When my father was my age, he had a young wife and two-year old son, both of whom he’d just transplanted from a comfortable, familiar life into the wild hope of a brand new state. A few years before, my dad, a recent husband and brand-new parent, set off alone and followed west the setting sun in pursuit of better jobs and “a place that wasn’t Michigan”. He found both in California and sent for my mom and me a few months later. My mom was young and smart and industrious (and their toddler showed early signs of above-average excellence), but I’m under no illusion that this wasn’t the most trying chapter of their lives.

When my father was my age, he’d just taken a job at a dairy where he’d remain and rise through the ranks for the next 20 years. He had a blue Jeep and strong arms and a great moustache. He had a beautiful wife and a growing boy and he worked long hours for his young family.

My father built a life for us in California – 3,000 miles from family businesses and safety nets and free babysitting. We’d continue driving down our roots and four years later, my brother Kyle was added to our modest enterprise. Eighteen years later my sister would come and complete our clan.

As a young man, I’m beginning to lay the foundation for what will ultimately be my story – my legacy, my passage, and I’m looking to the men who have gone before me to show me how to read a compass. In a world brimming with false heroes and dead-end maps, I’m thankful to trace the scars of a man who’s gone first and cleared a path.

When my father was my age, he’d known more about sacrifice than I know about anything. He traded a safer life so that we might have better one. He was a milkman, so that I could be an astronaut, and while I’ve known struggle, I’ve never known abandonment. I’m learning that growing up means that those I thought heroes are actually human, and those I thought human are actually heroes.

Thanks, Dad.