A little while ago, I had the chance to play golf with a colleague. It was one of those rounds we’d talked about for a few months but hadn’t managed to schedule. When we finally locked in the date, I was genuinely excited—not just for the golf, but because I really enjoy spending time with him. He’s one of those people whose story is simply incredible. A highly accomplished executive leader, a community builder, and just an all-around solid human being.
A couple of days before our round, he emailed me: “Hey, I’ve invited a couple more guys to join us—I think you’ll like them.” I didn’t blink. “Of course,” I replied.
Then I did what any curious person might do: a little light Googling. One of his friends turned out to be a highly accomplished investor. I figured we’d probably have some shared contacts and common ground there. The other was also a seasoned investor—very well-connected and, interestingly enough, had recently appeared in a film. I also learned that both individuals are deeply involved in philanthropy, actively giving back in ways that truly matter. Naturally, I was looking forward to meeting them.
Both guests were likely 15–20 years older than me. But I’m not someone who typically gets nervous around accomplished people. I’m usually just curious—interested in their journeys and what makes them tick.
But this day was different.
We met on the driving range, exchanged greetings, and set off to the first tee. I was paired with one of the guests—a thoughtful, curious individual with a wealth of experience. We hit it off quickly, sharing stories about our work, investments, and philanthropic interests. The other guest wasn’t in my cart, so our interaction was a bit more limited early on. But as the round progressed—as golf tends to allow—we found moments to connect. By the end of the day, I’d had the chance to get to know both of them better.
And yet—here’s where things shifted for me. Every time someone asked, “So what do you do, Brent?” or “Tell me about yourself,” I gave, well… nothing. A vague, thin response. A few short sentences. It wasn’t intentional. It just felt like their stories were so fascinating, so expansive, that mine didn’t quite measure up.
Now, let me be clear: no one made me feel that way. These were genuinely kind people. No arrogance, no airs. Just interesting lives. But for some reason, I found myself mentally shrinking in the moment.
And it showed. Not just in conversation, but in subtle ways throughout the day.
Like on one hole—I think it was the 10th—I managed to four-putt. (Which, for those not familiar, a four-putt is really bad.) One of the guys looked over and asked, “Have you played this course much?”—noticing my struggles that day.
I looked up, chuckling, and said, “Yeah, I’ve been a member here for eight or nine years.”
We both burst out laughing. Because nothing about my golf game that day said “longtime member.”
After the round, we all had lunch together. More great conversations. A few people stopped by the table to say hello—acquaintances of the guys I was with. One was a well-known doctor, talking about hosting royalty later in the year. Another chimed in with a story about having British royals over and offered tips. They were just exchanging ideas like they were discussing weekend plans.
Then someone stopped by to chat about sports. He left, and one of the guys turned to me: “You know who that was?”
I didn’t.
“He ran the sports programming for one of the biggest networks—for decades.”
I’m a big sports fan, and I had no clue. Classic.
As we wrapped up, I walked out with one of the guys. He looked over and asked, “How old are you?”
I said, “Early 50s.”
He grinned and said, “Man, I’ve got underwear older than you.”
We both laughed hard. It was self-deprecating, funny, and oddly comforting. Like he was saying, “You’ve got plenty of story left to write, kid.”
And that’s when it hit me.
What’s my story?
That question echoed in my head the rest of the day. I’d been so caught up in listening to their stories—so awed by their experiences—that I completely ignored my own. I became a curious observer rather than a participant. And in doing so, I forgot something really important: I’ve got a story too. One I’m incredibly proud of.
My story includes friendships, family, raising kids, work I deeply care about, and navigating life’s unpredictable twists. It’s got laughter, failure, learning, and wins. And sure—it may not involve hosting royalty or acting in films, but it’s uniquely mine. That’s the magic.
Every person you meet has a story. Some are more public. Some are more private. Some are still being figured out. But they all matter. And yours? Yours does too.
What struck me most is how easily we fall into the trap of downplaying our own narrative. Whether it’s imposter syndrome or just being mesmerized by someone else’s highlight reel, it’s easy to forget the value of our own journey. But comparison is a thief, and it gets you nowhere. And silence about our story doesn’t make it less meaningful—it just hides the parts that might inspire someone else.
So next time someone asks me what I do or who I am, I’ll try to show up a little more fully. Not in a boastful way. Just with honesty and pride. Because my story, like yours, is still being written. And it deserves to be told.
So—what’s your story?
See you next week,
Brent, your Rivr Guide
