Isn't Tall Anymore

When I was in 3rd grade, during our lunch recess, after eating lunch we had free time to play on outdoor equipment in the schoolyard.

There was a jungle gym—a mammoth structure for kids to play on, built in a sandbox in the far corner of the schoolyard. Climbing to the top was a goal of mine, even though it was the scariest thing I wanted to do.

Because my physical balance wasn't fully developed, I had trouble climbing straight ladders—a task required to reach the pinnacle of the structure. But I had a secret weapon: encouragement. Two schoolmates, Carlos and Todd, encouraged me to face my fear and take on the jungle gym. They were at the top, rooting me on: "You can do this, Bobby, come on!"

I still remember their faces to this day—leaning over the edge of the wooden deck, looking down, yelling, "You can do this, we got you." It was tough, but rung by rung, I climbed, managing to ascend with one hand on the ladder. The sense of accomplishment felt incredible. As I looked down at the sandbox, the ground seemed so small; I felt like I was scaling a skyscraper. My heart raced, and my head screamed with nerves—because of my lack of coordination and balance, this was a huge deal. But I kept going toward the outstretched hand of my schoolmate, who kept yelling, "Bobby, you got this, just a little more, we got you." So, I kept going.

Finally, I made it to the last rung. Now, if climbing with one hand was hard, the transition from the ladder to the top platform was even harder. It required significant physical and mental effort and coordination to get my right leg up and over. That transition required help. So, I reached out for Todd's outstretched hand; I had done it. I was going to reach the summit—an accomplishment I thought I could never achieve, with the help and encouragement of two schoolmates, while other kids looked on. It was so cool.

When I reached for Todd's hand, to my horror, he pulled it away and, with both hands, pushed me as hard as he could right in the chest. I fell, tumbling down that "skyscraper" onto the ground below. Every part of my body hurt from the impact. I still remember the taste of sand in my mouth, the horrible, grinding crunch in my teeth and the grit of dirt on my face. As I attempted to get up, Todd stood over me, looking down. He began to kick and spit on me, laughing, "You are stupid. You are stupid." At that moment, the shame and embarrassment overpowered the physical pain.

From that moment on, up until a few years ago, I never truly asked anyone for help again. I began to do things on my own. I knew the power of encouragement—I gave it freely to others—but I rarely let myself truly take it.

Through a third grader's eyes, I didn't understand that one person's actions didn't mean everyone is like Todd. Carlos was standing right next to him. He didn't push me. Two kids on that platform, and I only ever remembered the one who let go.

We all get trauma in this life. We're also given people who reach out their hands and mean it. I owe you all, along with myself, an apology. I didn't realize one afternoon in third grade shaped how much I let people in since. Sorry for that.

Recently, my Dad and I were on a road trip together and I asked him to drive by the old school, the site of the incident. (He thought the purpose was just to reminisce—I haven't shared this story with Mom and Dad; they are learning about it for the first time with you.) With my adult eyes, I saw things a little differently than I remembered. A newer, modern version of a jungle gym is there, but with the same dimensions. That skyscraper isn't tall anymore. That play yard isn't as big as I remember. The kids at recess were so innocent, small, cute, and wonderful to watch.

Childhood Trauma, Healing, and Getting Do-Overs

This is part of why I want to live for 120 quality years. I get do-overs. I get another day to take action on things that no longer serve me. I can embrace the good, have more experiences, hang out with cool people, try new foods, feel the rain, see the sun, or even master salsa dancing.

If you are carrying something like this, you're not alone. Talk to someone — a professional, a pastor, a friend, a family member. Contact me if it helps; I'm not an expert, but I can help you find someone who is.

I honestly believe that we're hardwired for kindness. But we accumulate emotional pain over a life, and too often we bury it instead of tending to it — and it keeps guarding doors that don't need guarding anymore.

I look back at a life full of accomplishment: a career in law enforcement, helicopters over jungles, global friendships, teams I got to take care of while they did the quiet, behind-the-scenes work to protect others and bring bad actors to justice. Successful by most measures, but built on a foundation of half-trust—viewing the world through a nine-year-old's lens, protecting myself from a threat that had long since vanished. If I could build all that while looking backward, imagine what's ahead now that I'm looking forward. The best years aren't behind me. They're finally coming into focus.

A 3rd Grader's Skyscraper