Letters From the Porch

Truth is, this all came from years of giving talks to different groups and people. Most of it is a collection of my own — shaped by the area I grew up in — mixed in with sayings I heard or read from folks a lot smarter than me. What might surprise the people who know me well is this: some of what's in here touches on serious things I've been through that I've rarely, if ever, talked about out loud.

All of it, I hope, finds you on the day you need it.

This isn't a big book with all the answers. It's a small collection of honest words — the kind that might make you chuckle a little, make you think a lot, and remind you the sun is going to come up tomorrow.

Take what you need. Leave what you don't. I just hope you got a little something out of this compilation of old sayings.

Just Saying…

There's an old saying that goes, "The fear of loss is greater than the desire for gain." Most people hear that, nod along, agree it sounds about right, and move on with their day. I did exactly that myself for years. It's a good saying. True enough, on the surface. But I never understood how powerful those simple words actually were until I had no choice but to learn it firsthand.

Let me ask you something. What if you had a major stroke, and suddenly you were lying in a coma in a hospital ICU, machines doing the work your own body used to do without you ever thinking about it? I'd bet everything I own that in that moment, you wouldn't be lying there wishing for more. You wouldn't be dreaming about a bigger house, a better title, a nicer car. You would simply want back what you already had before it was taken from you.

That's the fear of loss, in its rawest, most undeniable form. Not a saying anymore. A fact of survival.

And here's what I've come to understand. That exact scenario happens every single day, numerous times, all over the world. A stroke here. A heart attack there. An accident nobody saw coming. It is happening somewhere right now, while you read this sentence, to somebody who woke up that morning assuming it was just another ordinary day.

I know, because it happened to me.

I had a stroke, and when the doctors finished their tests, I was declared one hundred percent disabled. I want you to really sit with that number, because it carried no softness to it at all. Not partial. Not temporary, as far as anyone was willing to promise me. Complete. That was the word attached to my name on a chart, and that word was supposed to be the final say on who I still was and what I could still become.

I'm thankful my friend Mike was with me that day. He's the one who called my wife, Judy, and got the EMTs on the way. I don't know how things would've gone if he hadn't been there. Some things you just can't thank a person enough for.

I looked my doctor in the eyes, tears streaming down my face, and I told him I was going to make it. I begged him not to give up on me. I was depressed for a good while after that, and I felt sorry for myself, because that's simply what happens to a man when a number like that gets handed to him without warning. But somewhere in the middle of that darkness, I understood something that changed everything that followed. Nobody in that hospital was going to hand me my old life back. The only person who could actually fight for that was me. So I did the work, relearning how to walk and how to talk from the very beginning, one exhausting day after another, with some genuinely fine therapists walking every step of it alongside me.

I got my second chance. Not because I was owed one. Because I understood, more completely than I ever had in my whole life up to that point, exactly how much I stood to lose, and exactly how badly I wanted it back.

That's the real truth hiding inside that old saying. It sounds simple until the loss in question is your own ability to walk, to speak, to hold your grandchildren, to wake up tomorrow at all. Then it stops being a clever line you nod along to, and it becomes the only thing standing between you and giving up completely.

That stroke happened twenty-one years ago now. Every single day since has been a day I understand differently than I did before it happened, because I know now, in my bones, what that old saying actually meant all along. We don't chase gain nearly as hard as we fight to keep what we already have, once we finally understand how close we came to losing it.

If you still have your health this morning, if you can still walk to your own kitchen and speak to the people you love without a single moment's difficulty, I hope you'll take a minute today to understand what that old saying is actually trying to tell you, before life ever forces the lesson on you the way it did on me.

As a freshman, nobody would have picked him, and it wasn't for lack of heart, but for everything you could see with your own two eyes — his size, his build, his height, none of it looking like what a coach draws up on a chalkboard when he pictures an athlete. By the time he was a senior, the truth is that most folks still wouldn't have picked him on paper, because nothing about his frame had changed the story everyone expected to tell.

But there was something in him you couldn't measure with a tape measure or a stopwatch. He had a smile that could light up a gymnasium, the genuine, million-dollar kind that made you want to see him succeed, and he came from a family that didn't have much, with parents doing the best they could with what they had, the way a lot of good families do. There wasn't a single thing about his circumstances that suggested he was headed somewhere special.

And everybody was wrong.

Not one person in that town was pulling against him, because everybody was pulling for him, quietly hoping the way a town does for the kid without the obvious advantages, and after meeting those expectations, he went on to exceed every one of them. He never spent his time talking about what was wrong with his situation, choosing instead to look for the good in it rather than the bad, and he kept right on exceeding what was expected of him, over and over, as though it were simply his nature. Athletics gave him a door, and he walked through it, carrying that same spirit not just through high school, but into college and into the rest of his life.

You learn something watching a young man like that, because there are some things in a person you simply cannot measure, and there are some people you learn not to bet against. Everybody in that town got to witness how a winner is truly made, not born with the right size or the right build, but shaped instead by encouragement, by a refusal to see the bad in his own story, and by climbing, year after year, toward the very pinnacle of what a life can become.

I was like everybody else in that town. I watched him, and I pulled for him, and I can tell you plainly that he didn't just meet those expectations — he exceeded every one of them.

What's funny is that numerous coaches throughout this country know a young man just like him. Maybe you could be the next one.

Congratulations, son. You never once let a single measurement decide who you'd become.

There was a boy on one of my teams who wasn't built for what we were asking him to do. He was smaller than most of the others, lighter, without the natural strength you look for when you're teaching a kid to hit a tackling dummy and drive it backward. Every practice, we'd line the boys up and run that drill, and every single time, that boy would hit the dummy square, dig his feet in, push with everything he had, and the dummy wouldn't move an inch. He'd bounce right off it.

