One Day I’ll Be Gone…

Love, Legacy, and Life with AI

One day, I’ll be gone. Actually, so will we all.

I know — that’s a dramatic way to start a post written while holding a lukewarm coffee and trying to remember which kid forgot their lunch box on the last day of school.

Maybe it’s the echo of Father’s Day last weekend, or maybe it’s just the quiet weight of an empty house after the morning rush. Either way, I’ve been thinking a lot about what really lasts — and what kind of legacy, if any, we actually leave behind.

And then I read this quote by author Jennifer Wright:

“One day, after all, you will be dead. Then you will be in the ground… So if there is something that will brighten your day, do it now. Defy death. Revel in this brief moment, here, in this world full of intermittent beauty.”

Either way, I think — she’s right. Not in a grim way, but in that gut-check, life-is-short kind of way that sneaks up between packing lunches, planning logistics at home-work, and answering messages in every shape and form.

I’m a professional. A coach. A father of four. Like many of you, I wear multiple hats.

We spend our days navigating work and personal obligations — and realizing the mystery smell was a banana or a milk carton that gave up on life in September.

And what I’m realizing — maybe a little late, but still in time — is this:

In the race to keep up with everything, we’re at risk of missing the only thing that matters… the moment we’re in.

My dad used to play Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) on the record player — “Father and Son” echoing through the house like quiet philosophy. I still love singing along to those songs.

Back then, I didn’t get it. But now, as a father myself, the lyrics land differently. That gentle back-and-forth — a parent trying to hold on, a child aching to grow — captures the very tension of parenting today.

Only now, in this age of acceleration, that tension feels amplified tenfold.

The world tells us to go fast.

But maybe the real wisdom is in slowing down, listening, and just being here — while we still are.

Each Kid Is a Different Universe

Let’s start with the basics: parenting four kids is not for the faint of heart and each kid IS a different universe…and they don’t come with a manual.

You don’t get to "figure it out" once and apply it universally. Nope — you get four completely different humans, each with their own wiring, needs, and bedtime negotiation tactics.

• One needs deep talks. Wants to process the day like a therapist-in-training.

• One wants to move — always. Like a pinball on espresso and sugar

• One is a quiet observer who sees everything but shares little, always reading.

• And the youngest? He’s still deciding who he is… mostly while speed-crawling toward off-limits objects with impressive determination and a huge smile.

And here’s the thing: they all need me differently.

Not some perfected, optimized, AI-enhanced version of me.

They need the flawed, tired, stretched-thin, present me.

Because presence — not perfection or optimization — is the currency of connection.

Teaching and Parenting Are Not Transactional

Teaching isn’t just instruction.
Parenting isn’t just caregiving.
Neither is transactional — both are deeply relational.

What matters most isn’t what we deliver, but how we show up.

The trust. The tone. The presence.

You can follow the curriculum. You can pack the lunches.
But if the connection is missing, the impact fades.

Because in both the classroom and the living room, the magic doesn’t come from the plan — it comes from the person.

The classroom is a living, breathing relationship ecosystem.
You could have all the strategies and platforms in the world, but if students don’t feel seen, the impact is minimal.

I remember a moment a few years ago during parent-teacher interviews. One of my students came in with her mom. I had feedback ready — project reflections, learning goals, next steps.

But before I could say a word, her mom said:

“She says you talk to her like she’s not a kid with serious problems.”

That stuck with me more than any lesson plan I’ve ever written — and I know teachers and parents around the world have their own version of that moment.

Sometimes it’s not the lesson that transforms a student.
It’s the quiet presence of someone who believes they matter.

And that human spark — curiosity, safety, connection — is easy to overlook in our rush toward performance.

Ironically, it’s what they remember most, long after the grades or lessons fade — at home or in the classroom.

Then There’s AI — the Tool With No Soul

Let me be clear: I use AI in many different ways.

It saves me time, summarizes documents, analyses quantitative data and even helps support my accountability with my training plans.

