There are times in life when you have absolutely no intention of saying anything profound, but something happens that opens a door inside of you that you didn’t even know was waiting to be opened. You might be cleaning your house, straightening up your workspace, wiping down your furniture, or simply trying to finish a few things before you go to bed. Then a song comes on, and before you know it, you’re no longer standing in the room you’re standing in. You’re somewhere else entirely. You’re back in another decade, another neighborhood, another chapter of your life, surrounded by people you haven’t seen in years, feeling emotions you thought time had tucked away. That’s what happened to me, and what started as an ordinary evening in my studio turned into a journey through the memories, relationships, and spiritual experiences that have helped make me the man I am today.
I was down there cleaning, getting into the corners, wiping down my tables, taking care of my surroundings, and letting the music play. You know how these music platforms work nowadays. You start with one song, and before long, they’re serving up another song from your past, followed by something you haven’t heard in twenty or thirty years. Suddenly, you’re singing along, moving your shoulders, tapping your feet, and remembering exactly where you were when that music first entered your life. I had to put down the vacuum cleaner because some of those songs were hitting me so hard. And let me tell you something, I wasn’t just standing there reminiscing. Your boy was dancing! I was getting down in my studio, sweating, smiling, and enjoying myself like I had traveled backward through time.
But music has a way of doing something that goes far beyond entertainment. A song can become a doorway into your personal history, connecting you with people, places, feelings, and experiences that helped shape your identity. Sometimes you remember a party, a particular walk through the city, or the way somebody laughed when you were all together. Other times, a song brings back somebody you loved so deeply that hearing the melody almost feels like having a conversation with them again. You might not have thought about that person in months, but suddenly, there they are, alive in your thoughts, reminding you of what they meant to you. And when those memories come rushing back, you realize that some of the most valuable things you carry through life aren’t things you can put your hands on. They’re the invisible gifts people leave inside your spirit.
At sixty-three years old, I have lived through enough changes to understand that time doesn’t simply move us from one birthday to another. Time carries us through different versions of ourselves. The young man you were in the seventies isn’t exactly the same man you became in the eighties, the nineties, or the decades that followed. Your interests change, your priorities change, your understanding of people changes, and sometimes your entire direction in life changes. Yet there are certain experiences that remain alive inside you, no matter how much time passes. For me, growing up in New York City, exploring Manhattan, enjoying music, hosting gatherings, meeting fascinating people, and building relationships across different stages of my life created a collection of memories that I can still draw strength from today. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was building an emotional and spiritual reserve that would help carry me through some very difficult years.
And that’s what I really want to talk about. I’m not simply here to tell you that the old days were wonderful or that everything was better when I was younger. Every generation has its struggles, and every period of history has its problems. What I’m saying is that we often underestimate the value of the people who enter our lives, especially when we’re too busy living to understand what their presence means. Some people entertain us, some challenge us, some teach us, and some arrive when we’re struggling to find our footing. They might remain with us for decades, or they might disappear after a brief but unforgettable encounter. Either way, they can leave us with something that lasts far beyond the time we spent together. And when life gets rough, we can reach back into those memories and discover that we’re not nearly as empty, alone, or helpless as we once believed.
WHEN A SONG OPENS THE DOOR TO YOUR PAST
One of the songs that hit me while I was cleaning was a dance classic that immediately took me back to the early nineties. The moment I heard it, I remembered the energy of that period, the people I knew, the gatherings I hosted, and the freedom I felt while exploring New York City. I wasn’t somebody who needed to spend every weekend in a nightclub to have a good time. I enjoyed bringing people together in my own space, making sure everybody was comfortable, putting on music, and creating an atmosphere where people could relax and enjoy themselves. There were different kinds of gatherings, from nights spent watching boxing matches to regular house parties that could stretch well into the morning. People would come through, eat, laugh, talk, and sometimes stay overnight. It wasn’t about trying to impress anybody. It was about enjoying life and being surrounded by people who brought their own personalities, humor, and energy into the room.
I remember packing people into my old two-door car when we wanted to travel somewhere else. Looking back, I sometimes wonder how we managed to fit everybody inside without needing to call for a second vehicle. We were young, adventurous, and determined to enjoy ourselves. Those moments might sound insignificant to somebody else, but they’re part of the fabric of my life. When I hear those old songs, I don’t just remember the music. I remember the people who were there, the conversations we had, the streets we walked, and the feeling that the night was full of possibilities. Those memories remind me that happiness doesn’t always require a great deal of money, an expensive vacation, or a perfectly planned experience. Sometimes, all you need is good music, a few genuine people, and the freedom to enjoy the moment you’re living in.