It happened so many times that some of the other boys stopped expecting anything different. A few of the coaches did too, if I'm honest. You start to assume a kid's ceiling after you've watched him hit that same wall over and over, and you quietly stop believing today will be any different than yesterday.

But that boy never once stopped lining up.

He never asked to skip the drill. He never complained that it wasn't fair, even though anybody watching could see it wasn't a fair fight between his frame and that dummy's weight. Every practice, he'd get back in line, wait his turn, and hit it again, like his body hadn't gotten the same memo the rest of us had about what he could and couldn't do.

Then one ordinary Tuesday, nothing special about the weather or the practice plan, that boy hit the dummy exactly the way he'd hit it a hundred times before, and it moved. Not far. Just a foot, maybe less. But it moved, and for a second, the whole field went quiet, like everybody needed a moment to believe what they'd just seen.

Then it wasn't quiet anymore. Every boy on that field started hollering for him, coaches included, and that kid stood there grinning like he'd just won a state championship, because in a way, he had. He'd won the only championship that ever really matters, which is the one against your own limits.

I've thought about that moment more than I probably should. It's not the kid who was always gonna do it. It's the kid who wasn't supposed to be able to — who did it anyway. That's the one you remember.

Let's be honest — I was what you'd call a so-called high school coach, but coaching wasn't really my job. I taught history. The school's real baseball coach had taken ill and gone on medical leave, and they asked me to fill in temporarily. Reluctantly, I said yes, though in no way was I a baseball coach.

To my surprise, these kids were good. Most had played travel ball, and looking back on my own high school days, I never would have made this team. I told some old friends about it, and the ones who came out to watch left just as impressed as I was.

Honestly, there wasn't a thing I could teach them. They had hitting coaches, pitching coaches, and club coaches year-round. Baseball was all they'd ever played, and it showed — every one of them could hit.

To build a little team culture, we had a hamburger cookout at my brother-in-law's house, out by the pool, with music going and parents bringing chips and ice cream. It was supposed to be simple.

And that night, I learned something that shook me.

These young men, sixteen to eighteen years old, could throw a ball ninety miles an hour and hit a curveball clean out of the park. But they couldn't shake a man's hand firmly, and most couldn't hold eye contact with me for more than a second. They had no real social manners. They couldn't carry a simple conversation, and yet every one of them was hitting somewhere around .300.

I could hardly sleep that night. I knew I couldn't play baseball anywhere near as good as they could, but I knew manners — please and thank you, holding a door, respecting your elders. I had a decision to make: shut my mouth and coach the game, or try to help these boys with something bigger.

I chose the second one.

I started small — a firm handshake before practice, looking a man in the eye, saying “yes sir” and “no sir” like it meant something. A few boys rolled their eyes. Some parents wondered why their son's baseball coach cared about handshakes instead of batting stances. I kept at it anyway, because baseball has an expiration date. Every single one of them would reach it eventually.

In the end, four of those boys got the scholarship everyone assumed was coming. All four played, and all four were done in four years — a great run for a young man's dream, but honestly, more of them left the game dejected than elated. None of them had the college career anybody had pictured for them back at that cookout. And the ones who took it hardest, more often than not, weren't the boys. It was the parents — the ones who'd put so much pressure on their sons for so many years that when it finally ended, some of those young men were quietly, sadly, just relieved it was over.

That's exactly why I kept teaching handshakes.

A batting average doesn't get you hired. A ninety-mile-an-hour fastball doesn't sit across from a man at a job interview and hold his gaze. But a firm handshake, a genuine “thank you,” and the simple respect of looking somebody in the eye — those work every day of a man's life, long after the game is done.

The scholarship isn't guaranteed. The pro contract isn't guaranteed. Life is loving and living — don't let it pass you by chasing something that was never meant to be the whole story.

I've kept a list, over the years, of the truly special people who've passed through my life. Every one of them is different — men and women, from industries that have nothing to do with one another: technology, mortgage, banking, construction, finance, oil and gas, athletics, insurance, investment. Different backgrounds, different educations, different levels of success. On paper, there's hardly a thread connecting them at all.

And yet every one of them shares the exact same handful of traits, so precisely it stopped feeling like coincidence a long time ago.

They're modest when they didn't have to be. Every one of them is dripping with honesty, character, and class, and not one has ever come across as pretentious, snobby, or arrogant. Nearly all of them started with nothing but hope and desire, and went on to accomplish more than they ever thought possible. But they never went back home to gloat. If anything, many are still misunderstood in their own hometowns, where people never quite grasped how far they'd actually gone.

For all their differences, they're remarkably well centered about life. Their moral compasses all point the same direction. Their word has always meant something, and it still does.

They've given away more money than most people would guess, and they've done it privately, never publicly. I know because I've watched them quietly help people most folks never knew needed helping — not just with money, but with time, which is worth every bit as much.

I've come to believe that's the real thread. Not the industry, not the income. Just people who decided who they were mattered more than what they had, and never let success talk them out of it.

I'm a better man for having known every one of them. And everyone of you know exactly who I was talking to.

I had a talk with myself and I started to laugh. What I wanted to say to my son Jason and my daughter Lindsey was hopefully most of the information they might need to help my wife Judy, if I pass before Judy.

The main things — the bank accounts, the investment accounts, insurance and pension, Social Security, IRA, 401(k), and other things you're supposed to do. (I am not the best at these things.)

But instead, I decided I wanted you to know what a pleasure it has been to raise two wonderful children who became more like great friends than their parents. I recently wrote a lot of sayings down over the years, and so many of them came from the inspiration and enjoyment we had together as a close-knit family. A steady wife and mother in Judy, and two wonderful children, Jason and Lindsey, that became a closeness that was hard to imagine.

Then along came two other Godsends, named Leesa, my daughter-in-law, and Jordan, that Judy and I love as our own children. I hear how other families don't get along with their in-laws — we treasure them as our best friends, but even closer.

