There are moments now that hit me out of nowhere.

Sitting in a room with my parents. Hearing their voices. Watching how they move. Noticing the gray that wasn’t there before. The pauses in conversation. The wisdom that doesn’t need to be spoken out loud anymore.

I’m 38. They’re in their mid-60s.
And for the first time in my life, I understand what that really means.

I’ve caused my parents unnecessary hardship. There’s no way to soften that truth. My choices, my recklessness, my stubbornness—it cost them peace. It cost them sleep. It cost them tears I wasn’t there to see at the time. It cost me jail time. It cost me years I’ll never get back. And for a long time, I didn’t fully comprehend what that actually meant—not emotionally, not spiritually, not as a son.

I see it now.

And that realization hurts in a way I didn’t know was possible.

Every moment with my dad now feels sacred. The conversations. The quiet. The way he listens. The way he still shows up without asking for anything in return. Just being around him—standing near him, hearing his laugh, hearing his thoughts—means more to me than anything money or success could ever touch.

Every moment with my mom feels fragile and beautiful all at once. Her presence. Her care. Her concern. The way she loves without conditions, even after everything. When I’m with her, I’m reminded that love doesn’t keep score—it waits. It hopes. It believes long after logic says it shouldn’t.

I cherish them. Truly. Deeply. Completely.

And sometimes it makes me want to cry—not because of sadness, but because I’m finally aware. Aware of how precious these moments are. Aware that time doesn’t slow down just because you’ve figured things out. Aware that one day, these moments will live only in memory.

I love watching my parents grow old. That sentence feels strange to write—but it’s true. There’s beauty in it. There’s meaning in it. There’s a quiet reminder that I’m still here with them. That I still get to sit at the table. Still get to talk. Still get to say “I love you” and mean it with my whole chest.

They’ve been incredibly supportive lately. More than I deserve. They’ve seen something change in me. A real U-turn. A commitment to sobriety that isn’t performative or temporary. A clarity that wasn’t there before. They see that I want to finish what I started. They see that Boston Made isn’t just a company to me—it’s proof that I can build something honest, something lasting, something worth standing behind.

I want to see this vision through—not just for myself, but for them.

I want them to see me whole. Stable. Present. Grounded. I want them to see that the chaos didn’t win. That the mistakes didn’t define the ending. That their belief in me wasn’t misplaced.

The only thing I wish—deeply—is that my brother was closer. Physically. Proximity matters more as you get older. I feel that now. I wish we were all under one roof more often. I wish time and distance didn’t stretch moments thinner than they deserve to be.

But even with that ache, I’m grateful.

Grateful that I get this chapter.
Grateful that I get to feel this love while they’re still here.
Grateful that I’m present enough to recognize it.

Boston Made will be seen through. The vision will be finished. The work will stand on its own. But none of it matters if I don’t honor the people who were there before any of it existed.

I don’t want to lose them.
And until the day I inevitably do, I will cherish every moment—every conversation, every laugh, every silence.

Because now I know.

And I’m not wasting this awareness.