Another song brought me back to a completely different part of my history. I remembered a major Harlem celebration in the summer of 1983, when I was involved in a performance alongside a famous musical act. I had been keeping myself in excellent physical condition, and I was selected to participate in a routine that took place in front of a huge crowd with the media watching. I remember the excitement, the preparation, and the experience of standing in front of so many people. A photograph from that event even appeared in a New York City newspaper. It was one of those moments when different parts of your life come together, reminding you of the person you were and the things you experienced before you ever imagined where your journey would eventually take you.
Years later, when another song from that musical period reached my ears, it carried a meaning that went far beyond the original event. It reminded me of my mother. She had a remarkable gift for music, and her voice could move between different styles with an ease that was beautiful to witness. She could sing gospel, opera, and other forms of music, but what impressed me most was her ability to communicate emotion. Her speaking voice had clarity, power, and feeling. She could make you feel loved without raising her voice, and when somebody had crossed a line, she could make her point without needing to shout. She understood something that many people never learn: communication isn’t simply about the words coming out of your mouth. It’s about the feeling, intention, and meaning carried by those words.
My mother used to sing a particular song that became deeply connected to my life. Its message was about standing firm when pressure surrounds you, holding on to what you know is right, and refusing to let your spirit break. At the time, I enjoyed hearing her sing it, but I couldn’t fully understand how important those words would become to me. When she suffered her first stroke in 1993, her ability to speak was affected, and the woman whose voice had always carried so much clarity and emotion could no longer communicate in the same way. Before her second stroke in 1994, she apologized to me for the burdens I had been carrying while our family dealt with difficult circumstances. I told her that she didn’t owe me an apology. She and my father had given me life, raised me, and placed so much inside me that I could never repay them.
What I understand now is that the lessons our parents give us don’t always arrive in the form of formal advice. Sometimes they come through their everyday behavior, their conversations, their struggles, and the way they love us when life isn’t easy. My mother was preparing me for challenges that neither of us could fully predict. She couldn’t have known every disappointment I would face, every relationship that would change, or every period when I would have to stand on my own. But the values she placed inside me became part of the foundation I could lean on when those moments arrived. When I hear that song today, I don’t simply hear a melody from the past. I hear the emotional strength of my mother, and I remember that some of the things people give us become even more valuable after they are no longer physically beside us.
THE PEOPLE WHO PREPARE US WITHOUT KNOWING IT
We spend so much time thinking about the people who have hurt us that we sometimes forget to recognize the people who helped us survive. Human beings have a tendency to hold on to betrayal, disappointment, embarrassment, and anger. We replay the conversations that wounded us, remember the people who abandoned us, and sometimes allow those experiences to influence how we treat everybody who comes after them. But what about the people who gave us something good? What about the person who showed up when we needed encouragement, the friend who helped us solve a problem, the parent who taught us to stand upright, or the stranger who spoke a few words that stayed with us for the rest of our lives? Why don’t we spend more time examining those experiences and appreciating the strength they placed inside us?
I believe there are people who enter our lives at very specific moments when we need something they happen to possess. They might have practical knowledge, emotional wisdom, a generous heart, or simply the willingness to stand beside us while we find our way. Sometimes they know exactly what they’re doing, and other times they have no idea how important their presence will become. They might think they’re helping with a small problem, when in reality, they’re helping us cross a major turning point in our lives. We don’t always recognize the significance of those encounters while they’re happening because we’re focused on getting through the day. It’s often years later, when we look back at everything that unfolded, that we finally understand how much their presence mattered.
That’s why I have come to believe that not every important relationship has to last forever to fulfill its purpose. We tend to measure relationships by their duration, assuming that somebody who has been around for forty years must have contributed more to our lives than somebody we knew for six months. But longevity doesn’t automatically equal value. A person can spend decades around you without truly seeing you, while somebody else can enter your life for a short period and offer the exact kind of support you needed at that particular time. We should be grateful for the people who remain, but we should also respect the impact of those who were only with us for a season. Sometimes their role in our lives was never about staying forever. It was about helping us get through a chapter we couldn’t have managed as easily without them.
I have experienced this firsthand, and one of the clearest examples involves an old friend who helped me during a difficult period in New York. We had known each other through the neighborhood, and over time, our lives took different directions. Years later, we unexpectedly crossed paths again. He had experience with electrical work, and I was renovating my home. What began as an offer to help with the work developed into something much deeper. He became a source of practical assistance, companionship, humor, and emotional support during a period when I was dealing with family stress and trying to move forward with my own life. He remembered things about my childhood that I had forgotten, shared stories about people we had known, and helped me through experiences that would have been much harder to navigate alone.
