This past Sunday, while I was away for the weekend, I received a message that stopped me in my tracks. It came from the wife of a dear friend and began with a simple but powerful truth: “There’s only one David Grundy.”

In that moment, the world felt a little quieter.

She shared that she had lost the love of her life at 4:10 a.m. that morning. Despite everything, her strength was evident—surrounded by family, asking only that the message be shared among the many who loved him. David’s journey had not been easy. He had faced years of health challenges, and more recently, a devastating series of complications that began with sepsis and led to further illness. For nearly two months, he fought with everything he had. And like so many times before, we believed he would come through.

We believed because that’s who David was.

I remember one of those earlier moments when we feared losing him. I was traveling in Alberta at the time when David messaged me, urging me to come see him if I could. Without hesitation, I canceled my plans, rented a car, and drove to Calgary with Omar to meet David and Darlene for lunch. The restaurant was partially closed for a marketing shoot, yet they welcomed us in.

That day holds a memory I will never forget. As we sat together, I took a photo of the table—and at that exact moment, a single beam of sunlight broke through the window and landed squarely on David. It was surreal. When I later looked at the image, it felt almost otherworldly. Two weeks later, David called to share that his tests were clear—he was in remission. We called it a miracle.

How I wish we could have witnessed one more.

David and I were kindred spirits. It’s difficult to explain, but some connections run deeper than circumstance—they feel intrinsic, almost written into who we are. He was, in every sense, a true English gentleman. He had a sharp wit, a deep love for Monty Python, and an uncanny ability to recall every line of every sketch. His humour was effortless, his presence magnetic. He brought joy into every room he entered.

David loved life—and more importantly, he made others love it too.

This loss feels especially profound for me, having faced my own health challenges this year. It has deepened my understanding of how fragile and precious our time truly is. The world feels different without him in it. And yet, I can almost hear his voice reminding us to carry on—to keep laughing, to keep living.

Because that’s what he would have wanted.

One of my final memories of David dates back to October 2019. He had been traveling in Europe but made a point to come to Eastern Canada to spend time with our mutual friend Bob, who was undergoing cancer treatment. On his return journey to Western Canada, he connected through Hamilton, and I went to see him off. It was the last time we would see each other.

We shared laughs, stories, and moments that now feel even more meaningful. We captured some of that time together on video—a reflection of his humour and vibrant spirit. It feels only right to share that now, not in sorrow, but in celebration. Because if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that David would want us smiling, laughing, and remembering him at his very best.

David Grundy was one of a kind.

He will be deeply missed, fondly remembered, and forever carried in the hearts of those who had the privilege of knowing him.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.

At the end of May 2026, I had my final CT scan and then waited for weeks on pins and needles for the verdict. When Dr. Aaron Robichaud finally called with the news, he told me the scan was clear. In fact, he said that if he had not known my history, he would never have known I had suffered a bleed in my head at all. That kind of news does more than reassure you — it gives you back a piece of yourself.

Not long after that, I returned from a road trip to Ontario that turned out to be just as meaningful in its own way. I had the chance to reconnect with friends, family, and pieces of my life that matter more than I can easily put into words. After everything that happened, it felt like life was quietly offering me a second chance not just to recover, but to truly re-enter it.

Lesson 1: Healing Is Measured in More Than Scans

A clear scan is wonderful news, but healing is not only about medical results. It is also about what you are able to do with the gift of survival once it arrives. For me, that meant getting back on the road, seeing people I love, and beginning to rebuild the bridges that matter most.

I met with three of my five children and six of my grandchildren. One of my daughters, who is currently undergoing treatment for breast cancer, was one of the most moving reunions of all. We had been estranged for about ten years, and I did not know how the meeting would unfold. She made it easy. She is strong, full of life, and took the lead in the conversation, speaking non-stop for two hours. It reminded me that the connection between a father and daughter can still exist beneath years of silence, waiting for the right moment to surface.

