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Rule #2019: A Pirate Looks at 59

In the final days of the year, I find myself doing less reflection on the year that’s ending and more preparation for the year ahead. This will be my last year in my 50s—the decade my father always promised would be my best. He told me not to fear my fifties but to embrace them as years of success. That advice helped me face the challenges of the decade with optimism, always looking for clear skies ahead. It was simple “Don Hill” wisdom, but it turned out to be absolutely right.

This blog was designed as a map for my children, a chart they can follow when they need advice and I’m no longer around to dispense it (in 40 or 50 years, of course). Like all good cartographers, my job is to take what I’ve learned from the past and use it to sketch a more accurate map of the seas ahead—building on what my dad once gave to me.

And yes, the fifties have been the best years so far. Not because everything is easy, but because it’s the decade you finally realize you’re a Pirate.

Jimmy Buffett wrote A Pirate Looks at Forty as a sad reflection, with the line, “The cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothing to plunder.” He was wrong. He wrote it at 40 and had no idea what the fifties would hold. (Sorry, Jimmy—no one bats a thousand.)

To me, being a Pirate means realizing that rules are made to be bent, that life is a gift to be seized. As Pirates, we become captains of our own fate: every ship that approaches is an opportunity, every island a place to bury treasure, sip rum, and breathe in the view. Pirates understand life is fleeting; the rope could be waiting any day. That knowledge can either paralyze you with dread or inspire you to wring the most out of life. I highly recommend the latter.

And being a Pirate means you get to swagger a little. Not the drunken Captain Jack Sparrow stagger, but the steady walk of a man who has fought battles, survived storms, and lived to tell the tales. It’s the confidence that comes from knowing obstacles will appear daily, but most of them vanish with a stern stare and a loud “Arrrgh!” The few that don’t—like bad hips—become the limp of character, a scar that proves you’ve truly lived.

The joys of pirating have surprised me. Yes, there’s been financial success, but more importantly, there have been great adventures: moving to Florida, selling businesses, starting new ones, getting a new knee, and deepening my love for family. Who knew the simple joy of talking to your two-year-old (gifted) granddaughter could melt your heart in ways you never imagined?

A good Pirate also learns that sailing alone is neither fun nor safe. You depend on your shipmates, and the best ones are rare treasures. You can’t be a good Pirate without a crew.

So as I set sail into this last year of my fifties, I do it with full sails, clear skies, and the most beautiful pirate wench by my side. 2019 is going to be one hell of a year. Arrrgh!

Love, Dad

Rule #250:  You need a “go to drink”

I’ve never been much of a drinker, I can count on one hand the number of times in my life that I’ve over indulged.
It never made sense to me why people enjoyed the process of drinking until they could not remember what happened, maybe I have been fortunate enough not to have a lot of things I am trying to forget. I’ve always been happy with the gentle buzz of the third drink, and rarely felt the need to test my alcohol tolerance level. ( which is extremely low for a guy as big as me)

I’ve always respected the people that that have made a decision not not use alcohol or drugs, not because I felt it was a better choice, just that it was the harder choice. Socially and in business there is tremendous pressure to be part of the group. The art of remaining sober in a group of drinkers is a difficult one, being engaged without the rum and coke can be become a balancing act. Being in the group but not part of the group.

A simple technique is to avoid being pulled in to the drinking is by being the designated driver. People seem to accept that being responsible is both understandable and to be admired. But since the invention of Uber and Lyft the technique is getting more push back. The need for designated drivers have decreased and the opportunity to drink more increased.

So how do you manage this world of being buzzed and not blitzed?

I have found the secret lies in having a go to drink..something that is your regular ” I’m at a party” go to order.

If you have a go to, you have clearly experimented enough to know the drink will impact you. I have had learned this lesson the hard way drinking a new tequila based drink about 18 years ago, which led to me falling into a Christmas Tree. Its been roughly 6,600 days since that night and I can still taste that drink. I learned tequila was not my friend.

I made the conscious decision after that holiday fall to find a drink that would allow me to look engaged but in control. I experimented with dark liquors, but found them to give me headaches even with a small amount consumed – its a shame because I really like the thought of being a Glenlivet drinker into my 60’s appealed to me in that “Humphrey Bogart” sort of way. But alas my body did not cooperate with my will and the dream of nursing a good single malt evaporated.

