My “Dear Dad…” Letter (My biggest “failure” = lifetime fuel 🔥)
Heroes!!
The other day Michael sent out an email that I think was one of the most powerful things he’s ever done.
And that’s saying a lot.
As you know if you’re able to keep up with all the emails we send out (😉), he sent out an email to everyone that was written in the form of a letter to his dad.
I’ve been thinking about that email a LOT lately.
I’m using it to frame the creative challenge of crafting Heroic Elite to be a program that serves someone like Michael (who is ALREADY as Elite as they come!) and his dad (who is an extraordinary man who has raised wonderful kids and is humbly Heroic in his own right and, like so many of you, is entering a different phase of life).
Btw….
Can I get a collective THANK YOU for Michael’s parents for raising such a noble, virtuously Heroic man?!?
Seriously. Wow. Tears in my eyes.
Now…
I’ll be sharing more on HOW we will serve EVERYONE with Heroic Elite.
For now…
I want you to know that I’ve also been thinking a lot about MY DAD.
It’s funny because the first place I went in my mind when I thought of my dad was to the grocery store where he was the produce manager.
I imagined that I was Eleanor’s age—seven years old. It was this time of the year. A Saturday. Everyone was buying their Christmas trees.
These days, the Christmas trees pretty much show up at your local Whole Foods or wherever you shop, ready to take home.
But back in the day (circa 1981!), the trees would show up on an old school truck and guys like my dad would need to load them off the truck and then get to work with his crew to get them ready for you.
It was a pretty big production, and I remember it being one of the busiest times of the year.
My dad was my hero.
I remember him DOMINATING it all—leading his guys and crushing it with a chainsaw and rocking this assembly line of excellence.
My job was to collect all the little stumps he cut off from the bottom of the trees.
He told me that cutting the trunks helped the trees soak up the water they’d be set in to help them stay fresh longer for the families that would be taking them home.
He took a ton of pride in his work and is the man who taught me how to do something right. And to do it with the person you’re serving in mind.
(Tears in my eyes typing that.)
I can still smell the pine.
I got a bag of banana chips for my hard work.
It was awesome.
That was one of the highlights of my childhood memories of my father …
And…
As you know if you’ve been following along, my dad was a good man who tried his best but struggled with alcohol—which, as you can imagine, led to a lot of challenges in my upbringing.
His struggle with alcohol—and almost certainly the depression that both led to and fed his addiction—also destroyed his marriage and his health.
He died in a single-car accident after driving off the side of a freeway while driving in rage after an argument with his then-girlfriend.
My heart breaks typing that.
That was twenty years ago.
At the time, he could barely function without an oxygen machine. He was drinking, smoking, and he and I weren’t even talking.
The last two interactions I can remember with him aren’t positive.
I think the last time I saw him was after he had fallen and slammed his face on a concrete gutter after stumbling drunk out of a casino. I can vividly see the left side of his face that was COMPLETELY black and blue from the fall that required him to be medi-helicoptered to a hospital.
The final time I can remember chatting before he passed away?
We hung up on each other after I took offense to some offensive things he said about my mother.
Now…
I share all that very private family history because I want you to FEEL the pain I feel now and the pain that I felt then as a 30-year-son who FAILED to help his father.
That makes me want to weep.
I also want you to know that I do every single thing I do wishing I could go back in time and actually be effective in helping him.
That’s why Marsha Linehan’s comment that the most compassionate thing you can do for someone is to be effective at helping them goes straight into my soul.
Of course, I can’t go back in time.
And, of course, I strive to practice my philosophy and wouldn’t change a single thing about my life as ALL of it was required to bring me here today.
And…
I want you to know that, knowing I can’t help MY dad, I’m doing everything I can to help YOU and YOUR dad or anyone else in your life who could use some encouragement and loving wisdom.
Now…
When I set out to write this email, I planned to share a letter to my dad.
It’s a little harder/weirder to write that letter than Michael’s but here’s a pass at some of what I would write within the context of everything we’re doing now…
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Dear dad…
I want you to know how much I miss you.
I wish you were alive and had the opportunity to meet my beautiful wife. And my beautiful kids. You would have absolutely loved them.
I want to thank you for working as hard as you did to take care of me and your five kids.
I literally can only imagine how hard it must have been for you to try to make ends meet while working in a grocery store six days a week and sending us all to Catholic school for 12 years.
I also can only imagine how hard it must have been to meet those challenges following the upbringing you had.
I wince when I imagine the environment you grew up in and the scars that must have left and how hard you worked to try to break the cycles of abuse you endured.
Bless you. 🙏
You know what else I wish I could have done?
I wish I had the skills to help you conquer your demons. I tried my best but that just wasn’t good enough.
I’ve worked my entire life to try to get better at helping people.
And you know what?
I always have YOU in mind when I do everything I do.
Here’s a fun fact I think you’ll find as funny as I do.
Every time I’m blessed to do work with the Navy, I ALWAYS (!) put a slide in with a picture of you in there.
I always say that you enlisted in the Navy at 17 and that you barely made the weight requirements—because you were so skinny.
Then I step to the side of the podium I tend to speak behind and point at my (fantastically skinny!) legs as I say…
“I clearly got my dad’s legs.”
I laugh along with everyone else. It’s a pretty funny moment.
Then you know what I say?
I tell them that I say yes to every single invitation I get to chat with our military for a bunch of reasons.
Of course, I don’t take our freedoms for granted. I know that our service members (and their families!) are a big reason why I have the life I do. And I’m committed to giving back and doing everything I can to bring out the best in those who serve.
But…
The biggest reason I’m there is because I’m looking for YOU.
I’m there because I’m hoping I’ll be able to connect with an 18-year-old version of you and give that guy at least ONE idea that can change his life.
Or…
More likely because my talks are almost always for the most elite, highest-ranking officers, I tell them that I hope I can inspire them with at least ONE idea that, through their leadership and the leaders in their chain of command, will reach that metaphorical 18-year-old version of you.
Anyway…
I just want to thank you again for all you did for me. I don’t take you and your sacrifices for granted.
Every day I try to make you proud and make your investment in me worth something as I strive to be a better dad and raise a son who will be a better dad than both of us combined.
Oh!
The other thing I got from you?
Your hairstyle.
Thanks for that. 😆
I love you.
-Your Fifth Kid
⬅️ Prior update: I’ve had this feeling before… (Why I am OBSESSING about Elite)
➡️ Next update: Raising the next generation of heroes Heroic families unite!
