Thank You

Nothing made me feel more like a child than turning 28. The pageantry of a birthday but only four guests. The cake, the ice cream, the presents, the liquor to numb the realization that at 28 I’m only just living on my own and changing my address. Two short years from 30. Didn’t you want to be a millionaire at 30? How’s that going? How’s the writing career? The girlfriend? All those material things you said you didn’t care about but now bookend your Amazon wishlist?

Because here’s the thing—despite the unconditional love, relentless radiation of parental pride, and two decades of unselfish support—I’m still disappointed in myself. It isn’t the disappointment of failed expectations or unassailable pressure that leads to corrosion of self-confidence, but the general anxiety and guilt from a life spent in the shadow of social media’s precipitous pull—the endless parade of pretty girls and rich boys and their ready-made success. Then I’m guilty for my lust and envy because that’s not how I was raised. And of course all that familial optimism, unapologetic pride, and endless forgiveness weighs heavier on the back that perceives itself frail. Guilt builds upon guilt until it’s all one feels.

I think a lot of people are scared of becoming their parents because they fear they’ll inherit the parts of their moms and dads they condemn most. But I’m not scared. I read recently that each new chapter of life requires a new you. So I hope I’ll adopt the traits I admire most: their compassion, perseverance, poise, unselfishness, trust, and mercy. I hope I become a Man like my dad and a Parent like my mom. I hope to grow into a businessman like my father, a saint like my mother. I hope to honor their growing legacy of Protestant goodness. My parents are what give me hope.

Hey, it wouldn’t be a thank-you note without shameless praise. The great thing about being raised by two former Forestry majors is the ability to see the forest for the trees. Dad is the CEO of a burgeoning seed enterprise at 62. Mom is becoming a local socialite and philanthropist AND starting to bike in her 60’s. They’re my role models and always have been because they’ve showed me it’s never too late or too early to reinvent yourself, to try something new, to fulfill lifelong goals that until recently seemed insurmountable in the face of setbacks and struggle.

‘Thank you for being my parents’ is a paradox for the unadopted. None of us have a choice, I reckon, on who our mothers, fathers, sons, or daughters are. We’re born; we accept fate. But when I say thank you for being my parents I mean it with a capital ‘P’ Parents. You very much had a choice in how you raised me and I think you did a fantastic job.