We also had some challenging times — some we went through like everyone, when something unexpected happens…

I want to talk about something that's been on my mind for a while now — how do we bring two very different kinds of people together in a way that actually works?

On one side, you've got the older generation — solid, sincere, experienced, the kind of people who've been tested by time and came out steady on the other side. On the other side, you've got the younger generation — creative, talented, full of energy, the kind of people who can genuinely change the world if somebody gives them the room to do it.

The question I keep coming back to is this: what could we accomplish if we stopped seeing those two groups as opposites, and started seeing them as two halves of the same whole? What would it look like if we combined the best of every generation into one focused, united force? I think it would be something remarkable.

I've seen it work once, up close, a long time ago. I'll tell you about it separately, because it deserves its own telling.

But here's what I believe after watching it happen — the answer isn't as complicated as we make it. It starts with recognizing what each generation brings to the table, instead of measuring what they're missing. The older worker isn't behind. The younger worker isn't disrespectful. They're just speaking different languages, and somebody has to be secure enough, and generous enough, to build the bridge between them.

I think we could all learn something from that, if we're willing to.

Thirty-four years ago, I worked on a project with one of the biggest companies in the world. The man leading our group had come out of the company's space exploration program. He was, no exaggeration, an actual rocket scientist. I used to tell everybody he was smarter than a tree full of owls — because he was. Truth be told, that's what I called him behind his back. The Owl Man.

His job was to take everything he knew about technology and build a product that would give financial companies access to information in a way nobody had seen before. That part sounds impressive, and it was. But looking back on it now, decades later, that's not even the most impressive part of the story.

The most impressive part was watching a rocket scientist explain something as complicated as machine learning — what folks are now calling artificial intelligence — to an old boy from Louisiana and Texas. A simple guy. Me.

And somehow, I actually understood it.

I want to be clear about something — that wasn't because of anything special in me. It was because of his ability to take something enormously complicated and hand it to me in a way I could actually hold onto. It takes a very secure person to be that simple. A lesser man, a man more concerned with looking smart than being useful, would have talked over my head and left me behind. The Owl Man never did that. Not once.

What he did instead was make me feel like I had something to contribute — not because of what I knew about technology, because I didn't know much, but because I understood what customers wanted and worried about from their side of the table. He didn't just tolerate that perspective. He genuinely wanted it. He made room for it.

And here's what still amazes me all these years later — it worked. Not because of anything I brought to it, but because that man made every single person in the room comfortable enough to speak up and be part of something bigger than themselves. What I didn't fully understand at the time was that I wasn't just working alongside a brilliant engineer. I was being taught, quietly and without ever being made to feel small, by one of the finest teachers and leaders I would ever encounter. That experience shaped the rest of my working life.

I think about the Owl Man often. He never once made me feel like I didn't belong in the room, and thirty-four years later, I still carry the lesson he taught me without ever meaning to teach it at all.

There will come a day, long after I'm gone, when you'll stumble across these words I've spent a lifetime collecting, and I want you to know why I spent so many hours putting them down, because it was never really about the sayings themselves, it was about you, and about the hope that something true and something kind could outlive the man who said it. I've walked around this earth for the better part of eight decades now, meeting people from every walk of life you could imagine, and if I've learned one thing that matters more than anything else, it's that people are hungry for a little bit of hope and a little bit of honesty, and most of them are too proud, or too tired, to go looking for it themselves.

That's what this whole thing was always about. Every saying, whether it made you laugh or made you sit quiet for a minute, was my small attempt to hand somebody something they could use on a hard day, or an ordinary Tuesday when they needed a little push in the right direction. I didn't set out to build some grand legacy with my name stamped all over it. I set out to help people, plain and simple, the same way people helped me when I was young and didn't know which way was up.

So here is what I'm asking of you. I hope that you'll take what your grandfather started, whether that's these words, or just the spirit behind them, and carry it forward in whatever form makes sense for the world you're living in, because your world will look different than mine did, and that's exactly as it should be. Maybe it's a saying, maybe it's just the way you treat a stranger, or the way you show up for a friend having the worst week of their life, but whatever shape it takes, I hope you'll remember the mission was never about being remembered. It was about making sure somebody's day got a little lighter because you cared enough to try.

I won't be here to see how it turns out, and there's a peace in that too, because it means the story keeps writing itself long after I've put my pen down. I love you more than these words could ever say, and I trust you to make this your own — and to keep helping people, in whatever way your heart leads you.

I want to tell you about a woman I know. I think about her often, and I believe her story needs to be told — not to expose her, but to honor her.

She was forty-one years old when her husband walked out. Two weeks after she found out she was pregnant. She already had a ten-year-old at home, and now she was carrying a second child alone, with a man who decided he was done. He didn't stay. He didn't pay alimony. What little he offered toward child care came occasionally, when it suited him.

Everybody told her the same thing — get a lawyer, fight for what's yours. They were right. But a lawyer costs money, and when your world falls out from under you, you don't always have it sitting around to spend on a fight. So she didn't hire one. She got a second job instead.

Pregnant. Raising a ten-year-old. Working two jobs just to keep the lights on. And through all of it, she never once complained to the people she worked alongside. They didn't learn what she was carrying because she told them. They learned it because eventually, it was impossible not to notice.

When I told her story to my own friends, every single one of them offered to help her financially. Every one. Not most — every single friend I told reached for their wallet before I finished explaining why. That's the kind of friends I've been blessed to have.

But there's only so much any one person can carry for somebody else. And that's when I learned something I believe with my whole heart — sometimes the best thing you can do isn't fixing the problem. Sometimes it's just showing up.

One night, at the bottom of it all, I told her some tough things. I said she didn't ask for this. But neither did her kids — and they needed her to stand up first. I told her to dry her eyes, go hug those girls, and tell them emphatically that we were all going to make it. I told her she had to have faith — not the kind that comes with a guarantee, but the kind that trusts the One who laid out the plan, even when you can't see two steps ahead.