Lesson 2: Family Has a Way of Finding Its Way Back

I also met up with my eldest son and his two girls, including one granddaughter I had never met before. What a character she is. I am so happy to know her now. Moments like that do not erase the past, but they do soften it. They create new memories strong enough to stand beside the old ones.

The truth is, family relationships are not always neat or easy. Sometimes there are long silences, misunderstandings, and years of distance. But when a door opens, even a little, it is worth walking through it. I am determined to keep doing that in the months ahead. It is not over until it is over.

Lesson 3: Friendship Matters More With Time

During the trip, I also reconnected with a few old friends and ex-work colleagues, including Germain and Jose. It was genuinely great to spend time with both of you. Friendships that survive the passage of years carry a different kind of value. They remind you of who you were, who you became, and who still recognizes you without explanation.

As we get older, it becomes clearer that the people who stay in our lives are part of our structure. They help us stay grounded. They remind us that life is not only measured in accomplishments, but in shared laughter, old stories, and the comfort of being known.

Lesson 4: Gratitude Changes the Way You See Everything

I am deeply grateful to be alive thanks to the team at Saint John Regional Hospital. Their skill, care, and commitment gave me the chance to get to this point. That kind of gratitude is not abstract — it is personal, immediate, and lasting. It affects how you wake up in the morning, how you speak to people, and how you value time.

This experience has changed my perspective in ways I will not forget. I am more aware now of how precious health, family, and friendship really are. I am also more determined than ever to keep reaching for the people I care about. The next chapters matter, and I intend to keep showing up for them.

Closing Thought

I came through a serious head trauma, a long recovery, and a lot of uncertainty. But I also came through it with something else: a renewed sense of purpose and a stronger appreciation for the people who still matter in my life.

I’m grateful for the clear scan. I’m grateful for the doctors and nurses who got me here. I’m grateful for the family and friends who made this recent road trip so meaningful. And I’m especially grateful that this is not the end of the story.

It’s not over until it’s over. And for now, I’m still here, still grateful, and still working on the rest of them.

Ships don’t sink because of the water around them; they sink because of the water that gets inside them. The lesson here is to try and not let the things that are going on around you deter you from moving forward. Don’t let the negativity of others into your mind or they will indeed sink your ideas.

You are a unique individual no matter what your skill set, and there are lots of people out there that will appreciate what you have to share. So stay your course, full steam ahead, and sail your ideas now.

Current Days Thoughts

Revisiting a post I shared eight years ago that still resonates just as strongly today. Its relevance goes well beyond work—it applies to every aspect of how we show up in life.

It’s easy to get distracted or influenced by what’s happening around us, but that’s rarely where real progress is made. The true work happens when we stay focused on our own goals and remain grounded in what we’re trying to achieve. Keep your attention where it belongs, and don’t lose sight of the bigger picture.

Equally important, be mindful of the environments you allow to shape your mindset. Negativity and noise can creep in quickly, but they only take hold if we let them. Stay disciplined in your thinking, protect your focus, and you give yourself the best chance to move forward with clarity and purpose.

This year’s focus calls for accelerating the transition to a low-carbon future—advancing clean energy, supporting sustainable jobs, and restoring biodiversity. It also highlights the impact of community-driven initiatives, from waste reduction efforts to tree planting, as tangible ways to create change locally.

At its core, the message is clear: when individuals, communities, and organizations align their efforts, we can influence leadership, protect our environments, and move decisively toward a more sustainable and resilient economy.

