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- [00:01]
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What if the key to breakthrough business performance isn't found in strategies or systems, but in something more fundamental? What if it's found in dreams? Welcome to the Dream Dividend, where we prove that when organizations invest in personal dreams, the returns are extraordinary. So let the dreaming begin. Here's your host, Kevin Patrick. Kevin Patrick.
- [00:40]
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A realization hit me like a freight train recently, right about a year after we'd buried our mother. That realization was recognizing that my parents gave up all their dreams to support their family. However, they still had each other. September 10, 2025. That would have marked 59 years of marriage for my parents if they were still with us on this earth. When I was home with my brothers and sisters at the shore house after my mom had passed away, I found a worn notebook filled with miscellaneous notes in my father's handwriting. In this notebook, I found what is referred to as an impact letter, one that my dad had wrote to me while I was going through one of my treatment centers. An impact letter's purpose in treatment is to provide a structured, heartfelt way for those affected by a person's addiction or mental health struggles to express their feelings, set boundaries, and encourage the individual to seek help and take accountability. It aims to move the recipient from a pre contemplative stage to. To one where they consider their problem, fostering empathy and opening the door for future healing and relationship repair. But you see, the odd thing about this letter is that it was much gentler and kinder than the letter which I actually received. And the truth is, as sad as I am to say it is, that pretty much sums up the relationship I had with my dad. My relationship with my father was like trying to read a book written in a language I was only beginning to understand. I now know, with the clarity that distance brings, that he loved me deeply, fiercely, even. But finding that love in the daily reality of our lives together felt like searching for warmth in winter sunlight. He was a complicated man shaped by war at an age when most are just learning who they might become. And he carried those scars quietly, invisibly, in every interaction we had. He was hard on me, relentlessly so, always pushing me towards some higher standard I could never quite reach, some better version of myself he could see, but I couldn't. At the time, I felt like nothing I did was ever enough. But now I understand.
- [03:07]
That his expectations weren't born of disappointment. They were born of hope. He saw potential in me that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure. And the only way he knew how to honor that was to demand that I Reach for it. Beneath the stern words and the impossible standards, there was a tenderness he didn't know how to speak, a deep affection that lived in the space between what he said and what he meant. He loved me the only way he knew how. And though it took me years to feel it, that love was always there, constant as a heartbeat. So all of this got me wondering, what were his dreams that he never pursued? Places he wanted to travel, businesses he may have wanted to start, Adventures he and my mom may have discussed taking, you know, once the kids were settled. And the same goes for my mom, a woman that was practically a saint in her devotion to her family and, more importantly, to God. My hands trembled as I read this letter, and my eyes filled with tears, recognizing the handwriting of a man who'd spent 40 years putting everyone else's dreams before his own. My father's name was Joe, and he was a Marine through and through. Everyone in our neighborhood knew it. The way he carried himself, the discipline he brought to everything, and the unwavering commitment to his family success over his own comfort. Later in life, dad found purpose again by joining the local Marine Corps League, a group of retired Marines that loved and respected each other. My dad was honored to receive the Marine of the Year on at least one occasion. In the end, after his passing, his detachment dedicated the hanging of the United States flag over their bunker. And that was a tremendous honor for our entire family. But what I would remember most was the rhythm of sacrifice that defined our childhood. Monday mornings before dawn, dad would slip out of the house while we were all still sleeping, off to Tarrytown, New York, where he worked as a sales leader for a medical device company. 4 and a half hours each way when traffic was good, longer when it wasn't. He'd stay in a Marriott up there, living like a bachelor all week while carrying the weight of a family of eight on his shoulders.