She has challenges most people will never fully understand. But I know this — one day her children are going to look at her and ask, "Mama, how did you do it?" And the real answer will be simple. Because giving up was never an option. Because her faith carried her. Because a few people showed up exactly when she needed them.

There were times she wanted to give up. I told her the truth — she wasn't through. She was just tired. She believed me, because I believed it.

I can promise you this — if toughness gets a person through hard things, she is going to get through this.

This is exactly why I started writing this book. For her. For every woman carrying a weight she never asked for. I am building an organization now to help people like her — not just with words, but with real support. If any part of this book can put help into the hands of a woman like her, it's all been worth it.

If a young girl wants to know what a strong woman looks like, she doesn't need to hear about one.

She needs to see one.

I've seen one. And I am so proud of her.

Judy and I found each other back in high school, two kids who had no idea just how much life we were about to build together. Fifty-five years later, I still think about that boy and that girl, and I marvel at everything we managed to become since.

She has been my biggest supporter through every version of the man I've been. The young one, unsure of himself. The one climbing his way through a career. The one who nearly didn't make it back after a stroke tried to take everything from us. Through every single one of those men, Judy stood right beside me, steady in a way I never once had to question.

She gave me two wonderful children, and in doing that, she gave me a whole life I couldn't have built without her. She has been my partner in every real sense of that word, not just in the easy years, but especially in the hard ones, when partnership actually gets tested and proven.

Fifty-five years of loving each other, starting back when we were still practically kids ourselves. I don't know many people who get to say that, and I don't take a single day of it for granted.

Judy, you have been the greatest gift of my entire life. Thank you for loving me since we were young enough not to know any better, and for staying beside me long enough to know exactly what you were choosing, every single time.

I love you, now and always.

One of the best pieces of advice I ever got from a wise old friend. August 25, 1973.

Dear 25-year-old Ken,

Please stop worrying about whether you're going to fail. Worry more about whether you will try.

The opportunities you take will matter far more than the risks you avoid.

I don't write these letters because I have all the answers.

I don't.

In fact, the older I get, the more questions I seem to have.

What I do have are stories, experiences, observations, and a genuine desire to help people who may be searching for a little hope, a little direction, or a little truth.

My purpose is not to tell people what to do.

My purpose is to help people look at their challenges through a different lens.

Sometimes a problem isn't nearly as big as it first appears.

Sometimes the obstacle isn't the situation.

Sometimes it's our mindset.

Sometimes we are looking at the wrong problem altogether.

You may need a different job.

Or you may need a different attitude toward the job you already have.

You may need a new opportunity.

Or you may need to become the person capable of recognizing one.

Every situation is different.

But the first place we should always look is the mirror.

Not because we are necessarily the problem.

But because we are often the only part of the problem we can control.

One thing I've learned is this:

You can't go back and change many things you've already done.

But you can change what you do next.

And sometimes that one decision changes everything.

This book won't solve every problem.

I'm not qualified to do that.

But I am qualified to care.

I care about young people trying to find their way.

I care about parents raising children.

I care about people facing setbacks, uncertainty, fear, disappointment, and doubt.

My hope is that these stories help people believe in themselves, trust their faith, step outside their comfort zones, and discover they are capable of more than they imagined.

Because you'll never know what you can accomplish if you never try.

And you'll never discover what is possible while standing in the same place you've always stood.

I don't want to preach to you.

But I do want to talk to you.

And if one of these letters helps you see a challenge differently, take a chance you would not have taken, or simply gives you enough hope to keep going one more day...

Then it has served its purpose.

I never set out to write a book.

I simply collected stories.

Some were my stories.

Some belonged to people I met along the way.

Some were moments that made me laugh.

Some broke my heart.

Some taught me lessons I didn't want to learn but desperately needed.

Over the years, I've noticed something.

People don't always need great wisdom.

They don't always need experts, speeches, or complicated answers.

Sometimes they just need a little hope.

A little encouragement.

A little truth.

Or maybe just a reminder that they're not alone.

These letters are not meant to preach.

They're not meant to tell you how to live your life.

I simply want to talk to you.

The stories in these pages are about faith, family, friendship, disappointment, success, failure, children, grandchildren, marriage, dreams, and second chances.

Some may make you smile.

Some may make you think.

Some may remind you of someone you once knew.

And perhaps one or two might remind you of yourself.

Many of these thoughts came from ordinary people living ordinary lives.

A teacher who believed in a struggling student.

A husband who remembered why he fell in love.

A young person searching for direction.

A grandparent learning the value of time.

A parent trying to raise good children.

And a few people who discovered that sometimes life's greatest lessons arrive disguised as setbacks.

I don't claim to have all the answers.

The older I get, the more I realize how many questions remain.

But I have learned a few things.

I've learned that kindness matters.

Character matters.

Faith matters.

Time matters.

And people matter.

Most of all, I've learned that sometimes the simplest truths are the ones that stay with us the longest.

So these aren't really just sayings.

They're little pieces of life.

Shared in the hope that somewhere, somehow, a story, a thought, or a sentence might arrive at exactly the right moment for someone who needs it.

If one of these letters makes you laugh, think, call a friend, hug your child, forgive someone, take a chance, or simply feel a little less alone, then they have served their purpose.

I don't want to preach to you.

But I do want to talk to you.

So pull up a chair.

Let's visit for a while.

Dear Friend,

When I first started writing these letters, I thought they were simply stories and sayings.

A few observations.

A few lessons.

A few things life had taught me along the way.

But somewhere during the journey, I realized this book was becoming something more.

This isn't really a motivational book.

And it's not truly a self-help book either.

There are already plenty of books that tell people what to do.

That was never my goal.

I don't pretend to have all the answers.

The older I get, the more I realize how many questions I still have.