One of the songs I associate with him was a song about help arriving when it was needed. He would hum it while working on the house, and the melody became connected to his presence in my mind. I didn’t realize how deeply that association had taken root until I started thinking about him years later. He had come into my life at a time when I needed a helping hand, and he gave that help without making me feel small or indebted to him. He simply showed up and did what he could. Eventually, he disappeared from my everyday life, and I had no idea how to reach him. Then, after I moved to Florida, I unexpectedly heard his voice while attending a training session. He was on the telephone, and something about his voice immediately caught my attention. I called out his name, and suddenly, we were reunited in a place where neither of us expected to see the other.
Think about the chances involved in that encounter. I could have stepped outside for a few minutes and missed the conversation completely. I could have been distracted by something else or left the room at a different time. Yet I stayed where I was, heard a familiar voice, and discovered that somebody who had been important to me in one chapter of my life was still out there. We reconnected, and he helped me become familiar with my new surroundings. He was there while I went through the process of entering the corrections profession, and I was looking forward to telling him when I had successfully completed my training. I wanted to share the news, thank him for his support, and celebrate the fact that I was moving forward.
But life doesn’t always give us the opportunity to finish the conversations we have planned. Before I could make that call, I received news that he had passed away. His son reached out to tell me that his father had spoken about me with affection and that I had remained important to him. I was devastated because I had been looking forward to sharing my accomplishment with somebody who had helped me get through an important period of my life. Yet even in that pain, there was a lesson. My friend had already given me what I needed from him. His kindness, his support, and the memories we created were still mine to carry. I couldn’t make another phone call, but I could continue living with the strength he had helped me build.
WHEN SOMEBODY FILLS A SPACE YOU DIDN’T KNOW WAS EMPTY
One of the most complicated things about family is that love and disappointment can exist in the same relationship. You can love a relative deeply and still feel wounded by their choices. You can recognize their intelligence, their talents, and their potential while also acknowledging the damage their behavior has caused. You can remember beautiful moments with them and still struggle with the painful things that happened afterward. These feelings don’t cancel each other out. They simply reflect the reality that human beings are complicated, and the people closest to us are often the people whose actions affect us most deeply.
I have experienced the pain of watching family members struggle with serious problems, and I have seen how those struggles can affect everybody around them. When somebody you love is going through a destructive period, you may find yourself carrying emotional burdens that were never supposed to be yours alone. You worry about them, become frustrated with their decisions, and sometimes feel guilty because you cannot fix what is happening. You might become angry because their behavior hurts other people, yet you still remember who they were before those problems took over. You remember their gifts, their humor, their intelligence, and the moments when you felt close to them. That mixture of love, disappointment, hope, and grief can be exhausting.
What makes it even harder is that the relationship you wish you could have may still exist in your heart, even when the reality of the relationship has become painful or distant. You remember the good conversations, the laughter, the things you admired, and the moments when you felt understood. You want those moments back, not because you are pretending the painful experiences never happened, but because you know there was something valuable underneath all the trouble. Sometimes you aren’t even asking for a perfect relationship. You simply want another honest conversation, an opportunity to say that you still care, or a chance to let somebody know that the door to your heart hasn’t been completely closed.
I have an older brother whom I love, despite the painful history and the difficult experiences that have affected our family. I remain concerned about him, and the distance between us is something I continue to carry. There are times when I search for information because I want to know that he is still alive and has not disappeared from this world. I don’t share this because I want sympathy or because I believe anybody owes me an explanation. I share it because too many people understand what it means to have somebody they love who is no longer close to them. Sometimes the person is physically gone. Sometimes they’re alive but unreachable. Sometimes the relationship has been damaged by years of disappointment, and nobody knows how to take the first step toward repairing it.
If you are dealing with something similar, I want you to understand that love doesn’t require you to deny reality. You can love somebody while acknowledging that their behavior has hurt you. You can hope for reconciliation without pretending that everything is fine. You can leave room for forgiveness while still protecting your peace and setting boundaries. And you can pray for somebody, wish them well, and hope they find a better path without taking responsibility for every decision they make. Your love can remain genuine even when you cannot control the outcome.
There are also times when life places somebody in your path who fills an emotional space you didn’t even realize had become empty. That doesn’t mean they’re replacing a family member or taking somebody else’s place in your heart. It means that relationships can provide different kinds of support, and sometimes a person outside your immediate family gives you an experience of love, loyalty, or brotherhood that you have been missing. I experienced that with my friend who helped me during the difficult years in New York. He was close to my older brother’s age, and his presence gave me a form of brotherly support that meant a great deal to me. He didn’t need to be related to me by blood to become family in the ways that mattered.
