Built to Thrive Without Me

What’s on my mind?

Will you be okay without me?

That is a question I ask my kids all the time.

I say it often enough that I sometimes forget how strange it probably sounds. Jett and Leo don’t take it too seriously anymore because they’ve heard me say it so many times. Leo used to stop me and ask me not to talk about it.

I understand why.

Most people don’t like talking about death.

But I do talk about it. Not because I’m trying to be dark. Not because I want my kids to worry. Not because I’m planning on going anywhere.

I talk about it because it’s true.

Everyone and everything dies. Avoiding that truth doesn’t make it less true.

So when I ask my kids, “If I don’t wake up tomorrow, will you be okay?” I’m not really asking them to think about death. I’m asking them to think about life.

Do you know how loved you are?

Do you know how capable you are?

Do you know how to keep going?

Do you know that you can survive hard things?

Do you know that my job is not to make you need me forever?

I think part of this comes from my work in the insurance industry. I’ve spent a lot of years helping people imagine a world where they are not here. The coverage they purchase will never benefit them directly. It only impacts the people they leave behind.

You have to imagine the gap you might leave behind, and then care enough to do something about it.

Somewhere along the way, I started applying that same idea to everything in my life that isn’t financial.

What if today is my last day?

Did I hug my kids like I meant it?

Did I kiss them goodbye like there may not be another chance?

Did I do the work in front of me with the right amount of focus and care?

Did I leave things better than I found them?

Did I build something that can continue without me?

That last question has been sitting with me a lot lately.

Last weekend, my parents were visiting, and we were talking about the future of worm castings production. My parents have their own worm farm, and I currently rely on them for castings.

And right now, Iowa Worm Farm needs those castings.

I have managed to grow this business to a point where I am selling more worm castings than I can personally produce. That is exciting. It is also concerning.

My parents are producing more than 3,000 pounds of castings each month through physical, manual labor. They enjoy the work. They believe in what I’m building. They are helping me bridge the gap between where Iowa Worm Farm is today and where I hope it can go.

But the truth is still the truth.

That system is fragile.

If one of them doesn’t wake up tomorrow, the entire system changes.

Their plan, as I understand it, is simple.

They just aren’t going to die.

It’s a pretty solid plan until you consider that they may not have a choice.

I say that with love, and maybe a little humor, but also with real concern. Because if Iowa Worm Farm is going to become what I believe it can become, it cannot depend forever on my parents’ ability to do physical labor.

That is not a long-term plan.

That is hope pretending to be a plan.

And I think that is where the real message begins.

Dependence can feel good in the short term.

As a dad, part of me wants my kids to need me. I am proud every time they become more independent, but there is also a little ache that comes with it. The hardest part of being a father is realizing that success means helping them need me less.

As a business owner, it can feel good to be the person who knows the answer, fixes the problem, or holds the system together. It can feel important. It can feel useful.

As a salesperson, and I say this as someone who has been selling in some form since I was 12 years old, there is a real temptation to build systems that keep people coming back.

That is not unique to me. That is how a lot of modern business works.

There is often more money in creating dependence than there is in creating resilience.

Filters. Subscriptions. Replacements. Upgrades. Maintenance plans. Products designed to wear out. Systems designed to keep you needing more.

I know I’m exaggerating a little when I say you can hardly buy a toaster anymore without a $5 monthly subscription to something.

But only a little.

This shows up in lawn care too.

There is not much financial incentive in helping a lawn become healthy enough that it cycles nutrients better on its own. There is not much incentive in helping soil become more resilient, more biologically active, and less dependent on constant outside inputs.

A traditional business model might ask: How do I keep this customer needing me every year?

I find myself asking a different question.

How do I help this system become healthier over time?

How do I help this lawn need less force?

How do I help the soil do more of what soil is supposed to do?

How do I support life instead of creating dependence?

That is the work that interests me.

Not control.

Support.

Not dependence.

Resilience.

Not building something that collapses without me.

Building something that can stand.

Every application I make to a lawn is temporary. At least, that is how I want to think about it. The goal is not to create a system that needs me forever. The goal is to help create the conditions where the soil biology wakes up, roots grow deeper, nutrients cycle better, and the lawn becomes more capable of taking care of itself.

Will it still need care? Of course.

Everything living needs care.

But there is a difference between care and dependence.

There is a difference between support and control.

There is a difference between helping a system heal and making yourself the center of that system forever.

I think this is what I am slowly learning in every part of my life.

With my kids.

With my office.

With Iowa Worm Farm.

With soil.

With lawns.

With myself.

The goal is not to be needed forever.

The goal is to love, teach, support, and build in a way that helps things become stronger on their own.

Maybe that is why this work feels so meaningful to me.

Maybe I am trying to fill the small gaps left behind every time my kids graduate to the next level of needing me less.

Maybe I am practicing letting go by working with soil.

Maybe I am learning that love does not always mean holding on tighter.

Sometimes love means building something strong enough to stand without you.

That is hard for me.

I like being needed.

I like solving problems.

I like being useful.

But I am becoming less interested in fragile things.

I do not want to build a family, a business, a lawn care model, or a farm that only works if one person is standing in the middle of it every day holding everything together.

That may feel important.

But it is fragile.

I want to build things that can live.

Things that can adapt.

Things that can grow beyond me.

Things that can exceed what I imagined because I was willing to stop making myself the center of the system.

So I’ll keep asking the question.

Will you be okay without me?

Not because I’m leaving.

Not because I want to be unnecessary.

But because I love the people, the work, and the mission enough to want the answer to be yes.

And maybe that is the clearest definition of success I have right now.

Not creating something that relies on me.

Creating something that can thrive, grow, and become more than I could have made it on my own.

Without me.