In my 40 years on Earth, one truth has become abundantly clear: we live, and we die. The journey between those two points differs for everyone, and it's not a race, nor is it a competition. Growing up, we often tie our worth to time—thinking we should reach certain milestones, possess specific skills, or hit particular markers at some preordained age. We associate certain abilities or achievements with adulthood, and society often pressures us to compare ourselves to others.
Some people excel in sports while others thrive in the arts. Some are academically sound; I found my rhythm in music. While some friends collected degrees and certifications, I walked a different path. My life might not fit society’s traditional definition of "success," but it’s mine, and it’s full of stories that have shaped me into the person I am today.
I’ve been told, "Oh, they’re doing this, and you’re not doing anything with your life." Comparisons like that sting. But they also remind me that fulfillment isn’t one-size-fits-all. Sure, some may call me a “bum” because my resume doesn’t match theirs. But by definition, that’s not what I am, nor is it who I’ve ever been. My path wasn’t about chasing prestige or riches; it was about doing what I loved, being part of the things that brought me joy, and sharing those experiences with others.
For me, life has been a blend of both hard lessons and exhilarating moments. I’ve had the privilege of being part of major book releases, and while I jokingly call myself a “backstage celebrity”—famous only among the people who know me—those moments mean something to me. They’re fun, and they remind me of the richness of my experiences.
Looking back, I realize that what I lack in formal accolades, I make up for in skills and stories. I’ve given countless hours to volunteering, which has made me rich—not in money, but in experience, knowledge, and connection. Life isn’t perfect, and it’s certainly not easy. There have been days where I’ve wished for more—more money, more recognition, more clarity. But every step, every choice, has brought me closer to the person I’m meant to be.
In many ways, my train is still moving. It might not be the fastest, but it’s steady. I’ve lived, I’ve learned, and I’m still learning. Life has taught me to embrace the tension between joy and struggle, to recognize that every setback has the potential to be a setup for growth.
A good friend once asked me, “What do you want to do?” My answer? “I want to be the man.” Today, at 40, I feel a little closer to that goal—not because I’ve arrived, but because I’ve learned to be present. I’m living to be all that I can be in the moment, and that, to me, is what it means to truly live.
This is 40. And while it might not be the best life, it’s my life. And it’s enough.
