You Won’t Find My Proudest Moment on LinkedIn, But It Saved Me

Yesterday, someone I was interviewing as a mentor asked me what my proudest accomplishment was.
I think they were a bit shocked by my response.

My children aside, they were probably expecting something about one of my businesses
Or maybe the book I wrote.
Maybe something about my building mental health awareness or advocacy. And they have all made me proud at various times in my life. But nothing has challenged me more and been more difficult to overcome than this.

I looked them in the eye and said this:

“Learning how to keep going after the day everything changed.”

It’s not the kind of answer you give at a networking event.
It doesn’t fit neatly on a resume.
And it’s definitely not the story people expect when they ask the question.

But it’s the truth.

Because there was a before and an after in my life.
And everything after has required a kind of strength I didn’t know I had,
and never wanted to need.

The day we lost Maddie, everything I thought I knew about life, parenting, success, even love. Shattered.
Not in some dramatic, movie-like way.
The kind where you wake up and the world doesn’t make sense anymore.
And it doesn’t go back to making sense.
You just learn how to walk through it differently.

And yet, here I am.

Still loving.
Still showing up.
Still making mistakes.
Still having moments of joy. Still trying to be a loving dad to Zac and Sawyer.
Still choosing to talk about her, even when it makes people uncomfortable.
Still choosing to find meaning in a world that broke my heart.

That’s my biggest accomplishment.

Not surviving.
Living.

There’s a difference.
And if you’ve been through your own version of hell, you probably know exactly what I mean.

For the first eight or nine years, I was in survival mode. I was faking it. I got tired of feeling so low all the time. I started to say I was “fine” when people asked. Because, if I told them how I really felt, they’d be really sorry they asked. I hate being that guy. Most guys hate being that guy.

For the last year, I’ve been living again. Not as my former self, but as my new self. And it’s not that survival mode doesn’t rear its ugly head. Today, there are good moments. Usually a lot of them.

So if you ask me what I’m most proud of, I won’t give you a highlight reel.
I’ll tell you the truth.

It’s the quiet choice I make every single day:
To keep moving forward. Not away from the pain, but with it.
To keep loving people deeply, even when I know how much it can cost.
To keep talking about mental health, even when it feels like shouting into the wind.
To honour her, by living well. And by helping others feel better.

You won’t find that in a LinkedIn headline.
But it’s the most honest answer I’ve got.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s what makes The MentorWell matter so much to me.

Because this isn’t just a project or a platform. It’s a reflection of everything I’ve learned the hard way. It’s for every kid who feels lost, stuck, or alone. It’s for every parent who’s trying their best but feels like they’re falling short. And it’s for mentors who know what it’s like to fall down, get back up, and still choose to care.

The MentorWell exists because I couldn’t save my daughter.
But maybe it can help save someone else’s.
Or maybe it just helps them feel seen for the first time. That’s enough too.

This isn’t about fixing anyone. It’s about showing up. Listening. Reminding them they’re not broken, they’re just human.

If Maddie were still here, I’d want her to have a place like this.

And now, other kids can.

That’s what we’re building.
That’s what I’m proud of.
That’s what keeps me going.