What I do have are stories.

Stories about people who struggled.

People who doubted themselves.

People who faced rejection, disappointment, heartache, and failure.

People who got knocked down and somehow found the courage to take one more step.

Scattered throughout these stories you'll find simple sayings.

Some may make you smile.

Some may make you laugh.

And hopefully a few will make you stop and think.

Sometimes a saying can say in one sentence what takes an entire chapter to explain.

Things like:

"You can't go back and change many things you've already done, but you can change what you do next."

Or:

"Finding out what you don't want to do is as important as finding out what you do want to do."

Or:

"Angels show up when you need them, not just when you call them."

They're simple.

But sometimes the simplest truths stay with us the longest.

I've learned that life doesn't always reward the most talented person.

Sometimes the person with the most talent never develops the heart, character, grit, faith, or perseverance to use it.

And sometimes the person everyone overlooks becomes extraordinary.

In one way, they had everything.

In another way, they had nothing.

That's why this book isn't really about success.

It's about hope.

Character.

Faith.

Wisdom.

Trust.

Perseverance.

And the belief that people are often capable of far more than they imagine.

Many of the people in these stories didn't need more talent.

They needed more confidence.

More courage.

More faith.

And sometimes just one person who believed in them before they believed in themselves.

My hope is that somewhere in these pages you find a story that encourages you.

A saying that stays with you.

A lesson that challenges you.

Or a perspective that helps you see a problem differently.

Not because I told you what to do.

But because something helped you discover what was possible.

After all, this book isn't really about me.

It's about you.

Your challenges.

Your opportunities.

Your next step.

And what might happen if you decide to take it.

I don't want to preach to you.

But I do want to talk to you.

Pull up a chair.

Let's visit for a while.

And if one of these stories or sayings finds you exactly when you need it...

Maybe you should listen.

Dear Young Man,

You're 22 years old.

A good kid.

You have faith.

You work hard.

You stay out of trouble.

But if you're honest, you're carrying a lot more questions than answers right now.

Everybody keeps asking what you're going to do next.

What's your plan?

What's your career?

Where are you headed?

The truth is, you're not exactly sure.

And that's okay.

Far more people are in that position than you think.

I've learned over the years that finding out what you don't want to do is just as important as finding out what you do want to do.

Every job teaches you something.

Every disappointment teaches you something.

Every wrong turn narrows the search.

You don't always discover your future by finding the right road.

Sometimes you discover it by realizing you're on the wrong one.

And here's something else I've noticed.

Sometimes your profession finds you, instead of you finding it.

The people I know who became teachers didn't always plan on teaching.

The people who became business owners didn't always plan on owning a business.

Many of the most successful people I know ended up somewhere they never expected to be.

Looking back, it all made perfect sense.

Living through it, it rarely did.

That's where faith comes in.

Not believing.

Trusting.

Those are two different things.

Most people have faith when things are going well.

Trust becomes harder when the road is unclear.

When the door closes.

When the answer doesn't come.

When you're trying to figure out what comes next.

I've always liked this saying:

"Angels show up when you need them, not just when you call them."

I've found that to be true.

Sometimes they show up as a mentor.

Sometimes as a friend.

Sometimes as an opportunity.

Sometimes as a disappointment that pushes you in a direction you never would have chosen yourself.

And sometimes they arrive right on time.

There is another lesson life taught me.

"Some things were not in your plan, but they were in His plan."

The older I get, the more I realize some of the best things that ever happened to me were never part of my plan.

I didn't see them coming.

I couldn't have predicted them.

Yet they became some of life's greatest blessings.

So if you've already found what you're looking for, congratulations.

If you haven't...

Keep looking.

You will.

I don't want to preach to you.

But I do want to talk to you.

If you're feeling a little lost right now, don't panic.

Keep learning.

Keep growing.

Keep showing up.

And keep trusting.

Because sometimes you may not know the answer...

But you always know who to ask.

And if this letter feels like it's talking to you...

Maybe you should listen.

Dear Young Man,

Everyone on the team knows you're good.

You don't have to tell anyone. The scoreboard tells them. Your coaches know it. Your teammates know it. Your opponents know it.

The question isn't how good you are.

The question is what you're going to do with that gift.

Some people use their talent to draw attention to themselves.

Others use their talent to lift the people around them.

The truly special athlete is not the one who says, "Look at me."

It's the one who says, "Come with me."

The teammate who encourages the kid at the end of the bench.

The player who works with someone struggling to improve.

The friend who notices when a teammate is hurting, depressed, or losing confidence.

The young man who picks up a friend when life has knocked him down.

The one who helps a classmate stay in school when they're thinking about dropping out.

The one who offers to tutor someone who can't afford a tutor.

The one who chooses kindness when recognition would be easier.

I've learned that success is never measured by how high you climb.

It's measured by how many people you help along the way.

Years from now, nobody will remember every game you won, every point you scored, or every award you received.

But people will remember how you treated them.

They will remember who encouraged them when they wanted to quit.

Who believed in them when they didn't believe in themselves.

Who showed up when everyone else disappeared.

Talent may make you a star.

But character makes you a leader.

And the greatest compliment anyone can ever receive is not, "He was a great athlete."

It's simply,

"He was a good man."

Dear Friend,

Whether you're on a sports team, a dance team, in a band, a club, a classroom, a business, or any organization, people are often recognized for being the best.

The best athlete.

The best performer.

The best student.

The best salesperson.

The best leader.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

Hard work, talent, dedication, and success deserve recognition.

In sports, they call it MVP.

Most Valuable Player.

It's a wonderful award.

You should be proud if you ever earn it.

But I've often wondered if there might be an even greater award.

One that doesn't come with a trophy.

One that isn't announced from a stage.

One that rarely gets recognized at all.

I call it MCP.

Most Caring Person.

The person who notices someone being left out.

The teammate who encourages the player who rarely gets to play.

