I came from a broken home, so my mom was a major influence in my

Hear now, O children of perseverance and gratitude, the words of Julius Erving, known to the world as “Dr. J,” the graceful giant who flew above the courts of men: “I came from a broken home, so my mom was a major influence in my life.” Within this simple confession lies a truth that resonates through the ages — that even in the midst of brokenness, love can build a fortress; that from the ruins of hardship, greatness can still arise when anchored by the steady hand of a mother’s devotion.

The origin of this quote flows from the life of Erving himself, who grew up in Roosevelt, New York, amid challenge and loss. His home, like many others, bore the marks of struggle — absence, poverty, and the silent ache of separation. Yet, in that fractured space, his mother stood firm, a pillar of faith and discipline. She taught him the sacred virtues of humility, work, and dignity, even when the world around him offered little but uncertainty. From her he learned that the absence of one foundation can strengthen another; that love, though wounded, can still hold a family together when rooted in sacrifice.

When Erving speaks of his mother as his major influence, he honors not only her, but every soul who stands in the shadows to ensure another’s light shines. History bears many such examples. Consider Abraham Lincoln, who, too, rose from the dust of a broken home. His mother, Nancy Hanks Lincoln, died when he was young, yet her memory became a flame that guided his conscience. He once said, “All that I am, or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.” So it is with Erving — the greatness seen in the man was the reflection of unseen strength in the woman who raised him.

This quote also speaks to the alchemy of hardship, that divine transformation by which pain becomes purpose. The “broken home” becomes not a tomb of sorrow but a forge of resilience. Those who grow from such beginnings often learn to love harder, fight longer, and rise higher, for they know that fragility need not mean failure. Erving’s success was not in spite of his upbringing, but because he learned within it the art of endurance — an art his mother taught not with words, but with quiet, daily courage.

Yet beneath the triumph lies an emotional truth: that brokenness leaves its marks, even upon the strong. Erving’s words carry a tenderness that reveals both gratitude and longing — a son who rose to the heights of fame but never forgot the humility of his roots. His acknowledgment of his mother is a reminder that greatness is rarely self-made. Behind every champion stands a figure who sacrificed comfort for love, who held the world together with unheralded strength while others looked away.

From his reflection we may draw a lesson for our own age: do not despise your beginnings, however imperfect they may seem. Broken homes, fractured families, and wounded hearts can still produce souls of immense beauty and integrity. What matters is not what you were given, but what you make of it — and who stood beside you as you made it. Like Erving, honor those who believed in you before the world did. Speak their names. Carry their lessons as armor and compass alike.

Practical wisdom flows thus: when you rise, remember your roots. When you succeed, turn and strengthen others who come from brokenness. And if you are that mother, father, or guardian standing in the storm, know that your influence may yet echo through generations. For the world is often healed not by kings or warriors, but by the quiet endurance of love.

Thus let the words of Julius Erving endure as both tribute and teaching — that even from the fragments of a broken home, a soul can learn to soar; and that behind every flight, there is a hand that once steadied the wings.