pour in, Michel calls his street-cleaning cart his “chariot.” Read that again! His “chariot.” Talk about changing perspectives to inspire!

One day, he attached a tall-stem rose to it—to show the contrast of “a little beauty in the middle of the waste.” In 2018, he wrote a book: “Une Rose et un Balai” (A Rose and a Broom)—a collection of reflective tales, the “wisdom of the street sweeper.”

Here I am, overthinking my next move. Michel? He just did it. Truly embrace who you are and what you find joy in! You are the engagement, you are the passion, you are what you do.

Don’t wait. Don’t overthink. See what’s in front of you. Fuck Fear. Let it all out.

You won’t be here again.

Find your rose in the dirt.

P.S. An Instagram user commented, “Do you think he still hasn’t realised, it is truly him who is the rose among the waste in our world.”

Great analogy. It makes me think that maybe the beauty is that he doesn’t know he is.

Michel, thank you.