I then thought wine. My mission was to become a student of wine and find a go to type, winery and vintage that you could depend on. Unfortunately for me wine has always been linked to food, I love good cab with a steak and developed favorite for different meals. But bellying up to the hotel bar and ordering a good Duckhorn never felt it fit the moment. I will still enjoy a good meal, and good wine with friends, but its more meal oriented.

Andrew has done a good job of finding a hobby to link to a drink, craft brewing. It allows him to enjoy a craft brew and discuss his hobby. To me that seemed like a good strategy, make the drink about more than a drink and you have both a go to drink and a story. Trust me we all need stories.
Only problem with Andrew’s strategy is that it takes too much work. He has found enjoyment in it and that is great, for me it required too much of a commitment to get good at it- but I admire the strategy.

Being an entrepreneur at heart I found a guy with a liquor who’s story I liked. When I found Omasspirits.com I found a great story and a great liquor. I love maraschino cherries and here a liquor made by a grandmother fell into my lap. For a few dollars I could have a drink, a good investment and a good story. I was on to something..

Which lead to the LSU Punch.

1 1/2 oz Oma’s
2 oz ginger beer
2 oz lemonade
garnish with cherry and lemon wedge

This allowed me to tell three stories…the original about Oma’s grand-mom creator, A link to my time in Bermuda ( ginger beer) and a story about our business and personal involvement in New Orleans. I was much more interested in the stories than the alcohol, and the fact that most of them were true and it was a good drink was just a bonus.

When the Ye Mystic Krewe of Neptune picked it as this year’s drink winner was just another bonus, and yet another story.
It took me nearly 60 years to get here but I found a drink.

What I urge you all to do is not to take drinking lightly. Find a responsible way to participate but with an intelligent choice. Yes you can indulge in the chocolate or key lime martini from time to time, because they are desserts. But they are not a go to drink.
You need to find something that tells something about you, a reason why its your drink. If you can’t find a good story make one up, everyone will be drinking they won’t notice.
If you can’t come up with good story, call me and we will make one up together.

Rule #382: The Sisyphus Rule

Life is hard.
Life is unfair.
Life is wonderful.

When Zeus enchanted the rock that King Sisyphus was condemned to push, he knew the king was doomed to an eternity of frustration. It was a punishment designed to crush him with despair.

I think about Sisyphus a lot as I’ve gotten older. Much of life amounts to little more than boulder pushing—work, chores, eat, sleep, repeat. So much of our existence is filled not with grand achievements but with the mundane tasks of simply getting through the day.

The weight of that boulder becomes even clearer when life calls us to be caregivers for loved ones with diseases that only deteriorate—slowly, relentlessly, fatally. Caregivers live under the unreasonable expectation of showing up every day to push that rock, knowing it will roll back down again. Each visit without improvement, each slow decline, can feel like a soul-crushing, Sisyphean existence.

And yet, I think about that king, endlessly pushing, endlessly thinking about what he was doing.

And I think he was happy.

Albert Camus thought so too in The Myth of Sisyphus. He saw Sisyphus as a happy man, not because the rock wasn’t heavy, but because he found meaning in the act of pushing. Camus even compared it to love. He wrote: “There is no noble love but that which recognizes itself to be both short-lived and exceptional.”

I read that line over 40 years ago, and it has stayed with me. To truly love someone requires effort, and when that effort is exceptional, it is by definition fleeting. As I watch my wife and sister-in-law fight every day against their mother’s Lewy body dementia, I see that kind of noble love in action. Every day they push the rock. Every day they show up. Every day their love is exceptional.

It is hard—unbelievably hard. But it is also beautiful. I saw it in my sister Donna, who cared for our parents at the end of their lives. The love she showed during that time defined her. It revealed the best of what we are as human beings: loving beings.

In truth, caregiving changes the caregiver more than the patient. It shapes us. It makes us stronger. It makes us better.

King Sisyphus, after all, was punished not for weakness but for defiance. He was a fighter, an SOB who once tried to cheat death by putting death in chains. That’s why the gods cursed him. In many ways, caregivers are the same—SOBs fighting to chain up death for as long as they can.

The fight may be hopeless, but it is noble. Like Rocky Balboa standing against Apollo Creed, you know you’ll eventually lose, but you keep swinging anyway. I’ve seen Rocky 8,000 times, and every time I still cheer for him. He doesn’t win, but I never feel sad. Rocky was happy in the fight.