The dancer who helps a newcomer learn the routine.

The student who helps a classmate who is struggling.

The friend who sits beside someone who feels alone.

The person who checks on someone battling depression.

The one who shows up when everyone else is too busy.

Years from now, people may forget who scored the most points.

They may forget who won the competition.

They may forget who received the award.

But they rarely forget who cared.

I've learned that talent can get you noticed.

Success can get you recognized.

But kindness gets you remembered.

When life is over, nobody is going to count how many victories you had, how many awards you received, or how many trophies sat on your shelf.

What people will remember is how you treated them.

Who you helped.

Who you encouraged.

Who you believed in when they didn't believe in themselves.

So if you win the MVP award, congratulations.

But if, years from now, someone says:

"When I was struggling, they were there."

"When everyone else walked away, they stayed."

"My life is better because I knew them."

Then you've won something far greater than Most Valuable Player.

Because at the end of the game called life, there is only one scoreboard that really matters.

Not how many people knew your name.

But how many people are grateful they knew yours.

And if one day someone stands and says,

"They cared."

"They made a difference."

"The world was a little better because they were here."

Then you will have received the greatest award of all.

Not MVP.

Not fame.

Not recognition.

Just a life that mattered.

Dear Friends,

There was once a girl named Nona.

By the time she reached ninth grade, very few people expected much from her. She was actually a pretty girl, though that was difficult for most people to notice behind the unfortunate hairstyle, the worn-out clothes, and the invisible shield she carried around her every day.

Nona came from a broken family. No one in her family had graduated from college. In fact, many people assumed she would simply become another statistic, another young person following the same difficult path that generations before her had traveled.

She didn't make good grades.

Teachers were frustrated by her.

Students mocked her.

Most people believed they had her figured out.

She spent her time with the other castoffs, the nonconformists, the students who existed outside the popular crowd. Every school has them. Every town has them. Every city has them. The kids who seem disconnected from the system. The kids people quietly write off long before they ever have a chance to prove who they are.

For years, everyone saw Nona through the lens of what she lacked.

What no one understood was that Nona was not incapable of learning.

She simply could not learn the way others expected her to.

Years later, the truth emerged.

Nona had a learning disability that had never been properly understood. But even that explanation didn't tell the whole story. The greatest misunderstanding wasn't that she struggled.

It was that people confused struggling with being unintelligent.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

As it turned out, Nona possessed an extraordinary mind.

When she finally found an environment that allowed her to learn differently, everything changed. The girl people had dismissed suddenly began solving complex problems. The student who had been labeled incapable demonstrated remarkable analytical ability and uncommon insight.

Eventually, she was recruited by a major financial services firm.

Not as a sympathy hire.

Not because someone felt sorry for her.

She earned it.

Through hard work, determination, intelligence, and a refusal to let the opinions of others define her future, she found herself on the fast track to a promising career in finance.

The same people who once doubted her were left wondering how they had missed what had been there all along.

But this story isn't really about Nona.

It's also about a teacher named Ali.

Ali was thirty-two years old when she returned to a school remarkably similar to the one she had attended years before. She remembered what it felt like to be misunderstood. She remembered how easy it was for people to decide who you were before you ever had the opportunity to discover it yourself.

One day, Ali approached her principal.

"Would you allow me to work with the at-risk students before or after school?" she asked.

The principal admired her sincerity.

"That's caring," he said. "But honestly, that's probably a futile effort. Those students don't want help."

Ali listened politely.

Then she asked one simple question.

"Can I at least try?"

What the principal didn't fully understand was that Ali had once stood where many of those students now stood. Twenty years earlier, she had known the feeling of being overlooked.

So she began.

The first day felt less like teaching and more like walking into unknown territory.

She was nervous.

She was intimidated.

She was afraid.

Yet she remained committed.

She hoped she could make a difference.

She hoped she could reach them.

She hoped they would see that someone genuinely cared.

I would love to tell you that Ali walked into that room, inspired every student, and transformed every life.

I would love to tell you that everyone graduated, found success, and lived happily ever after.

But life is rarely that simple.

Instead, Ali encountered hostility.

Some students cursed at her.

Others mocked her.

They laughed at her efforts.

They questioned her motives.

Some humiliated her in front of others.

Some threatened her.

The vision she carried of immediate success was shattered by reality.

In truth, it was far worse than she had imagined.

Many days she drove home defeated.

Many nights she wondered if the principal had been right.

Many mornings she questioned whether she should continue.

But she did.

Because Ali understood something many people never do:

You cannot always measure success by immediate results.

Sometimes planting a seed is success.

Sometimes showing kindness where none exists is success.

Sometimes believing in someone when nobody else will is success.

Years later, Ali may never know how many lives she touched.

Perhaps one of those students eventually became a nurse.

Perhaps another became an entrepreneur.

Perhaps another simply became a better parent than the one who raised them.

Perhaps someone remembered a teacher who refused to give up on them even when they gave up on themselves.

The lesson is simple.

We never truly know what potential exists inside another person.

The struggling student may possess extraordinary intelligence.

The troubled child may become a future leader.

The outcast may one day outperform everyone who dismissed them.

And sometimes the person willing to believe in them first is not the smartest person in the room.

Just the bravest.

Nona's story reminds us never to confuse circumstances with capability.

Ali's story reminds us never to underestimate the power of trying.

Because behind every student who appears lost may be a future no one can yet see.

And behind every teacher who refuses to quit may be the reason that future becomes possible.

Several years ago, I was speaking at an event in Arizona. As I often do, I mixed a little humor with a few serious thoughts about life. People laughed at some of the stories and hopefully left with a few things to think about.

A few weeks later, I received an email from a woman I had never met.

She thanked me for the presentation and said how much she had enjoyed it. Then she wrote something that caught my attention.