In this portrait of two brothers, created as a gift for their parents, the true magic started with the underpainting. This first stage—often just shapes, values, and muted colours—acts as the architectural blueprint of the work, allowing the artist to resolve composition, light, and proportion before emotion-filled details ever enter the picture. By carefully establishing this base, the painter builds a solid foundation that can support the complexity of skin tones, expressions, and the subtle relationship between the two siblings.​

Only once that foundation is secure does the artist begin to layer in refinement: soft edges around a cheek, the glint of light in an eye, or the character in a smile that a parent will instantly recognize. Each subsequent pass of paint is not a correction, but a conversation with the underlying structure, deepening contrast, enriching colour, and bringing the brothers’ personalities forward in a way that feels both natural and inevitable. In the end, what the parents receive is not just a likeness, but a fully realized image built from the ground up—proof that in painting, as in life, a strong foundation is essential to a beautiful, lasting result.

Carved from layers of raw emotion and pigment, The Fire Within emerges as a visceral impression of primal energy. Executed with a palette knife in an unapologetically aggressive manner, each stroke feels like a clash between instinct and restraint.

The timber wolf—muscular, alert, and alive—moves through the painted forest not as a subject, but as a force of nature itself. The setting sun ignites his form, setting his coat ablaze in molten hues of orange, crimson, and gold.

Shadows slash through the composition like cooling embers, tempering the heat with quiet menace. This is not a portrait—it’s a confrontation with spirit, survival, and the wild flame that burns within all living things.

SOLD - Part of a private collection in Belfountain, Ontario, Canada

In this work, the ram stands its ground on a rugged slope, alert, focused, and undeniably battle-tested. It doesn’t pretend the mountain isn’t steep or the winds aren’t strong. It advances anyway. That, to me, is the true face of leadership.

Leadership is not about being fearless.

It is about:
Feeling the weight of risk and moving forward with clarity and intention.
Standing firm when the terrain shifts under your feet.
Owning the responsibility of the climb, even when the path is unclear.

In business and in life, we all face our own “hills”: market uncertainty, tough conversations, high‑stakes decisions, or personal reinvention. The leaders who make a difference are not the ones who avoid these challenges, but the ones who meet them head‑on, horns down, ready to engage.

When we accept that fear is part of the journey, we free ourselves to act with courage, empathy, and conviction. We learn to pause, breathe, and then take the next deliberate step up the mountain.

Let the Alpine Ram remind us that our role as leaders is not to wait for fear to disappear, but to model what it looks like to move forward in spite of it. That’s where growth happens. That’s where others find the confidence to follow.

Being determined and relentless is more than a nice sentiment; it is a leadership discipline that shapes cultures, careers, and outcomes.

Messages Through Art: The Beaver Lesson

In this illustration, the beaver quietly gnaws away at what seems like an impossible task, reminding us that great work is usually the result of many small, consistent actions rather than one dramatic moment of genius. Just as a beaver reshapes a river one bite at a time, leaders reshape organizations through daily decisions, conversations, and course corrections that compound over time.

Determination vs. Relentlessness

Determination is the clarity of knowing what you’re building; relentlessness is the commitment to keep going when the current pushes back. In professional leadership, that looks like holding the vision when markets shift, a strategy needs revisiting, or a team hits fatigue, and still showing up with curiosity instead of surrender. When leaders embody both traits, they normalize persistence for their teams, turning setbacks into design challenges instead of dead ends.

From Art to Action in Leadership

This piece of art invites us to ask three simple questions as leaders:
What “dam” am I building that is worth my relentless effort?
Where have I pulled back too soon, instead of taking just one more “bite” at the problem?
How can I model quiet, steady perseverance so my team feels safe to keep going too?
When we answer those questions honestly, art stops being something we look at and becomes something that speaks back to us and shapes how we lead.

Sometimes the most powerful leadership lessons show up in simple images.
This beaver doesn’t give speeches, set quarterly targets, or post updates. It just keeps working—bite by bite—until the job is done.

In leadership and in life, that’s often what it takes:
A clear vision of what you’re building
The willingness to start, even when the task looks too big
The discipline to keep going when results are slow

Obstacles will show up. Plans will get knocked down. People will doubt.
But like the beaver, we always have a choice: stop… or start again.
“Being determined and relentless will always get you through.”

