“A friend may be waiting behind a stranger’s face.”
Maya Angelou
It was past midnight at a honky tonk in Nashville, the kind of place where the music vibrates through your shoes and the air smells like spilled beer and faint regret. I was there after a long day at a conference, equal parts exhausted and curious about where the night might lead. Peter, too, had been at the conference, but unlike me, he seemed utterly unruffled by the day’s chaos.
He was leaning on the bar, holding a glass of bourbon as if it were an old friend. Introduced through a mutual acquaintance, we were both vendors at the event—me with my scrappy web design agency, Ascendio, and him, the accomplished CEO of a nonprofit that sounded as impressive as he was. He had that kind of presence that makes you sit up a little straighter, even in a room as informal as this one. He spoke with a British accent, which somehow made his calm demeanor even more magnetic.
Peter had wanted to experience Nashville, though his idea of “experience” leaned less toward line dancing and more toward observing the human condition from the corner of a bar. We got to talking, the kind of conversation that starts with polite pleasantries and unexpectedly deepens into something real. Maybe it was the bourbon, or maybe it was just Peter, but the room seemed to blur around us as we talked about work, life, and the existential questions that we both secretly loved unpacking.
At one point, I must have said something about feeling stretched too thin, trying to balance ambition and life’s relentless demands. Peter listened quietly, then set his glass down and said, “You know, life’s really quite simple. There are only three things that matter: love your family, love your friends, and do what’s in front of you.”
The words hung there, heavy and light at the same time.
I don’t remember if the band was playing then or if the honky tonk had gone eerily quiet. What I do remember is that moment, the way his words seemed to settle something inside me. Not because they were earth-shatteringly new, but because they made so much sense.
Love Your Family
Peter’s philosophy wasn’t advice so much as it was a gentle nudge toward what I already believed. Family had always been at the center of my life—my wife, my two sons, the chaos and joy that come with it all. But Peter gave me language for it, a reminder to hold it close and not let the noise of everything else drown it out.
It wasn’t about grand gestures or chasing perfection. It was about showing up for bedtime stories, for dinner table jokes, for the mundane and the magical moments that stitch a family together. Peter’s words reminded me that love, at its best, is a steady, daily thing.
Love Your Friends
Peter didn’t just talk about friendship; he lived it. That night, I didn’t know yet that this conversation was the beginning of one of the most meaningful friendships of my life. But looking back, it makes perfect sense.
In the years that followed, Peter and I shared countless conversations, the kind that stretched into the early hours, fueled by curiosity and a shared love for life’s big questions. He was the kind of friend who made you feel deeply understood, who listened with genuine care and challenged you in ways that made you better.
“Love your friends” wasn’t just an idea for Peter—it was a way of being. He reminded me that friendships don’t just happen; they’re cultivated, nurtured, and cherished.
Do What’s in Front of You
And then there was the third piece of Peter’s philosophy: “do what’s in front of you.” It was deceptively simple, yet it has stayed with me in ways I’m still unpacking.
Peter wasn’t telling me to abandon ambition or ignore the bigger picture. He was reminding me that life is lived in moments, one at a time. Handle the task at hand. Be present. Don’t let the weight of everything paralyze you.
It’s advice that feels even more profound now, in the wake of his passing. Because when I think of Peter, I think of someone who truly lived this philosophy. He gave his full attention to whatever—or whoever—was in front of him.
A Friendship That Changed Me
That night in Nashville, I couldn’t have known how much Peter would come to mean to me. It was the start of a friendship that shaped my life in ways I’ll forever be grateful for. His philosophy wasn’t just a set of principles—it was a reflection of who he was: thoughtful, steady, and deeply kind.
Peter passed away this year, and the world feels quieter without him in it. But his words—love your family, love your friends, do what’s in front of you—are a part of me now. They’re a guide, a comfort, and a reminder of the incredible gift it is to have had him as a friend.
As I write this, I can almost hear his voice, calm and measured, as if he’s still leaning across that honky tonk bar, sharing a drink and a truth that I’ll carry with me forever.
