Life Lessons: Things I’ve learned about leaving a legacy
At twelve years old, in the summer of 1979, my life changed forever. In many ways. I grew up in a blue collar suburb south of Houston, halfway between downtown and Galveston where I-45 eventually disappears into the Gulf of Mexico. This particular evening, I was at the end of our front porch, on my knees, pleading for my life, the barrel of a twelve gauge shotgun pointed at my chest. It was being held by my little league baseball coach and dad, Bill. He was fall down drunk, terrifying and seemingly resolute. I remember trying to recall one of the sermons I had heard recently from Brother John at the local Baptist church we attended some Sundays. It was something about forgiveness. For the life of me (literally), I couldn’t remember a single thing I had learned in church that day.
“Please don’t kill us, Daddy,” was all I could manage.
The scene would end with a neighbor, from across the street, distracting him long enough for me to escape between our house and the neighbors. I ran inside and begged our neighbors to call the police. Before they could arrive, Bill climbed into his pickup truck, drove away and took his own life with the same shotgun he used to perpetrate an unspeakable crime against his family. The news came in a rather unremarkable fashion. No drama. No family huddle or support group. Just a clear and concise notice that he was gone, like a message from HR the office was going to be closing for good. The first legacy event in my life hit like the snap of an old leather belt across the back of your thighs—searing at first, then fading, but always there, a silent reminder. This is how chapter one, the first twelve years, concluded for me. Some legacies aren’t gifts but burdens we carry, shaped not by what was given, but by what was taken away.
Before the first day of the eighth grade school year, through a series of events beyond my control, I would relocate to the posh, exclusive neighborhood of Houston, known as River Oaks. Things were different. Very different. My life went from being the only son of the town drunk, rides in police cars, “chicken fights” at the public swimming pool and building forts in the undeveloped field behind our subdivision, to mansions, private school, a country club, tennis and golf lessons, snow skiing and summer camp in the Texas Hill Country. Gone were the remnants of those first twelve years, all of my childhood friends, and playing “kick the can” until I heard my mother’s voice calling me inside for bath and bedtime. Things were predictable, safe, certain. Life was better in so many ways. Still, it was different. I was different. I didn’t belong in this new life. Or at least that is how I felt.
Chapter Two. Meet Jim, aka “Chief.” That Christmas, we went snow skiing in Colorado. My step-father, Jim, was an expert skier. He was also an amazing human on every level, a successful real estate entrepreneur and, most importantly, not an alcoholic. I followed closely behind him, chasing him down the runs, trying to mimic his elegance and form. His tracks became my tracks until the very last run at the end of a long ski day. The evenings were hot tubs, steak dinners, a warm fire and snow cats grooming runs high up on the slopes. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was becoming my best friend and the person I could count on most in the world. It was a magical time. Me and Chief. I had been gifted a second chance at childhood memories, filled with laughter, adventure and fatherhood. To this day, second only to the birth of my sons, it is the thing in life for which I am most grateful.
The thing about childhood trauma is that it is sneaky, cunning and the roots run deep into every fiber of your being. It informs you, and at times it owns you until you become your only friend and vision. Scarred. Damaged. Broken. Like an old farmhouse chair in need of repair. To be useful, beautiful again, and able to tell new stories, it must be restored with care and intention to preserve the bones while birthing a new life, purpose and finding its place among the many other items. I will spare you the details, but my restoration project would take time and come at a high price. Drugs and alcohol, military school, wrecked cars, wrecked relationships and a lot of “self discovery” would be the anthem of my teenage and college years. It would also keep a room in the house of my adulthood, reminding me that I was still a “broken toy” with the promise of a life that felt “complicated.”
Jim and I would remain close over the years. We became each other’s best friend. We played golf, hunted and fished, went to a lot of Astros games, worked in business together and kept skiing the back bowls until his body began its inevitable decline. My three sons would call him Papa and we bonded over seeing the world through their eyes. We talked a lot about what it meant to be a father. He was deeply faithful and God played a central role in his life. While I did not share his passion for religion, I did agree to be an acolyte in the Episcopal church and attend services with him every Sunday evening. Life was good. I made sure it stayed complicated but it was good for the most part. Until it wasn’t.