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We wouldn't see him again until Friday evening when his headlights would sweep across our living room. Sometime between 6 and and 8 o', clock, the house would transform. When dad came home. Suddenly we were all on our best behavior, eager to share our week's accomplishments, hoping he'd be proud of our report cards or our Little League games. But also walking on eggshells. There was me, because I knew that mom had been saving up the week's disciplinary issues for his return. You just wait till your father gets home. Kevin. Terence. Patrick. God. When I heard all three names, I knew I was in deep trouble. That was Mom's nuclear option, saved for the Moments when our misbehavior had pushed her beyond her considerable patience. Use of the full name meant dad would be hearing about it before even having a chance to set down his suitcase. It meant the weekend would start with a serious conversation in the living room or in his car as he took me for a ride. A conversation where his Marine discipline would meet my childhood excuses. There were hundreds of these conversations. But here's what I didn't understand then and what took me decades to fully appreciate. Dad never complained about being the weekend disciplinarian. He never resented coming home to a problem. Instead of peace, he understood that this was part of the deal he'd made when he chose to work so far from home. Mom carried the daily burden of raising six kids alone. This 4 foot 6 inch, 95 pound woman would sling all of us around in the back of this giant LTD wagon, smoking cigarettes, windows up, no seat belts. Times were different, but I wouldn't have changed anything. The least my dad could do right was handle the tough conversations when he returned. But what amazes me now is how he found energy for anything beyond work and family management. After driving four and a half hours on Friday evening, dealing with whatever chaos we'd created during the week, and trying to reconnect with a wife who'd been flying solo for five days, dad would still find ways to serve his community. The biggest impact was his role as commissioner for our local Pop Warner football league called the Glenside Guerrillas. Every Saturday morning you'd find him at the field before sunrise, setting up equipment, reviewing schedules, and certainly settling disputes between coaches and parents. He'd spent the week selling medical devices to hospitals across New York. But weekends they belonged to kids who needed someone to believe in them. Dad understood that youth sports were more about winning games. They were about teaching discipline, teamwork and perseverance. They were about giving kids from all backgrounds a chance to discover their potential. They were about showing young people that adults cared enough to invest time in their development. I can still see him on those Saturday mornings, clipboard in one hand, Wawa coffee in the other, moving between fields to check on the games, rocking those Steve Sparrier shorts and tight collared shirt. My father knew every kid's name, remembered their positions and celebrated their improvements from the previous weeks in practice. Parents sought his advice not just about football, but about life. Coaches, they respected his judgment because he combined Marine leadership with genuine care for children's development. The league flourished under my father's leadership. Participation increased every year he served local businesses, sponsored teams because they trusted my Dad's integrity and vision. High school coaches started to benefit because they knew the kids would be well prepared and disciplined by the time they got to high school. But the real impact that was on individual lives. Kids who might have fallen through the cracks found purpose and belonging on those fields. Families struggling with challenges at home discovered community and support. Through the league, young men learned lessons about character and commitment that shaped their entire futures. Dad affected so many lives for the better through that volunteer role, and he did it all while working a demanding job that kept him away from his home most of the week. He did it while raising six children who demanded attention, guidance and financial support. He did it while supporting a wife who was essentially a single parent. Monday through Thursday. He did it because he understood something fundamental about leadership and legacy. Real impact comes from investing in people, especially young people, who are still forming their understanding of what's possible. Watching dad balance work, family and community service taught me lessons I didn't fully appreciate until decades later. I actually think I am just now truly starting to understand them at 50 years old, five years after my father has passed from this earth. Success isn't just about achieving your own goals. It's about creating opportunities for others to achieve theirs. Leadership isn't just about managing teams at work. It's about developing potential wherever you find it. Legacy isn't just what you accumulate for yourself. It's about what you make possible for others. This is exactly why I do what I do today as it relates to coaching youth football. Just like my father, he was my hero. I wanted to be just like him. So what else was I to do? I wasn't a salesman, so I went to football. Dad showed me that giving back isn't optional when you've been blessed with opportunities. It's not something you do when it's convenient or when you have extra time. It's something you do because you recognize that your success is connected to your community's success. Every time I help an organization implement systems that supports employees