Movement Series III — Love, Power & Misunderstanding

Post 10: Some People Aren’t Yours to Save

“Sometimes the people we spend our lives trying to rescue are really reflections of the child we never stopped trying to rescue inside ourselves.”

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There was a time in my life when I honestly believed that if I cared enough, explained something well enough, sacrificed enough, or simply refused to give up on someone — eventually they’d make it.

For years I thought the Army taught me that. It didn’t. The military gave that belief structure. Life planted it long before I ever wore a uniform.

I was born in Indianapolis in 1983 to a young single mother. My biological father was never part of my life. Years later my mother married, and my younger brother was born into a home that, from the outside, looked more complete than the one I remembered growing up in.

Looking back today, I can appreciate that food was on the table, clothes were on my back, and there was always a roof over my head. As a child, though, I wasn’t measuring provision. I was measuring belonging. Those aren’t always the same thing.

By the time I graduated high school, I’d lived in multiple states, attended more schools than I cared to count, and learned something no child should have to learn so early: Don’t get too attached. Nothing stays.

Children don’t have the vocabulary to explain emotional neglect, instability, or feeling like an outsider inside their own home. They only know what it feels like.

What I remember most isn’t one dramatic event. It’s a feeling — a feeling that I was surviving more than I was growing. A feeling that no matter how quiet I stayed, how well I did in school, or how hard I tried to stay out of trouble, it was never quite enough. I wasn’t looking for perfection. I was looking for a place where I belonged.

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A few days after my eighteenth birthday, I walked into an Army recruiting office in Indianapolis. Then September 11th happened. The world stopped. Mine was just beginning.

Like thousands of young Americans, I was asked if I still wanted to serve knowing war was no longer a possibility — it was almost a certainty. I never changed my mind. Soon afterward I raised my right hand, took the oath, and left for Fort Knox, Kentucky to begin One Station Unit Training as a Cavalry Scout.

I thought I was leaving my past behind. Instead, I discovered something. Basic training didn’t break me. I was already broken.

The Army wasn’t the first place that demanded discipline. It was simply the first place that rewarded it. The yelling didn’t surprise me. The pressure didn’t surprise me. Being criticized didn’t surprise me. I’d spent years learning how to adapt, stay quiet, stay out of the way, and survive difficult environments.

The faces were different. The uniforms were different. The mission was different. But for the first time in my life — if I worked hard, if I earned respect, if I proved myself — there was a path forward.

Somewhere during those years I discovered something about myself. Leadership wasn’t about power. Leadership meant I could protect people. If I earned rank, maybe I could influence better decisions. Maybe I could prevent someone else from making mistakes that cost them dearly. Maybe I could become the kind of man I wish someone had been for me.

That belief didn’t stay in the Army. It followed me home.

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Years later, while working in the trucking industry, a friend named Lewis stopped me one day. “Brian,” he said, “there’s a young guy here I think you should meet.” He wasn’t talking about talent. He wasn’t talking about experience. He was talking about character.

The kid was barely getting started in life. He was living week-to-week in a rundown extended-stay motel. Every night he walked to work. Rain. Cold. Didn’t matter. He showed up.

Lewis knew something about me that I hadn’t fully realized myself — if somebody needed a chance, I’d probably give them one. So I introduced myself. The more we talked, the more I saw something I recognized. Potential. Not perfection. Potential.

I had an older Saab 9-3 sitting at home. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect. But it ran. I told him he could borrow it. I wasn’t trying to sell him a car. I was trying to buy him time — time to save money, time to build stability, time to stop spending every paycheck just trying to survive. I even gave him a mountain bike to keep in the trunk in case the car ever let him down.

The only thing I asked in return was simple: “Come out to the farm once in a while.” Help me work. Learn something. Build something. Build yourself. The repayment wasn’t money. The repayment was investment.

He came out once. Worked hard. Then life slowly pulled him away. Excuses became more frequent. Communication became less frequent. Eventually he lost his job. Instead of returning the car to me, he left it abandoned outside the motel. I had to pay to recover it. The keys were gone. Not long afterward I learned he’d been arrested.

For a long time I told myself that story was about a car. It wasn’t. I wasn’t grieving the Saab. I was grieving the future I believed he could have had.

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Years later, I did it again. Different young man. Different opportunity. Different ending. Same lesson. Then another. And another.

Some stayed. Some disappeared. Some thanked me. Some never spoke to me again. Whether it was soldiers, technicians, employees, friends, young men, or people who crossed paths with DaleWood Farms — I kept finding myself in the same place, wondering why I cared more about their future than they did.

Eventually I realized something uncomfortable. This wasn’t really about them anymore. It was about me.

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I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to become the man I wish someone had been for me. Not because I expected someone else to save me — but because I know what one opportunity, one mentor, one conversation, one person believing in you, can change.

Somebody opened a door for me. A teacher. A recruiter. A supervisor. A mentor. An employer. People who saw something before I saw it myself. I never forgot that. So somewhere along the way, I started believing it was my responsibility to become that person for everyone else.

That’s where I was wrong. Not because helping people is wrong. Because I confused influence with responsibility. Those aren’t the same thing.

“Influence says, ‘I’ll walk beside you.’”
“Responsibility says, ‘I’ll carry you.’”

One develops people. The other slowly crushes the person trying to carry everyone.

That realization changed me. I can teach. I can mentor. I can encourage. I can open doors. I can create opportunities. I can pray for people. I can love people. But I cannot choose for another grown adult. That choice has never belonged to me.

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For a long time I thought letting go meant giving up. Now I think it means trusting — trusting that people have to make their own decisions, trusting that growth can’t be forced, trusting that timing belongs to them. And maybe even to God.

You can spend your entire life digging wells. You can build the road. You can point people toward clean water. But you can’t drink for them. That doesn’t make them bad people. It doesn’t make you a failure. It simply means some journeys have to be walked by the person taking them.

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I still believe in people. I’ll probably always see potential before it’s obvious. I’ll probably always open doors. I’ll probably always give someone one more chance than most people think they deserve. That’s part of who I am.

The difference is — I no longer confuse another person’s future with my responsibility. Some people aren’t mine to save. Maybe they never were.

Maybe my role was never to rescue them. Maybe my role was simply to leave the door open long enough that, if they ever decide to walk through it, they’ll know exactly where to find it.

Because just because someone isn’t ready today doesn’t mean they’ll never be ready. Sometimes the seed is planted years before it grows. Sometimes the lesson isn’t understood until life makes room for it. Sometimes the words you share today become the answer someone is searching for years from now.

That’s why I keep writing. That’s why I keep teaching. That’s why I keep mentoring. And that’s one of the reasons DaleWood Farms exists — not because I believe I can save everyone, but because somebody once opened a door for me, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life closing doors behind me.

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