My darling Lizzy — your papa wants you to know something about work. Real work. The kind where you set a goal, hold yourself accountable to it, pour everything you have into achieving it, and then celebrate it — not because celebrating is easy, but because celebrating is part of the process. It honors the effort. It closes the loop. I wrote this in July 2025, when I had just earned President’s Club at work — the highest recognition in my company — while fighting ALS at the same time. I was still walking then. A cane, yes. But my own two feet. A lot has changed since. But what I wrote that week about winning — what it means, what it costs, what it gives back — I’d write every word of it again today. Work hard, baby girl. Set your goals high. Be accountable to them. Achieve them. And when you do — celebrate. Your papa did. Even from his kitchen in Chicago. Even with a cane against the wall. I love you my beautiful girl!
Originally written on July 25, 2025 — Chicago, Illinois
This week, I was supposed to be in New York for President’s Club.
I earned it — surpassing goals across the two business units I lead. Anyone who knows me understands how much pride I take in my work. I love leading teams. I love pouring into people. I love creating productive, engaged cultures and helping people find their next gear. And let’s be honest — I’m competitive as hell. I LIKE WINNING. President’s Club was the ultimate recognition of that.
This week would have included all my favorite things: a Broadway show, a Mets game, a customer dinner, and an awards celebration.
Wife-Grace wanted me to go. She knew I’d earned it. She wanted that for me.
But Nurse-Grace had other ideas.
And she was right.
She is almost always right.
Just five days ago, I was on the verge of an ER visit, gasping for air. My BiPAP machine still isn’t quite right. I’m a fall risk now. My gait has changed. I walk with a cane indoors and use a wheelchair outdoors. My core strength is gone. Simple things like turning over in bed, getting up from a chair, putting on a T-shirt — they all require effort and often help from Nurse-Grace. It’s not just hard. It’s humbling.
So I stayed home.
I won’t pretend that was easy. I watched the trip I’d earned happen without me and I felt the distance. There’s a verse I’ve come back to more than once over these last months. Psalm 30:5. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” I’ve lived both sides of that verse. Sometimes in the same hour.
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.”
— Theodore Roosevelt, Citizenship in a Republic
But then — something beautiful happened. Even from Chicago, I felt seen.
A video celebrating everyone who earned President’s Club played on a giant screen in Times Square. Every hour. Every person who hit the number was on that screen. Everyone on their spot as I earned my spot. From my kitchen in Chicago.
And seeing that?
Still hit.
My CEO came to visit us Wednesday morning. He sat with us for three hours, shared breakfast, and told me: “I’ve got your back.” That I was loved. That the company would do right by me. That I don’t have to worry about a place at work; I would still be given the opportunity to produce.
It meant everything. I’ve had a lot of powerful moments over the course of my career. But sitting at my own kitchen table, in the middle of everything we’re living through, with the person who runs our company — looking him in the eye and hearing him say I don’t have to worry — that one goes on the short list. You don’t forget the people who show up. Not when it counts like this.
And work still means everything to me. It’s a grounding force in the chaos. It gives me purpose. It reminds me that even as my body changes, I can still create value, still pour into others. Even if I type slower. Even if I rely on voice-to-text. Even if I dress with help and get winded brushing my teeth.
ALS may be robbing me of mobility, but not of meaning.
I still get five minutes a day to be mad. Some days it’s staring at my cane leaning against the wall. Some days it’s catching myself reaching for something I used to just grab — and stopping. Remembering. Recalibrating. Five minutes. That’s the deal I’ve made with myself. After that, I get back to work.
“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
— Dylan Thomas
But even in those five minutes, gratitude finds its way in. I see the faces of my team, my mentors, my friends. I remember the Times Square video. The CEO visit. The texts from colleagues in New York sending love.
So yeah, I missed the play. I missed the ballgame. I missed the dinner and the awards night.
But I didn’t miss the point.
Winning looks different these days. But it still feels like victory.
Lizzy — that’s the lesson. Work hard. Achieve your goals. Celebrate them. Even from your kitchen. Even with a cane against the wall. Winning is winning.
GO ADVENTURE ◆ GO TRAVEL ◆ GO LIVE
ALWAYS BE EPIC
Secret of My SucCecil 