Nine years ago, on August 15th, tragedy struck my family. My grandpa Jim, leader of our family, fell out of the shower and lost his life.
Exactly one year later, more tragedy. My grammie Donna passed away after a few mishaps by her medical team.
To say August 15th holds significant meaning is an understatement.
Back to my grandpa, one of the strongest men I’ve ever known. He was the perfect example of the term “gentle giant.” He was fierce, hardworking, disciplined, and very tough on his children and grandchildren. He is remembered for his stature and the bear hands he possessed.
He was also kind, considerate, soft spoken, and he put the needs of others ahead of his own. Every time. It was a devastating loss that changed our family forever.
I remember sitting in his two-person recliner the night before I was set to deliver his eulogy - a compilation of the best stories and memories family could muster up - thinking of what I’d share. The breeze rolled in through the front window. All was quiet. My memory was an easy choice.
At the end of a long night at his farm, a few years into my recovery, I was saying my normal goodbyes. As I shook my grandpa's hand, he pulled me closer and caught my attention.
“Hey, I thank God every day that you’re doing what you’re doing. You know your grandma would be proud.” My grandpa didn’t usually talk like that. It rocked me.
You see, my grammie Diane, his second wife, was one of the angels in my life. She was a second mom and one of the safest people I had growing up.
She passed away one week after I arrived at treatment for drugs and alcohol in 2010, a moment that set the stage for the rest of my life.
A year and a half earlier, an intervention was staged at her house. It didn’t go well. She cried. I swore. She walked away realizing I wasn’t going to treatment that day. I never saw her again.
Recovery was my only way to reconcile with her. My grandpa’s words that night were confirmation that I accomplished that. They never left me.
After my grandpa’s funeral, my cousin Ben came to me and said simply, “I don’t know what you can do with that speaking gift, but you need to do something.”
Deep down, I was convinced of that. In fact, on my grandpa’s birthday in the year prior - February 4th, 2014 - after speaking at an all-staff session in my old high school, I knew speaking was my future.
I couldn’t put a finger on what that feeling was, I just knew there was more and that no feeling came close to it. So I continued down that path. For grandpa.
Nine years after his funeral, August 15th holds yet greater meaning, the end of yet another life. In 2024, it marks the last day I walk out of a corporate office as an employee.
Ironically, it was the same summer my grandpa passed that I began my career in the recovery industry. Over nine years, I’ve transitioned through seven different roles with three companies, climbing the so-called corporate ladder.
Now it’s over. Here I sit. My recovery dream, born on my grandpa’s birthday, and my recovery movement, realized on his afterlife birthday. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
Today, I step into a new life. A life of chance. A life of uncertainty. A life to be determined.
This is where I want to be. This is the life to bet big on. For one more special person, this is the life to carry on.
My Dad lost his life to addiction at the age of 39. Today he sits on my kitchen island, peaceful as can be. He gave me the guidance I needed. Four words:
“Go build something special.”
I owe so much of my life to my people. To my employers, to my bosses, to my colleagues, and to my friends and family who’ve lifted me up over the last nine years - thank you for your invaluable time, energy, and leadership.
And back to where I started this piece. The people that matter in ways no one understands. To my Afterlife Advisors: Grandpa Jim, Grammie Diane, Grammie Donna, and Dad - thank you for carrying me and guiding me.
This is my commitment to keep you alive and to give you the front row seats you deserve. Just be sure to nudge me in the right direction now and then.
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