What are you working on right now that deserves your relentless effort?

Art often speaks the language of perspective, and in “Young Bandit”, I used the timeless medium of pen and ink to deliver a message that’s both subtle and bold. Each line — deliberate and permanent — captures the courage it takes to see life’s beauty even when the world feels monochrome.

Pen and ink demand intention. There’s no undo command, no layers to hide behind — just vision, confidence, and choice. It’s a reminder that, like in life and leadership, our focus defines our outcome. When we choose to look for the positive, we begin sketching a brighter story for ourselves and for those who follow our work.

What do you see when art delivers its message — precision, patience, or perspective?

On December 23rd, I took a bad fall on my usual early‑morning hike along the Fredericton waterfront. The first CT scan showed no bleeding, no fractures, and I walked away thinking I’d dodged a bullet. Two weeks later, I realized that bullet was still in the air.

Lesson 1: Listen When Your Body Starts Shouting

Two weeks after the fall, I woke up and told my wife, “I feel like I’m losing my mind.” I was lucid, but inside I felt scrambled and terrified. We went straight back to the Oromocto hospital.

The nurses took one look at me and moved fast, arranging another CT scan in Fredericton. This time, the scan told a different story: severe bleeding and a blood clot pressing on my brain. Sudden neurological decline after a seemingly “clean” first scan is rare, but it is a known risk with certain types of subdural bleeding that can develop gradually and show delayed symptoms.

Within minutes, I was in an ambulance to Saint John Regional Hospital, sirens on, a nurse sitting beside me, holding my hand the entire ride. She didn’t have a script. She had presence.

Leadership takeaway: Don’t ignore early signs of deterioration—whether it’s your health, your culture, or your team. If something feels “off,” treat it as data, not drama. And when people are in distress, the most powerful thing you can offer is calm, attentive presence.

Lesson 2: Excellence Is Technical and Human

At Saint John, the neurosurgery team went straight to work. They drilled into my skull and inserted a drainage tube to release the old blood and clot that had been silently building pressure. Slow venous bleeding like this can seep over days or weeks, which is why symptoms sometimes appear long after the initial impact.

The drainage worked. I woke up feeling light, a little high, and incredibly grateful. But a second procedure was still required to clear residual blood and a clot on the right side, and to plug the small veins on either temple that had caused the problem in the first place. This time, the team accessed my system through a vein in my groin, threading a microscopic wire all the way into my head while watching the pathway on a monitor, using dye to see where they were and steroid treatment to flush out what remained.

My neurosurgeon told me he had completed a lateral skull base fellowship in Manchester, England—my birthplace. That coincidence became an anchor for me: a reminder that my story, his training, and this moment were unexpectedly connected.

Leadership takeaway: Excellence is a combination of deep technical skill and real human connection. The best leaders don’t just “fix the problem”; they connect the dots, build trust, and help people feel safe while the work is being done.

Lesson 3: Crisis Can Reboot Relationships

While surgeons worked on my brain, my daughter—one of my estranged children—was in surgery for breast cancer. Two people, one family, two operating rooms. That shared vulnerability broke years of silence in a way words never had. We compared notes on fear, pain, and survival. We got each other back.

My eldest son stepped up and offered the rest of my kids a wake‑up call. Even my ex‑wife—his mother—called to tell me how proud she was of him. In the middle of a crisis, leadership emerged from the next generation.

Leadership takeaway: Crisis reveals character. It shows you who steps up, who leans in, and who finds the courage to reconnect. As leaders, we should never underestimate how shared adversity can reset relationships and unlock a new level of honesty and alignment.

Lesson 4: Compassion Is a Performance Advantage

The worst night came after the second procedure. I had a bad reaction to the sedation and dye and went into a full crash—panic, nausea, disorientation. I can’t quite describe the feeling except to say it was one of the darkest nights of my life.