So are Sandy and Bobbi. Their fight against that enormous boulder may be unwinnable, but in their struggle, they reveal a deeper victory—the victory of love, of spirit, of refusing to let fear or indignity win without a fight.

I write these rules as a map for my children, and I know someday you will find yourselves in the role of caregiver. I hope it isn’t for me, but if it is—or if it’s for someone else you love—I need you to remember this: there is nobility and honor in the struggle. Even when the days feel darkest, you are still living out the purest form of love.

And like Sisyphus, like Rocky, you can be happy in the fight.

I love you both, and I am proud of you.

Love, Dad

Rule #178: The Santa Rule

I’ve always been a fan of Santa. Not because I want Christmas to be a shopping spree, but because—let’s be honest—the guy is a total badass. He’s got an industrial-scale toy factory, a private army of elves, flying livestock, and the ability to time-travel the entire planet in one night. Plus, as a fellow plus-size dude, I respect anyone who can pull off fur trim and a belt the size of a Buick.

But the real genius of Santa? Leverage. When my kids were toddlers, just dropping his name was like firing off a parental nuclear weapon.

• Whining? “Santa’s watching.” Boom—silence.

• Lying? “Naughty list.” Instant confession.

• Tantrum? “Guess who’s not getting presents?” Full emotional reset.

For one glorious month, I was basically Gandalf with a sugar cookie.

The tragedy, of course, is that kids eventually stop believing. And once that magic evaporates, you’re just back to yelling “Because I said so!” and threatening to cancel Disney+.

Which got me thinking: why don’t adults get a Santa? Because if anyone needs an all-seeing, judgment-dispensing, chubby overlord, it’s grown-ups.

Let’s face it: some people are just assholes. And I don’t mean “had a bad day” assholes—I mean full-time, salaried assholes with benefits. The ones who cut you off in traffic, talk loud on speakerphone in public, or treat waiters like peasants in a medieval tavern. Society has no real punishment for them. They just… keep existing.

Imagine if you could yell “He sees you!” at one of these people and they instantly course-corrected. Road-rage guy slams on the brakes, apologizes with jazz hands, and lets you merge. Grocery store Karen suddenly realizes she’s not the center of the universe and puts the avocado down gently. That’s the kind of miracle I’d actually believe in.

Heaven and hell don’t cut it—assholes can’t think past next Tuesday. They need real-time consequences. That’s why I’m proposing Adult Santa.

Here’s the plan: we launch a Kickstarter, build a “South Pole Workshop,” and staff it with magical penguins (because obviously). Instead of Barbies and BB guns, Adult Santa hands out Teslas, vacation homes, or front-row concert tickets. And when you act like an ass, he takes them away immediately. Imagine the look on Chad’s face when his new BMW vanishes because he parked across two spaces at Target.

It’s brilliant. It’s just. It’s… honestly, the only way humanity has a chance.

So, until Adult Santa shows up, remember this: if you’re being an asshole, just know… you better watch out.

Love, Dad

GOOD DOG

Nittany

2006 -2017

Life is hard. I say that a lot in this blog. But one of the gifts God gives us to make life a little less hard is the companionship of animals. In our family, that companionship has always come from dogs. It’s one reason this blog is called 2catrule—the Hills have always been dog people. (Not that there’s anything wrong with being a cat person. Okay… maybe there is. But I’ll leave it at this: we’re just dog people.)

There are all kinds of dogs in the world. Some are hyper and friendly, like Piper (our other lab). Some are nervous and timid. Some are lazy. And a few are just plain cool. But I’ve come to believe dogs are less a product of breeding and more a reflection of the families they belong to. Dogs become who we shape them to be—mirrors of the love, patience, or chaos around them.

Occasionally, though, there’s a special dog. One who changes you more than you change her. Nittany was that kind of dog.

From the moment we picked her up from a breeder near her namesake, Mount Nittany, she was kind and loving. She filled a gap in our family and helped bring kids from both Bobbi’s and my first marriages into a shared love for one very special dog. She became the steady, consistent heartbeat of our home—the piece that helped us become a family.