She said,

"I wish I could stand up in front of people and speak the way you do. I wish I could make people laugh and maybe say something that would make them think."

She went on to tell me about her childhood.

She had grown up with a stern and often cruel stepmother. Her father was rarely home and offered little comfort or affection. She and her sister lived in a house where criticism was common and encouragement was rare.

No matter what they did, it was never enough.

They were ridiculed more than praised.

Loved less than they deserved.

As a result, she grew up nervous, overweight, afraid of making mistakes, and reluctant to trust anyone. By seventeen, she had left home carrying a lifetime of insecurities with her.

Near the end of her email she wrote:

"I don't know you, but for some reason I trust you. How would you suggest I change? How could I become more like you?"

I thought about that question for a long time.

Finally, I wrote back and told her something she wasn't expecting.

"You don't need to become more like me."

"You need to become more like yourself."

I explained that confidence isn't something people are born with. It is something they build one small step at a time.

The people who seem outgoing today were not all born that way. Many of them were frightened, insecure, and uncertain at one point in their lives.

The difference is that they decided not to let fear make their decisions for them.

I told her to start small.

Speak up once when she normally would stay quiet.

Share an opinion.

Ask a question.

Join a group.

Take a chance.

Most importantly, stop measuring herself by the cruel words of people who failed to see her worth.

What happened to her was not her fault.

What happened next was her responsibility.

I don't remember everything I wrote in that email, but I remember what I learned from it.

Sometimes the people who appear the weakest have survived the hardest battles.

Sometimes the quietest person in the room has the most important story to tell.

And sometimes all a person needs is for someone to believe in them long enough for them to begin believing in themselves.

I've often wondered what became of that young woman.

But I hope she discovered what I suspected all along.

The girl who didn't talk had a voice.

She just hadn't learned to trust it yet.

Dear Friend,

I know a man who is always smiling.

If you met him, you would think everything is fine. He laughs, tells stories, and appears confident and in control.

But behind the smile, he is hurting.

He carries disappointments, regrets, worries, and loneliness that few people know about. Not because others don't care, but because his pride and ego won't let him lower the veil.

He's convinced himself that showing pain is weakness.

So he keeps smiling.

He keeps pretending.

He keeps carrying the burden alone.

What he doesn't realize is that the people who love him don't need the smile. They don't need him to be perfect. They simply want the real him.

I've learned that pride builds walls, while humility builds bridges.

The strongest people I've known were not those who never hurt. They were the ones brave enough to say, "I'm struggling."

If this letter describes you, remember this:

You don't have to carry everything by yourself.

The people who love you would rather see your tears than lose you behind your smile.

Because one day, the burden you're carrying will become heavier than the fear of letting it go.

And when that day comes, I hope you remember this:

The veil may protect you from being seen, but it also keeps you from being loved, healed, and understood.

Sometimes the strongest thing a man can do is stop pretending he's strong.

Dear Parent,

The world has a funny way of measuring success.

It measures titles, promotions, bank accounts, possessions, and accomplishments.

But I've often wondered if we're measuring the wrong things.

Your greatest contribution to society may not be the company you build, the job you hold, or the money you make.

It may be the children you raise.

Raising good children may be the hardest thing you will ever do.

There are no instruction manuals.

No guarantees.

No perfect parents.

There will be worry, sleepless nights, disappointments, sacrifices, and moments when you'll wonder if you're getting any of it right.

But if you do it well, it may also be the most exhilarating thing you will ever experience.

Because one day you'll see that little boy become a good man.

You'll see that little girl become a wonderful woman.

You'll watch them raise their own families, help others, work hard, love deeply, and live with character.

And you'll realize that part of your legacy is living on through them.

My mother had a simple secret about raising children.

When things got difficult and parents weren't sure what to say, she always said:

"When you don't know what to say to your child, just hug them tight and tell them you love them."

The older I get, the wiser that advice becomes.

Children won't remember every lecture you gave them.

They won't remember every rule.

But they will remember whether they felt loved.

My mother also used to say:

"A child who is loved will always find their way back home."

I believe that.

Life will test your children.

Sometimes they'll make mistakes.

Sometimes they'll lose their direction.

Sometimes they'll stumble.

We all do.

But children who know they are loved carry something special with them wherever they go. They carry an anchor. A compass. A place they know they can return to.

The houses we buy will one day belong to someone else.

The money we earn will eventually be spent.

The careers we build will someday be forgotten.

But the values we pass on to our children can last for generations.

So don't underestimate what you're doing.

You're not just raising children.

You're raising future mothers, fathers, teachers, leaders, neighbors, and friends.

And while it may be the hardest job you'll ever have...

It may also be the most important.

Because your greatest contribution to mankind may not be what you accomplished.

It may be who you raised.

Dear Grandparent,

I've often said:

"You can't spend too much time with your grandchildren, but you can spend not enough."

Life moves quickly.

One day they're taking their first steps, and before you know it, they're driving a car, graduating, getting married, and starting families of their own.

Don't make the mistake of watching their lives through photographs, FaceTime calls, or videos.

Those are wonderful tools, but they were never meant to replace time.

Go see them.

Sit with them.

Listen to them.

Learn what makes them laugh, what worries them, what their dreams are, and who they are becoming.

A grandchild may never remember every gift you bought them.

But they'll remember fishing with Grandpa.

They'll remember baking cookies with Grandma.

They'll remember the stories, the hugs, the laughter, and the fact that you showed up.

One day, they'll tell their children about you.

And when that day comes, they won't talk about the pictures you sent.

They'll talk about the time you spent.

Because love is spelled T-I-M-E.

So if you're blessed enough to have grandchildren, make the trip, make the call, attend the game, go to the recital, stay a little longer, and hug them a little tighter.

Because someday you'll realize that the greatest investment you ever made wasn't in a business, a house, or a bank account.

It was in the people who called you Grandma and Grandpa.

