When We Miss the Prize
I remember, during my sophomore year of college, envisioning my future. I had it all mapped out: the man I would become, the marriage I would build, the kind of father I would be, a meaningful career—a life that felt steady, honorable, and whole.
That dream felt real. It was hope.
By most measures, I didn’t win that prize. If life were scored like a competition, there’s a season where I would have been disqualified.
Recently, my ex-wife and I sat down for a long conversation. We talked about our children, our marriage, my affair, and how we’ve each changed over the past twenty-five years. It was a good conversation—honest and even warm at times.
And yet, sitting there across from her, I could hear the echo of what was lost.
There were years when that failure tried to define me. It wrapped around my identity and whispered its final verdict: I had missed my chance.
I’m grateful that voice didn’t win.
My life looks nothing like what that sophomore envisioned. It’s messier. Humbled. Rewritten more than once. But it’s still good.
There have been doubts. Missteps. Hard conversations. Corrections. I’ve had to rebuild parts of myself I didn’t even know were broken.
But I haven't quit. Sometimes, that’s the real prize.