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 her song 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, 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 to me, 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 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 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 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.

Then something remarkable happened to that shy kid.

Years after being unable to say hello to one girl, I stood inside Capital One Arena 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.

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.

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.

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

Either way, I hope she has a beautiful life.

And wherever my own road leads from here, I want to keep doing what Dolly’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.

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

Maybe that’s what “I will always love you” means to me now.

Not a request.

Not an expectation.

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