We need to stop acting as though meaningful relationships can only happen through the people who share our last name. Family can be biological, but the experience of family can also grow through trust, sacrifice, consistency, and mutual care. There are people who will stand beside you when relatives disappear. There are people who will help you rebuild when those who should have helped you have turned away. And there are people who will give you love without demanding that you prove your worth before they offer it. When you find those people, recognize them. Don’t take their presence for granted simply because they don’t occupy a traditional place on your family tree.
NEW YORK CITY, MUSIC, AND A GENERATION THAT KNEW HOW TO CONNECT
Growing up in New York City gave me a wide view of human behavior. I experienced different neighborhoods, different personalities, different kinds of music, and different ways of living. I enjoyed exploring Manhattan, walking through Greenwich Village and the East Village, visiting bookstores and record shops, and getting off the train simply because I wanted to see what was happening somewhere else. Sometimes I had a destination in mind, and other times I just wanted to wander. I would spend hours discovering places, observing people, listening to music, and allowing the city to show me something I hadn’t seen before.
Back then, discovering music could be an experience in itself. You might walk into a record shop and hear a song that made you stop in your tracks. Somebody working behind the counter might recognize the music, and suddenly, a conversation would begin. You could meet somebody who had completely different interests from yours and still find something to connect over. Music crossed boundaries that people sometimes struggled to cross in everyday life. You could appreciate a beautiful melody, a powerful vocal performance, or a rhythm that moved your body without having to agree on everything else. There was something wonderfully human about that shared experience.
My musical world was broad because I was exposed to different styles from an early age. I grew up hearing classical music and opera, but I also loved hip-hop, soul, dance music, and soft rock. New York had its own musical atmosphere, shaped by radio stations, neighborhood gatherings, record shops, clubs, and the people who carried different sounds into everyday life. Music wasn’t just something playing in the background. It was part of how people dressed, gathered, danced, communicated, and remembered particular periods of their lives. A song could remind you of the summer you graduated, the person you fell in love with, the friends you spent your weekends with, or the night you stayed out until the sun came up.
I also remember how much time we spent simply being around one another. Friends would gather in my parents’ home, and my mother would prepare enough food to make sure everybody was satisfied. We could spend an entire evening talking, laughing, playing records, and enjoying ourselves. Sometimes people stayed until daybreak, slept for a few hours, ate again, and went on with their day. There was no need to create a special event for every gathering. The gathering itself was the event. We had people from different backgrounds and with different personalities, but when they came into that space, the expectation was simple: respect the house, treat people properly, and enjoy yourself.
We were young, full of energy, and sometimes foolish in the harmless ways that young people can be. We admired women, joked around, worked out, and tried to figure out what kind of men we were going to become. But we also learned to look out for people. If somebody needed help carrying something heavy, we helped. If a friend needed a place to sleep, we found a way to make room. If somebody came into the house hungry, there was food available. Those things might sound ordinary, but they taught us that life was not supposed to revolve entirely around individual satisfaction. We could enjoy ourselves and still recognize that other people mattered.
I’m not suggesting that every person from my generation behaved honorably or that every young person today lacks these qualities. That would be unfair and untrue. Every generation has good people, troubled people, selfish people, and people who are trying to find their way. But I do believe that the ways we gather and communicate have changed dramatically. Today, people can spend hours connected to screens while feeling disconnected from the people sitting right beside them. We can watch thousands of videos, follow countless accounts, and communicate with people across the world while struggling to develop a meaningful relationship with somebody in our own neighborhood.
Technology has made communication easier, but easier communication doesn’t automatically create deeper relationships. A message can be sent in seconds, but trust takes time. A person can collect thousands of followers without having anybody they feel comfortable calling when life falls apart. We can see the highlights of other people’s lives every day and still feel lonely because we have no meaningful place in their actual experiences. There’s a difference between being seen and being known, and there’s a difference between receiving attention and receiving genuine care.
That’s why I believe we need to bring back more opportunities for people to spend real time together. We need gatherings where the purpose isn’t to advertise our lives, compete for attention, or prove that we’re doing better than somebody else. We need spaces where people can laugh, share stories, listen to music, exchange ideas, and feel comfortable enough to be themselves. We need to teach younger people that friendship isn’t measured by how often somebody likes a photograph. It’s measured by whether they show up when it matters, whether they respect your struggles, and whether they can celebrate your success without feeling threatened by it.
