A slow walk is still a walk

These dates are such a mixed bag for us—especially for me. On the one hand, I was born in December. So was my mother, my father, and my grandfather. But December is also the month of the biggest loss in our lives.

Ten years ago, I received a phone call from my mother telling me that my grandpa had been diagnosed with cancer—and that it was serious. The shockwaves of that news left us all speechless. We were on vacation at the time, but the vacation effectively ended the moment we heard. We drove back home—about ten hours—and immediately began making arrangements to visit him at his farm.

I had to renew my passport, which had expired, and of course buy plane tickets. It took more than a month before we were finally able to fly to Ecuador to see him. By then, he had lost the ability to speak. He communicated using a small board, writing down what he needed.

My grandfather—once a robust, strong man—was now barely half his former weight. Frail. Pale. That sight hit me like a ton of bricks to the chest. We knew then that only a miracle could save him, and we braced ourselves for the worst.

My mother, a stoic woman all her life, was shattering before my eyes. She told me she didn’t know how to handle it.

“I can’t lose my hero,” she said, her voice breaking.

Seeing her like that broke all of us. My brothers and I cried alongside her.

Christmas came, and we celebrated it with grandpa. It was also his birthday. We all knew—without saying it—that this would be our last Christmas together, and we treasured every moment. We left Ecuador early in the morning on the 29th, heading back to Florida. I kissed my grandfather goodbye and told him I loved him over and over. I told him that no matter what happened, we would be okay—because he had taught us how to be a strong family.

While our plane was ten thousand feet in the air, he left us.

The moment my phone regained signal after landing, I received the news. I was standing in the middle of customs, handing over my passport and answering the usual questions. My voice broke. I couldn’t form coherent sentences, and my wife had to step in.

The official noticed immediately. His tone softened, and he let us through—but not without offering a small nugget of wisdom:

“How it starts and how it ends is nowhere near as important as the middle.”

For days afterward, I would break down in tears. I was lucky to have my wife there to help me navigate the grief. I made the decision then to return to Ecuador—where I am now—and be closer to my family. To cherish every second with them, because life is but a blink. I knew that all too well.

Over the years, our family formed new traditions inspired by my grandpa’s legacy. We celebrate Christmas and his birthday together. We try to honor him by being good to one another, by being unconditional—just as he was.

As part of that, we began writing letters to ourselves. At the end of each year, we write down everything we’re grateful for, along with our goals for the year ahead. When the year ends, we read the old letter, assess how we did, burn it, and write a new one.

In my mind, 2025 had been a year of defeats. Financially, I’m doing worse than I ever have. I was almost afraid to read the letter—expecting a list of disappointments—so I left it untouched.

It was around 2 a.m., and the bottle of whisky my brother had brought from the States was completely empty. I finally grabbed the letter and decided to face it with a full-on “f— it” attitude.

And… would you look at that.

I had accomplished what I wrote down.

I had moved my mother-in-law into her new home. I had finished and delivered the guitars I committed to building. And we were now living in our unfinished home—the one I’m writing from right now.

A year of achievements wasn’t on my bingo card. But it goes to show how much perspective matters. More importantly, it shows that if you keep putting one foot in front of the other, you do move forward. It may be a slow walk—but it’s still a walk.

As you might imagine, I wrote a new letter—this one for the older version of me who will read it when 2026 closes its drapes. I’d love to say I can’t wait to be surprised, but in truth, I can.

Time flies far too fast for a middle-aged man.

With that said, my friends, may 2026 be a year of achievements for you all.

MenO