My night nurse—a young woman with a huge heart—found me in that state and immediately went to work. She cleaned me up, held me, advocated for additional medication, and stayed with me until the storm passed. Research keeps confirming what I experienced firsthand: compassionate nursing practices are directly linked to better patient experience and better nurse well‑being.

And it wasn’t just her. Every nurse on that unit operated from the same place: competence plus compassion. They walk into fear and pain every day, do the work, and go home mostly unnoticed. But I noticed. I felt it.

Leadership takeaway: Compassion is not “soft”; it’s operational strength. In any business, client experience improves when people feel seen, heard, and cared for. If you want a high‑performance culture, start by hiring, developing, and rewarding people who bring both skill and heart to the table.

Lesson 5: Client Care Has a Lot to Learn From Healthcare

During my stay, I kept thinking: If more businesses operated like this hospital unit, our standards for client care would be unrecognizable.

• They triaged what mattered most, fast.

• They over‑communicated in moments of uncertainty.

• They treated every patient without prejudice or judgment.

• They documented, handed off, and followed through relentlessly.

The entire system was designed around safety, clarity, and care. Compassion wasn’t an “extra”; it was baked in. Studies show patients interpret compassion through small actions—time, attention, communication—and those same actions are precisely what clients and employees respond to in any organization.

Leadership takeaway: Map your client (or employee) experience like a patient journey. Where do people feel ignored, confused, or dismissed? Where can you build in small, repeatable acts of care that change how they feel about working with you?

Lesson 6: Awakening Means Changing How You Show Up

I’m home now, recovering, walking again, and feeling more awake than I have in years. This experience reminded me not just that life is fragile, but that leadership is, at its core, a human act.

Going forward:

• I will do business with more empathy and more urgency around what truly matters.

• I will bring this “ultimate awakening” into every client conversation and project.

• I will keep calling out the importance of real care—on teams, in companies, and in communities.

My first 75‑year article was about a lifetime of lessons. This follow‑up is about the “bonus round”—the chapter you enter when you realize every day, every relationship, and every client interaction is on borrowed time.

I don’t intend to waste it. Neither should you.

A life that begins in secrecy and struggle and arrives at 75 with art, entrepreneurship, sunrise hikes, and 16 grandchildren is a life that has finally earned its voice. This is my story, and I share it so others can find strength and perspective in their own.

Boxing Day, 1950: My Unusual Beginning

I was born on December 26th, 1950—Boxing Day—to a 19‑year‑old Czechoslovakian mother who left her homeland pregnant with me, carrying a secret that could have destroyed her future in that time and culture. She had become pregnant by a married man with three children, and rather than live under the weight of that taboo, she left for England and took refuge in a women’s youth hostel in Lancashire.

There, she met a young Polish man, recently demobbed from the Polish army in France, at a dance for European expats. Even though she was already pregnant with me, he said he would take me on as his own, and they married that summer. By that Christmas, I was born into a family built on courage, compromise, and complicated love. One might say I had a strange start to life—but it taught me early that stories don’t always begin neatly.

Lesson 1: Pain Shaped Me, But It Did Not Own Me

The man who married my mother never truly accepted me as his child, and over time his resentment hardened into abuse. I became the focal point for his anger about money, his life, and the fact that I was not biologically his. As he and my mother went out to work to support the growing family, I became responsible for my younger siblings—feeding, bathing, and cleaning them from as early as ten years old.

I was, in effect, a third parent before I even understood what that meant. My youth felt stolen, and when the children misbehaved, I was blamed and punished. Yet even in that environment, I found small ways to survive and express myself. When the family went on weekend drives or shopping trips, I volunteered to stay home, cook dinner, and claim that time for my art and for watching The Galloping Gourmet. It looked like cooperation, but really it was survival—a small act of self‑preservation in a house where I rarely felt safe.

