An opinionated breakdown of money’s meaning, role in society, and how it influences our decisions, habits, and lives.
When I am gone, sounds will no longer reverberate in this chest. When I am gone, breath will no longer fill my lungs. I will no longer be able to sound off, to correct, to affirm, to guide, or to simply whisper, “I love you.” The notion of saying anything more will vanish the moment I do. And that realization carries weight. Because how do I show you the way when my voice no longer carries?
Am I foolish to think I even know the right path? With all the failures I’ve collected, what authority do I have to speak on how life should be lived? There’s no manual, no perfect line to walk. Just mistakes, lessons, and the prayer that something good comes out of all this stumbling.
The knowledge I carry with me will be gone. The stories I hold will no longer be present. I could leave tomorrow—because tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone. And if I go, will it be too late? Too late for peace to take root, too late for healing to happen, too late for you to know that I was always trying, even in the silence?
I ask you not to dwell on what was lost. Instead, celebrate what was lived. Don’t live in anguish—live in tomorrow’s possibilities. Because that’s all any of us have. The past is the past. The future is unwritten, so make the choices today that will lead you into tomorrow. Grief has its place, but it cannot become your home. Let it pass through. Let it do its work. But don’t unpack and stay there.
Each blog I’ve written, each book I’ve poured myself into—it’s all been for you. My children. To know me better. To understand the man who struggled, who failed, who never had all the answers, but kept showing up. When I have no voice, these words will remain in my place. They are my quiet attempt to stay with you, even when I can’t physically be here. They are not just stories; they are my fingerprints pressed into time.
But even that dredges up the “What If’s.” What if they never reach you? What if they remain unread, untranslated, locked behind language and distance? Your first language is Spanish. These are written in English. What if they never meet your eyes or touch your heart? Will these words just dissolve, like dust into the ground where I lay? What if all this effort becomes just another unread file or forgotten notebook?
I think about your grandmother—my mother—and how in her final days, she was alone. Despite a life of service. She helped build the Battered Women’s Group in Virginia Beach. She was deeply embedded in church life, in social services. She gave, and gave, and gave. But in the end? It was quiet. Lonely. No parades. No farewell. Just breath… and then no breath. It’s broken something inside me to think that a life so full could end with so little recognition. But maybe the recognition isn’t what matters. Maybe it’s the impact, invisible and long-lasting, like ripples in water.
I don’t know how to feel about that. It confuses me. It unsettles me. Because it forces me to ask—where do I stand, when I am gone? What kind of imprint will I leave? Will it be loud and clear, or subtle and fading? More importantly, will it be felt? I don’t stand here pretending to know. I just tried to move forward to the end.
The jobs I worked, I was replaceable. No matter how hard I tried. Clock in, clock out, overtime, someone else will wear the uniform tomorrow. That part of my life leaves no lasting mark. But you—my children—you are the only permanence I ever hoped to leave behind. The only work that ever mattered. The only investment I made that I pray yields something beautiful long after I’m gone. I will not pretend that I was perfect while here. I made mistakes. Lots of them. I just hope that you are able to still stand tall in the absence of everything fair.
This is my voice. Not the loud one. Not the frustrated one. Not the tired one you may have seen on hard days. This is the voice beneath all that. The one that quietly hopes you’ll pick up my book someday, flip through these blogs, and see not just words—but me. The version of me I always hoped you’d know.
If I get the opportunity to write my other books, I hope you read those too. I hope you see the threads that connect them to you. I hope they feel like home, or at least like a light left on in the hallway. They are not polished monuments of success. They are messy, flawed, and real—just like life. Just like me.
The truth is, I will never know. Because this is what it means to write “when I am gone.” I’m not promised the comfort of seeing your eyes read my words, or hearing your voice say, “I understand, Dad.” I only have hope. And some days, that hope is enough to keep going.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe this newest child—who I will actually be here for, from the beginning—maybe she’ll take the time to read. To ask. To know. But even then, there’s no guarantee. Even presence doesn’t promise connection. There’s always a chance I’ll be rejected. Even by her. That’s a truth I’ve made peace with, even if it aches. I have to love anyway. I have to give anyway. Because love is never wasted.
Still, I wrote this. Still, I write. Because somewhere inside me is the belief that these words will reach someone. And if not you, then the one who needed them most.
So when I am gone, remember this: I tried.
That’s all I ever really wanted you to know.
Maybe the wisdom isn’t found in success—but in how many times you were willing to stand up after falling. I don’t want to vanish without you knowing I gave everything I had. Even in brokenness, I still tried to offer you something whole. My journey of life was set before me. The road I had taken was the one that led me to this destination here before you.