HAS MUSIC LOST ITS SOUL, OR HAVE WE CHANGED THE WAY WE LISTEN?
One question that came to me while I was listening to those old songs was whether younger generations have the same kind of emotional relationship with music that many of us developed. I know that younger people love music, and I know there are talented artists creating meaningful work today. I’m not going to dismiss an entire generation because its musical tastes differ from mine. But I do wonder whether the way music is produced, promoted, distributed, and consumed has changed the relationship people have with it.
For me, some songs carry a sense of history that cannot be separated from the people and experiences connected to them. When I hear a particular melody, I can remember where I was living, who I knew, what I was thinking, and what I was going through at the time. The song becomes a kind of emotional landmark. It reminds me of the person I was then and allows me to compare that person with the man I have become. Even when the memories are painful, the music can help me understand how far I’ve traveled and how much I’ve learned.
Today’s music industry operates in an environment where attention is a major form of currency. Artists are encouraged to produce material that captures attention quickly, generates reactions, and competes in a crowded marketplace. Digital platforms reward frequent releases, constant promotion, and the ability to keep people watching or listening. Those pressures can influence what gets created and what becomes popular. When the business side of music places so much emphasis on immediate attention, there is a risk that the deeper emotional connection between an artist and an audience can get pushed aside.
I sometimes feel that too much of today’s popular culture celebrates materialism, status, envy, and the need to prove that you’re better than everybody else. The message can become less about expressing something meaningful and more about showing the world what you possess, who you can attract, or how much attention you can command. That kind of message can encourage people to measure themselves through comparison instead of developing a stronger understanding of their own worth. When people are constantly competing to appear successful, they can lose sight of the relationships and values that make life worth living.
I also believe that music has an emotional and spiritual dimension that deserves more respect. A song can calm somebody who is overwhelmed, encourage somebody who feels defeated, or help people recognize feelings they have struggled to express. Music can bring people together across differences in age, culture, background, and experience. It can help a community celebrate, mourn, remember, and recover. When music serves those purposes, it becomes more than a product. It becomes part of the emotional life of the people who hear it.
However, I don’t believe we need to pretend that the past was perfect to recognize what music can offer us. There were shallow songs decades ago, just as there are meaningful songs today. There were manipulative people in the entertainment industry then, just as there are business pressures now. The important question isn’t whether every old song was authentic and every new song is artificial. The question is whether we are still making room for music that encourages reflection, celebrates human connection, and gives people something deeper than a temporary rush of excitement.
I am suspicious of any cultural force that encourages people to become more isolated, more resentful, and more obsessed with their own image. I believe we should examine the messages we consume instead of accepting everything simply because it is popular. But we should also be willing to look beyond our own musical preferences and recognize the good work being created by people whose experiences differ from ours. The goal isn’t to condemn young people for enjoying what they enjoy. The goal is to make sure that meaningful music, thoughtful expression, and genuine cultural connection still have room to flourish.
THE MYSTERY OF TIME AND THE MEMORIES THAT FEEL ALIVE
There is something fascinating about the way memories operate. We tend to think of time as a straight line, with yesterday behind us, today in front of us, and tomorrow waiting somewhere ahead. Yet our emotional experiences don’t always behave that way. A song can bring back a feeling so strongly that, for a moment, the distance between the past and the present seems to disappear. You know you’re older. You know the people and places have changed. But the emotional experience can feel remarkably close, almost as though you have opened a door into a room you haven’t visited in decades.
I’ve sometimes wondered whether the moments we experience remain alive in ways we don’t fully understand. I’m not claiming that memories prove we can literally travel through time or that every spiritual idea we encounter must be accepted as fact. I’m saying that the human experience of memory is extraordinary. We carry pieces of our past into the present, and those pieces can influence how we feel, how we think, and how we respond to the world around us. The person you were at twenty may no longer exist in the same physical form, but the lessons you learned at twenty can still influence the decisions you make at sixty-three.
Think about a happy moment from your childhood. Perhaps you remember sitting around a table while your family ate together, hearing the sound of your parents talking, or playing outside with friends until somebody called you home. You may not have photographs of every moment, and you may have forgotten many of the details, but a particular smell, song, or sound can suddenly bring some of it back. For a few seconds, you can almost feel the atmosphere of that time. You remember the innocence, the excitement, the people who were present, and the way life appeared before you understood all the complications that would eventually come.