Andrew was 17, preparing for college. Collin was 9, just beginning to find himself. But no matter where we were in life, we all found joy in Nittany. She didn’t demand love—she simply was love, and you couldn’t help but give it back.

Through every season, Nittany was a constant source of comfort. She curled up with whoever was sick, wagged her tail and laid her head in your lap after a rough day at school, and somehow always knew which family member needed her most. Her emotional radar was uncanny—there when you needed closeness, giving you space when you needed solitude. She quietly taught us what true emotional support looks like.

When we first brought her home, Bobbi’s plan was for Nittany to live mainly in the garage. That lasted about a week. Soon she had the kitchen and dining room, then the bedrooms. That was Nittany—she always had her own plan, and by sheer gentle persistence, she found her way deeper into our home and our hearts.

Over the years, the seven au pairs who lived with us each tried to smuggle her back to their home countries at least once. Even after we adopted Piper five years ago, Nittany remained the lead dog. As Matthew said tonight, our home may have followed the 2catrule, but when it came to dogs, it was always a 1dogrule house—and Nittany set the rule.

Her last year was a hard one. Complications from diabetes required insulin, which eventually led to complete blindness. I became convinced she did this so I wouldn’t feel alone when I developed my own insulin dependency.

We didn’t realize how much she’d lost her sight until after we moved to Florida and she began walking straight into the pool. Yet even as her world grew darker, she never complained. She memorized our old house to hide her disability, and in the new one, she quickly learned the turns and steps. Every morning and night she waited patiently by the elevator for her ride to bed or food. She rolled with every punch life threw her way, tail wagging all the way to her last breath.

Even blind, she could still see better than the rest of us. Whenever Piper slipped out the door and bolted, all we had to do was put Nittany on a leash—she would unfailingly lead us to her. She always knew where her family was. She always knew how to bring us back together.

Nittany changed our hearts, our home, and our lives. She taught us how to comfort, how to love, and how to find one another when we’re lost. She will be missed—but she will always be with us.

She truly was a Good Dog.

Love, Dad

Rule #97: NEVER live in Florida!

Florida is proof that God has a sense of humor: a swamp covered in asphalt, bugs the size of housecats, and weather that feels like Satan’s hot tub. I’ve often said the state is nothing but scrub pines, sweat, and hurricanes. I even joked that Trump’s border wall should’ve started at the Florida–Georgia line. I told my kids I would NEVER, EVER move there.

So why the hell are we moving to St. Petersburg this June?

Well, the possibility of me being clinically insane has not been ruled out. But mostly, it starts with change.

Back in May 2008, Bobbi and I launched Signature Captive Solutions. Nine years later, after building partnerships, companies (Blackmoor, SFB, Patriot, and Preferred), and working alongside 40+ incredible colleagues, we made the decision to sell. Not because we were tired, but because we needed a bigger park to play in. Acrisure Holdings was the right company — one that cares about people as much as the bottom line (a rare thing in this industry I’ve lived in for 35+ years).

That sale gave us the gift of choice: we could pick where to live. And after a lot of reflection, we chose… Florida.

Why Florida, you ask?

First, family. Bobbi’s mom and dad love it there, her mom is there most of the time, Matthew just moved there, and Collin is starting college there. Family proximity was a non-negotiable.

Second, Abby. Finding her a great high school was essential. Canterbury fit the bill — small classes, faith-based, strong arts and sciences, and a place she actually loves.

Third, friends. We didn’t want to lose the network we’ve built, so we bought a 7,000+ sf house on the bay, with a dock and a pool. Our not-so-secret plan is to bribe friends into visiting. We’ve started calling it “living life like a vacation.” Rachel, Andrew, Ashleigh, and Hailey will be VIPs, and we’re pretty sure Hailey thinks we’re just moving to Disney’s backyard.

Finally, comfort zones. Staying in Pennsylvania would’ve been the easy choice. But easy isn’t our style. We’ve always lived a “reality show life” — sometimes “Survivor,” sometimes “Kardashians,” but never dull. Moving to a new state, building friendships from scratch, and joining an exciting new company is exactly the kind of chaos that makes us feel alive. I don’t want to drift into my late 50s acting 78. I want to live like I’m 38. So we chose the harder, riskier, more exciting path.

Which brings me to the awkward part: my apology.