What I learned: Pain can shape you without defining you. The roles forced on us in childhood can distort our sense of worth, but they can also teach resilience and responsibility. The real turning point comes when you decide to separate who you are from what was done to you.

Lesson 2: The Late Truth That Set Me Free

For most of my early life, I believed this man was my real father. It wasn’t until I was 20, when my mother separated and divorced him, that I learned he was actually my stepfather. He had returned from a trip to Poland with a young girlfriend and effectively abandoned our family, and that rupture finally brought the truth to the surface.

That revelation didn’t erase the years of abuse or confusion, but it did reframe them. Suddenly, his hostility made a different kind of sense, and I realized that many of his issues were never really about me at all. By then, I was already proving to myself that I was more than his treatment of me: I was a good student, a talented artist, and an entrepreneurial kid who took on odd jobs and even sold my paintings in the neighborhood.

What I learned: Sometimes the truth arrives late, but it still liberates. Understanding what really happened in our past doesn’t change the events, but it can radically change what we believe about ourselves. I came to see that his failures were about him, not about my value.

Lesson 3: Immigration, Lost Dreams, and a Pivot

In 1966, my stepfather was recruited by a Canadian company for the textile skills he had developed in the Lancashire cotton mills. When he left for Canada, I thought I might finally be free of him. But a year later, in 1967, he returned and insisted that the whole family follow him. He had a good job lined up, and my mother was also hired for her weaving skills.

We sailed for a week on the Empress of England, landed in Montreal, and then took the train to Galt, Ontario, which later became Cambridge after amalgamation. I brought my education and my GCEs with me, and I was passionate about pursuing art as a career. But when I enrolled at the local college, I quickly realized my drawing skills were stronger than those of the art instructor. A counselor suggested I enter a three‑year business diploma instead, and that decision quietly redirected my entire life.

What I learned: Not every “no” to our early dreams is a dead end. Being pushed toward business instead of art felt like a compromise at the time, but that training became the foundation for everything I later built in retail, recruiting, and consulting. Sometimes what feels like a detour becomes the backbone of your future.

Lesson 4: The Day I Finally Chose Myself

By 19, I had reached my breaking point. I was still being abused, my earnings were controlled, and my sense of self was shrinking. I decided to leave the family home, packing my $100, 1957 Mercury with what I could. As I walked out, both my parents struck me with objects I can’t even clearly remember—but they couldn’t change my decision. I knew, in that moment, that it would be the last time anyone would hit me.

After leaving, I discovered they had hidden my passport and effectively embezzled my money, trying to keep leverage over me. That betrayal only confirmed that I had made the right choice. I rented rooms, worked three jobs, saved, moved into better apartments, bought a home, and took successively better roles. Retail operations became my training ground. I operated some of the best‑run stores, then territories, then regions, earning a reputation as someone who could turn underperforming operations into top performers.

What I learned: There comes a moment when staying costs more than leaving. Walking away with almost nothing can still be an upgrade if it restores your dignity and your future. Leaving my family home with my old car and very little else was terrifying—but it was also the true beginning of my adult life.

Lesson 5: From Operator to Headhunter to Consultant

As I developed a strong track record in retail operations, people took notice. I was recruited multiple times into bigger and better opportunities, and eventually I saw a new angle: instead of being the one recruited, I could be the one doing the recruiting. I moved into executive recruiting for retail operations, not as an administrative middleman but as a true headhunter who understood the business inside out.

That role evolved again when I shifted into the technology sector, bringing my recruiting and operational insight into a different world of clients. I then fused these paths into a full consulting practice, taking on projects for organizations that needed to move from the bottom of the ladder to the top. I wasn’t just placing people; I was helping redesign businesses.

What I learned: Real growth happens when you stop asking “What job can I get?” and start asking “What problem can I solve better than most?” Every time I moved closer to the core problems—people, performance, systems—I created more value and more freedom for myself.

