I Will Always Love You

I thought I was done writing.

I thought I had finally said everything that needed to be said about the moments that changed my life, the mistakes I couldn’t undo, and the people who helped shape the person I became.

Then I thought about Dolly Parton.

And I thought about “I Will Always Love You.”

Suddenly, there was one more story in my heart.

Dolly has spent a lifetime showing the world that a legacy isn’t measured only by success. It is measured by what you give away—kindness, generosity, laughter, hope and love.

That inspires me.

And somehow, Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” brought me back to the beautiful girl from my childhood.

Our birthdays are exactly one week apart. We grew up in the same little Minnesota community of Mound, and when we were young, I was painfully shy. I could remember her birthday every year, yet somehow I couldn’t find the courage to simply walk over and say hello.

Years later, she even told me I should have talked to her when we were kids.

She was right.

Then, in 2020, life gave me something I never expected.

We reconnected.

For the first time, I actually got to know the girl I had been too shy to know when we were young. We talked. We laughed. I shared stories from my travels around the world, and those conversations became incredibly meaningful to me.

And because they meant so much, I made a mistake.

After spending so much of my life saying too little, I swung too far in the other direction.

I said too much. I pushed too hard. I tried to make up for years of missed opportunities instead of simply allowing something meaningful to grow at its own pace.

I screwed up.

She didn’t.

When she asked me to step back, she had every right to do so. I eventually did, and that experience taught me something I wish the shy boy from Mound, Minnesota, had understood from the beginning:

Love needs courage, but it also needs space.

Real connection cannot be forced.

Maybe that is why Dolly’s song means so much more to me today.

“I Will Always Love You” isn’t really about asking someone to stay. To me, it is about loving someone enough to let her choose her own road—and still sincerely hoping that road leads somewhere beautiful.

I would give almost anything to speak with that woman again.

Not to erase what happened. Not to convince her of anything. Not to demand another chance.

I’d simply love to hear her voice again.

I’d love to laugh with her, hear where life has taken her, and have one ordinary conversation between the two adults those kids from Mound eventually became.

But I cannot control that.

And I shouldn’t.

Her decision belongs to her.

The rest belongs to fate.

If she never wants another conversation, I will accept that. If our roads never cross again, I will accept that too.

I can hope with all my heart while still respecting her with all my heart.

Perhaps that is the most beautiful thing Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” has come to represent for me.

Love doesn’t always say, “Come back.”

Sometimes love simply says:

Thank you.

You mattered.

I’m sorry for the ways I hurt you.

I hope life is beautiful to you.

And I will never turn what I once felt into bitterness simply because the story didn’t end the way I hoped.

There is something incredibly freeing about that.

The girl I was once too frightened to approach became the woman who unknowingly taught me one of the greatest lessons of my life: saying nothing out of fear isn’t the answer, but neither is holding on too tightly out of fear of losing someone.

Somewhere between those two extremes is love.

Patient.

Kind.

Respectful.

Free.

And somewhere along the way, that shy kid from Mound started having some pretty incredible adventures.

I traveled across states, countries and oceans. I saw places I once knew only from maps. I learned how to walk through unfamiliar cities, board planes and trains alone, and discover the world on my own terms.

For a long time, I was perfectly happy doing it alone.

But eventually I realized there is a difference between being strong enough to travel through life by yourself and wanting to spend your entire life that way.

I have collected a lifetime of stories.

What I still haven’t found is the right woman who genuinely wants to hear them—not because of where I’ve been or what I’ve accomplished, but because she wants to know the person who lived them.

Sometimes that gets lonely.

Sometimes it gets old feeling as though people are happy to take your time, your generosity or pieces of what you have to give without ever becoming curious about the person doing the giving.

But I refuse to let that make me bitter.

I still believe there may be someone who wants to know my stories as much as I want to know hers.

Someone who will ask where I’ve been—and make me just as excited to ask where she wants to go.

Maybe that is part of what Dolly’s life has taught me too:

Keep giving.

Keep loving.

Keep your heart open.

Then something remarkable happened to that shy kid.

Years after being unable to say hello to one girl, I stood inside Capital One Arena in Washington, D.C., and without planning it, found the courage to shout five words from my heart:

“We love you, Mr. President!”

My voice finally came out.

And it traveled farther than I ever imagined.

The kid who once couldn’t make his voice travel across a room eventually found a voice that traveled around the world.

But perhaps the greatest lesson of my story isn’t simply that I finally found my voice.

It’s learning what I want to do with it.

That’s where Dolly inspires me.

I don’t want whatever legacy I leave behind to simply be about one extraordinary moment that happened to me.

I want to use that moment to encourage somebody else.

Say hello.

Tell people they matter.

Ask about their stories.

Own your mistakes.

Apologize without demanding forgiveness.

Love without demanding possession.

And when life doesn’t give you the ending you wanted, turn the hurt into something kinder instead of something bitter.

That’s the part of Dolly Parton’s legacy I want to carry forward in my own way.

I thought I was done writing.

Dolly reminded me that maybe the story isn’t finished as long as there is still some love left to give.

And there is.

For the beautiful woman I grew up with, there probably always will be.

I would give almost anything for one more conversation.

But I would never trade her freedom to choose for the chance to have it.

If fate brings us together again someday, I will be grateful.

Maybe we will laugh about those two kids from Mound. Maybe I will finally hear some of the stories I missed. Maybe she will want to hear a few of mine.

And if fate carries us down separate roads, I will still be grateful that those roads crossed at all.

Either way, I hope she has a beautiful life.

I hope she laughs often. I hope she sees places that leave her speechless. I hope somebody listens when she talks about the things that matter to her. I hope she feels understood.

And I hope she is loved exactly as she deserves to be loved.

Even if the person giving her that love is never me.

Because if I truly mean “I will always love you,” then her happiness has to matter more than my preferred ending.

And wherever my own road leads from here, I want to keep doing what Dolly Parton’s extraordinary legacy has inspired generations of people to do:

Give more than you take.

Leave people better than you found them.

Choose kindness when bitterness would be easier.

Keep your heart open even when closing it might hurt less.

And never be ashamed of loving someone enough to wish them happiness—even when that happiness may have nothing to do with you.

I have spent much of my life collecting stories from around the world.

Maybe someday I will find the woman who wants to hear them.

And when I do, I hope I remember to ask about hers first.

The shy kid from Mound has traveled a long way.

He found his voice.

He made mistakes.

He learned.

He kept going.

And after all those miles, he still believes there is something beautiful waiting farther down the road.

Maybe that’s what Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” means to me now.

Not a request.

Not an expectation.

Just gratitude for what was.

Hope for whatever comes next.

And love, finally mature enough to let fate have the last word.