Crippled CEO Blog #187:
Today marks eight years since my dad passed away. Eight years since the phone call. Eight years since I last saw him, the larger-than-life man who had been a force of nature now reduced to stillness. Eight years since that surreal moment when the world kept moving forward without him in it.
Eight years is a long time. Long enough for a kid to go from kindergarten to high school. Long enough for an entire career shift. Long enough to build a company, tear it down, and rebuild it again. And yet, somehow, eight years is also nothing. Because it doesn’t feel like eight years. It feels like yesterday. It feels like forever. It feels like both at the same time.
Grief is weird like that. It doesn’t follow logic. You can be fine for weeks, and then some random thing—a song, a smell, a phrase someone says—hits you like a brick to the chest, and suddenly, you’re right back in it. Right back in the moment when you realized they were gone, reliving it like it’s fresh. I don’t know if that ever goes away.
But what I do know is this: My dad isn’t gone. Not really. I see him everywhere.
I see him when I make a tough decision at work, and I instinctively know what he would say. I see him in the way I organize things, the way I make checklists, the way I run my company. I hear his voice in my head when I double-check something “just to be sure.”
I see him when I push through something difficult because, without ever saying it, he taught me that’s what we do.
I see him in my successes—because they were built on the foundation he laid. The company I run, the life I live, the wisdom I (sometimes) pretend is my own—all of it has his fingerprints on it.
I see him when I look in the mirror. I have his eyes. His stubbornness. His ability to be right most of the time but still argue like his life depends on it even when he’s clearly wrong.
I see him when I hear myself give advice to a friend and realize, mid-sentence, that it’s something he once told me. Something I probably rolled my eyes at as a teenager but now find myself repeating like it’s gospel.
I see him in the way I treat people. My dad had a reputation for being honest to a fault. He was the guy who would tell you the truth even when you didn’t want to hear it. He was meticulous, thoughtful, and always did the right thing—even when it was the hard thing. If I can be half the man he was, I’ll consider that a win.
And I see him in the fact that, despite everything, he changed.
Because here’s the thing: My dad wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t always the man I just described. The first three and a half decades of his life were… rough. Addiction. Bad decisions. He screwed up a lot. But he turned it around. He became the man everyone remembers now.
That’s the part that gives me the most hope, even today. The idea that you can have 40 years of mistakes and still rewrite your story. That your past doesn’t define you—your choices today do. That change is always possible.
So yeah, it’s been eight years. And it still sucks. I still miss him. I’d give anything to have another conversation with him. But I know he’s not really gone.
Because I carry him with me.
And if you’ve lost someone, I hope you know—you carry them too.
(Do you know who left a lasting impression last night? Your mom. Your mom also gets a text from me every Sunday with a link to the latest blog post. Send a text to 561-726-1567 with the word CRIP as the message to get a link to the blog as soon as it’s up.)
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