These memories don’t change the past, but they can change how we experience the present. They remind us that our lives contain more than the disappointments we are dealing with today. When you’re going through a difficult period, it can become easy to believe that pain is the whole story. You focus on what went wrong, who betrayed you, what you lost, and what you haven’t yet accomplished. But when a meaningful memory returns, it reminds you that your life also contains love, laughter, kindness, adventure, and moments when somebody helped you believe in yourself. Those experiences are part of your history, too, and they deserve to be remembered.
I believe there is real strength in learning how to revisit the good parts of your life without becoming trapped in the past. Nostalgia can become unhealthy when we use it to avoid the present or convince ourselves that nothing worthwhile can happen again. But remembering the good things can also help us recognize what remains possible. If you experienced genuine friendship before, you know that such friendship can exist. If you were once surrounded by people who cared about you, you know that kindness is possible. If you survived a difficult period because somebody helped you, you know that support can arrive in unexpected ways.
The past can become a source of wisdom instead of a prison. We can appreciate the people we once knew without insisting that every relationship must be restored. We can remember the places we loved without believing we must return to them to feel complete. And we can honor the person we used to be while allowing ourselves to grow into somebody wiser, more patient, and more grounded. The point of remembering isn’t to abandon today. It’s to bring the best parts of yesterday into the way we live today.
MY NEVER-ENDING DOGGY BAG OF HAPPINESS
Let me explain something that came to me while I was sitting with all these memories. Think about going to a restaurant and ordering more food than you can finish. You’re enjoying the meal, but eventually, you’re full. You look down at what’s left on your plate, and the server asks whether you’d like a container to take the rest home. You agree, the food is packed up, and you leave with something you can enjoy later. The meal may be over, but the pleasure doesn’t have to end when you walk out the door.
That’s how I think about the good experiences and meaningful relationships I’ve collected throughout my life. I have what I call a never-ending doggy bag of happiness. It’s filled with memories of people who loved me, friends who stood beside me, conversations that changed the way I thought, and experiences that gave me reasons to smile. Whenever life becomes difficult, I can reach into that emotional reserve and remember that there have been people who genuinely cared about me. I can remember the laughter, the music, the generosity, and the moments when somebody appeared at exactly the right time.
This doesn’t mean I walk around happy every minute of the day. Life can be frustrating, disappointing, and painful. There are things I wish had turned out differently, people I wish I could speak to again, and relationships I still hope to repair. I have experienced loss, betrayal, and uncertainty, just like other people. But those experiences don’t erase the good that came before them. I refuse to allow the painful chapters of my life to convince me that the beautiful chapters never happened. My history contains too much kindness, too much laughter, and too many meaningful encounters for me to accept such a limited view of my own existence.
The beautiful thing about this emotional reserve is that nobody can take those memories away from me. People may leave. Circumstances may change. I may move thousands of miles from the neighborhoods where I grew up and the places where some of my most important experiences occurred. But the lessons remain. I can be sitting in my studio in Ghana, surrounded by stone walls and looking out toward the mountains, and one song can bring me back to a New York City apartment where friends were gathered around a record player. I can remember a man who helped me renovate a house, a friend who encouraged me during a new career, or a parent whose words gave me strength when I didn’t yet understand how much I would need them.
That is one of the reasons I appreciate the people who have shared their lives with me through my own platform. Some of the conversations I’ve had with people over the years went far beyond what an audience could see in a recorded broadcast. There were discussions, personal exchanges, and moments of understanding that never became public content. Those relationships were real, and the things I learned from those people remain part of me. Preserving their recorded conversations isn’t simply about keeping old videos online. For me, it’s also about preserving pieces of a shared history and honoring the value they brought into my life.
I’ve also met people who made a difference through simple acts of kindness that they may have forgotten almost immediately. They may have offered encouragement during a difficult afternoon, helped me think through a problem, or treated me with respect at a time when I needed to feel seen. They might not even realize that I remember them. But I do, because their actions became part of the collection of experiences that helped shape my outlook on life. We should never underestimate what a few thoughtful words or a small act of generosity can mean to somebody who is struggling.
The same principle applies to the people we encounter today. We don’t always know what somebody is carrying inside. The person sitting across from us might be dealing with grief, disappointment, financial pressure, family problems, or the fear that their best days are behind them. A little kindness won’t solve every problem, but it can remind somebody that they’re not invisible. A sincere conversation can give somebody a reason to keep trying. A willingness to listen can help a person feel less alone. We don’t need to become heroes in somebody else’s story. Sometimes we simply need to show up as decent human beings.
And here’s the part I want you to understand: the doggy bag isn’t just something we receive from other people. It’s also something we help create for them. Every time we offer support, share wisdom, demonstrate patience, or make somebody laugh during a difficult period, we may be leaving them with a memory they will draw strength from years later. We might never know when that moment will become important. We might not be present when they look back and remember what we did. But our influence can continue long after the immediate encounter has ended.