And trust me on this:

You can't spend too much time with your grandchildren, but you can spend not enough.

I once knew a man named Dave who grew up in one of the toughest cities in New Jersey. His family had immigrated from Italy, and he was the youngest of ten children. His father was a butcher, and no one in his family had ever graduated from high school.

In his neighborhood, life seemed to follow one of only a few paths. You worked with your hands your entire life, worked on the docks, learned a trade, or sometimes ended up involved in things that led nowhere good.

Dave's high school counselor told him he was wasting his time and should forget about school. He suggested Dave become an electrician, a truck driver, or work the docks.

Something unexpected happened.

Dave stayed in school, partly because he wanted to prove the counselor wrong. When he graduated, becoming the first person in his family to earn a high school diploma, the Vietnam War was escalating. He chose to join the Air Force instead of being drafted into the Army, hoping he might learn to fly.

He did learn to fly.

He became a helicopter pilot during a dangerous time when many aircraft were being shot down. He served, survived, and returned home.

While he was away, one of his sisters had enrolled him in junior college. She was determined that the first member of the family to graduate from high school would also be the first to attend college.

This time, Dave was focused and mature. He excelled academically. The GI Bill helped pay for school, and before long he was recruited by a prestigious university. After earning his degree, he went on to receive an MBA from one of the nation's top business schools.

In less than ten years, his life had completely changed.

Years later, Dave became president of the company where I worked.

What I assumed about him couldn't have been further from the truth. I thought he was a silver-spoon executive, an Ivy League graduate with all the right connections. Instead, he had fought for everything he achieved.

More importantly, he saw something in me that I didn't fully see in myself.

When I was presented with an opportunity to move to Dallas in 1985 and enter a larger market, Dave encouraged me to take the challenge. He believed in me before I fully believed in myself.

Looking back, accepting that opportunity changed the course of my life.

There is an old Chinese proverb:

"When the student is ready, the teacher will appear."

For many people, Dave was a successful executive.

For me, he was also a teacher.

Thank you, Dave, for believing in me, challenging me, and sharing your American Dream story. Your greatest legacy is not the success you achieved, but the success you helped inspire in others.

Your story taught me that where you start in life does not determine where you finish. A butcher's son from a tough New Jersey neighborhood, who was told he wasn't college material, became a military pilot, earned an MBA, led a company, and changed the lives of the people around him.

That is the American Dream.

And I am grateful that one of the people whose life you changed was mine.

Many years ago, I was speaking in Denver, Colorado, and as I often did, I shared a few simple thoughts about marriage and relationships.

One was:

"Saying 'I do' will get you married. Saying 'I will' will keep you married."

Another was:

"Anyone can find fault in people, but it is a special gift to find the good in people."

I talked about how pride and ego can become obstacles in any relationship. Anyone can walk away when things get difficult. Anyone can point out what is wrong.

But it takes effort to stay married.

It takes humility to apologize.

It takes forgiveness to move forward.

And it takes two hands and two hearts to mend what has been broken.

After the speech, a gentleman waited until nearly everyone had left the room. He approached me and said he wanted to thank me.

He explained that his marriage had been struggling. Like many people, he had become consumed by the things that annoyed him, frustrated him, and disappointed him. He was focused on faults instead of the reasons he had fallen in love in the first place.

Then he said something I have never forgotten.

He told me that after hearing those simple sayings, he called his wife.

He apologized.

He told her he wanted to work through their differences.

He told her he wanted to try again.

And then he said the words that have stayed with me all these years:

"I forgot how much I loved you."

I have given many speeches throughout my life, but few moments have touched me more than that one.

It reminded me that people don't always need profound wisdom or complicated answers.

Sometimes they just need a reminder.

A reminder of their commitment.

A reminder of their values.

A reminder of why they fell in love in the first place.

That day in Denver taught me something important:

Words matter.

And occasionally, a few simple words shared at the right moment can help heal a wounded heart, restore a relationship, and perhaps even change the course of a life.

That is why I have never forgotten that man, his wife, or the impact of that conversation.

Because sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person is simply helping them remember what they already know in their heart.

Dear Friend,

Let me share two honest truths with you.

The first one isn't much fun, but it's true.

You're going to die.

So am I.

Everybody reading this is.

Not exactly a cheerful way to start a letter, but it's a fact.

The older I get, the more I realize there's not much we can do about that one except make the most of the time we've been given.

Love your family.

Be kind to people.

Do some good.

Laugh often.

Forgive a little quicker.

And when your time comes, hope you left the world a little better than you found it.

Now let's talk about the second truth.

Artificial Intelligence is here.

Not coming.

Not someday.

Not ten years from now.

It's here.

And unlike the first truth, this is one you actually get to do something about.

I hear people say they're worried about AI.

Maybe they're afraid it will replace jobs.

Maybe they're afraid they won't understand it.

Maybe they're afraid they'll get left behind.

I understand those concerns.

But I think many people are asking the wrong question.

Instead of asking,

"How can AI hurt me?"

Maybe we should ask,

"How can AI help me?"

Can it help me learn?

Can it help me write?

Can it help me solve problems?

Can it help me become more productive?

Can it help me spend more time doing the things that matter most?

Every major advancement in history scared somebody.

The automobile.

The telephone.

The computer.

The internet.

And now AI.

The people who benefited most weren't always the smartest people.

They were often the people willing to learn.

I have a feeling AI will be no different.

So here are my two honest truths.

You're going to die.

AI is here.

One of them you can't do much about.

The other one gives you a choice.

You can embrace it or become a victim of it.

You can learn how to use it, or spend your time worrying about it.

I don't want to preach to you.

But I do want to talk to you.

Life is shorter than you think.

Technology moves faster than you think.

Make the most of both.

And remember, when you don't know the answer:

Sometimes you may not know the answer, but you always know who to ask.

If this letter is talking to you, maybe you should listen.