Earlier today, I was tagged in a photo on social media—a group shot taken in December 2002 during our 70D STX training, just months before the Iraq invasion. My first reaction was surprise, followed quickly by a flood of memories. No smartphones. MySpace was still the king of connection. I was in uniform, standing tall, trying to wear my best “war face.” I even had hair back then.

At that moment in time, my personal life was uncertain. I was recently divorced, unsure of where I’d live, and even more uncertain of what I’d be doing professionally. All I knew was that I wanted to stay close to my children, even as the Army had me moving in the opposite direction. Everything felt like it was shifting under my feet.

But looking back, I realize something: everything is always shifting. Like water, life never stays in the same place—it’s always in motion. Sometimes slow, sometimes raging, but always flowing. I used to crave control over every aspect of my personal and professional life. And I convinced myself that, at times, I had it. That illusion helped me sleep at night, helped me lead others, helped me believe I was making all the right moves.

Now, with 23 more years of living, learning, and letting go behind me, I’ve come to embrace a different truth: it’s okay not to control everything. In fact, that surrender has helped me grow. It’s made me more accepting of people, setbacks, and life’s curveballs. Some of the biggest disappointments in my life eventually rerouted me to something far better than I had planned.

Today, I’m working through some of the biggest challenges I’ve ever faced—accepting my wife’s ongoing battle with cancer and her limited mobility, navigating the rollercoaster of parenting a teenage daughter, and growing a business that’s rooted in purpose and resilience. I try to take it one day at a time. Like nurturing an oak sapling—you water it a little each day, give it sunlight, protect it during storms. And over time, without you even noticing, it becomes a mighty oak.

That photo reminded me who I was—and affirmed who I’m becoming. The young soldier I was then would be proud of the man I am now, not because everything turned out perfect, but because I kept showing up. I kept growing. I kept going.

I wonder if anyone in that picture can spot me. Look closely—I’m there, trying to be serious, probably thinking about the mission ahead. That version of me had no idea what was coming. But I’m grateful for him. And I’m even more grateful for who I’ve become.