Chapter three. The phrase “lightening never strikes the same place twice,” is a myth. In reality, it can and often does strike twice. And so on October 7, 2010, I received a phone call while driving between Austin and Dallas. The voice on the other end made my heart stop, sent chills all over my body and brought a lifetime of faded memories into the front seat like old, discarded beer cans that had been tossed in the back for years. They weren’t gone. You just didn’t have to look at them if you didn’t want to. Jim was gone. That morning, he would take the cars to the car wash, fill them with gas, stop by the grocery store for essentials and return home. He wrote messages about watering the plants on 5x7 index cards and placed them strategically around the house. Then, after things were in order, he drove across the street to a rented storage unit, raised the door, went inside, closed the door behind him and sat in the dark, alone, and ended his own life. I was 43 years old and had just learned my second lesson about legacy.
Today, as I write these words, I am 57 years old. I am 7 years sober, recently divorced, and still on a journey of “self discovery.” I am in love. I am happy. I am joyful. I am healthy. I work hard at all of it. I explore the true meaning of words like “surrender,” “love,” “vulnerability,” “authenticity,” “legacy” and so on. Before I wrap this up, it is important to me that you know I am grateful for the life I have lived. I am grateful for the lessons learned. I am grateful for the many people along the path who inspired, healed, and loved me. Many of you picked me up when I needed help. You know who you are. Much love.
Here is what I have learned about legacy. Legacy is a word often associated with grand achievements, wealth, and monuments that stand the test of time. But through the tapestry of my life’s story, I’ve come to understand that legacy is something far more intimate, far more human, and often woven with threads of both light and darkness.
In the summer of 1979, legacy first touched me with a rough, unforgiving hand. My biological father, Bill, a man lost to the bottle, left behind a legacy of fear, pain, and ultimately, his own destruction. The legacy of those moments on our front porch—the shotgun, the terror, his final act—was not just the end of his life, but the beginning of a profound shaping of mine. His legacy was not the kind that people aspire to leave; it was a legacy of what not to become, a cautionary tale etched in my memory like a scar. It taught me that legacy can be a burden, a weight that you carry even when you try to leave it behind.
But life, unpredictable and ever-changing, had more to teach me. When I was given a second chance at childhood through my stepfather, Jim, I learned that legacy isn’t just what you leave behind in death; it’s what you build through your everyday actions. Jim, or “Chief” as I called him, was everything my father wasn’t—steady, loving, kind. His legacy wasn’t in the material comforts he provided or the adventures we shared, though those were plentiful. His true legacy was the way he showed up every day, the way he loved me unconditionally, the way he quietly restored the broken pieces of my soul without ever asking for anything in return. His legacy was a blueprint for how to live, not just how to die.
Yet, legacy is not immune to the darkness. Even Jim, this pillar of strength in my life, succumbed to his own demons in the end. His death, much like my father’s, was a violent rupture, a reminder that even the best of us are not invincible. The legacy he left was complex, layered with the warmth of his love but shadowed by the pain of his final act. From Jim, I learned that legacy is fragile, that it can be shattered by the choices we make in our most desperate moments. His death taught me that legacy is not just what we leave behind in the minds of others, but also the unfinished stories, the questions without answers, the echoes of what might have been.
At 57, with years of sobriety and a heart full of hard-earned wisdom, I see legacy as both a blessing and a burden. It is not something that can be neatly packaged or easily understood. Legacy is the sum of all our actions, the kindness we offer, the hurt we cause, the love we give, and the pain we endure. It is the memories we create and the ones we leave behind, the way we touch others’ lives, for better or worse.
My father’s legacy was one of warning. Jim’s was one of love and complexity. And now, as I continue on my journey, I strive to create a legacy that is honest, authentic, and deeply human. One that acknowledges the darkness but seeks the light, that understands vulnerability as strength, and love as the most enduring legacy of all. Legacy, I have learned, is not just what you leave behind, but what you live each day.
Thanks for letting me share. I hope there is a lesson in here somewhere and that you are able to use it for good.