Lesson 6: Coming Home to Art on My Own Terms

In 2011, I came back to my first love: art. I created ArtEnvy Inc., and while the name suggested purely creative work, it quickly grew into a broader platform. Under that umbrella, I worked on business development for startups and struggling companies, marketing that naturally expanded into social media, operations consulting, and recruiting. Art and business finally sat at the same table.

ArtEnvy allowed me to reconnect with the boy who loved painting and the man who had learned how businesses live or die. I could create, strategize, and build all under one roof. It felt like integration rather than compromise—a kind of full‑circle moment that had been decades in the making.

What I learned: Our creative and practical sides don’t have to cancel each other out. With time and experience, they can actually amplify each other. By building a business around art and strategy, I finally stopped choosing between “artist” and “operator” and allowed myself to be both.

Lesson 7: Love, Fatherhood, and Imperfect Humanity

My personal life has been as complex as my professional one. I’ve been married multiple times and have five children, four of whom are estranged from me today. As a man who grew up in a damaged household, I can see, with painful honesty, how unresolved hurt can leak into the next generation. I did not always get it right, and that will be part of my story and theirs.

Yet I am also a grandfather to 16 grandchildren, and they have become one of the greatest blessings of my life. Through them, I see the world with fresh eyes, and I feel a different kind of responsibility—one grounded in presence, curiosity, and love rather than survival. I can’t rewrite the past, but I can influence how I show up now.

What I learned: Family is rarely simple or tidy. Some relationships heal, some don’t, and some remain unresolved. But acknowledging my own imperfections and choosing to be better—especially for my grandchildren—is a form of redemption I hold onto.

Lesson 8: Dawn Walks, a Fall, and a Wake‑Up Call

For the past four years, I’ve been getting up before sunrise and hiking four miles every day, no matter where I am. Since moving to Fredericton, New Brunswick, in 2021, I’ve made the waterfront trail my route, recording wildlife and videologs of my hikes and posting them on Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, and Bluesky. Those walks have become my moving meditation, my daily reminder that I’m still very much alive.

On Tuesday, December 23rd, that routine was interrupted when I tripped over a snow‑covered tree root, fell, and knocked myself unconscious. I spent the rest of the day in two hospitals and ended with a CT scan to check for serious damage. The scan came back clear, but the message was loud and clear in another way. Combined with losing friends and colleagues who were younger than me, the fall reminded me that I’ve been working in one form or another since I was ten years old—and that time is not infinite.

What I learned: Sometimes the body delivers a message the mind has been ignoring. That fall was a physical jolt telling me to reassess how I want to spend the years I have left. It pushed me to slow down, choose more joy, and stop living as though I had endless time to finally prioritize what matters most to me.

Lesson 9: Re‑Choosing My Life at 75

On December 26th this year, I turned 75. I feel, in many ways, that I’ve come full circle—from a Boxing Day baby born in secrecy and chaos to a man who can now tell his story openly and on his own terms. I’ve built companies, crossed oceans, survived trauma, loved, lost, and kept moving.

Today, my priorities are clear:

• To get back into the studio and create art that gives me genuine pleasure, treating anyone else’s appreciation as a bonus.

• To keep traveling and exploring, raising the last four years of adventure “up a notch.”

• To spend more time with my 16 grandchildren and enjoy seeing life through their eyes.

• To continue working only with a small number of clients I truly enjoy and respect.

I’ve decided that the next chapter of my life will not be defined by how hard I can still work, but by how fully I can live. I’m ready for 2026, and I’m not taking any prisoners—not because I want to fight the world, but because I refuse to surrender these years to fear, guilt, or other people’s expectations.

What I’ve ultimately learned: No matter how your story starts, you have the right to rewrite its ending. At 75, I am still editing, still painting, still walking at dawn—and still choosing, every day, the kind of man I want to be.

This morning's twilight panoramic view over the Nashwaak River. It was a spectacular morning, and definitely the calm before the storm that is forecast for today.

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