That’s a responsibility worth taking seriously. We should think about what we’re leaving behind in the hearts of the people who cross our paths. Are we leaving them with bitterness, humiliation, and unnecessary pain, or are we giving them something that helps them become stronger? We won’t always get everything right, and none of us can avoid hurting somebody unintentionally. But we can make an effort to leave people with more hope than despair, more understanding than confusion, and more encouragement than contempt.
YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT’S THE LAST TIME
One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that we rarely know when an ordinary encounter will become our last encounter with somebody. We assume there will be another telephone call, another visit, another opportunity to sit down and talk. We tell ourselves we’ll reach out next week, make that visit next month, or catch up when things settle down. Then life takes an unexpected turn, and the opportunity we thought would always be there disappears.
I remember meeting a dear friend shortly before I moved away from New York. We had a meaningful conversation, exchanged telephone numbers, and hugged before going our separate ways. I was preparing to start another chapter of my life, and I was glad we had managed to reconnect before I left. But we made a simple mistake when exchanging our contact information. We each ended up with our own number instead of the other’s number. I didn’t discover the mistake until I was already on the plane. I wondered whether I would ever see him again, and the thought stayed with me because I understood that I was leaving a place filled with people and memories I could never completely reproduce somewhere else.
There are relationships that fade because people move, change careers, start families, or become absorbed in their own responsibilities. Others disappear because of misunderstandings, unresolved problems, or circumstances neither person controls. Sometimes we can find a way to reconnect, and sometimes we can’t. But the possibility that a relationship might end without warning should remind us not to treat every opportunity for connection as though it will remain available forever.
If somebody matters to you, tell them when you can. If you appreciate what they have done, express that appreciation. If there is a reasonable opportunity to repair a relationship, consider whether taking that step would bring peace into your life. You don’t need to wait for a funeral, a health crisis, or a major life event to tell somebody that they have made a difference. We often save our most meaningful words for moments when the person receiving them can no longer respond. There’s nothing wrong with honoring people after they’ve passed, but we should also learn to honor them while they’re still here.
At the same time, I want to be realistic. Not every relationship can be repaired, and not every person is safe to reconnect with. Some people have caused harm that requires distance, and some situations cannot be resolved simply because one person wants them to be. You can acknowledge the value somebody once brought into your life without reopening a door that needs to remain closed. You can wish somebody well without placing yourself back in a damaging situation. The point isn’t to chase every person who has disappeared from your life. The point is to recognize the value of genuine connection while you still have the opportunity to nurture it.
There are people I wish I could sit down with today, people I would love to ask a few questions, share a laugh with, or tell how much their presence meant to me. Some of them have passed away, and others have simply become unreachable. Their absence is painful, but their influence remains. I can still remember the things they taught me, the moments we shared, and the ways they helped me become stronger. And when I think about them, I am reminded that the real value of a relationship isn’t always determined by how it ends. Sometimes its value is found in what it gave us while it was alive.
YOU MAY BE CHOSEN TO HELP SOMEBODY ELSE STAND
When I speak about being chosen, I don’t mean that I’m waiting for fame, wealth, or public recognition to prove that my life has meaning. I’ve lived long enough to understand that attention and importance aren’t the same thing. A person can be famous and still have very little to offer the people around them. Another person can live quietly, without public recognition, and make an extraordinary difference in the lives of those who know them. The value of a life cannot be measured entirely by money, status, followers, or the number of people who recognize your face.
Sometimes, being chosen simply means that you have an opportunity to help somebody through a difficult season. It means you possess a particular skill, experience, or understanding that somebody else needs. It means your willingness to listen can help a person see a situation differently. It means that after surviving your own struggles, you may be able to offer another person the encouragement you once needed yourself. You don’t have to be perfect to make a difference. You simply have to be willing to use what you’ve learned in a way that benefits somebody beyond yourself.
I’ve had people enter my life who gave me exactly the kind of encouragement I needed at particular turning points. Some helped me through practical challenges, while others helped me understand myself more clearly. Some reminded me to keep working when I was tired, and others gave me a sense of companionship during periods when I was carrying more than I wanted to admit. Looking back, I can see that these relationships weren’t all the same, but each one contributed something meaningful to my journey. Their influence helped me become the person who could later share experiences, ideas, and lessons with an audience of my own.
