My Toy Story

Sometimes there are days I feel like Woody on the shelf, collecting dust.

Then I’m reminded, I’m the one who taught my Andy why I mattered in the first place.

I’m appearing on a podcast about mental health, and during the pre-panel meeting, the topic turned to why so many young men are struggling.

I sat there listening. At first, I wanted to interrupt. To jump in. But then a voice in my head said, “You have two ears and one mouth.”

So I sat.

I listened.

And I heard where they were coming from. But I also wanted them to understand where I was coming from.

I have never said this out loud: one of my biggest fears is death. Not death itself, but leaving this earth without fulfilling why I was here.

And now, at my well-seasoned age, I worry about how much longer my body can keep performing at the level it has for decades.

I work in an industry that doesn’t always value wisdom. It values showing up early, never calling out, moving fast.

Woody wasn’t scared of being thrown away because of his hat.

He was scared because he thought his story no longer mattered.

That fear, of being seen but no longer needed, cuts especially deep for those of us who’ve built our entire identities on showing up, leading, creating, performing.

I remind myself of my own words:

“Every wrinkle is a story. Every scar, a lesson. Every grey hair, gratitude for having been there.”

We don’t control how long we get here. All it takes is a blink of an eye to leave behind whatever legacy we’ve built.

I think of my father’s story often. I carry that weight because I was given a second chance.

Thirty-seven years ago, I almost ended my life. I’m still here, so I live my life trying to show others: you are not alone.

I guess I’m just trying to be that shiny antique model, hoping someone still wants me.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s not about being wanted.

It’s about being remembered for what I taught them.

What does legacy mean to you — not the one you inherit, but the one you leave?