dreams, I think about those late weeknights and early Saturday mornings at the Pop Warner fields. Every time I see a manager invest extra time in developing someone's potential, I remember dad with his clipboard and his patience. And every time I watched someone discover capabilities they didn't know they possessed, I feel connected to the legacy he built through youth sports. While dad and I were able to get much closer towards the end, and based on the letter I was currently holding, it was clear that he had sacrificed so much for us and he didn't want to do this life without any of his children or his beloved wife, Maureen. That was a stark reminder that I could die from this addiction at any day. He never actually started the business he'd sketched plans for. He never pursued the hobbies he dreamed about. But he created something more valuable than any personal achievement. He created a model for how leaders can multiply their impact by investing in others. He proved that real fulfillment comes not from achieving your own dreams, but from making other people's dreams possible. He showed me that the highest form of success is helping others discover their potential. The kids who played in Dad's Pop Warner league are adults now, obviously. Some became successful professionals, others dedicated teachers. Many became coaches themselves. All of them carried lessons about discipline, teamwork and character that shaped their lives. All of them learned that adults could be trusted to invest in their development. All of them experienced what it feels like when someone believes in your potential. That investment multiplied across generations as those kids became parents who supported their own children's dreams. It rippled through communities as they became adults who volunteered their time for causes they cared about. It created a legacy that extended far beyond football scores or championship trophies. You see, Dad's sacrifice wasn't just the dreams he deferred for his family. It was the time and energy he gave to shape young lives. When he could have been pursuing personal interests. It was the leadership he provided to organizations that served his community. When he could have been relaxing after a long week away from home. It was the example he set about what it means to invest in others potential even when your own dreams remained unfulfilled. That's the foundation of everything I do in business today. When I help companies implement Dream Manager programs. I feel as if I'm extending my father's work from the Pop Warner fields to the corporate world. When I show organizations how investing in employee dreams generates extraordinary returns, I'm proving the principles he loved every day. When I watch employees achieve goals they thought were impossible, I'm seeing the multiplication of impact that he demonstrated through youth sports. Dad taught me that real leadership isn't about commanding others. It's about developing others. It's about seeing potential that people don't see in themselves. And it's about creating environments where dreams can flourish. It's about understanding that your greatest legacy isn't what you achieve, but what you make possible for others to achieve. Those lessons learned watching him serve as Pop Warner commissioner while working full time and raising six kids have become the foundation of my professional mission. Business is at its best when it's developing human Potential organizations succeed when they invest in their people's dreams. And leaders can create lasting impact when they help others discover their capabilities. And the greatest ROI comes from recognizing that everyone you work with carries potential that extends far beyond their job description. Dad never got to see his investment in those young athletes and. And how they would influence my approach to business transformation. But every time an organization chooses to develop. Dad, I wish I could have told you all this while you were still here. I wish I could have explained how those Saturday mornings at the Pop Warner fields weren't just about football. They were teaching me everything I'd need to know about what life really means. You gave up your dreams so that we could chase ours. And now I finally understand that wasn't a sacrifice to you, but it was your purpose. I found that gentler letter you wrote, the one you couldn't quite bring yourself to send. And I want you to know that I felt that version of you even when the words were harder. I felt it in every Friday night you came home exhausted but still showed up. I felt it every Saturday morning you spent believing in kids who needed someone to believe in them. You were a Marine, a husband, a father, a leader, and a man who understood that love isn't always soft. Sometimes it's demanding, sometimes it pushes, and sometimes it expects more because it sees more. You saw more in me than I could ever see in myself. And I plan to spend the rest of my life trying to live up to that vision. Thank you, dad, for everything you gave up, for everything you gave us. And for showing me that the measure of a man isn't in the dreams he achieves, but in the dreams he makes possible for others. I love you. Semperify.
- [17:55]
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That's it for this episode of the Dream Dividend with Kevin Patrick. If this episode resonates with you, share it with someone who needs to hear it. Subscribe wherever you get podcasts and join the conversation@thedreamdividend.com Together, we're proving that when organizations invest in human dreams, the dividends are beyond measure. Until next week, Remember, the best investment you can make is in your people's dreams. Thanks again for listening.