This is why I refuse to believe that our difficult experiences automatically make us defeated people. Pain can teach us, although we shouldn’t pretend that suffering is always necessary or that every tragedy has a clear purpose. Some experiences are simply heartbreaking. Some losses leave wounds that never completely disappear. But even in the middle of those realities, we can decide what we want to do with the wisdom and compassion we’ve gained. We can allow our pain to make us cruel, or we can use what we’ve learned to become more understanding. We can become so focused on our own disappointments that we stop seeing other people’s struggles, or we can recognize that our experiences have given us something valuable to share.
When people turn their backs on you, remember that their choices don’t determine your worth. When somebody betrays your trust, learn what you need to learn without allowing that person to define every relationship that follows. When life knocks you down, take the time you need to recover, but don’t automatically assume that the fall has ended your journey. You may need to change direction, rethink your priorities, or acknowledge that something you wanted is no longer right for you. Strength doesn’t mean pretending you’re never hurt. Strength means facing what happened honestly and deciding how you will move forward.
I have been through enough in my life to know that I didn’t become strong entirely on my own. My parents contributed to the foundation. Friends helped me through different chapters. People I met unexpectedly offered support I couldn’t have predicted. Some encouraged me through words, others through action, and some simply showed me what genuine loyalty looked like. I carry those experiences with me, and they influence the way I approach the work I do today. When I sit in front of the camera and speak about life, human nature, and the lessons people need to hear, I’m drawing from more than personal opinion. I’m drawing from a lifetime of encounters that taught me something about the value of people.
I also understand that I may never know the full impact of what I share. Somebody might listen to a conversation today and remember one sentence years from now when they’re struggling. Somebody might read an article and recognize a pattern in their own life that they hadn’t understood before. Somebody might feel less alone because I was willing to speak honestly about something painful. I don’t need to know every outcome to understand that sharing what we’ve learned can be worthwhile. If my experiences can help another person stand a little stronger, then the experiences I’ve survived have become useful beyond my own life.
MY CLOSING THOUGHTS…
As I sit here thinking about the music that brought all these memories back, I’m filled with gratitude for the people who helped shape my life. I think about my mother and father, the friends who filled my younger years with laughter, the people who appeared during difficult transitions, and those whose presence taught me something I couldn’t have learned as easily on my own. I think about the people I can no longer call, the conversations I wish I could have again, and the relationships I continue to carry in my heart. Their stories are part of my story, and I wouldn’t be the same man without them. Even the painful experiences have taught me something about the importance of love, patience, discernment, and appreciation.
So when I hear a song that takes me back, I don’t want to dismiss the experience as nothing more than an old man reminiscing about the good old days. I see it as an opportunity to recognize the richness of a life that has included many different chapters. I can enjoy the memories without pretending that every moment was perfect. I can acknowledge the mistakes I made without forgetting the good things I experienced. And I can look at the man I am today and understand that he carries the influence of many people who helped him along the way. That realization gives me a reason to be grateful, even when life presents me with challenges I would rather not face.
To everybody listening to me, I want you to think about the people who have fed your spirit. Think about the person who encouraged you when you were ready to quit, the relative who taught you something valuable, the friend who made you laugh when you were hurting, or the stranger who showed you unexpected kindness. Don’t allow the painful people in your life to occupy every corner of your memory while the good people are forgotten. Recognize the value of those who helped you become stronger, and when you have an opportunity to express your appreciation, don’t keep putting it off. You never know how much those words might mean to somebody who has spent years wondering whether their efforts mattered.
And if you’re going through a difficult period right now, I want you to remember that your current circumstances aren’t the entire story of your life. You have experiences, lessons, and moments of connection that still belong to you. You may be carrying grief, disappointment, uncertainty, or the pain of a relationship that hasn’t turned out the way you hoped. Give yourself room to feel those things, but don’t let them convince you that nothing good remains. Reach into your own doggy bag of happiness. Remember the people who loved you, the things you’ve survived, and the moments when life reminded you that you were capable of moving forward. You may discover that you have more strength available to you than you realized.
I’m still standing, and I’m grateful for every person who helped me get here. I’m grateful for the music that brings my memories to life, the lessons my parents placed inside me, the friendships that gave me companionship, and the people who appeared when I needed help most. I don’t know every reason why our paths cross when they do, and I won’t pretend to understand every mystery of life. But I know that genuine kindness matters, that love can survive distance, and that the influence of a good person can continue long after their physical presence is gone. So keep your spirit strong, treat people with care, and never underestimate what you can leave inside somebody’s heart. I’m going to carry my memories, keep sharing what I’ve learned, and continue moving forward. Much love to you all. I wish you peace, strength, and the wisdom to recognize the people who make your life richer. This is LanceScurv, and I’m still standing.