Dear Florida,
I’m sorry I called you the armpit of America. That was unfair. You’re more like the sweaty yoga pants of America — uncomfortable at first, but eventually you grow on me. I still hate your cockroaches (no, “palmetto bug” is not cuter), and your summers will always be an assault on human dignity. But here we are. I’ll even fill out my Publix card application like a good Floridian.

This is both the scariest and most exciting move I’ve ever made. At 57, I feel like I’m raging against the night — working hard, embracing every blessing, and chasing adventure with the people I love.

The future is bright, especially in the Sunshine State.

(And yes, I still hate Florida State. Go PSU.)

Love, Dad

ule #102: $300 Charge for Vomiting in the Cab

Yesterday in Fort Myers, I took a cab from the hotel to the airport. Both back windows had 8×10 signs screaming:

“$300 CHARGE FOR VOMITING IN THE CAB”

My first thought: when did these signs become necessary?
My second: am I sitting in the seat that made them necessary?

The driver, reading my mind, explained. The city requires the signs after a passenger hurled all over a cab, the driver demanded $300 for cleanup, and—wait for it—the passenger’s lawyer argued he didn’t have to pay because no sign had warned him vomiting might incur a fee.

Yes. Someone lawyered their way out of paying for their own barf.

I pictured this poor driver, just trying to make a living while fighting off unregulated Uber drivers, having to explain to a judge why a grown adult should pay for the mess they made. And the lawyer saying, with a straight face, “Your Honor, my client was never informed there would be a charge for vomiting in someone else’s car.”

Welcome to America 2024, where nothing is your fault unless someone posted a laminated warning sign.

I asked the driver why there weren’t signs for “$500 if you pee” or “$1,000 if you break the window.” He shrugged and said, ominously, “Not yet.”

This is the culture we’ve built: a sugary drink needs a warning label; you need a tax to stop you from drinking too much; we believe the government should protect us from ourselves. And then we’re shocked when there are signs everywhere telling us the obvious: don’t barf in other people’s property.

Part of being an adult is simple: if you break it, you buy it. If you make the mess, you clean it. You don’t need a sign. You don’t need a warning. You just need to act like a functioning human being.

We can do better. Clean up your own vomit.

Love, Dad

Rule #94: Live Deliberately – The Snowshoe Rule

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still inside them.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Walden

That line has been echoing for more than a century because it’s true. And if you’re lucky enough to approach 60, you’ll hear it louder than ever. It sums up the essence of the quest we all share: to make sure the song inside us actually gets sung.

There are two books worth reading when you’re young: Walden and Pilgrim’s Progress. They don’t say the same thing, but together they press a single truth—life needs purpose. And late at night, sometime in your 50s, you’ll ask yourself: Does my life have purpose? Did I sing the song God gave me?

There are only two decisions that give you a shot at answering “yes.”

First: Decide whether life is a gift or a burden.
We are all snowshoeing through a storm. There will be whiteouts, stretches where you can’t see the trail or even your own hand. Some curse the storm, sit down, and freeze—angry at God because He didn’t give them Aruba instead. That’s a cold way to die.

Others keep moving, step after step, believing there’s a cabin out there with firelight and brandy. The truth is, none of us know if the cabin exists. But movement is life. Stillness is death.

Second: Decide who you’ll travel with.
Some storm it alone, trusting no one. A rare few stumble into the cabin, but they drink their brandy in silence. Most of us find a rope to hold—a spouse, a friend, a church, a family. The right rope doesn’t guarantee safety, but it gives us direction when we can’t see ahead.

Of course, some ropes lead in circles. Others drag you off cliffs. And sometimes, halfway through the storm, you realize the rope you’ve been clinging to belongs to someone who doesn’t care whether you make it. Letting go may be the scariest decision of your life—but it may also be the one that saves it.

Don’t forget: you’re holding a rope too. Your children, friends, coworkers—they’re watching your path, trusting that your steps won’t lead them over ice. Choose carefully.

So lace up the snowshoes. Keep moving. Find the right rope. And if you’re lucky, you’ll reach the cabin with a warm fire waiting—and the song inside you will have been sung.

Love, Dad

Rule #71: When in Doubt, Seek Structure

Throughout life, you will find yourself lost at different times. Lost in direction, in purpose, in meaning. In those moments, you will feel most vulnerable to depression and self-harm.

