The Letters I Didn't Understand: A Thanksgiving Reflection
I was asked to think about what I'm grateful for this Thanksgiving. This turned into a longer reflection than I expected—so buckle up.
I don't talk about this very often. It's not that I want to forget it ever happened. It doesn't upset me to discuss it. And quite frankly, it's probably one of the most important events of my life. But like many profound experiences in our lives, I didn't understand its significance until much later.
You see, when I was 12 years old, I suffered a bicycle accident that, to this day, I don't remember.
The Accident
It was early December. My parents had gone to watch my sister perform in the Christmas parade. I remember riding my bike over to my friend's house to play outside for the evening. What I don't remember is getting back on my bike to come home.
From what I'm told, there was a collision between my bicycle and a car at an intersection a block from my home. I have no idea what unfolded after that. This was before cell phones, so I'm not sure how anyone contacted my parents. But someone did.
I was eventually taken by helicopter to Ruby Memorial Hospital in Morgantown, West Virginia. The diagnosis: severe head trauma.
Only small clips of the next couple of weeks remain in my memory. I learned later that I remained in a coma for most of the first week. My mom and dad were told that survival was questionable and that, if I survived, I might never walk again.
The Recovery
The brain injuries affected the left side of my brain, which meant the right side of my body didn't work right, or at all. One memory I have is being in a wheelchair and becoming frustrated. I remember telling nurses, "I don't need this stupid chair," only to ask them to help me after I ended up on the ground.
Another memory: members of the WVU football team visiting me. Apparently, I asked for McDonald's cheeseburgers because I didn't like the hospital food. Eventually, a week or two later, I was stabilized and sent home.
Home was different. My mom, a teacher, stayed home with me to work through my 7th-grade classwork. She had to write all the answers on my assignments because my right side still didn't work and I was right-handed.
Friends sent balloons and even clowns, which I hated but appreciated the gesture. My classmates made banners they all signed, telling me to get well. It was just the beginning of a long road to recovery.
The Letters
Out of all the letters I received, one person continued to send me letters every single week.
I won't share her name here, but she attended the church where my grandmother played the organ. I had never met her. I really had no idea who she was. But each week, like clockwork, her letter arrived in the mailbox.
Little did I know what those letters would mean later in life.
During my recovery, I was sent to Bridgeport Physical Therapy to essentially relearn how to use the right side of my body. My therapist, Mike Martin, worked with me tirelessly. Within three months, Mike had me back on the basketball court, not just practicing, but actually playing in a game.
I remember going to a school dance before returning to classes and seeing how excited everyone was to see me. At the time, I couldn't understand why it was such a big deal. I remember returning to school and noticing people looking at me differently. Some friends didn't seem to know what to say.
Things changed. But I really didn't notice at the time.
Life Went On
Life eventually returned to normal. I navigated through middle school, high school, college, and several jobs before settling into my career as a financial advisor.
The letters continued to show up for a while but eventually stopped. It was almost like a bad dream as if I just wanted to forget it all happened.
It wasn't until a few years ago, when I found one of those letters, that I finally understood what had happened.
I'm not even sure where I found it, but it was a simple handwritten card. It was one of the letters from the lady at my grandmother's church. It read:
"Philippians 4:13 – I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."
Even in that moment, I didn't quite recognize the gravity of what that meant.
But today, I finally get it.
What I Understand Now
God Himself had been holding my hand the whole way. I had beaten the odds. I learned to walk again. I got back on the basketball court, the baseball diamond, and the soccer pitch. I graduated high school, graduated college, and started my own family.
So yes, with Him, I can do all things.
And honestly? I took it all for granted the entire way. Maybe I was naïve, ignorant, or just didn't pay attention. If I have anything in this world to be thankful for, it's the fact that I'm here today in the capacity that I am.
And oddly enough, I'm thankful I didn't understand everything at the time. I may not have been mentally able to process or handle it all.
Looking back today, it all just hits differently.
I can only imagine being in my parents' shoes on that sidewalk at the Christmas parade, learning their son was in a bad accident. I can only imagine what was going through their minds while racing 30 miles up the interstate to the hospital. I pray I never have a conversation with a doctor like my parents had that night.
For 33 years, I never really thought about this perspective. I doubt I really understood it before now.
The Power of Small, Consistent Acts
Here's what I've come to realize as I've reflected on this story and as I've worked with families over the years:
We rarely recognize the full value of support in the moment we're receiving it.
At 12 years old, I didn't understand the significance of those weekly letters, the sacrifices people were making for me, and the encouragement I was receiving throughout my recovery. I just knew people were there. And somehow, that was enough to carry me forward.
It's only now, decades later, that I can look back and see how those small, consistent acts of care compounded into something life-changing. A letter every week. A session of physical therapy. A teacher who wouldn't give up. A message of faith tucked into an envelope.
None of it felt monumental in the moment. But together? It made all the difference.
Why This Matters in My Work
I think about this often in my work as a financial advisor.
The truth is, much of what we do together doesn't feel dramatic in the moment. We review accounts. We adjust allocations. We check in during market volatility. We plan for scenarios that may or may not happen. We send reminders about year-end strategies or beneficiary updates.
It's the financial equivalent of those weekly letters, small, consistent acts of care that don't always feel significant in real-time.
But over the years, those small decisions compound. The discipline of saving a little more. The strategy of rebalancing during uncertainty. The peace of mind that comes from having a plan. The confidence to make decisions when life throws curveballs.
And just like I didn't fully appreciate the people supporting me at age 12, many people don't realize the full value of having someone in their corner until much later, when they look back and see how those small, steady acts of guidance helped them navigate the most important moments of their lives.
This Thanksgiving
This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for the people who showed up for me when I couldn't fully appreciate it. I appreciate the weekly letters I didn't understand at the time. I'm thankful for my parents, Mike Martin, my teachers, my classmates, and a woman from my grandmother's church whose name I've never forgotten.
I'm grateful that God held my hand through it all, even when I didn't realize it.
And I'm grateful for the opportunity to be that steady, consistent presence for the families I serve. Not because every interaction will feel monumental, but because I know that over time, those small acts of care and attention make all the difference.
To my clients: thank you for trusting me to be part of your journey. I don't take that responsibility lightly. And I hope that years from now, you'll look back and feel the same gratitude I feel today for the people who quietly, consistently showed up when it mattered most.
Sometimes we don't understand the value of support until we're on the other side of the journey. But that doesn't make it any less real. And it doesn't make me any less committed to being there, week after week, year after year, just like those letters that kept arriving in my mailbox.
Happy Thanksgiving.
From my family to yours, may this season remind us all of the small acts of kindness that carry us through life's toughest moments—and may we never take for granted the people who show up, even when we don't yet understand how much it means.