I’m not here to unplug the future — that’s neither feasible nor responsible.
But I am cautious of any tool that promises everything... except humanity.

As Geoffrey Hinton reminds us in this interview, now is the time to pause, reflect, and make deliberate choices — before the momentum outpaces our ethics. We have a narrowing window to shape how these tools are designed, integrated, and governed.

Because when used with the right intent, at the right time, with the right scaffolding, AI doesn’t become a crutch — it can become an amplifier.

As highlighted in the OECD’s learner competencies framework, when we engage with AI, create with it, design with it, manage it — and, I would add, learn to navigate it with moral & professional judgement— we begin to shape it intentionally, rather than be shaped by it.

That’s when AI can support us in protecting what’s most important: our presence.

It can offload the repetitive. Automate the background noise.
Create more space for what’s irreplaceably human. But only if we design and integrate these tools responsibly.

Because while AI can simulate a conversation, it can’t do a classroom pause.
It can’t raise an eyebrow in that perfect way that sparks laughter - thank you Dwayne Johnson. It doesn’t know when a student is faking understanding out of fear — or when a child needs you to just sit with them, quietly, without trying to fix anything.

In a world obsessed with speed and automation, presence is becoming countercultural.

We have to fight for it. Not because we’re anti-tech — but because what matters most isn’t measurable.

Empathy isn’t efficient. Wonder doesn’t scale.

The question isn’t “Should we use AI?”

The real question is:

How do we use it without outsourcing the parts of us that make us matter?

Let the AI Help - But Don’t Let It Replace You.

AI is brilliant at solving problems. What it’s terrible at? Meaning.

It won’t hold your child’s hand when they’re scared.
It won’t look at a struggling kid and say, “You’re not stupid. You’re just tired.”
It won’t coach a team through a losing streak and teach them that character is built in those moments.

I get it — we’re tired. And in that exhaustion, trying to keep up with the rush, it’s easy to slip into survival mode, where possibly these tools may start doing more than we ever meant them to.

Let’s be clear: AI isn’t the enemy of presence.
Used with intention, it can help reclaim time and protect what matters.

If it handles the repetitive, we get more time for the irreplaceable.

Presence doesn’t mean rejecting new tools — it means using them to create space for what only humans can give: love, attention, laughter, care.

But there’s a difference between letting tools assist… and letting them define us.

Our value doesn’t lie in efficiency - it lies in how we show up when it matters.

Our children don’t want a faster version of us. They want a truer one.

And your students?

They’d trade your perfect rubric for five minutes of real talk, every single time whether they realize it or not.

Because Here’s the Truth

Presence doesn’t always look profound.

Sometimes it’s playing Uno even when you’re exhausted.

Sometimes it’s listening to a rambling story that leads nowhere — because it matters to them.

Sometimes it’s showing up at the game, even when they pretend not to care.

And sometimes, it’s just sitting together in silence. No screens. No agenda. Just the kind of connection that says: you’re not alone.

These aren’t extras. They’re the work.

Not the work of productivity.

The work of legacy.

What if success wasn’t measured by how much we accomplish… but by how much love we give — intentionally, quietly — in the moments that seem the smallest?

Before I Go

That day will come.

But before it does, I want to give my kids something no machine will ever understand:
The memory of being known. Cared for. Loved — exactly as they are.

And I want my students to remember that someone showed up.

Not perfectly. Not endlessly optimized.

But fully human.

That’s the kind of legacy we build in the quiet moments — in presence. In how we respond when a child is unsure, when a teen feels invisible, when the world gets too loud and someone just needs us to sit beside them.

AI can support our work.
But it can’t do this work.

So yes — let’s innovate. Let’s evolve. Let’s use the tools.

But let’s never forget how we want these tools to serve:

The very real, very fleeting, very human moments that shape a life.

Because in the end, our greatest impact won’t be how much we did.

It will be how deeply we were there.