When focus slips, life becomes scary and lonely fast. Confidence—so hard to build—can disappear almost overnight if not fed a steady diet of affirmation. Even simple things turn into uphill climbs once you start sliding down the slope of uncertainty.

The important truth is this: you are not strange for feeling this way. You are human. Nothing is more certain than uncertainty.

I’ve been there—in bad relationships, in moments of doubt, where you can’t tell what someone feels toward you, and suddenly you doubt yourself. Intelligence becomes its own curse. Instead of just buying groceries or picking out clothes, you’re caught in a spiral of overthinking every action, every word, every glance. Believe it or not, I’ve stood paralyzed trying to pick the right shoes—me, a man who only owns four pairs.

When these clouds gather, you need to seek structure.

As a father of six and the owner of several businesses with mountains of debt, I’ve had my share of uncertainty. There were days when choosing between loafers and oxfords felt harder than calculus. And I’ve learned that when life unravels, the way back is always through structure. Start simple, and keep adding until your feet are steady again.

It begins with the basics:

• Set the alarm. Same time every morning, weekends included.

• Go to bed at a regular time. For me, it’s 11 p.m.

Sleep and waking may seem like trivial things, but they are the foundation. Start here, and all else follows more easily.

Sometimes, structure means asking for help. A spouse, a friend, a sibling—say the words: “I think things are not headed in the right direction, and I need your help.” It takes humility, but also strength. For a time, it may be powerful to let someone else “hold the lead” while you regain your footing. Asking for help might be the hardest thing you do, but also the most important.

Then, keep adding structure. Exercise, daily and fanatically. Routines—grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning. Build a framework of certainty around you. The world may be chaos, but within that framework you’ll find safety and confidence again. We may not all want to be dominated (unless you’re into that sort of thing… just saying), but we all crave predictability. Knowing what happens next. Alarm clocks and schedules give us that.

And just as important as adding structure is avoiding what tears it down. Three things in particular will sabotage you:

1. Unhealthy people. Addicts, enablers, drifters—they’ll pull you into their chaos.

2. Alcohol and drugs. They mask pain for a night, but the problems are waiting in the morning, often bigger.

3. The internet. Yes, the internet. The endless dopamine drip of clicks, likes, and retweets can fool you into thinking you’re connected and grounded. You’re not. Take a month off during times of crisis—Donald Trump and Beyoncé will still be there when you come back. So will 2catrule.com.

The world is uncertain. It always will be. But structure—small, steady, simple—will bring you back to confidence and purpose. I’ve said it before in this blog, but it bears repeating: few things make you feel more confident than making your bed.

Love, Dad

Rule #93: Snowflakes Melt – Don’t Be a Snowflake

Rarely do things go exactly my way. Kids get sick, things break, business deals fall through—life is a grind. But even in the grind, I’m grateful. I wake every morning with food, shelter, love, and opportunity. That first level of Maslow’s pyramid? Covered, thanks to parents who gave me both security and faith that life is a gift, not a guarantee.

That same confidence lives in my kids. They don’t frame it spiritually yet, but they know one truth: it will always work out. Not because life is easy, but because failure is part of the path. When Eevee flew to Hawaii for her doctorate with no housing lined up, I was anxious. She wasn’t. She crashed in hostels, YMCAs, wherever until she landed a place. She didn’t melt—she thrived.

Bobbi and I didn’t raise snowflakes. We raised kids who take risks, fail, and keep moving. Abby summed it up perfectly when she told her classmates upset about grades: “Keep moving.” That’s the rule. You don’t fail by falling—you fail by stopping. My knees (one of them metal) can tell you plenty about stumbles, but I’ve always gotten back up.

Life owes us nothing. We’re not entitled to a smooth road, only the chance to walk it. Friends of mine have faced illnesses that would flatten anyone—yet they fight with faith, knowing they’re not in control but trusting it will work out. That strength isn’t fragile. It doesn’t melt.

The world today worries me. Too many people demand guarantees—healthcare, housing, education, security—when in truth, uncertainty is what drives us. Fear and need are what light the fire under us to get up and face the day. Without the struggle, there’s no growth.

Your car breaks down. You lose the job. Your spouse leaves. You get sick. Shit happens. Don’t melt. Don’t whine. Move forward.

You’re not a snowflake—you’re blessed by God with another day to fight. So fight.

Keep moving.

Love, Dad